#professional //clinical //without closeness | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inseobts · 2 months ago

Note

Heyy! Love your work! I have an idea for law and ace (my goattss dont playy lol), but it can be for anyone else in one piece too! I was thinking reader thats similar to Maomao(apothecary diaries) and her obsession with poisons, eating it etc. As for plot, really up to you but I have an idea, maybe they dock at a new island with lots of herbs and their caught trying to eat the most textbook poison looking plant, no doubt thats not poisonous type of plant. Idk it can be like their secret or something. A lil basic cause I have the creativity of a stick, so if u think of something better then plss do it no hesitation fr!! If you do write this thank youuuu!! 🫶🫶

Poison Queen

a/n: I don't know the anime/character but I hope I got the intention of it right after a small google research T.T

characters: law (wc 2.6k), ace (wc 3.6k)

tags: poison enthusiast reader, slow burn, humor, fluff (eventually)

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Trafalgar D. Law:

The island is lush. Dense, dripping green stretches as far as the eye can see, humid air thick with the scent of earth and herbs. From the deck of the Polar Tang, you practically bounce on your heels.

“Is that… purple nightshade?” you whisper, eyes gleaming unnaturally.

“Don’t eat it.” Law says without looking up from the chart he’s examining, standing nearby. His voice is as flat as the sea on a windless day.

“I wasn’t going to…” you lie.

He turns his head a fraction, golden eyes narrowing “Yes, you were.”

You hum innocently, stuffing your medical satchel with your vials and note scrolls “I’m just here to observe, Captain.”

Shachi leans over the railing besides you “This place gives me the creeps. Everything looks like it wants to kill you.”

“Or cure you” you murmur, a little too enthusiastically.

Penguin eyes you warily “Why do you sound excited about that?”

You flash them a polite smile “Because it’s fun.”

Law sighs, sharp and tired “No wandering alone. You stick close to the group. Got it?”

You nod obediently “Of course.”

He doesn’t buy it. No one does.

The island is a botanical goldmine. You’re taking notes faster than your ink can dry. Moss that numbs the tongue, vines that smell like overripe peaches but rot skin on contact, and…oh. You spot it.

A crimson-stemmed flower, petals a sickly sweet yellowish pink, growing under the shade of a tree.

You gasp.

Law, who had started sketching a tree trunk for identification, stiffens “Don’t.”

“But it’s not poisonous!” you defend, already crouching, eyes wild “It looks like it, but this is Miracle’s Folly. It only mimics toxic flora to keep herbivores away. You can eat it, and it has incredible stimulant properties.”

“You just said it looks poisonous.”

“Exactly!” You pluck one with clinical precision “I’ve never seen one in the wild before. This is amazi—”

Law snatches it from your hand, holding it between two fingers like it’s radioactive.

“You’re obsessed” he accuses.

You blink “I prefer the term enthusiastic professional.”

“You tried to eat a known neurotoxin last week.”

“I suspected it was a neurotoxin. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“You lost motor control for six hours.”

“It was valuable data.”

He stares. You stare back, unbothered.

There’s a beat of silence before Shachi and Penguin burst out laughing behind you.

“She’s gonna kill herself one day” Shachi cackles.

“Captain’s gonna lose his mind before then” Penguin adds.

Law exhales through his nose. He pockets the flower, out of your reach “You’re banned from going anywhere without supervision.”

Your eye twitches “Captain, please. This is a scientific expedition—”

He turns “Touch another cursed-looking plant and I’ll have Bepo chain you to the ship.”

You pout “Kinky.”

His ears turn red. You catch it.

Later that night, while the others are prepping camp, you quietly flip open your hidden pouch. Inside: one perfectly preserved Miracle’s Folly bloom.

You smirk “I am a professional.”

You glance at the campfire where Law is sipping his tea, glancing up only when your giggles reach him.

His eyes narrow again.

You chew the petal. Slowly. Carefully.

It’s bitter. Burns the tip of your tongue. But beneath that… Electricity.

The world tingles. Not in a hallucinatory way but in a sharpened, humming, this-might-kill-me-or-make-me-a-god sort of way.

You lean back on your heels, staring up at the canopy as the flower’s effects trickle through your veins “Oh, I have to isolate what’s responsible for this…”

“What are you muttering now?”

Law’s voice cuts through your thoughts like a scalpel.

You jolt and whip your head around. He’s standing there, arms crossed, dark brows drawn low.

You swallow quickly “Nothing.”

His eyes narrow “You’re sweating.”

“It’s humid.”

“Your pupils are dilated.”

“I’m excited to be alive.”

He steps closer. You instinctively step back, hiding your pouch under your coat. He notices.

“Show me what’s in your bag.”

“No.”

“Y/N.”

You sigh, dramatic “You know, trust is the foundation of any good captain-crew relationship.”

“You ate that flower, didn’t you?”

“No! Just a piece of it.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, stepping forward “Tongue out.”

“What?”

“Tongue. Out.”

You blink at him.

He’s completely serious.

“…Always so kinky.”

He closes his eyes like he’s mentally ejecting himself from the conversation “Just do it.”

You stick out your tongue, smug “Ahhh~”

He leans in, inspecting “Slight discoloration… mild irritation… your body’s resisting the stimulant effects.”

You raise a brow “You’ve memorized what this flower does?”

“I know every entry in that ridiculous notebook you leave lying around. Including the one titled ‘Things I Definitely Shouldn’t Eat But Might Anyway’.”

Your stomach flips.

“Oh” you say, quieter.

He straightens, expression unreadable “You think I haven’t noticed? The stash in the med bay. The coded labels. You catalog poisons more lovingly than most people talk about their pets.”

You look away “It’s just… interesting. The line between medicine and poison. It’s so thin. One drop too much and—”

“You die.”

“Or you cure something incurable.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Law studies you, tone dropping low “Is that what you want? To be the one who finds what no one else has the guts to touch?”

You meet his gaze “Wouldn’t you?”

His jaw ticks.

“…You should be more careful.”

You grin “But then you’d have no one to lecture.”

Law huffs, walking past you “Bepo’s watching you tomorrow. Don’t test him.”

“Bepo lets me eat weird berries if I tell him they’re for science!”

“Exactly.”

Later that night, as the rest of the crew sleeps, Law leans over the log where you were sitting earlier.

He finds a scrap of petal.

Miracle’s Folly.

He twirls it between his fingers, thoughtful.

“You’re not letting me touch anything…” you whine.

“Correct” Law replies, not even sparing you a glance as he adjusts his gloves.

You’re trudging behind him, Bepo flanking your other side like a very fluffy prison guard. The island is buzzing with life but all you’ve gotten to do so far is stare longingly at roots and flowers like a kid with her nose pressed to a candy store window.

“I’m an herbalist,” you mutter “This is discrimination.”

“It’s self-preservation” Law deadpans.

Bepo pats your shoulder gently “You did try to lick a hallucinogenic frog yesterday.”

“It looked juicy.”

“You said you saw the celestial dragons dancing salsa.”

“…I mean, I did.”

Law shoots you a look over his shoulder.

You grin at him.

By midday, you’re sulking on a log while the others finish whatever they were doing.

You pull out your notebook and begin scribbling, sketches of the strange bulbous blue fruits you passed earlier, notes on the slightly vibrating moss near the creek, and, of course, the effects of Miracle’s Folly.

You don’t notice Law watching you.

He clears his throat “Give me your hand.”

You blink up “Why, so you can handcuff me to Bepo?”

“No,” he says, kneeling in front of you with a small vial “I want to run a test.”

You hesitate, then slowly offer your hand.

He drops a single, translucent drop of something onto your skin. It tingles.

“New tincture?” you ask, curiously sniffing it.

“Neutralized extract of Miracle’s Folly. I isolated it this morning.”

Your eyes light up “You tested it?”

He mutters “Voluntarily. With supervision.”

You snort “So boring.”

“But now I need to observe secondary exposure. You’re uniquely qualified.”

Your heart does a little somersault “You mean I’m special.”

He rolls his eyes “You’re reckless. And resilient.”

“And a little cute?”

“Don’t push it.”

You grin.

Minutes pass. He keeps his fingers on your wrist, counting your pulse with the pad of his thumb.

You try not to think about that.

“It’s steady” he murmurs.

“Disappointed?”

He ignores the question “You’re reacting differently than I expected.”

“How so?”

“Your nervous system is adapting.”

“Like immunity?”

“Like something else” he says, voice quieter now “You’ve been exposing yourself in microdoses, haven’t you?”

You pause.

“…maybe.”

He looks up at you, eyes unreadable “Why?”

You drop your gaze, suddenly unsure.

“It’s not just for fun.” you say “I mean, partly, yes. But it’s more than that. I want to understand them. The poisons. The lines. Everything people fear. I want to know it. Control it. Be stronger than it.”

He’s silent.

You add, softer, “I was sick once. Really sick. No one could help. All the doctors, all the books… nothing. But the old apothecary in my town? She mixed me something that should’ve killed me.”

You glance at him, eyes bright “But it didn’t. It saved me.”

Law doesn’t speak for a long time. When he does, his voice is gentler than before.

“You and I aren’t that different.”

You blink.

He rises to his feet, brushing off his coat “But if you ever eat another unknown fungus without telling me, I’m performing surgery with no anesthesia.”

You beam “That’s fair.”

That night, Law catches you adding a drop of something green and shimmering into your tea.

He stares.

You pause “It’s just moss extract.”

He raises a brow.

You sigh “…Okay, mildly hallucinogenic moss.”

He snatches the cup.

“Captain!”

“You can have it back after I test it.”

Your eyes widen.

“…Wait. Are you going to drink it?”

He gives you a rare smirk “For science.”

Your jaw drops. And suddenly, you think you might be falling a little bit in love.

Now you’re staring.

Not at the moss sample.

At him.

Trafalgar D. Water Law, Surgeon of Death, Warlord-turned-revolutionary, terrifyingly brilliant man of mystery… just drank the tea you spiked with a moss known to mildly bend reality.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like it’s nothing.

You blink “That was an experimental dosage.”

“I adjusted for body weight.”

“Oh my god.”

Bepo’s ears twitch “Captain… are you sure that was smart?”

Law gives a slow blink “I’m fine.”

You and Bepo exchange a look.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s very much not fine.

“What… the hell is that?”

You follow Law’s dazed line of sight “That’s… the campfire, Captain.”

He squints.

“It’s breathing.”

You purse your lips “Okay, slightly more than mild hallucinations.”

“Why is it breathing, Y/N.”

“Symbolic warmth?”

He stares at you. His pupils are so dilated.

You pull out a notepad “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I see seven.”

“…I’m holding up two.”

He sways.

You sigh and grab his arm “Alright, that’s enough science for tonight.”

He lets you guide him with surprising ease, mumbling under his breath.

You make it back to the tent just as the hallucinations seem to peak.

“I need to sit” he mutters.

You lower him down gently, watching as he pinches the bridge of his nose “Throbbing temple. Flashing visuals. You’re not vomiting, though… interesting.”

He opens one eye “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little,” you admit, handing him water “You’re cute when your grip on reality is slipping.”

“Y/N.”

“Mm?”

“There are tiny doctors running in circles around me.”

You blink. Then look around the tent.

“…Well. You’re not wrong.”

You sit next to him. Close, but not touching. It’s oddly quiet for a jungle night.

“Headache?” you ask softly.

He nods once.

You reach up and, very carefully, press your fingers against his temples. Slow circles. He doesn’t flinch.

“Pressure can help the tension pass” you say.

He closes his eyes. Exhales.

You pause “Tell me what else you see.”

“…You.”

You snort “No kidding.”

“No, I mean…” he trails off, brows twitching “You look… soft.”

Your hands freeze “I—what?”

“You’re glowing.”

You’re absolutely not glowing, but...

“Oh” you whisper.

“You’re always buzzing,” he murmurs “Like something dangerous in a pretty bottle.”

You stop breathing for a second.

“Law…” you say, too quietly.

But he’s not done.

“I always thought I hated that. The unpredictability. But now it feels like… I don’t know.”

He leans his head forward, forehead bumping gently against yours.

“You scare the hell out of me,” he breathes “And I think I’m starting to even like it.”

You think your heart just stopped.

“Definitely a side effect…” you whisper, but your fingers are still on his skin, still gently pressing against his temples.

He exhales “I’ll regret saying all of that, won’t I.”

You smile, a little shaken “Only if you pretend it wasn’t true later.”

Silence. He doesn’t move.

Then he mutters “I’m keeping the tea recipe."

You laugh.

Outside the tent, Bepo lowers his paw from the tent flap and whispers to Shachi and Penguin “They’re in love. Told you it wasn’t poison.”

After that, Law pretends nothing happened.

You give him three days.

Three days of ignoring the fact he hallucinated tiny doctors and confessed to liking the chaos you bring to his life. Three days of sidelong glances, awkward silences, and you very purposefully reminding him of the tea incident every time he gets too comfortable.

“Captain,” you say sweetly as you walk by him, “you’re not seeing glowing versions of me today, are you?”

He glares “No.”

“Shame. I looked great in your hallucination.”

He drops his pen. Hard.

But he doesn’t say anything else.

Coward.

Later on - You don’t mean to get sick.

Not really.

It’s just that the vines didn’t look that threatening, and you were pretty sure it was just a paralytic contact toxin, and well… maybe you’d misjudged the concentration.

The world tilts sideways.

You feel your legs give out before your brain registers it.

And then darkness.

You wake to voices.

“…found her by the river. Unresponsive.”

“I told her to stop touching unknown plants. Why can’t she just—”

“She didn’t do it on purpose.”

A long silence.

Then Law’s voice again. Quiet. Cracked.

“She always makes it look like she’s in control. But she’s not.”

You open your eyes.

The ceiling of the Polar Tang greets you. So does a pounding ache in your chest. You shift and wince.

Law’s at your side in an instant.

“Stay down.” he says, low and sharp.

Your voice is hoarse “Didn’t think I’d go out like that. No drama. No romantic poisoning. Just a stupid plant.”

His eyes flicker “It was… dramatic. You stopped breathing.”

“Oh…” you say, blinking.

“I didn’t know what it was. For once, you knew more than me. And I couldn’t—” He swallows the words.

You offer a small smile “So… scared the hell out of you, huh?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just sits back down beside you. Shoulders tense. Jaw clenched.

You watch him, softly “Law.”

“Don’t say it.” he mutters.

“Say what?”

“That I was right. That you should’ve listened. That this was inevitable. That I knew you’d get hurt eventually.”

You tilt your head “Wasn’t gonna say any of that.”

He looks up, surprised.

“I was gonna say,” you murmur, “that I’m sorry I made you worry.”

You reach out weakly, stupidly, and your hand grazes his.

“I forget sometimes,” you whisper “That people care.”

Something breaks in his expression.

“Y/N,” he says tightly, “you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep flirting with death like it’s a hobby.”

“I wasn’t flirting with death.” you tease “That was basically a date. I only flirt with you, Captain.”

He glares.

You smile, and it fades slowly as your fingers curl around his.

“I didn’t want to die. Not really. Not before I figured out what this thing is.”

He blinks “What thing?”

“This,” you whisper “Whatever this is between us. The hallucinations. The confessions. The weird tension where you want to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”

“You’re wrong.” he says.

Your chest tightens “Oh.”

“I don’t want to kill you, you already do that to yourself alone.”

Pause.

“I just want to kiss you.”

You stop breathing.

He leans forward. Slow. Intentional. One hand brushing your jaw, tilting your face toward him like you’re something fragile and fleeting.

“Captain” you whisper.

“Y/N” he breathes.

And then he kisses you.

It’s gentle, for all of three seconds, then desperate, frustrated, furious about the fact that he was almost losing you.

When he pulls back, you’re both breathless.

“You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever studied” he mutters, forehead against yours.

You grin.

“And you’re my favorite side effect.”

── .✦ Portgas D. Ace:

The sun is brutal on the upper deck, but you don’t notice. You’re too busy holding a tiny, glittering vial up to the light with the reverence of someone holding an engagement ring or, in your case, an exciting new potential toxin.

It’s pink. Slightly viscous. Smells faintly like fermented fruit and regret.

Perfect.

“Please tell me you’re not going to drink that.” Marco says behind you, half-exasperated, half-terrified.

“I’m going to sip it,” you say, rolling your eyes “For science.”

“For science?” he repeats.

“For science,” you nod solemnly, uncorking the bottle “And also morbid curiosity.”

He groans “Y/N…”

Too late. You down it in one go.

There’s a moment of silence as you smack your lips thoughtfully.

“…Taste?”

“Like someone dissolved candy in cheap rum and lies.”

“Oh good,” Marco mutters “You’ve poisoned yourself again.”

You wave him off “If I die, I’ll write it down first.”

He opens his mouth to argue but a loud whistle cuts him off.

“Oi!” Ace calls, walking over shirtless, sun-drenched, grinning that smug grin that says I’ve definitely started three fires before breakfast “You experimenting again?”

You nod, blinking a bit “Just something I found in a locked crate under Izo’s bunk.”

Ace raises a brow “You… drank random liquid you found in Izo’s stash?”

“Yes,” you say matter-of-factly “And also, your laugh makes my spine feel weird.”

He stares.

You stare back.

Marco sucks in a sharp breath “Oh no.”

You tilt your head thoughtfully “And your shoulders are distracting. I’ve catalogued seventy-eight poisons but can’t remember what you said this morning because you yawned mid-sentence and I lost focus.”

“…You what?” Ace coughs.

You continue, voice perfectly even “Also, I sometimes fake headaches to watch you carry me to the infirmary. You’re very warm.”

You slam your hands on your mouth to stop it from saying more, while the crew begins to gather like sharks to blood.

Thatch appears holding popcorn. Someone is calling for Izo. There’s actual cheering.

“You’re glowing,” Marco says quietly, inspecting your skin “Shimmering. That’s one of Izo’s truth serums. A prototype he was working on some time ago.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Ace echoes weakly.

You turn to him “Also, I ranked your freckles once. The ones on your jaw are my favorite.”

Ace turns so red you think he might combust without using his powers.

“You… I… how long is this stuff supposed to last?!” he splutters.

You shrug “Few hours, probably. Don’t worry. I’ll be asleep before I get to the part about your hands.”

“What about my hands?!”

“Nothing!” you say, far too quickly “They’re just… statistically… dangerous looking.”

He’s speechless. Marco is already reaching for his notebook.

You’ve become the Moby Dick’s favorite form of entertainment.

You’re still sitting cross-legged on the deck, glittering faintly in the sun like a cursed disco ball, while the Whitebeard Pirates form a loose circle around you.

“Truth serum,” Thatch hums, rubbing his hands together “This is the best day I’ve had in weeks.”

“It’s unethical...” Marco mutters beside him.

“It’s hilarious,” Izo corrects, snapping open a fan and leaning in “Y/N, darling, be honest... who took the last chocolate muffin last week? It was you, am I wrong?”

You open your mouth immediately “Not me. It was Ace.”

“Traitor!” Ace sputters from somewhere behind you.

You shrug “You left crumbs in the storage room. Also, your heartbeat spiked when someone mentioned it at breakfast.”

Everyone turns to Ace. He throws his hands up “It was one time!”

“You licked the wrapper, too.” you add calmly “Twice.”

Someone howls.

“Alright, my turn!” Thatch grins “Y/N, have you ever sabotaged anyone’s food?”

You nod serenely “I put mild laxatives in Namur’s tea once because he wouldn’t stop stealing my ginger cookies.”

Namur gasps “You monster!”

“You deserved it,” you reply without a trace of guilt “You called my medicinal brownies ‘dirt bars.’”

“Next question,” Izo purrs, leaning forward “Have you ever kissed someone on this ship?”

The crew leans in.

You blink “No.”

“Have you thought about it?” Marco asks, suddenly very interested.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Ace.”

The sound Ace makes is somewhere between a squeak and a small, internal detonation.

The crew loses it.

“YES!”

“I KNEW IT!”

“PAY UP, IZO!”

“I had money on Marco, damn it!”

You sigh as if this is all deeply inconvenient, like the truth is just leaking out of you against your will, which, of course, it is.

You say casually “He smells good. Like firewood and something sweet. Maybe toasted sugar. I haven’t narrowed it down yet.”

Ace is covering his face with his hands now, bright red from the neck up.

“Can I go lie down?” you mumble “Or roll into the sea?”

Marco snorts “Not until the glitter wears off.”

Thatch throws an arm around your shoulder “C’mon, Y/N, one more... if you had to kiss anyone else on this ship—”

“I’d rather drink from the mildew jar in my lab.”

“…Fair.”

You blink slowly, tone still deadly calm “Thatch, you once tried to trim your chest hair with surgical scissors. Drunk.”

Thatch chokes “That was off the record!”

“No such thing,” Marco laughs “She’s the serum’s hostage now.”

“I regret nothing,” you reply “Except licking the blue mushroom last month. That hallucination lasted eight hours. I tried to dissect the air.”

Ace groans “Can someone drag her below deck before she tells everyone what I look like shirtless in creepy detail?”

You look straight at him “You’re built like a statue someone made while going through something personal.”

He explodes.

The next morning you’re back to your usual self.

The strange, glittering effects of the truth serum have worn off, leaving you feeling… normal again. You’re busy carefully grinding some herbs into powder, a mixture for your next experiment, when a familiar voice rings out behind you.

“Morning, poison queen.”

You freeze.

“Don’t call me that” you mutter without turning around, but there’s an unmistakable edge of dread in your tone.

Ace slides onto the bench next to you, uninvited, a grin spreading across his face as he leans toward you, looking like he’s about to launch into a full assault.

“Oh, I think I will...” he says, practically purring “You’re the one who told the entire crew how much you love my shoulders, remember?”

You tense “I did not—”

“And those freckles?” Ace raises an eyebrow, already loving the flush spreading across your face “Did you know that Marco bet I’d get at least five different comments on my jawline today? Maybe next time you should be more specific.”

Your eyes snap to his, and you open your mouth to argue but then he continues.

“You really should have warned me before you started cataloging all my features. Or how about when you admitted you fake headaches just so you can get me to carry you to the infirmary?”

The teasing tone in his voice is getting under your skin, and you try to focus on grinding your herbs, but his words are still ringing in your ears.

“You do know that it’s not even the ‘headaches’ you fake that’s the problem, right? It’s that you actually like it when I carry you. Which I can totally tell from the way you always sigh in my arms.”

You bite your lip, cheeks burning, desperate to look anywhere but at him.

“Or how about when you—” Ace’s voice drops low, “—admitted that I smell good? Like firewood and… What was that you said? Oh, right! Toasted sugar!”

You inhale sharply “I never said that.”

“Oh, yes you did, and you know.” he says, leaning in closer, the amusement in his eyes dangerously obvious “And you also said I’m built like a statue. Do you really think I wouldn’t remember that?”

“Shut up.” You finally look up, but your voice is strained as you meet his teasing gaze.

“I mean, I’m just curious,” Ace continues, a little too happily, “how much more stuff you’ve been hiding from me. How long have you been analyzing my muscles, exactly? Do you think they’re… aesthetically pleasing?” He pauses to let the words sink in “Hmm, maybe I should flex for you to get a clearer answer.”

The crew, who had been quietly watching from a distance (but clearly listening), suddenly bursts into laughter, but you just want to curl into a ball and disappear.

“Oh, this is good,” Thatch says, clearly enjoying the show “I never thought Ace would get revenge like this, but here we are.”

“You should see her when she’s trying to make that poison tea thing,” Marco says, shaking his head “She’s way too serious about it, but now we know she’s been obsessed with Ace’s shoulders the whole time.”

“You guys are awful.” you mutter, sinking into your chair, arms crossed tightly across your chest in an attempt to hold yourself together.

Ace, however, is not letting up. He knows the soft spots, and he’s making sure to press every single one of them.

“So, how’s it feel?” Ace grins, tapping your shoulder playfully “Being soooo open about how much you like me? You definitely don’t look uncomfortable at all.”

You shoot him a glare, but it’s hard to stay mad when he’s looking so damn smug about it.

“I don’t know, Ace. It must be so hard for you to carry the weight of being so perfect that I couldn’t stop talking about how handsome you are, huh?” you bite back.

Ace stares at you for a moment, clearly thrown off by your unexpected response. Then he laughs “Oh, that’s rich. You think you can out-tease me?”

“You’re the one who’s been doing it all day.” you shoot back, finally turning to face him fully “Seems like you loved me pointing out all the things I like about you.”

The crew laughs even harder, and Ace’s grin only grows.

“I won.” he says, smug as ever “It’s not my fault you’re so obsessed with me. Honestly, I’m kinda flattered.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you are.” You roll your eyes, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

But Ace doesn’t relent “Admit it, Y/N. You’re in love with me.”

You pause.

“And if I am?” you ask coolly, holding his gaze.

The teasing gleam in his eyes flickers, then vanishes. Ace looks just a little taken aback by the way you’re holding your ground.

“Well…” He scratches the back of his head, clearly flustered now “You’ve already said it once. So I’m just making sure you’re still on the same page.”

And just like that, it’s his turn to feel the heat in his cheeks.

“Well, maybe you should stop teasing me, then.” you say with a sly smile.

Ace grins, shaking his head “Nah, this is fun. You’ll get used to it.”

Now it’s your turn to mess with Ace.

After days of relentless teasing, you’ve decided that it’s time to use his own game against him. He’s made it clear that he loves to toy with you and now, it’s time for him to spill the truth, whether he wants to or not.

The deck is quiet, the crew all doing their own thing, but you know Ace will find you soon. He always does. And, sure enough, as you’re mixing something into a flask in the corner of the kitchen, his voice floats over the rim of the doorway.

“Hey, poison queen,” he says with a grin, clearly thinking of another thing to tease you about “Are you planning to poison the whole crew with whatever concoction you’re making today? Or is it just my poor, unsuspecting self?”

You don’t answer right away, focusing on your work. You’re careful with every motion. Just one drop of this ingredient, and you’ll have him talking like a parrot for hours.

“Alright, alright, what’s in the flask today?” he presses, inching closer “Am I going to shit myself?”

You glance over your shoulder, smiling sweetly “Oh, nothing dangerous, I promise.”

“Then why do you look so… suspicious?” Ace narrows his eyes playfully, still not suspecting a thing.

You flash him a mischievous smile, taking the flask with one hand and adding a few drops of your carefully prepared herbal mix into his mug “Just a little something to make sure your day is… interesting.”

Ace raises an eyebrow, but at this point, he’s practically inviting the teasing. He’s completely unaware of the slight adjustment you made. After all, you’ve poisoned your own drinks with far worse. The concoction in his mug isn’t lethal, but it’ll get the job done.

You hand it over with a flourish “Here you go, fire boy. Drink up.”

Ace takes the mug, his smirk growing wider. He’s used to your antics, but he doesn’t know you’ve just pulled the wool over his eyes. He takes a swig, and just as the liquid slides down his throat, you watch him carefully.

But then, a few seconds later, Ace’s expression shifts, his eyes flickering with confusion as he sets the mug down.

“You okay?” you ask casually, keeping your voice neutral.

Ace blinks, a frown tugging at his features “Yeah, just… feel a little weird. Like, light-headed… You didn’t actually put something in here, did you?”

“Oh, it’s just a little herbal remedy,” you say with a shrug, your grin widening “You know, to make you feel better.”

“Well, I do feel better, but I also feel...” he admits with a nervous laugh “Weird.”

That’s your cue. You pull out a chair and sit down, raising an eyebrow “I think we can have some fun with that.”

His eyes flick to yours, unsure “What do you mean?”

“You see, I didn't drink all that bottle the other day. And, well… the thing is,” you continue, now holding his gaze, “you’ve been teasing me for days, Ace. And I’m really curious about how much of what you said was… well, the truth.”

Ace stares at you, confusion melting into realization as the drug starts to kick in, the subtle influence of your concoction making him more vulnerable to his own thoughts.

“Wait, what…?” He shakes his head, trying to focus “This is… a trick, right? Did you really—”

“So, Ace...” you say in a soothing tone, leaning in slightly “Admit it, you like me.”

Ace laughs awkwardly, his eyes unfocused as his lips move to speak without hesitation “Well, uh, yeah. I’ve liked you for a while now… I just thought it’d be funny to make you squirm about it.”

You narrow your eyes, pretending to act surprised “You like me? You’ve been teasing me because you like me?”

He stumbles over his words, but it’s too late to stop himself “Yeah, you’re like… fun. I don’t know how to act around you, okay? Every time I try to be normal, you just—ugh, you get under my skin. And I can’t stop teasing you.”

You smile wickedly, feeling the rush of victory surge in your veins.

“Is that so?” you ask sweetly, letting his confession sink in “And here I thought you were just being a brat.”

"That's just my love language ok? I don't know how to act normal around someone I like, so I just tease and tease and tease."

"Love language?" you ask actually a bit shocked "So you really do like me?? Couldn't you just confess back when I got exposed with that truth telling thing?"

"It's too complicated. I just... didn't know now." he says trying to avoind your eyes.

"You just did it."

"Well, not in a fair way, though."

"I've put nothing in that drink, you idiot..."

Ace freezes “Wait a sec… Are you messing with me right now?” he asks, his voice suddenly more wary “This isn’t real?”

“Oh, it’s very real,” you reply, letting a mischievous grin slip into your expression “The truth serum is working, wihtout even the need to actually use it. You’re just… a little more vulnerable than you think.”

His eyes widen “Wait… wait, what did you do to me?”

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair “Just a little something to get you to spill your guts. But what’s even better is that you’re admitting things you didn’t even realize you were feeling.”

Ace’s face twists as the realization hits him “I—I thought I was poisoned? You… you tricked me into confessing everything?!”

The crew, who has been silently observing the entire exchange, erupts into laughter from all corners of the room. Marco, Izo, and Thatch are barely holding it together, while the rest of the crew seems equally entertained by the spectacle.

“That’s right, fire boy,” you say, leaning closer “You weren’t poisoned at all. You were just brainwashed into thinking you were.”

Ace stares at you, his face redder than ever, looking like he’s ready to combust.

“Yeah, well, now I’m gonna make you regret it” he mutters, his earlier smugness replaced by genuine frustration and something else you can’t quite place.

But for now, you’ve won. And you’ll savor this small victory for as long as you can.

The crew is still chuckling from the aftermath of your little “truth serum” game. You can practically feel the heat radiating from Ace’s flushed face, the sheer embarrassment of his earlier confessions hanging in the air like a cloud.

“Well, Ace,” you say, leaning back in your chair with a smug grin, “I gotta say, you made it pretty easy for me to get all your secrets out.”

Ace grumbles, clearly trying to salvage what’s left of his dignity “I can’t believe I fell for that.” He crosses his arms, glaring at you but clearly not all that mad, more like… flustered.

You lean in a little closer, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips “You did admit a lot, though. Like how much you actually like me.”

That catches him off guard. He stumbles for a moment, as if he wants to deny it, but there’s no escaping the truth now “Well, what can I say, you did say a lot of embarrassing things, too, when you drank that ‘serum’.”

You raise an eyebrow, the teasing still simmering beneath your words “Like what, exactly?”

“Oh, you know, I still think about you counting my freckles…” He flashes you a grin, almost too proud of himself for turning the tables.

You smirk, taking a deep breath “Well, now that I know you like me back…” You pause for effect, leaning even closer, “I can finally say it all again without the need for any truth drink.”

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. Ace’s eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, he’s speechless “Wait, what?”

You grin, thoroughly enjoying his discomfort “Yep. So now, I’m free to repeat everything. Your teasing? It’s actually kind of cute. And maybe I even find you hot… especially with that devil fruit power of yours.” You’re clearly enjoying this far too much “Might even be into that.”

Ace is completely flustered now, cheeks burning red, and he stammers, “You… you really are messing with me, huh?”

Before you can answer, he suddenly leans forward, a spark of determination lighting up his eyes “Alright, then, I’ll just prove to you how much I like you.”

You blink, confused “What are you talking about?”

He leans in, his usual cocky grin back on his face “You wanna tell me what you like about me? Then I’ll tell you what I like about you... Like a competition since you like it.”

You tilt your head, intrigued “A competition, huh? Alright. But what’s the catch?”

Ace leans in even closer, voice dropping to a low, teasing tone “No backing out. You have to admit everything you like about me, truthfully, no holds barred.”

Your eyes glint with mischief “Alright, fine. But be warned. You might not like what you hear.”

Ace’s grin only grows wider “I’m all ears, Y/N. Let’s hear it.”

“First off,” you begin, your tone as playful as ever, “I might like how your hair looks like you just rolled out of bed. It’s… charming in a ‘I just woke up and I’m not trying’ kind of way.”

Ace scoffs, looking both proud and a little defensive “Well, you know, some people can’t pull it off, but I do.”

You roll your eyes “And I might find it kind of adorable that you get so riled up when I call you out. Your pride’s kind of cute… in a completely frustrating way.”

Ace stares at you for a second, then grins, almost cocky “I’ll take that as a compliment… for now.”

But before you can continue, someone shouts from the back of the room.

“Get a room, you two!”

The words echo across the deck, and everyone bursts into laughter. Ace’s face turns redder than ever, and for a moment, it looks like he’s about to explode.

“Shut up!” he snaps, but the crew’s laughter is uncontrollable.

But the comment gives Ace an idea. He stands up suddenly, grabbing your wrist and tugging you toward the stairs leading below deck.

“Alright, fine. We’ll take it to my room,” he says, his voice a little breathless but determined “Let’s see how much you really like me.”

You blink, surprised at his boldness, but you can’t hide the grin forming on your face “Ace… you think you can just drag me to your room and get away with it?”

“Maybe,” he says with a sly wink “But you’ll never know unless you come with me.”

You chuckle, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline you get when Ace is being this unpredictable “Alright then, hothead. Lead the way.”

The crew, of course, continues to shout playful remarks as you both head toward his room. Marco just shakes his head with a knowing smile.

Ace’s room door slams shut behind you both, and whatever happens next is anyone’s guess. But one thing is certain, this game of teasing is far from over. And in the end, neither of you is going to back down from it anytime soon.

1K notes · View notes

kurooh · 5 months ago

Text

PROFESSIONAL ( AT LOVIN’ ) !

⊹₊˚. HAWKS’ BDAY 2024 — after six months of being his press agent’s friend with all kinds of benefits, keigo struggles to find a way to tell you that he can’t keep up his side of the agreement any longer. / or, his heart’s been in it since the very beginning.

word count: 14.3K (um….please read🧎‍♀️)

warnings: 18+ content — mdni, fem! reader, friends with benefits -> lovers, angst, unprotected sex, creampies, cunnilingus, drinking (everyone is mid twenties), dirty talk, squirting once, office sex.

xoxo, juno: happy LATE birthday to keigo <33 WOOO first fic of 2025 and it’s the longest one i’ve ever written.. inspired by the weeknd’s kissland! hope you enjoy, love you guys :,) 🩷

“this pussy of yours is pretty fuckin’ greedy, huh?”

“how could i not be when you always fuck me so g-good?” the filthy words rush out of your mouth in a surge of euphoria that has taken over your cognitive functions and renders you clinically cock drunk. in this state, things you’d normally never agree to are suddenly more alluring than a shiny trinket to a nesting bird. sex on the roof of the heroes’ safety commission is outlandish and obscene (you’d used those words when keigo had first brought it up in jest) — but here you are getting plowed by none other than the no. 2 hero of japan.

“aw, dovey,” keigo coos, gloved hand closing around the slope of your neck and tugging you back into his chest, “you’ve always got the best compliments, don’t ya?”

“ah, r-right there!” you gasp, eyes rolling back into your skull as your third orgasm of the half hour boils in your tummy like magma in an explosive volcano. “shit, kei, ‘m gonna cum again..”

“heh, go ahead ‘n let it out for me,” the heel of his other hand digs hard into the plush skin above your pubic bone and the crude slapping of skin against skin grows louder. “c’mon, baby, cum all over this cock. show me how good you feel, yeah?”

“yeah,” you whimper, desperately throwing your ass back onto his cock to get him even deeper, “oh my god, keigo, fuuuck—‘m cumming!”

it nearly sweeps you off your feet, the strength of your blissful orgasm leaving you shaking violently and clenching uncontrollably on keigo’s cock. his teeth sharply sink into his lower lip when he quickly pulls out of you, lamely stroking himself to completion above your ass and spraying strings of ivory onto your skin. your body is slick with sweat and now cum, but the messiness of the situation doesn’t hit you quite yet — you’re busy trying to catch your breath while he hangs his head lowly behind you.

keigo still holds you upright on legs of jelly, lightly beating his wings to help stabilize himself. watchful gold eyes sweep over your body, doing a once over and admiring every inch of you. he’s always considered you as the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, and has always felt lucky to touch you — so why does he feel so damn unfulfilled? it’s probably a form of karma; keigo hasn’t ever had a consistent relationship, all due to his own actions. so many of his old girlfriends had clashed with him over his neglectful habits — his inability to give them time, attention, and effort. all of his relationships began positively, then quickly deteriorated into toxicity he’d grown tired of dealing with.

he’d been single for a year, and went without sex for longer. if he didn’t always have the press looming over his shoulder and scrutinizing each of his damn movements, he would’ve been able to get his dick wet sooner! keigo would certainly never admit it, but the total deprivation has been a good thing, allowing him to reset and understand why those relationships had completely gone downhill. at the time, he’d pettily blamed his girlfriend or the new guy she’d moved on with.

you let out a tired puff of breath and break away from his hold too soon just to look at your phone, which is sitting on top of keigo’s jacket. “so, my lunch break isn’t over just yet. we can hit the sandwich place around the block if you’re up for it?”

god, you’ve got that lazy smile playing on your lips like it always does after he’s made you cum. how is it possible for someone to look so elegant even as she buttons her blouse and wipes cum off her ass with a spare napkin? his brain literally short circuits when you hand him his jacket, plush lips shaping around a word. words. didn’t you just say something? maybe his post nut clarity has faded into obscurity, or he’s lost his hearing from how hard he just came.

“keigo,” you sigh, snapping your fingers in front of his face and briefly contemplating slapping him out of his stupor, “is the light on upstairs?”

a shiver jolts through him despite the fact that the weather’s warm, and his disassociated eyes finally hone in on you, standing right in front of him. “yeah, sorry. what’d you say earlier?”

you shrug on your suit jacket and slip into your heels. “i’m still free. we can grab sandwiches around the block if you’d like.”

so thoughtful. his heart swells happily at the prospect of eating lunch with you. it always does, usually accompanied with a flip in his stomach, whenever he tags along on something you’re doing, whether it’s eating lunch or sorting through lengthy documents after the office closes.

“sounds good. are we walking or flying, dovey?” your favorite sex petname rolls off his tongue naturally, and after months of this arrangement, you’ve stopped correcting him.

“let’s just walk,” you say decisively, wrapping the used napkin in another, “it attracts less press, showbird.”

☆ ☆

still thrumming with the sensations of sex, keigo walks into the restaurant behind you, piping up to place his order and then to swipe his card for the lunch. he dutifully waits at the table while you stand at the counter, glancing at your phone every now and then to alleviate the impatient boredom that accompanies most edible purchases. keigo allows himself a moment of respite, and instead of looking at his phone, he looks at you — particularly the way your clothes hug the slopes and curves of your body, much like he does when he’s coming down from an orgasm.

it was exactly eight months ago when keigo had first laid eyes on you. he knew right then and there that under no circumstances would he allow his old persona to shine through or mess things up between the two of you. for the first two months out of those eight, keigo had befriended you (with much encouragement from his friend mirko, bless her) and spent time getting to know you as a person over friendly lunches and the occasional drink. he’d committed each of your stories to memory and marked your birthday down on the calendar, something he’d never done for anyone else before. the beginning of everything was after one of those rare drinks that had landed you in keigo’s apartment and sitting criss-crossed on his bed, discussing your unlucky love life.

he’d listened with rapture as you pored over the freaks you’d met and gone out with in detail, mistakenly trusting your friends to set you up with someone nice on a blind date. in their defense, you’d drunkenly mumbled, it’s not their fault that there’s so many people catfishing. one inebriated conversation led to another, and you’d happened upon the fact that neither of you hadn’t had any good sex in a very long time. in the morning, you came into work late and sore all over, but also newly enlightened. for the past six months, you’ve successfully maintained a friends with benefits relationship with keigo takami, the no. 2 hero of japan.

“this one’s yours. here’s the receipt,” you push him a tightly wrapped sub sandwich and his tab.

he catches the sandwich after letting it spin on the table like an arrow on a game spinner, then crumples the receipt. “why don’t you believe me when i say i enjoy paying for you, hm?”

you sigh after a bite. “it makes me feel like a sugar baby . . but also, i can pay for myself.”

“so you’re either saying i’m old or rich,” keigo chuckles when you roll your eyes dramatically, “i know you can, but just let me spoil you, dovey.”

you knew it was a losing game the moment you brought it up, cheeks heating a little at the implication of his words. maybe being his baby isn’t that bad. conversation comes to a comfortable standstill as you both dig into your sandwiches, crumbs falling to the table and making a small mess. when you look up to pause and wipe your mouth, a laugh tumbles out before you can stop it.

“what?” keigo asks confusedly, holding his sandwich tightly and going so far as to swivel around backwards in hopes of pinpointing whatever made you laugh.

you wrap a napkin over your fingers and lean across the table. instinctually, keigo leans in for a kiss, only to be a little more than heartbroken when you swerve to the side and dodge it to instead dab at a streak of mustard across his chin. the sudden intimacy and close proximity cause the apples of his cheeks to turn rosy in embarrassment. “did you just lead me on?” he asks when he notices you giggling at him again, voice taking on a playful and petty tone. “because it totally feels like you did that on purpose.”

“no, keigo,” a wide smile spreads across your face at his usual antics, “you were the one eating so quickly you got mustard all over your face! someone had to clean you up.”

in an instant, his voice drops an octave, becoming low and sultry. “you keep talking like that and i’ll clean you up.”

“i— we’re in public!” you exclaim, a dull ache pulsing between your legs at the thought of him using his tongue on you.

he shrugs noncommittally, feeling triumphant now that he’s briefly flustered you. “public or not, you know you love it. now eat your sandwich.”

“way ahead of you,” heat floods your cheeks as you pick up the sandwich, feeling dirty because of the slick pooling into your underwear. keigo doesn’t understand how easy it is to get you worked up, whether it’s with his words or the mischievous footsie he keeps playing under the table with you. “if i come across a headline about this conversation, i’m gonna kill you.”

☆ ☆

“late night?” keigo hums, shattering your concentration on the current task. startled and disheveled, you glance up just in time to catch his typical smirk. his gold eyes shamelessly rake up and down your body as if he’s spotted something he wants—no, needs—to claim. however, his raunchy ogling comes to a screeching halt when he hones in on the shadowy dark circles beneath your eyes.

“the latest,” you blow out a peeved breath through pursed lips, doing your utmost to avoid looking out the window. it’s completely dark outside, the sky an inky blanket of night and stars over the city. “i’m fucking swamped.”

it comes out bitterly, and keigo cautiously steps forward, wings twitching nervously behind him. that well-groomed mess of vermilion feathers at his back seems to have a mind of its own, constantly betraying their owner by displaying his emotions so openly.

“what, you coming to rescue me?” absentmindedly, you swish around your empty coffee mug. not a single drop flies over the edge, the porcelain totally dry as if it was never used.

“c’monnnn, you know i’m always up to rescue you,” he teases playfully, gently tugging the mug out of your grip and setting a reassuring palm down on your hunched shoulders. “i’ll get us some coffee and help you out when i get back.”

“i highly doubt that you’re qualified to deal with PR work, keigo.” a small though rascally smile plays on your lips, corners flicking up as your sour demeanor starts to mellow out.

he sticks out his tongue and steps out of your office, heading to the kitchen. as his feet quietly pad along the hard carpet, he considers your recent behavior — last week you were fucking around on the roof and then getting sandwiches like it was nobody’s business. keigo was seeing you around the office and outside of it, but the time he’d been spending with you had decreased dramatically over the past few days. the coordinated lunch breaks and escapades were no more, and keigo’s been caught up wondering why. now, the reason for this couldn’t be linked to anything he did or said — still, it’s impossible for him not to overthink.

“god, you’re a lifesaver!” you groan joyously as keigo sets down a full mug of coffee in front of you and away from your laptop and notepad. “thank you for this.”

“slow down, you haven’t even seen the things i can do outside of making coffee.”

you rotate your laptop once he finally takes a seat in front of you, insistently pointing a finger at the various tasks on your metaphorical plate. “if i give you some work, you’ll have to do a lot of proofreading.”

keigo nods, and his eyebrows suddenly pull downwards in a mix of playful confusion and surprise. “wait, is that a virtual shrine dedicated to me?”

“what?” you mutter, squinting your eyes as you frantically look over the computer screen to no avail. “oh, shut up. just start reading while i finish up the rest.”

there’s a pause and a beat of silence as you both settle into your respective assignments.

then, “i actually came to the office because i missed you a little.”

“you what?” you laugh increduously, licking a finger to aid you in flipping through paperclipped pages. his eyes follow you, from the moment your tongue darts out to wet your skin and then flicks through pages you skim to find what you’re looking for.

“well, i haven’t seen you outside of work in a while,” keigo sniffs, tearing his eyes away from you and refocusing on the words on the screen. at the risk of sounding too vulnerable, he throws in something disgustingly horny to save himself. “was just wondering about my fuck buddy.”

fuck. he’s really cringing now, throat instinctually closing up once he feels waves of nausea crashing over him. but you don’t even bat an eye, too busy setting papers aside in different stacks and barely paying attention to him. “oh, yeah. i’m sorry, it’s just that a ton of people have been dumping so much work on me.”

“so that’s why i’m reading a drafted article enshrining endeavor as number one?” he grins, briefly catching your eyes. you’re not quite sure if it’s the exhaustion finally catching up or something else, but your stomach flutters when you automatically meet his gaze. loose papers drift to the floor, falling right past you.

“yep, that’s why,” you laugh nervously, snatching up the papers so forcefully that they crumple in your grasp. keigo’s always so damn charming, and it affects you more now that you’re so tired. right?

“you want some dinner, dovey?” the affectionate pet name lingers in your mind, echoing loudly until it finally fades into a memory from a while ago. the transition of his affectionate voice into one choked with unadulterated pleasure is seamless, leaving you breathless in an instant. a glance at his wings has you sloppily picturing them fanned out above you and frantically beating the air as keigo ruts his hips into yours . . god, what’s gotten into you? he certainly could.

“i want you,” it slips out before you can stop it or even control it, words laced with a silent desperation only he can detect. “uh, i mean—”

“bold words,” a wolf whistle trills out into the air, reminding you that you’ve now started something you won’t be getting out of easily. “sure you can handle what you’re askin’ for, baby?”

“don’t act like i haven’t countless times before,” you retort, voice a little weaker than you’d like. it’s frustrating, the influence he has over your body — he hasn’t even said anything meaningful and yet heat’s surging to your cheeks while a shiver of excitement ripples through you.

“riiiight. aren’t you the one always saying you can’t handle it? ‘oh, keigo, please! i can’t, i—’”

the endless teasing is just too much — it makes your blood boil, gets your pulse racing, and absolutely does what it was intended to do. your full mug of coffee tips off the edge of the table and spills when you slam the laptop shut, leaping forward to rapidly close the distance between you two. your lips, slightly sticky with coffee, crash onto keigo’s hard, causing your foreheads to knock together too.

it’s a palpable invitation, one that he eagerly accepts without hesitation. his strong hands settle firmly on your hips in an attempt to stop their slight tremble, fingertips pressing into the curve of your waist. he pulls you into his lap and you fall into sync with one another just like always: keigo slips his tongue into your mouth while you tug at his blonde curls. impatience curated by time apart and characterized by frustration has the air in the room sparking with white hot electricity that’s strong enough to cause a power outage — you’re so close to finally scratching that unbearable itch, at least until it comes back tomorrow with much more ferocity.

keigo draws back with a knowing smile, lips curling up. “we should stop, dovey.”

a thin, glossy string of saliva connects your lips to his. you’ve got this desperate, needy look written all over your face, which crumples petulantly as you consider the possibility of being left unsatisfied. something purely horny twists in his chest, alongside his still yearning heart — keigo fucking loves being in control, being the only one who can give you the satisfaction that you so desperately need, but the thought of being something more resurfaces in his mind again.

it always comes to him at the worst times: right now, during a sexual moment, or before he falls asleep and when he opens his eyes to daylight in the morning. it’s eating him up inside, and he’s already too far in to stop — or is he? no, he isn’t! not if he finds a way to extricate himself from the suffocating casualness of this mess and advance whatever’s left into a real relationship, one that’s abundant in love and adoration. the evolution of the relationship hinges on the timing of his love confession, so he’ll definitely plan to wait until you’re not holed up in the office and on his lap looking like you’re about to shed tears.

“i c-can’t,” you gasp breathlessly, heart pounding in your ears, “kei, please— i need you so badly, i’ve been waiting so damn long.”

and who is he to deny you, when you’re begging so beautifully?

“so you missed me?” keigo murmurs, pressing kisses to the column of your throat and savoring the way you softly gasp. this is his moment. he’s going to slyly frame a question for you, and when you answer it correctly, he’ll spring his confession onto you and then give you what you’ve been dying for.

“god, yes,” a moan rushes out from between your lips, head tipping back to give him easier access. with his nose pressed into your skin, keigo blissfully inhales the faint wisps of your favorite perfume. eight months later and you’re still wearing that scent daily, ever since he complimented you the day he met you. “you know i did, keigo.”

“what’d you miss the most?” he smirks between open mouthed kisses, guiding you straight to the answer with his warm hands that slip under your shirt and languidly caress the small of your back.

“your cock, t-the way you fuck me,” you groan, unintentionally shattering his plan into pieces; but he doesn’t let it show, chuckling into your neck as he rapidly snatches them up and off the floor. it’s okay, he’s okay. all he has to do is ask a few more questions and offer up some multiple choice answers — in doing so, he’ll have a chance to tell you how he really feels.

“mmmm, is that all?”

your eyebrows furrow in confusion and you tug him back by the hair, scrutinizing him with eyes clouded by lust and nothing else. a carnation colored flush sits high on his cheekbones, and his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows down a pesky i love you. not now, not here — this isn’t the right moment.

“keigo, why are you questioning me like my boss does?” he blinks, averting his eyes to your glossy neck, shining with his saliva in the dim light. it smells like coffee now, and he’s wondering if it’ll ever get cleaned up, dark liquid overflowing and soaking through the carpet, straight into the floor. he doesn’t want to be like the coffee, forgotten about and lingering in the air since it had fallen off the desk without you having caught it.

keigo knows you — he always has, and it’s too easy to pick up on the unmistakable tension twisted in your question, along with undertones of discomfort and deflection. automatically, he slips back into his typical persona, lips curling into an impish smile while he waggles his eyebrows to emphasize his words. “heh, you’re so impatient. can you blame me for wanting to build things up?”

you visibly relax, plush mouth forming into a pout he wants to kiss away. “i think there’s been plenty of build up. don’t tease me again.”

“yes ma’am,” he replies coolly, lifting his hands into the air in a show of submission. you release his hair and he pulls you into his chest, holding you tightly as he stands up from the chair. it rolls away into a corner, plastic backing hitting the wall with a soft thud just as keigo slams you down on the desk, papers flying every which way.

“keigo, hah, you haven’t even gotten me naked yet,” you sigh, heat rushing to your face as he sinks to his knees on the hard carpet, his eyes never leaving yours. dexterous, impatient fingers find the clasp of your pants, and he drags them down your legs, along with your sticky panties.

“i know,” keigo breathes, pulling your thighs over his shoulders and pulling your hips close to his face, “and yet, you’re already fucking soaked for me. aren’t you, baby?”

“yeah, i am,” you whimper, feeling your cunt clench around nothing when he rewards you by spitting onto your clit. “all for you, kei.”

“you’re so cute.”

you really are, all spread out on the desk, pretty and pliant just for him. there’s not a shred of resistance when he manuvers you closer or teases his fingertips around your quivering hole, ignoring your strained cries for more. dark pupils enlarge against gold irises, and keigo’s wings flutter eagerly as his arousal crashes over him in continuous, steady waves of heat. now that he’s between your legs and focused on his favorite late night snack, the scent of the coffee dissipates along with his thoughts.

“keigo,” you keen, fingers threading through his tousled curls, “please, just—oh god, stop fuckin’ teasing me.”

a sportive smack! lands on the side of your bare ass, kicking up a few papers when you jolt forward in surprise. “easy, baby. easy,” there’s a low, warning pitch in his voice, and you settle down frustratedly, gnawing on your lower lip. keigo’s never been one to rush when it comes to eating your pussy, even during quickies—you’d be more aggravated if he didn’t always make you cum so damn hard. his face is flushed pink and shining with eagerness as he pushes two fingers inside you, fixated on the way they slide in so easily.

he experimentally curls them, and a lick of heat washes over his whole body when he watches your face crumple, head tipping back weakly while you tug at his hair. the blond curls are soft between your fingers, giving you something to grab onto when you need to steady yourself.

“fuckkk,” keigo groans, attaching his rosy lips to your clit and lightly sucking at the swollen, sensitive bud. clumsily, you grind your hips against his mouth, body sweltering as the small office fills with the impolite smacks of his lips and wet squelches of your sloppy cunt. “loosen up for me, baby, you’re too tight.”

a trembly breath leaves your lips as you obediently readjust for him, spreading your legs and trying to relax so he can tug his fingers back. for a moment, he pauses to appreciatively look over his glossy, creamy fingers—he sticks them into his mouth, moaning and squeezing his eyes shut as he puts on a show of swirling his tongue around them like some kind of slut. once he opens his eyes, those piercing gold hues meet your own and he plunges them back inside, making you whimper.

“listen to me, dovey,” keigo murmurs, breath fanning over your wet clit, “i want you cumming hard on my fingers in the next thirty seconds.”

“but—oh,” your voice cracks when he deeply curls his fingers, purposefully interrupting you, “what if it’s not enough? i don’t think i can—”

sharp, pearly teeth lightly graze your clit and make you mewl noisily, the action both a warning and a reward. “yes, you can, dovey,” he utters in a hushed voice, “c’mon, show me you’re a big girl. i’ll be counting for ya.”

with that, keigo dives back in, furiously licking your clit while he roughly curls his fingers into that sweet, spongy spot inside you. it’s probably not serious, but something in your stomach flutters at the thought of disobeying him—if he wants you to cum, you’ll do just that. your hips rock into his tongue, developing a messy rhythm that could possibly rival his own when he’s inside you—he smirks against you, clearly pleased with himself. papers lift into the air, swirling around in a flurry of white as if they’re caught up in a tornado. the source of the miniature storm is his wings, uncontrollably flapping about as he determinedly licks at your clit like a lollipop.

twenty five. a thin sheen of sweat shines on your forehead, making the skin tacky. absentmindedly, you wonder if it could be possible for him to cum in his pants just from eating you out. he certainly enjoys it enough — whenever he says he’s feeling thirsty or hungry, he’ll end up eating you out for so long you pass out by your seventh orgasm.

twenty. keigo’s absorbed in the smell, sight, and taste of you. nothing’s better than watching you fall apart on him, dewy tears in your eyes as you fight back overstimulation or impatience. but this is new: he’s never demanded you to cum after setting a time limit in place. it occurs to him now that he didn’t think far enough ahead to answer the question you’ll probably end up asking afterwards, something along the lines of ‘what would’ve happened if i didn’t cum?’ . .

fifteen. with your eyes rolling back into your head as your hips lurch off the desk, a bit of drool pours down your chin. covered in a mixture of sweat, spit, and slick, you’re at a loss for words as keigo’s damn tongue rolls over your clit again and again. perhaps you’re too dazed, but you swear you feel him etch the letters of his name into you with the tip of his tongue.

ten. keigo’s pussydrunk, soaking his boxers with precum as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge. his eyes are dark with lust, and the rosy skin of his cheeks and chin is smeared with that sticky wetness he just can’t get enough of. all of your muscles pull taut like a bowstring, and you sob out his name, pushing his face into you as euphoria hits you from every direction and all at once.

“kei, oh my god, ‘m gonna fucking cum,” within seconds of your frantic gasps, you abruptly gush on his fingers, hard enough to push them out of you — cum squirts from your cunt, getting onto his face when he curiously leans in to lick it away.

you don’t get a second to come down from your high because keigo roughly licks you through it as if he’s severely dehydrated. “mmmph!” you squeal, hips immediately pulling away from him like he’s given you an electric shock. “wai—wait, keigo, it’s way too much!”

he relents, rolling his eyes as if he doesn’t believe you. “fine, fiiiiine. you win this one, dovey.”

“pants off.”

he quirks an eyebrow but starts to undo his belt, letting it fall to the floor with a soft bang. “you’re so fucking greedy, i swear.”

you throw him a glare, wiping sweat off of your forehead as you sit up, slowly hopping off of the desk.

papers fall all around you, quietly crinkling as they hit the floor and surround the desk in a sloppy circle. your lips press into a thin line as you take the sight in, mildly exasperated by the mess you’ll force him to clean up. “on the desk, keigo. tuck your wings in too.”

he laughs in disbelief, used to calling the shots when it comes to sex, “so demanding, baby.”

you fix him with a serious look, crossing your arms over your chest while papers ride the dying currents of air made by his wings. keigo clears his throat and folds his wings close to his back, “yes ma’am.”

his flushed cock is rock hard, bobbing as he settles onto the desk; it’s fraught with veins and beautifully curved to one side, something you’re endlessly thankful for when he’s inside you. above him, you’re dripping wet and ready to take him deep — keigo shudders when you grip the base of his cock, carefully balancing yourself on the desk so that you can easily sit down on it.

“holy—oh, shit,” he curses, abs clenching beneath his clothing as he forces himself to keep his hips down. if you want to take control, he’ll give it to you — anything you could ever want is immediately yours. bleary gold eyes clear up and hone in on where you’re connected; your pussy swallows his cock whole like it’s nothing, leaving him breathless.

you swallow, gnawing at your lower lip, “i’ve fucking missed this, kei. been s-so long.”

memories from your most favorite escapades rush back to you so quickly your head spins, momentarily distracting you from the task at hand. there’s a beat of silence before keigo grips your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he borderline begs you, “baby, c’mon, fuck me already.”

“don’t tell me what to do,” you breathe, placing your hands in the center of his chest to hold yourself up, “you don’t get to do that right now, keigo.”

“god, you’re gonna kill me.”

maybe you won’t, but your hips will — they start to move until you’re bouncing roughly on his cock, letting his tip bully itself against your cervix. it’s the kind of kiss that only the two of you can understand, filled with affection and an hungry obsession for more.

for what seems to be the hundredth time, this mahogany desk is christened with more sex. skin claps against skin, filling the room with the same applause that echoes in a theater after a successful show; the whole building is empty, and it’s only your window that’s flooded with fluorescent light in the otherwise dark night.

“dovey,” keigo moans, voice cracking on the familiar pet name, “if you keep going like this, i’m—i’m not gonna last much longer.”

you don’t answer, eyes squeezing shut against the burn of exhaustion setting into your muscles. handsy as always, he grabs at your tits, pulling you further on top of him and taking a hardened nipple into his mouth.

the sharp edges of his pearly teeth drag against your skin as he sucks, golden eyes shutting once he hears your whiny moans grow louder. you’re fluid and all too smooth, riding his cock into oblivion while working in these little humps against his pelvis that don’t disturb the rhythm you’ve built up. your clit drags across his skin deliciously—shit, it’s possible that you could cum together.

“haah, baby,” keigo trembles beneath you, wings spreading out and quivering against his will. “i’m so damn close, i want—” it nearly sounds too intimate, but he ignores the voice in the back of his mind and focuses on his impending orgasm that’s fighting its way out of him. “shit, i just want you to cum with me.”

sensitivity creeps up your spine and makes your body ripple with a shudder, “r-rub my clit ‘n i will, kei.”

everything happens so damn fast; it doesn’t take long for your body to respond to his frenetic touch, and you completely fall apart on his cock, triggering his own high. while your cunt desperately grips him like a vice, he’s shooting endless ropes of cum deep against your cervix. ultimately, it was pointless for him to fold up his wings — they’ve fought against him like usual, strewing more papers around the room and knocking objects off of your desk.

“d-don’t move just yet,” he wheezes, holding your hips in place the moment you try to retreat, “just stay here for a second, dovey.”

a mixture of slick and cum is smeared in the wispy beige hair that adorns his pelvis, and he looks at you pleadingly, cheeks a blotchy pink. it’s cute, but not nearly convincing enough for you to stay much longer than half a minute. “c’mon, i’ve got some stuff to finish up.”

begrudgingly, keigo lets you go and winces as you pull off of his cock. it flops lamely against his stomach, cum dribbling down the sides and adding to the creamy ring around the base. he sighs, unsurprised by your eagerness to depart — his thighs are cooling now that you’re no longer sitting on top of them.

“that was good,” you say, voice layered with praise as you stand on the tips of your toes and peck an appreciative kiss to his cheek, “let’s get started on sorting papers, shall we?”

you’re already across the room before he can grab your waist and show you what a real kiss feels like, slipping through his fingers like fine grains of sand each and every time.

☆ ☆

rules are the stitches in the seams of anything, always there to hold things tightly in place. it’s natural to break a few every now and then, but what if there are some that should be broken? perhaps they tend to hold things back rather than securely in place.

“okinawa’s just beautiful,” keigo says wistfully, reminiscing about white sand beaches and the bird’s eye view of colorful tourist umbrellas dotting the shoreline from above. there’s a small glitch in his memories that adds you to the scene in a bikini, sunbathing on a towel while he convinces you to come swim in the water with him. he hears himself say something impulsive, but he doesn’t regret it. “maybe we can go on a trip there together. i’ll fly us.”

you stir your drink with a straw, watching the alcohol whirl around ice. “ah, i think we should build up to that, keigo. you’re forgetting that i’ve never flown around that far with you before.”

“we could always change that,” he replies, voice suave. “nighttime is the best time to fly.”

“someday i might just take you up on it,” a laugh spills out of your mouth after a gulp of sweetened tequila, and keigo’s face softens. one of the things he loves most about you is the fact that you’re not afraid to be yourself around him, never once hiding a smile or laugh. “anyway, is there anywhere you haven’t traveled?”

“hmm, let me think,” he raises his fingers to his chin and ponders momentarily, although the answer had come to him the moment you’d started to ask the question. “well, there’s your house.”

you shake your head, nudging his wrist with your own. “noooo, i’m talking about other countries and cities. haven’t you flown out of japan?”

“only to okinawa,” he supplies, wings twitching anxiously. whenever he brings up your home in the city or worse, him going to it, you always clam up or push him away. granted, it was a boundary line you’d marked in the sand when you’d gotten into this reciprocal relationship all those months ago. escapades have taken place everywhere but your home—he could count on one hand the amount of times he’d mentioned doing it at your place, only to end up on a random rooftop or in an empty alleyway. ever the quick learner, keigo learned not to bring it up. but now, when he’s considering all the variables involved when it comes to confessing to you, he can’t help but feel that it’s necessary to see your house at least once.

sweat rolls down his spine and he unconsciously tugs at his fitted shirt, feeling the heatwaves brought on from both the liquor and the crowded atmosphere of the bar. there’s so many people walking behind the two of you, so much noise, so many bodies all in one space — he feels a little trapped.

“i’ve never been,” you say, derailing his train of thought as you drain your third drink of the night and then flag down the bartender for another. “it’s supposed to be a great vacation spot, though.”

he wipes away the sweat from his forehead with his arm and finishes his drink before nodding your way, wings fidgeting behind him. “it really is, dovey. you wanna take off after another drink or two?”

two glasses slide on the counter, the sides dripping with condensation and cold to the touch. it’s nice to feel in his hands, and he feels his nerves calming after a few long sips. “sounds good,” you answer, feeling hot yourself. the edges of everything in the room seem to blur, thanks to the halos circling the dim bar lights. “you might have to carry me out of here, though.”

“oh, i don’t mind,” keigo answers with a smirk that you can hear in his voice before looking up at him, “but only if you promise you’ll hold on tightly.”

“yes, keigo,” you drawl, scooting your barstool a few inches closer to him. he follows your shameless eyes, tracing your weighted stare to the small gold chain around his neck. it makes a tinkling sound when keigo loops a finger beneath it, hazy eyes meeting your own.

“can’t stop staring, can you?”

you automatically roll your eyes and look away, although your heart starts to race with anticipation. it should be an innocent question, but keigo’s words roll off his tongue in a way that is loaded with his unique charm and flirtatiousness. in a matter of seconds, you’re overthinking the question and the certain innuendo behind it; your breaths come in shallow pants that are just barely audible, and a finger slips beneath your chin to tip your head up.

keigo leans in, lips barely grazing the shell of your ear. “gettin’ all worked up and i haven’t even touched you? that’s a first for you, baby.”

just stop it, you think, yet you’re unable to turn away. damn, he’s got you right where he wants you, and he knows it — keigo shoots you a knowing smile when he notices your thighs unconsciously squeeze together. it’s so hot in this bar, and it only grows hotter in his presence; an uncontrollable shiver races up your spine and you shakily reach for your drink. “stop it, kei.”

your words are shaky, and his wings twitch triumphantly behind him, feathers slightly puffing up. the dewy glass slips right out of your hand and splashes all over your blouse, sticky tequila soaking all the way through to your bra and dampening your chest. keigo stifles a snicker and plucks the glass out of your lap, a little bit of liquid still sloshing around inside it.

“that—that was your fault,” you drop a loose ice cube into the remains of your drink and glare at him angrily as he dabs a handful of napkins against your chest, unabashedly looking over the shrinking fabric. now that it’s all wet, it clings to every inch of your chest and emphasizes the outline of your tits.

“oh, but i wasn’t holding the drink,” keigo clicks his tongue and sends you a wink, sweat shining on his forehead.

“someone has to foot the bill,” you grouse, sourly blaming him for your now stained blouse and sticky chest. then, it hits you—neither of you are drunk enough to leave the bar. after flagging down the bartender and requesting six shots, you look at keigo competitively. “listen up. whoever finishes the shots first wins and doesn’t have to pay.”

“really, a drinking challenge?” keigo grumbles, knowing you have a better chance of winning. normally, he wouldn’t mind paying for you, but you’ve challenged him and might risk covering the bill you’ve both racked up. his head is fuzzy, but one thought is clear: he won’t let you.

“yes, really,” you shoot back, nose crinkling at the smell of the liquor all on its own in the shot glasses. it’s not sweet and there’s no chaser, but you’re determined to fight your gag reflex as it goes down. “ready?”

“i’m ready,” keigo sighs, lifting a shot glass.

it ends faster than the alcohol was poured. you’re proud to have won, and keigo doesn’t let on the fact that he assisted you. despite the liquid fire burning your throat, you’re happy—too happy; this is the most drunk that keigo has ever seen you, and he’s in the same boat as you, looking for the oars.

he nearly forgets his card when he struggles to his feet and walks out of the bar with you, right into the not-so-dark nighttime of the city. all of the streetlights are fuzzy and the sounds of racing cars are muffled; this is a different area of the city and it takes a moment for you to register where you are in relation to keigo’s apartment.

“dovey,” he says, cheeks flushed a bright red, “do you wanna go to my place?”

strong, possessive hands find your waist and pull you close, pressing your damp chest against his. those gold eyes of his search your face carefully, as if he’s taking in your features and committing them to memory or looking for something he’s intent on finding.

your hand settles on his cheek and you pull him forward for a kiss on the busy street, not caring about who sees or writes about it. you’re in your own world, thinking of nothing but keigo and his plush, yearning mouth—he’s got the sense to pull away before it goes further, vaguely gesturing for you to turn around. when you oblige, he wraps his arms around you and under your own, holding you securely against his chest.

“i’ll treat you to a little night flight.”

vermilion wings beat the air powerfully, kicking up dust and litter along the sidewalk as keigo lifts you off the ground and into the sky. you’re shocked and speechless as you look over the city from above, thousands of buildings endlessly illuminated with light and color from the entertainment district. “it’s beautiful up here,” you breathe, feeling a little less drunk now that chill air washes over your face and cools you down. “why didn’t you invite me up here sooner?”

keigo laughs, riding on the wind and becoming one with it. “i did, you just never took me up on it. as to why, i don’t know.”

everything’s so much clearer from up here. the view is impeccable, and the air is fresh, free of the different scents of the city — exhaust fumes, restaurants, cigarettes, the occasional incense store. you’re shivering, a little too cold from the breeze blowing through your damp blouse, but being pressed against keigo’s warm chest makes it more bearable. something prods at the back of your drunken mind, a thought you’ve pushed away each time it arrives.

keigo thinks he’s slick. he thinks you don’t notice his lingering gazes, the odd way he tries to snuggle up to you every time you finish having sex, or the acute tenderness written all over his face every now and then when he’s talking to you.

but you do. you notice it, each and every time—in fact, you know exactly what all of this behavior stems from, but you choose to ignore it. clearly, keigo is in love with you. it’s evident in his actions and body language, yet he hasn’t actually said anything. it’s so damn easy to notice and understand because you feel the same, you’re just better at hiding it. something about the idea of a relationship with the no. 2 pro hero of japan is daunting — not only because you’re his agent or you’ll constantly have to face the public, but because there’s a possibility that transitioning into something more from being friends with benefits may be too dramatic of a change.

“oh, fuck,” keigo groans, getting lost in the myriad of lights and buildings below. he doesn’t know where the hell his apartment is and isn’t sure if he has the time to fly around for a half hour looking for it.

“what’s wrong?” you ask worriedly, suddenly aware of the fact that your legs are dangling in the air. in order to preserve his pride and sensitive ego, you don’t bring up anything about him dropping you, but your body tenses.

“it’s the shots,” he grouses, speaking quickly, “they’re gonna come back up.”

“where’s your apartment?”

“i don’t know,” keigo answers, and now you can hear him starting to gag as he forces the contents of his stomach back down. “i can’t keep flying around much longer . . sorry to cut this little flight short, baby.”

“it’s okay, just don’t get sick,” you reassure him slowly, trying to pinpoint your own apartment. surprisingly, the building is a minute or two away from you, if he flies fast enough. “keigo, we’ll head to my place. see that dark building right there, near the red billboard?”

he nods, and the waves of nausea evaporate instantly. after months, he’s finally going to see your apartment—he’s now leagues closer to successfully confessing his feelings to you. keigo’s heavy wings slice through the sky as he hurdles toward your apartment; while the speed is steady, the course is not. from below, people watch as something wobbles through the sky, shifting awkwardly from side to side in a way that isn’t at all graceful . . or intimidating.

you assume he really has to throw up, when it’s quite the opposite. “k-keigo, see that balcony with the potted plants? there’s only one pot of flowers.”

“is that yours?” he asks, struggling to control how giddy he is. “i see it.”

☆ ☆

with the solid, familiar ground of the balcony beneath your feet, things around you are a little steadier. still, the alcohol buzzes persistently in your head and makes you giggle over nothing. it’s warmer now that you’re out of the sky, standing close to keigo and surrounded by all of your potted plants. a pleasant tingling sensation courses through your limbs as your body wobbles, adjusting to being out of the air and the new thoughts that rush into your head.

everything’s still a little fuzzy at the edges, a reminder of your tipsiness and disorientation. keigo wraps a supportive arm around your waist when you nearly stumble to the ground, quietly giggling at your own actions and sighing contentedly in his grip. there’s a beat of silence as your body meshes into his, the kind that settles between two people who’ve just shared a long day, and it feels so natural that your mind absently drifts to two pairs of shoes beside one another and two cups of coffee in the mornings—perhaps you didn’t notice the routine you’ve slipped into, one so innate that it makes everything else feel a little less important.

“hey, did i mention how sexy you are when you’re drunk, dovey?” keigo hiccups, wings quivering as he leans on you for some support, struggling to balance just like you are. his knuckles nudge into your side gently, grin widening as if he’s waiting for a reaction from you. the playful edge to his voice falters momentarily, and you exhale through your nose, shaking your head in disbelief.

“ugh, you must’ve had much more than i thought,” you laugh, kicking the doormat up and retrieving the brass key from beneath it to unlock the door. it’s dark out here on the porch and the same inside, leading you to awkwardly jam the key into the lock.

“you always blow me off,” he sighs ruefully, smile dropping as he notices you using the key upside down. “what, do i embarrass you or something?”

“i-it’s not that,” you breathe, tensing the moment his chest presses against your back and his hand envelops yours to help you with the key. goosebumps rise on the tender flesh of your arms first, then all over your chest, beneath your damp blouse. you recover once the lock gives, sliding the heavy glass door open and catching your breath. “kei, you’ve always got something to say to me.”

“you, of all people, have the power to shut me up whenever you want,” keigo teases, following you into your quaint apartment. instead of appreciating the moment, his mind races to find an answer to the million-dollar question: why were you so intent on keeping him out of here? even in total darkness, the place is cozy, shelves adorned with knickknacks and décor that suits you. totally lost in concentration, keigo’s wings bristle and he accidentally knocks something off a shelf, but manages to catch it in his hand. you’re in the middle of saying something, but he doesn’t even notice, his eyes completely lighting up at the sight of the object.

“is this that glass bird i gave you all those months ago?”

a nervous laugh rushes past your lips and you nod, hand falling away from the light switch. “yeah, i thought it looked nice up there. it’s pretty.”

“wow, baby,” he gingerly puts the figurine back in its place, elated by the possible significance that this little glass bird holds. “if i’d known you liked it that much, i would’ve showered you in gifts.”

in the middle of unbuttoning your blouse, you trip over your own foot, and keigo, ever the hero, catches you as gently as he did the figurine. his fingers splay across your bare side and you blink up at him, faced with another small gap that’s dying to be closed. “i know what i want as a gift,” you utter, voice low and sultry. the words seem to hang in the air like more of a promise than a request.

keigo can smell the liquor on your breath and the temptation that accompanies it—without a second thought, his lips are on yours and he’s pushing forward with alcohol buzzing in his veins. he’s so full of hope, believing the best over what he’s considered a sign of something more; it feels so right to kiss you like this, with his hands spanning your bare waist and tugging gently at your waistband. it doesn’t quite occur to him that he is inebriated and therefore may not be thinking as sharply as he would if he were sober in this situation.

you shove forward, pushing him hard into a wall and nipping at his lips hungrily. despite being a little bothered by him being in your apartment, you can’t say you’re not interested in fucking on your own bed for once. a shaky gasp leaves you when you pull away for breath, stomach fluttering delightedly at the hardness of his cock pressing into your thigh.

his breath hitches in his throat, hazy mind racing a thousand miles an hour. the question leaves his lips with more urgency than intended. “i—shit, you really want me to take you right here?”

“in the hallway?” you laugh, astonished. “i’d much prefer my bed, it’s easier for you to fuck me as hard as you want.”

desire and lust conducts your actions, has you dropping your blouse to the floor and unclasping your bra next. each article of clothing falls to the floor in a heap, forming a trail leading to the bedroom door. keigo follows your lead, wings jittering with anticipation as he crosses the threshold. billowy curtains blow up and around the window, lifted by the night breeze, and your room is dark, the details barely visible: keigo notices the many pillows on your bed (so that’s why you were on his ass about buying more than just one) and the full length mirror off to the side.

keigo stops to glance at his reflection in the mirror, fraught with the sculpted curves of muscle—each line a testament to years of hard work and dedication. dark hickeys litter his tanned skin, all left behind from the heat of many moments. momentarily, his eyes shift from the glass to you, perched on the bed and waiting for him. his fingers subconsciously graze over one of the marks, just as he recalls one of your rules, a line that had been drawn in the sand early on—no marks, nowhere near your neck or anywhere at all, even if people couldn’t see them.

it’s a curious little thing, isn’t it? you clearly have no qualms about marking up his body, but you never let him give you some in return—he hasn’t voiced it, not yet. he exhales softly, feeling the ache between his legs flare once you call his name expectantly. it’s like a switch flips, causing his mind to sharpen and his pulse to quicken when he steps toward you.

bathed in opalescent moonlight, you sit back against your makeshift throne of pillows, eyes raking over him shamelessly, as if you’re looking for something else to sink your teeth into. vermilion feathers puff up and shake themselves out as the bed dips beneath his weight. “come here,” he beckons you lowly, with every intention of making you his. “you’re mine, aren’t you?”

now mussed with abundant wrinkles, the bedspread shifts beneath your bodies as keigo slots himself on top of you and hastily kisses down your neck, lightly nipping at the tender skin, just enough to elicit soft moans from you. doubt melts into desire, lacing his ministrations with something more urgent. for six months, keigo has never seen or left a single mark on you, and tonight, that’s about to change—you’ve already broken the biggest rule you had by bringing him to your apartment, so how much further could this go?

“yeah, ‘m all yours,” you whine, back arching off the bed when he bites at the soft skin of your tits, tongue lapping away the sticky tequila you spilled earlier. it’s so different—he can’t believe he went this long without making any objections.

things are heating up fast, and that haziness from the liquor creeps up on both of you, blurring your thoughts just enough. his hips chase yours into the bed, and he eagerly grinds his hardened cock against your thighs, all over them. your voice cracks slightly when you try to moan his name, impatient as always. but keigo decides to take his time with you, kissing and biting longer than usual—he’s in no rush, not yet.

it’s intoxicating in every way possible, causing your body to swelter and thrash beneath his own. keigo’s moving fast, delighting in your pleasure and drinking in every reaction unapologetically. fuck, to think you’d denied him and yourself for so long—he should make it up to you somehow, shouldn’t he?

“dovey,” he pants, fingers slipping under the fabric of the panties appreciatively, “you wore my favorites?”

crimson fabric adorns your waistline, threaded with soft lace. for lingerie, it’s pretty comfortable: it doesn’t floss your asshole like a thong or g-string does, something you’d told keigo when you tried it on in the dressing room. he knew he’d be buying it the moment you stepped out with a bright smile on your face. seeing it on you now is surreal, and he nearly creams his boxers at the sight of it, wings conveying his thoughts for him through a tremble.

your hips rise up and off the bed so he can pull away the last bit of fabric that covers your body. “yeah, but it doesn’t matter now,” you titter cheekily, shockwaves of arousal shooting straight between your thighs.

unceremoniously, your legs are thrown open and keigo’s wings flutter in amusement, always the first thing to react to whatever you have to say. “it matters to them,” keigo comments, jerking a thumb back to point at his pesky wings, “fair warning, this place might be a mess by the end of this.”

“so long as you help me deal with it tomorrow, i don’t mind,” your fingers swipe his cooling spit off your chest, and you’re a little startled as you press at a fresh hickey. it’s sticky, skin now sensitive and tingling in a way that’s just right.

fierce as always, keigo doesn’t waste any time diving between your legs, eager to fuck but even more so to eat your pussy. glistening strings of slick stick to the tender skin of your inner thighs, connecting them to each other thinly until he licks it away. “mmm, dovey,” he moans adoringly, and your pulse quickens, “taste so goddamn sweet.”

keigo’s a proud pussy eater, the filthiest and best you’ve ever met. he could be gasping for air with his face covered in your cum and yet, he’d still have something utterly nasty to say. unapologetically nose deep, he slurps loudly at your soaking cunt and pins your antsy legs down over his shoulders.

“ngh, keigo,” you thrash forward, thighs squeezing his head like a vice while your hips uncontrollably buck into his face. “please don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—”

“keep squirming around like that and i will,” he grunts, one hand pressing you down into the bed while the other pushes between your thighs. those tenacious gold eyes of his are hooded now, gleaming rapturously as he devours everything you have to give him like he’s been starving. loud, sloppy slurps soon fill the room, falling into cadence with your whiny moans; scarlet feathers ruffle in response to his most favorite sounds, and his hips rut carelessly into the mattress, desperately seeking friction.

your head falls back into the downy pillows, jaw dropping slackly as you unsteadily sneak a hand down to your clit, fingers seeking to rub a lustful itch away. keigo’s fingers wrap around your wrist and snatch it away from your pussy, instead guiding your hand to his head in a show of acquiescence.

“don’t go doing that,” he groans, pulling up for air and pressing a thumb to your swollen clit hard enough to make your eyes roll back into your skull, “use your words instead, dovey.”

you weakly nod his way, and a sudden, swift slap is delivered right to your clit, the force behind it causing you to see stars. a twisted yelp tears from your throat, and you’re doe eyed when you tearfully glance down at him, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“gotta work on using your words, baby,” keigo coos, thumbing away a stray tear from your cheek. “jus’ trying to make you understand that i need you to tell me what you want.”

there’s a dark edge to his voice that makes the apologetic tone he’s taken on seem ingenuine, almost a little mocking. and yet, you let out a sweet moan, leaning into his touch with a hushed, “yeah, kei. i understand.”

still reeling from the tingling impact of the pussy slap, you guide his head back down between your legs and unsteadily grind into his mouth. he greedily drinks you in, smacking his lips like he can’t get enough of your honeyed taste, and unconsciously pulling you closer. his fingers rub tight circles into your throbbing clit, occasionally pinching the bud to elicit a scream or two before letting go.

keigo had always been taught not to play with his food—but when she’s quaking against his face and sobbing out his name over and over, he just can’t help himself. he’s had a perpetual mean streak that he’s only ever unleashed during sex with you, taking an overwhelming satisfaction in fucking you dumb and then teasing you about it. he notices the way your thighs tense at either side of his head, the way your head falls back whenever he tenses his tongue.

your clammy fingers claw through blonde curls, saccharine moans spilling from your lips with each ravenous push of his tongue through your folds. it’s a push and pull rhythm that is nothing less than addictive, dragging out the air from your lungs and leaving you utterly breathless.

“g-god, keigo,” you keen loudly, shoving him down without any regard for his ability to breathe, “need you to—i need you to fuck me with your tongue.”

he groans in response, shamelessly humping the bed now that the ache between his legs has become too prominent to ignore. it flares dangerously every time you say his name or look at him with that blissed out expression written all over your face . . fuck, now you’re telling him exactly what you want and pushing him around, something he’s always enjoyed. his tongue slips into your awaiting cunt and pushes deep, tasting even more of you once he finds that puffy, spongy spot inside of you that makes you clench up every damn time.

your breaths come in rushed, frantic gasps that soften each word. “fuuuck, right there—yeah, t-that’s it,” your voice shakes involuntarily, tight with inevitable euphoria. “kei, you’re gonna make me cum, hah—‘m real close, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

you chant those last words religiously, and keigo’s offended that you’re thinking he’d ever want to. “on my fuckin’ tongue,” he half groans, half begs, not sure if you even hear him at all.

keigo doesn’t dare to stop until you finally come undone on his tongue, shuddering uncontrollably as he licks you through your high, nearly passing out from a severe lack of oxygen. you’ve got him in a beautiful leglock that he regrets breaking out of, but seeing the dazed, drunken look on your face when he comes up erases the thought from his mind. the entire half of his lower face is covered in your cum, and heat floods your face when his pink tongue darts out to clean up his lips, all while holding your lidded gaze.

a few sanguine feathers float around your face, falling from the air like snowflakes and lightly settling on the bed like rose petals. it seems to make the moment warmer, more romantic as if this is your first time with him—in hindsight, it would’ve been nicer to christen the relationship with a bed of rose petals and scented candles scattered around the room. instead, it was something that happened fast and right after conversations about ex partners.

you pout at him as he positions himself on top of you once again, pressing a wet kiss to your mouth. instinctively, you lick away the mixture of spit and slick he leaves on your lips, tasting yourself on your tongue momentarily. it’s bittersweet and a little syrupy . . maybe he really isn’t lying about you tasting like candy. your thoughts fade away when you catch a glimpse of his vibrant wings — you’ve always seen them, but not like this. this time, you’re up close to them, so close you can see the downy barbs and delicate vanes of each individual feather.

“are your wings . . sensitive?” you ask curiously, voice carrying the barest note of reverence as your hand tentatively inches over his shoulder. after each and every covert tryst of yours, you’ve seen keigo smooth out the feathers or greet you in the morning with stimulating news of his freshly scrubbed wings. but this—touching them—feels like crossing an unspoken threshold.

keigo doesn’t answer, his breath catching in his throat. he’d been in the middle of dazedly tugging his boxers down his body when you’d just dropped a miniature bomb on him. this is the first time that he’s been this astonished, features mellowing profoundly. soon, he finds his voice and uses it, words intertwined with an unexpected tenderness: “ . . it’s alright. they’re just a little sensitive, heh. nobody’s ever touched them before.”

as if they understand you’re talking about them, his wings shift toward your fingers, obviously inviting you to touch them. this is certainly new — for the first time, his defiant wings are actually yearning to be touched, even though they get a little choosy when it’s him who’s brushing his hands through the feathers. gingerly, you reach forward and your hand disappears into the mussed feathers, fingertips brushing lightly against the sensitive skin beneath. the apex of his wings is abundant with small, downy feathers that quiver at your touch.

his eyelids flutter shut and he emits a shy moan, swallowing a sudden heart-shaped lump in his throat. courage swells in your chest and you push further, awed by the all-encompassing softness that meets your fingers. you’d expected them to be coarse, rough from years of flying and smelling earthy or musky. the faint scent of mango wafts through the air, stirring up a sense of familiarity and comfort in your chest, reminding you of all the times he’d protectively wrap his wings around your body as if to steady you.

“they feel so nice,” you murmur, feeling his cock throb against your thigh. it draws you back into the moment, where you’re naked beneath him with anticipatory legs sprawled open. “so . . soft.”

keigo’s buzzing when you experimentally stroke your fingers through the thin feathers, an intimate form of worship that is only understood between the two of you. “you, ah, didn’t expect them to be?”

a wind created by his flapping wings kick up your curtains and make the metal rings clatter on the bar they’re hanging on. “i thought they’d be a little rougher,” you purr, voice smooth and sultry as your legs lift, locking tightly around his waist. his v-line is visibly sharp and hard to the touch like cut marble against the pillowy skin of your thighs, muscles flexing as he guides his cock to your soaked pussy.

“i’ll show you rough, dovey,” keigo huffs, smearing his cock with your slick and pulling your legs away from his sides. he’s going to fuck you up, and he can’t do it properly in this position—your feet are thrown haphazardly over his shoulders, thighs folded tightly against your chest. he’s painfully hard, leaking sticky precum all over and trembling by the time he pushes the tip of his cock between your folds. your response is immediate; an eager moan slips out of your mouth, hips bucking impatiently onto his cock.

“damn, baby,” his chest heaves tirelessly, skin flushed pink and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, “you’re ready f’me, aren’t you?”

you look up at him with dewy eyes, electricity shooting through your every nerve. “i-if i was made for—ah—anything, it was taking your cock.��

god, you can’t just say shit like that and cluelessly think he won’t actually fall in love with you—he was only asking for a simple ‘yes’, but now he’s got hearts in his eyes as he finally pushes inside you, swallowing down the sudden urge to blow his load this fast. pulsating, gummy walls wrap around him and seem to suck him deeper without him even moving; he weakly presses his head into your shoulder, gasping frantically as he tries to adjust to the grip you’ve got on him.

“f-fuckkk,” he stutters out, regaining his cool composure after a moment despite the room feeling like a sauna, “i’m gonna hold you to that, you better not forget it.”

he’s relentless, going from zero to sixty in a second with no thoughts of slowing down — he’s jackhammering his hips, curved cock ramming right into your sweet spot and french kissing your cervix. you’re dripping wet, slick pouring down your ass and making each thrust slip ‘n slide all the more smoothly; the bed creaks ceaselessly beneath the weight of your bodies, groaning so loudly it occurs to you that it might just break. but that isn’t even a problem, not with keigo, who’d drop a ton of money on something you could just express the slightest bit of interest in.

“h-holy fuck, keigo,” you gasp out, back arching off the bed, “i could—oh my god, i could cum just from this.”

“yeah, dovey?” he grins, voice tight as he quite literally plunges deeper into heaven. “jus’ from my cock?”

sweat beads on your forehead, making your body swelter with endless steam that seems to vaporize any inhibitions you still had after all the drinks. “nghh, w-wait, ‘m gonna cum—”

“wait?” keigo practically barks out a laugh, shaking his head ruefully at you, “there’s no waiting. i want you to cum right on my cock ‘n i’ll fuck you through it, dovey.”

you nod with mascara infused tears streaming down your face, legs quaking uncontrollably. everything seems to happen at once — a twinge of pain takes root in the backs of your thighs just as the built-up tension inside you snaps into thousands of sparks, finally igniting your long awaited orgasm.

keigo forces himself to keep his eyes open despite the fact that he’s risking an early orgasm, balls clenching at the sight of you: your lips form an o shape as euphoria washes over you, making your body quiver frenetically. he swallows dryly, closely rocking his hips against yours so you don’t push him out.

“kei,” is the first thing you sob out when you recover, struggling to catch your breath with every thrust fucking the air out of your lungs. you’re sensitive all over, skin prickling with heat that doesn’t cool even with his wings creating a draft.

he’s straining tight at the seams, heart pounding in his ears as he thinks of nothing but you.

you, you, you.

with your sweet, glossy-lipped smile in the mornings and the voice of a vixen when you innocently call his name. you’re nothing less than beautiful beneath him, clawing at his shoulders and staring up at him with those glazed over, blissed out eyes while your body molds against his. it’s a shape he knows well, one he’s pictured in his head when he’s all alone, one he’s been dreaming about whenever his eyes close.

his breath catches in his throat. “haah, fuck—dovey, i can’t hold it anymore.”

“right fuckin’ there,” your voice cracks into a squeal, “mhm, jus’ cum inside me.”

“you mean it?” keigo asks dumbly, nearly melting at the wild look you throw him in response.

“yeah, kei—shit, ‘m gonna cum again,” the words rush past your lips, urgent as ever and spurring him on to keep going, “i want you to—i need you to fill me up.”

something sweet flashes behind his gold eyes and he tucks his face into your shoulder, breath coming in frantic pants while he gasps your name. you’re practically in your own world, moaning loudly and dragging his slim hips closer to your own. when his cock starts to twitch deep inside you, the heel of your palm digs into his lower back, forcing his tip right against your cervix. he’s burning hot, utterly lost in you with no way of finding his way out — cum spurts from his cock and the spasms wrack his body, each stripping away a layer of him until he’s left with only his heart in his hands.

“i fucking love you,” it rushes out and he doesn’t regret it for a second, “god, baby. i love you so much.”

your eyes roll back as your body surrenders to the toe-curling sensation of your third orgasm of the night, euphoria hitting you from all directions and rendering you clinically cock drunk. you muster just enough strength to wipe the salty tears away from your eyes, teeth chattering just the slightest bit as you drag in a gasping breath.

after a moment, you yawn, stretching out your folded body and nudging at his chest to get him to lay down beside you. “ooh, that was great, kei. there’s no fucking way i’m walking tomorrow.”

coming down is the hardest part.

keigo’s shaken to his core by your flippant response to his confession, but most of all, he’s deeply embarrassed to have said something—no, to have thought something this stupid. finally, he’s getting a taste of karma from all of his failed relationships; he wishes that he could allow himself enough pity to ask the abyss of the universe what he did to deserve this. the heat that had once been sexy dissipates immediately, leaving him as cold as a corpse. he rolls over to the side, letting go of you and staring up at the ceiling, laying on top of wings that don’t even have enough life to twitch. pathetic tears prick at the corners of his marked eyes, and for the first time, he’s happy that the lights are off.

“keigo? did you hear me?”

“sorry, i didn’t. what was it you were saying?” he drags a forearm across his sweaty forehead, overlooking the tender inflection in your voice.

“i just . . i don’t know. that was really good,” he may not hear it, but you do. quickly, you clear your throat and tug up the blankets, inviting him to crawl underneath with you. “goodnight, kei.”

he should bite his tongue, but he doesn’t; this is the last time. “goodnight, dovey.”

☆ ☆

after tossing and turning the whole night, keigo finally decides to end the torture at 5:20 am the next morning. it’s still dark out, and he figures that he can easily slip away under the cover of night. he’s got a mild hangover, but it won’t impair him, not when he’s determined to keep it together until he gets back home.

soberly, he absorbs his surroundings and recalls the memories that have been plaguing him for hours. his body tenses, thick cords of muscle pulling taut as if he’s bracing against the impact of a punch, and like it has countless times before, the scene replays in his head again. his emotional, devoted admission of love was something you’d completely ignored—again and again, you’ve only ever shown an interest in his body.

in his chest, he feels his heart clench horribly as he looks over your sleeping form. you’re curled up in yourself under the warm blankets, turned toward him with a serene look on your face that makes it all the more difficult to slip out from under the sheets and into the cold. like a cat, he silently pads into the hallway and collects his clothes as if he was never there. he’s inches away from the back door he’d been so excited to step through last night when he stops in his tracks, head hanging lowly as pangs of guilt hit him like fists. it’s not right to just leave you like this, not without making an effort to say some kind of goodbye.

keigo hesitates in the hallway, feet seemingly glued to the floor. all he can hear are loud alarm bells—every instinct is begging him to leave, to spare himself the imminent heartbreak of going back in that room to see you. against his better judgment, he eventually tiptoes into your room with every intention of giving you one final kiss. at your bedside, he bends forward and presses his lips to your forehead; the kiss is entirely chaste, the brief touch carrying a blend of quiet grief and the tenderness of a love that was bound to fall through.

like most things in his life, this kiss doesn’t go as planned. there’s a momentary flash of blue and white—he’s managed to give you a strong, accidental static shock with an innocent kiss at 5:22 in the morning. you blearily wake up, squinting up at him in confusion and making out the high collar of his hero jacket.

“good morning, keigo,” you stretch under the blankets and reach for his hand, “what—what time is it?”

“it’s early,” he answers unsurely, sitting down on the foot of the bed. his wings droop, vermilion plumes seemingly inanimate. “y’know what, don’t worry about it. go back to sleep, baby.”

“but where’re you going?” you sit up abruptly, eyes narrowing at his fully clothed body. a glance over the edge of the bed reveals that he’s even got his boots on!

“i’ve got patrol, silly,” keigo picks the easiest excuse out of an array of choices, and you sniff it out immediately. “i’m a hero, remember?” silence hangs in the air for a moment before you slowly speak up, sounding more confused than anything else. “but saturdays and sundays are your off days.”

keigo pauses, tongue sliding over his teeth as he contemplates what to say now that he’s been caught in his lie. like an idiot, he’s managed to trap himself. you scoff, cognitive functions coming to back to life as the final vestiges of sleep fade away into the ruined morning. did he actually expect you to wake up naked and hungover, all by yourself?

“okay, you caught me. i’ve got some stuff to deal with.”

“this early? c’mon, why’re you in such a rush?”

ultimately, it’s best for the both of you if he pulls away.

keigo’s usual smile drops and he sighs, “i’ve got shit to do, okay?”

it’s this early in the morning, and your blood pressure is already spiking in a way that is most undesirable. “are you fucking kidding me, keigo?”

the way you say his name so angrily, so accusingly—it fucking irks him, causing the corners of his lips to pull downwards into a scowl. he’s not really angry at you, he’s angry at himself for causing this dilemma to begin with, but you don’t know that. how could you really know anything about him aside from the way he likes to fuck?

“why are you getting so damn pissy? i’m going to leave whether you want me to or not, okay?”

stark naked, you exit the safety of the bed and make a beeline to your dresser, where you yank open drawers in search of clothes. keigo stands, watching longingly as you pull on some panties and a bra.

“i’m getting pissy because you wanted to take off so i could wake up naked and alone! you didn’t even say goodbye.”

“i was trying to,” keigo argues back, jumping to his feet, “but you were the one who ruined that for yourself, didn’t you?”

“a kiss isn’t enough!” you snap, now covered in a loose t shirt and pajama shorts. “couldn’t you have just waited a few hours? maybe then you could’ve told me why you were leaving.”

“what the hell? so you’re saying i need a reason to go back to my own house?”

“i don’t see why you think you can lie to me!” your voice raises furiously, words sharp as daggers, “i’m not just your agent, keigo. i know you, i care about you! don’t you get that?”

it’s quickly evolved into a dangerous game of catch, the pressure to be the one to drop the ball growing heavier atop his shoulders with each passing moment. painfully, a vein in his forehead pulses from the headache brought on by the hangover and the memories that follow it. it’s been hours and he can’t seem to shake away the pain that gnaws away at him. he’s so stupid.

“yeah, i know you are,” keigo grits out bitterly, “all i wanted to do was leave.”

“so abruptly?” you press him for answers, flicking on a small lamp so you can see him clearly. deep wrinkles span the entirety of each article of clothing that hangs on his body, but it’s the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes that makes him look unusually sloppy, getting you to pause as you take the sight of him in. concerned for his wellbeing, you soften, body relaxing. “what—keigo, what’s wrong?”

“it’s just the hangover,” he squints defensively, backing away and into a corner, “anyway, you got your goodbye, didn’t you?”

your gentle, worried face falls away. it hurts more than any injury he’s ever gotten, but he has to keep the walls up to protect himself from the pain even though guilt slips in through the cracks like mustard gas. with a pinched sigh, keigo backs away from the wall, wings limply hanging behind him as he prepares to exit your bedroom with no intention of ever coming back.

he’s blindsiding you, lying to you out of nowhere and slipping through your fingers like steam, too elusive for his own good. without a second thought, you close the distance and grab firmly at his wrist, a gesture that would’ve worked once. “i can’t do this anymore,” he mutters without looking over his shoulder, snatching away from you as if he’s been burned. “i just . . i can’t.”

“what’re you—what do you mean, keigo?” he looks out into the distance of the hallway, focusing on a specific floor tile and tracing its grooves so he doesn’t have to see your face. just from your voice, he knows you must be absolutely crushed. for courage, he allows himself a steady inhale before stepping past the threshold and leaving you in the lurch.

“this,” keigo turns, gesturing wildly and spitting out the words as if everything that’s happened in this room is horribly filthy, “it’s bullshit, all of it. i’m done, got that?”

there’s a beat of silence, and keigo stays a second too long.

“keigo, you’re breaking my heart here.”

you’re probably referring to the sex, aren’t you? surely you’re disappointed by the fact that you’ll no longer be fucking the no. 2 hero, petting his wings and calling him by a name few are able to.

“oh, come on,” he looks over you sourly, shaking his head as his eyes span the entirety of your body, “you’re pretty. you’ll find yourself a new fuck buddy, it’s not that big of a deal.”

immediately, he regrets saying it, feeling a rush of nausea in his stomach—he doesn’t want you with anyone else.

you blink back tears, his stare suddenly invasive and hurtful. “i don’t want a new fuck buddy, i want you.”

“tough shit,” keigo grunts, wings drooping further down. the longest feathers now drag along the floor, picking up whatever there is to offer. “i’m done being friends with benefits.”

“i just—all this fucking time, i’ve been wasting my time wanting to be with you,” the words tumble out of you bitterly, filling up the space between you with everything you’ve ever wanted to say, and his ears prick, grasping at a possible implication beneath all of it, “god, to think i was afraid we wouldn’t be able to become something more—all of this was a mistake.”

keigo pauses, heart pounding in his ears and possibly affecting his ability to hear. “you’re . . in love with me?”

“i was,” the correction is swift and choked, reverberating straight to his core and making his body stiffen. it hurts more than anything to hear, carrying a horrible weight, the kind that makes him realize you’ve given up on him.

“then why didn’t you—that doesn’t make any sense,” he gasps, the newfound information hitting him like a freight train, “if you were in love with me, why didn’t you—how couldn’t you have said something?”

“what’re you talking about?” you hiss, harshly rubbing away the tears in your eyes with the back of your hand. keigo’s bewildered now, face devoid of anything but shock and some kind of adoration as he seems to process something inside his head.

he stares at you desperately, struggling for the right words, “fuck, dovey, why didn’t you say anything last night?”

“don’t call me that,” you snap, the petname far too fond for a moment like this one, “why would i possibly have said something last night?”

keigo falters, and his voice cracks as the words rush out like a torrent. “i told you that i—god, i fucking told you i loved you. didn’t you hear me?”

oh.

his heart squeezes painfully in his chest when the realization washes over your face, making him realize the gravity of this misunderstanding—you didn’t hear him.

wearily, you take a seat on the edge of the bed. he sees the way your spine curves forward, and bites down hard on his lower lip once the first sob slips out of you. in an instant, keigo’s beside you and pulling you into his arms, shaking all over. he doesn’t know what to say, but his voice breaks with endless regret when he finally comes up with something. “i’m sorry, god, i’m so sorry,” tears race down his cheeks and into your hair as he murmurs despairingly, “i thought you didn’t care, i didn’t know—”

there’s nothing more to say.

keigo tries anyway, brokenly whispering apologies that fade into the air like smoke. his arms are tight around your body, holding you closely — it’s an unspoken promise to never let you go again. for the very first time, he truly melts into you without the walls in the way or the burden of hidden feelings. when you slowly relax against him and your sobs become quieter, something shifts in the air. vermilion wings, once held down by the weight of everything they’ve been carrying, finally come back to life. wings that have had no other purpose but to protect keigo now extend outwards to protect you too, soft feathers cradling you tenderly in the quiet of the morning. just over the horizon, the sun begins to rise, bathing the city in the light of dawn and new beginnings.

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societyfolklore · 1 month ago

Text

Open Up Baby

Title: Open Up Baby Pairing: Tony Stark x Female Reader

Summary: Tony Stark straps you into a StarkTech-compatible bench for a private demonstration of his newest toys- complete with biometric feedback,

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, SMUT… BDSM/Restraints/Bondage, custom tech ball gag, toys (Egg vibe, anal beads, dildo) Overstimulation, Toy fucking/Machine-assisted thrusting, Filthy talk (Tony can't shut up), AI assists with data tracking, clinical observation, forced openness, Sensory overload

A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for April Kinky Bingo… Well this one turned into a whole thing.. Square: B2- Open Up Baby Card Number: KB003

You were already strapped to the bench- back arched, thighs spread wide in glossy chrome stirrups, wrists bound snug in Stark-grade cuffs that didn’t budge an inch. The synthetic leather beneath you was cool against your skin, but your body was already starting to heat with anticipation. The bench itself shifted slightly with every movement, like it was reading your tension, calibrating every twitch of your muscles into data Tony could access later.

You could hear the soft hum of the room’s ambient systems, the low mechanical whirrs, the faint electric pulse of tech running in standby, and underneath it all, Tony’s voice. He hummed absently as he moved around you, flicking through translucent holoscreens that floated in the air, readable only to him. Light glinted off his arc reactor through the thin black shirt he wore, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, veins flexing with every subtle flick of his fingers.

He looked like a scientist. Or a surgeon. No, a goddamn artist.

“You look tense,” he murmured, stepping in close, his fingers grazing your jaw with a feather-light touch. “That won’t do. We need to get a clean read. No clenched teeth, no locked jaws. Just you- open and…relaxed.”

He held up a sleek piece of tech. A mix of leather and metal. To you it looked like a ball gag. That wasn’t just a gag. It was his gag. Something custom. Personal. Laced with Stark Industry Tech.

“Open up, baby. Gotta install the biometric reader. It’s not science without a baseline.”

You hesitated, lips twitching. Just for a second. But he didn’t push. He just waited you out, smirk deepening, one brow arched like he had all the time in the world. That cocky, knowing gaze made you squirm even before anything touched you. Your breath hitched. And then you parted your lips.

“There we go,” he said, tone thick with approval as he slid the gag into place. It clicked against your teeth, snug and firm. A soft vibration flickered across your tongue as it locked in pushing the muscle down.

Friday’s voice chimed in overhead, calm and clinical.

“Gag calibration complete. Biometric sync active. Tracking vocal response, saliva levels, and tongue pressure.”

Tony leaned down, brushing his lips across your cheek in a whisper of a kiss. “Good girl. Now let’s get to work.”

He started with the egg.

Sleek. Silver. Pulsing faintly in his hand like it had a heartbeat of its own. The metal shimmered under the clinical lights, smooth and polished, shaped with the kind of precision that only Stark could deliver. He turned it over once, twice, like he was admiring a prized gadget- one that he was particularly proud of.

He showed it to you like a doctor unveiling a revolutionary new tool- calm, confident, deeply amused. Except this wasn’t a sterile exam room, and the look in his eyes wasn’t professional. His smirk told you he already knew what kind of mess this thing would reduce you to.

"This is your warm-up," he said, voice low and playful. "Phase One. Internal warming protocol. Testing receptivity. Calibration through heat and pulse response."

You whimpered into the gag. Of course you were excited- he’d been teasing you with this little 'demonstration' all week. Whispering promises in your ear, tapping out reminders on your thigh, dropping technical jargon laced with filth that left your core throbbing before he’d even touched you. Now that it was finally happening, your whole body was buzzing with need.

He didn't wait. He moved closer, one gloved hand parting your thighs a little further, the other settling between them. The bench adjusted beneath you, lifting your hips another inch to meet his touch perfectly. His fingers dipped between your folds- testing your wetness, teasing you just enough to make your body jerk in its bonds.

"Already responsive," he muttered, half to himself, half to Friday. "She’s going to be a dream to log."

He slid the egg in with two fingers, slow and deliberate. The cool metal kissed your entrance, making you flinch slightly- it was colder than you expected, stark contrast against your heated skin. Your walls instinctively tried to resist, clenching down, but his fingers were patient, coaxing you open, parting you around the sleek, unyielding toy.

The egg slid upward, heavy and smooth. As it moved deeper, your body yielded to it, the slow stretch making your breath catch. Its contours were designed to press into every sensitive spot, and you could feel your muscles fluttering around it, trying to accommodate the sudden fullness. As he pushed it deeper, you could feel every inch of it being swallowed by your body, your slick muscles tightening, fluttering around the intrusion.

He pushed the egg up high inside you, then paused, his finger still inside you too. "Squeeze for me," he ordered. You did, instinctively, your walls closing down as you used your pelvic floor, and Tony gave the platic string attached a soft tug.

The stretch, the resistance- it was delicious. The egg stayed locked in place. You couldn’t push it out if you tried. He smiled, clearly pleased.

"Perfect. Secure fit," he murmured. "Wouldn’t want it popping out mid-test."

It settled deep inside you, a sinful throb blooming in your core. Then it pulsed- just once, a quick flutter that made you jolt.

"There we go," he breathed, watching the screen light up with new data. "Didn’t even turn it on yet and she’s already going. Fuck, I love this job."

You were barely processing the first toy when he reached for the second.

Beads. Tapered, growing in size, each one gleamed under the soft blue lighting like tiny pieces of futuristic art. You squirmed, thighs pressing together, but it was no use- Stark had seen your reaction.

Tony laughed- low and delighted.

"Didn’t know we were going there, huh?" He nudged your knees apart again, voice dipping to a darker octave. "Come on, baby. I want you to open up for me. Let’s see what this one does..."

You shook your head slightly. Whimpered into the gag. Wide eyes watching him as you tried to protest around the ball gag in your mouth.

Tony turned to the tray beside him, selecting a small, frost-blue tube of gel. "Wouldn't be very considerate to skip prep," he muttered, more to himself than to you. He uncapped the tube and squeezed a slow, deliberate line of the slick, glistening substance along the length of the beads. The gel shimmered faintly under the light, warming as it reacted with the ambient temperature.

He coated each bead carefully, fingers moving with methodical ease, making sure the entire string was evenly slicked. "Lubricated. Body-safe. Custom formula," he said with a wink. "Slippery enough to slide in smooth- sticky enough to stay in place until I say otherwise."

Then he held the beads up for you to see, the string dangling between his fingers. You tensed instinctively.

"Oh no. You’re freezing up. Can’t test properly if you don’t behave. Legs. Open."

You didn’t.

Tony tsked, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment. Then he grabbed your chin, firm and steady, tilting your head so your eyes locked with his.

"Don't think so much. That’s not what good test subjects do."

Click.

The bench tilted beneath you without warning. Your hips rolled upward, knees falling further apart as the restraints auto-adjusted. You were fully exposed now- helpless. Wide open.

"You know I can override those restraints, right? I built them. Now be a good girl and show me everything."

He dipped his finger back into the gel and brought it to your ass, pressing a cool dollop directly to your tight, puckered entrance. The sudden chill made you flinch, but it was followed by the warm glide of his fingertip as he gently teased the gel in slow circles.

"You tense here, too," he said, amused. "Don't worry. This formula warms up just like you do."

He rubbed it in carefully, working the gel into your rim with delicate, coaxing pressure. The sensation tingled- both from the temperature shift and the way his finger circled and pressed until your body finally began to relent.

Then he lowered the beads between your cheeks and began to press them in- one at a time. The first slid in easily, the gel working its magic, cool and slick. The second made your breath stutter. The third had your whole body tensing as your hole stretched just enough to accommodate the new pressure.

Each one pulled a different, desperate noise from you- somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, caught in the back of your throat and forced through the gag in broken fragments.

By the time the third bead settled inside you, you felt full. Stretched in ways that left you panting, your back arching hard off the bench. Everything was working together- the deep pressure of the egg nestled high in your core, the hum beginning to buzz through your clit like a phantom, and now the slow, firm intrusion of the beads pressing against nerves that had you seeing stars. You struggled to catch your breath, the gag forcing each inhale to be short and choppy. Air hissed through your nose while your mouth flooded with saliva, spit slipping from the corners of your lips in thick strands that slid down your neck and onto your chest. The overwhelming heat of arousal and frustration tangled in your gut, building like steam with nowhere to escape. The restraint of it made the fire inside you burn hotter.

Your muscles clenched involuntarily, your hips rocking against the air, chasing friction that didn’t come. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t beg. Just drool, tremble, and take everything he gave you.

"Mmm. That moan? That was bead three. She likes that one, Friday."

"Confirmed," the AI replied. "Pelvic floor tension rising. Heart rate increasing."

"Good. Means it’s working."

The egg began to heat. The beads hummed in sync, and you felt everything shift- internally and externally- as pleasure bled into pressure, and pressure into overload. You were trembling now, thighs twitching again, trying to close- but the bench held you wide, utterly exposed.

"Heart rate’s spiking..." Tony’s voice was pure, filthy glee. "Oh, she’s gonna break soon. Look at her squirm."

You rutted against the air, clit untouched and screaming for attention. Your walls fluttered around the egg, your ass clenching down against the beads as the different pulses overlapped and collided. It was all too much and somehow not enough. You needed more and needed it to stop, all at once.

You tried to breathe, but the gag made it impossible to take anything but shallow, panting gasps. Each exhale was laced with a moan. Drool spilled freely down your chin, dripping warm across your face and neck. You were flushed, messy, wrecked- and he hadn’t even touched your clit.

Your back arched violently off the bench, cords of heat coiling through your belly and thighs. It felt like your body was unraveling, muscles tight and desperate, nerve endings screaming with pleasure.

Tony leaned in again, voice dark and syrup-smooth. "We’ve got her plugged, egged, and ready to combust. Think she can handle the next phase?"

Friday answered, "Orgasm build-up at 87%."

"Perfect." He tapped a command into the air. "Now let’s push her."

The egg pulsed deeper. The beads vibrated sharper. You cried out- moaning, writhing, the gag muffling it into raw, incoherent noise. You couldn’t form words. Couldn’t beg. Just sob through the pressure building to a breaking point.

"Baby, this is science. Filthy, beautiful science."

It hit you like a wave- white-hot and all-consuming. Your legs shook violently in the stirrups, muscles spasming as your body locked around the egg and beads pulsing inside you. Every nerve ending fired in chaotic pleasure, overwhelming your senses. You tried to scream, to sob, but the gag reduced it to a shattered, strangled cry that vibrated through the tech, each desperate noise dutifully logged.

Drool spilled in long, wet strands down your chin as your back bowed hard off the bench, your whole body trembling under the assault of pleasure. Your cunt clenched tight around the egg, milking it involuntarily, while your ass throbbed with each hum of the vibrating beads. Everything inside you was pulsing, moving, grinding you down into submission.

Tony watched, transfixed, his gaze locked on your ruined, shaking form. “There she goes - God, I should patent that moan.”

Your eyes rolled back. You could barely breathe. You could only tremble and leak and convulse as the orgasm tore through you. The bench beneath you vibrated subtly with your body’s response.

Friday: "Orgasm confirmed."

Tony waited until you were trembling, your breathing uneven, your thighs still twitching with aftershocks that rippled through your overstimulated body. Sweat slicked your skin in a thin, glistening sheen, catching the light as your chest heaved with broken gasps around the gag. Your limbs strained weakly against the restraints.

Then- slowly, methodically- he reached between your cheeks and took hold of the first bead. He didn’t rush. He eased it out one at a time, each slick orb dragging along your inner walls with a sticky, stretching glide. You shuddered at the sensation- the unbearable emptiness that bloomed in the wake of each removal. Your ass clenched reflexively around the loss, trying to hold onto what had filled you so completely. But he kept going.

The final bead popped free with a slick, obscene sound. Your hips jolted involuntarily, your back arching once more as your body spasmed again, clinging to the ghost of sensation.

Friday's voice crackled overhead. "Anal pressure reduced. Sphincter still contracting. She’s experiencing post-orgasmic muscle spasms."

Then came the egg.

He curled his fingers inside you, tugging the retrieval loop with a firm, practiced motion. The egg slipped free, wet and shiny, your cunt fluttering uselessly around the sudden void. The stretch, the drag, the warmth- it all left you aching. You cried into the gag, overwhelmed by the emptiness and the continued tremors in your muscles. Your thighs kicked slightly, your knees drawing in as far as the restraints would allow.

"Vaginal walls contracting. Core temperature still elevated. She's not done trembling yet," Friday observed, calm as ever.

Tony held both toys in one hand now- wet, warm, shining. He looked down at you with naked satisfaction.

"That’s some damn good tech," he said. "But we’re not done."

From the tray, he lifted his final piece.

A dildo- sleek, deep grey, Stark-stamped at the base. Modeled after him, and you knew it. Maybe a little bigger. Slightly wider at the base, with delicate ridges along the underside that hinted at something extra. Your breath caught just looking at it.

“This one’s special, baby. Built it from memory- well, from yours,” Tony said, rolling it in his hand. “Temperature regulated, pressure-sensitive, and the best part? The internal sensors sync to your contractions. It responds to you. The more you clench, the deeper it drives. A perfect loop.”

You whimpered around the gag, heart fluttering.

He moved between your spread legs and lined it up against your soaked, fluttering entrance. You were already sensitive- still trembling from the last orgasm- and when the wide tip pressed in, you nearly cried. It stretched you slowly, steadily, a little more than you were used to. Your slick walls resisted at first, clenching down instinctively, but Tony was patient, guiding it with precise control.

“There you go,” he coaxed, voice smooth but sharp-edged with amusement. “That’s it. Take all of it. Come on, baby- I know you can..”

His tone dipped into a purr. “There you go. Taking it like you need it. Bet you love being filled up with Stark-grade tech, huh?”

Your back bowed off the bench as he pushed it in, inch by inch, your pussy yielding to every contour, forced to accommodate the full shape of it. The fullness was delious, your body stretched taut around it. Your eyes rolled back as the final ridge slipped inside, the toy settling deep.

“There,” he said, watching your reactions with fascination. “Fills you out just right. And now... we see what she can really do.”

The base clicked into a pulse pattern, and the toy began to move inside you- slow at first, deliberate, like it was learning your shape. You could feel every textured ridge of the shaft as it rubbed against your inner walls, dragging across oversensitive flesh, sparking little detonations of pleasure with every pass.

Then it pulsed- long and low, a rhythmic thrum that radiated from base to tip, sending heat spiraling through your belly. With every thrust, the toy seemed to stretch you deeper, nudging a spot that made your toes curl and your thighs twitch against the restraints. Your pussy clenched around it reflexively, triggering the internal sensors Tony had mentioned. And just like that, the toy responded- pressing harder, thrusting deeper, faster.

It wasn’t just fucking you- it was reading you, syncing to the wild flutter of your muscles, pulsing in tandem with your arousal.

“Look at her,” Tony murmured, grinning as he watched the toy disappear again and again between your legs. “Every little squeeze makes it work harder. You’re doing this to yourself, baby. And I haven’t even touched your clit yet.”

You’d been so consumed by the thrusting inside you, by the stretch and pulse of the toy, that you hadn’t even noticed Tony move. But suddenly, he was there- looming over you, and the egg was pressed directly to your clit.

The sensation was immediate and brutal.

Your entire body jolted. The contact felt almost painful, your nerves raw and exposed, the stimulation electric. You tried to buck away, hips arching, thighs trembling, but you had nowhere to go.

Tony caught you effortlessly. One hand shoved the egg against your swollen clit, refusing to relent, while the other pressed down on your thigh to keep your knees from closing.

“Uh uh. None of that,” he said smoothly. “You don’t get to hide from this, baby. You earned it.”

You sobbed into the gag, thrashing your hips side to side, but the bench and Tony’s hands made escape impossible. Every attempt to squirm just sent the dildo thrusting deeper inside you, and the egg grinding cruelly over your clit.

“You’re not gonna break,” he whispered, teasing. “You’re gonna burn for me.”

"Don’t you dare run from it. look at me."

He was holding you still- one hand clamped over your thigh to keep your legs spread, the other pressing the egg mercilessly to your clit. You were trembling in his grasp, utterly helpless against the merciless pairing of his tech and his control.

"You’re gonna come again for me, sweetheart. Real data’s in the repeat response," he said, eyes locked on yours, voice both commanding and hungry.

The dildo thrust deep, the ridges grinding against your most sensitive spots as your walls clamped down. The egg buzzed brutally against your swollen clit, so overstimulated you couldn’t tell whether you were trying to run from it or chase it. Every jolt of pleasure lit your nerves like lightning- white-hot and impossible to hold back.

Your body jerked, hips spasming, thighs trembling violently as the sensations overloaded you. Your entire body was working against you- every clench, every twitch, every gasp just triggered the toy to go deeper, harder, faster. You weren’t riding it anymore- it was riding you, and Tony just watched with that devilish smirk, keeping you wide open.

“That's it. Shake for me. Scream into that gag. Show me what science can do.”

The climax tore through you without mercy- harder, deeper, a violent unraveling of every nerve as your body convulsed around the relentless rhythm of the tech inside you. You didn’t just come; you shattered, splintering open in a release so intense it blurred your vision, your mind, your ability to distinguish pleasure from pain. Your vision shattered into sparks, your scream muffled into a raw, hoarse noise behind the gag. Your body thrashed in the restraints, muscles locking as the orgasm ripped through you, longer and sharper than the last.

Friday: "Second orgasm confirmed. Neural spike significant. Subject approaching physical limit."

He slowed the toy, letting it ease to a stop deep inside you before withdrawing it carefully, letting you feel every last ridge dragging along your raw, overstimulated walls. Then, with a gentleness that almost contrasted the torment he’d just put you through, he removed the egg from your clit. The instant the contact broke, your whole body sagged in the restraints with relief and exhaustion. You were shaking, barely breathing- every inch of you buzzing, nerves fried and twitching from the overload.

You could taste salt on your lips- your own tears and spit, your jaw aching from clenching around the gag. You were drenched, body glistening with sweat, your skin flushed and hypersensitive to the air.

He removed the gag last. Your jaw fell slack with a wet, trembling gasp, strands of spit clinging to the corners of your mouth. You blinked up at him, vision hazy, lips wet and parted.

Tony gazed down at you, eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction, his mouth tugging into a crooked grin that said told you so. He looked like a man admiring his finest creation- smug, yes, but also thoroughly entertained by the glorious, twitching mess sprawled out beneath him.

“You did good, baby. Fucking beautiful. But next time?”

He leaned close, brushing a kiss to your temple- slow, deliberate, his breath warm against your damp skin.

“Think I’ll need to design something that gets you to squirt. Can’t let a variable like that go untested. Wouldn’t be very Stark of me to stop now, would it?”

He turned with a little flourish, tapping the screen with a flick of his fingers, not bothering to look back.

“Friday, save this session. Label it: Successful. Prepare files for Phase Two.”

824 notes · View notes

eclipixels · 3 months ago

Text

Worry

Sae Itoshi x Reader

Content: Sae is secretly in a relationship with you, a sports physical therapist.

Warnings: A little spicy towards the end

[3,469 words]

The stadium buzzed with energy as thousands of fans cheered, their voices merging into an electrifying symphony of anticipation. On the field, Sae Itoshi stood with his usual stoic expression, eyes sharp and calculating. He adjusted his legband before exchanging a look with his teammates. Even in the sea of faces, he knew exactly where you were—standing on the sidelines in your designated position as a sports physical therapist, clad in the team's official attire.

You weren’t just any therapist. You were his—not just in a professional sense, but in a way no one else knew.

It started months ago. Sae had sustained a minor injury during a match, nothing career-threatening, but enough to require regular therapy sessions. You were assigned to him, and in those quiet moments of stretching, icing, and rehabilitation, something unspoken had started to bloom between you. The world saw Sae as cold and distant, but you saw the flickers of warmth he hid so well.

No one knew about your relationship. Not his teammates, not the press, not even the coaching staff. It was better that way. The media would tear you apart, question your professionalism, and scrutinize Sae’s performance with unnecessary speculation. He had too much at stake, and you had worked too hard to let your career be overshadowed by rumors.

So, you stayed in the shadows, watching, waiting, and supporting him in silence.

—

"It's nothing. I'll be fine." Sae muttered, reluctant to accept your help. He attempted to stand, but the sharp pain in his ankle betrayed him. A barely audible wince slipped past his lips before he sat back down, jaw clenched in frustration.

You said nothing, simply raising a brow. He avoided your gaze, clearly embarrassed.

"Just let me do my job," you sighed, kneeling beside him.

Despite the clinical nature of your touch, the moment felt strangely intimate. His scent lingered in the space between you. He was close enough that you could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing.

"It's not that bad—" You began to explain, but were cut off by him.

"Yeah, I know,"

You shot him a glare, unimpressed by his cocky attitude, before returning to your work. "You'll need to rest for a few days to heal. It’s just a twisted ankle, but get it checked with an X-ray, just to be safe."

Sae didn’t argue, but his silence held a weight you couldn’t quite place.

The next day, you were caught off guard when he showed up again.

"They said I need to see you for a few days until I recover," he explained casually, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

You nodded, trying not to overthink the way he was looking at you—like he didn’t entirely hate the idea.

Day after day, he returned. The sessions had become routine. Sae would come in, let you do your work without much fuss, and leave with nothing more than a small nod of acknowledgment. He wasn’t the type to make small talk, and you didn’t push. But somewhere between the careful way you wrapped his ankle and the quiet moments where he let you work in silence, something unspoken settled between you.

Today was no different. You were in the middle of guiding his leg into a stretch, your fingers pressing firmly against his calf as you worked to ease the tension. Sae sat on the treatment table, one hand propped behind him, the other resting lazily on his knee. His body was completely relaxed, yet you knew he was aware of every movement you made.

"You're awfully quiet today," he commented, his tone casual.

"I could say the same about you," you replied without looking up.

"Mm." He made a noncommittal noise, shifting slightly under your touch. "Guess I don’t have much to complain about today. You're not torturing me for once."

You rolled your eyes but bit back a smile. "If I wanted to torture you, you'd know it."

His lips twitched—just barely. "I believe that."

You adjusted your grip, your fingertips brushing the bare skin of his ankle as you shifted the wrap into place. It was fleeting, barely anything, but the temperature in the room felt warmer. Sae didn’t react, but you knew he noticed. He noticed everything.

"You’re still favoring your other leg," you pointed out, pressing into the muscle just above his ankle. "You're overcompensating."

"I’m fine," he replied smoothly. "You worry too much."

"It’s literally my job to worry about your injuries, Sae."

"Hm." His gaze flickered down to you, as if considering something. Then, after a beat, he added, "You do that a lot, you know."

You raised a brow. "Do what?"

"Worry about me."

You hesitated. It was such a simple observation, and yet the weight of it hung between you. Because he wasn’t wrong. You did worry about him—more than you should. More than what was considered professional.

You looked back down, tightening the wrap around his ankle to distract yourself. "Well, maybe if you didn’t act like you were invincible, I wouldn’t have to."

Sae exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose. "I am invincible."

You scoffed. "Says the guy who limped into my office a few days ago."

He allowed a small smile, leaning back on his palms. "Maybe I just like the attention."

Your hands stilled for a fraction of a second before you forced yourself to keep working. The words were tossed out so carelessly, like they meant nothing. But the way he watched you, the way his gaze never wavered, told you otherwise.

"You’re impossible," you muttered, shaking your head.

"You like it."

Your breath hitched. It was such a simple statement, spoken with that same unaffected tone he always had, but there was something there, something teasing, something almost knowing. Did he know how you felt about him?

You could deny it. You should deny it. Instead, you tied off the wrap and ignored the way your hands felt warmer than usual.

"There," you said, clearing your throat. "You're good to go."

Sae didn’t move right away. He stayed seated, watching you in that unreadable way of his. Then, finally, he swung his leg over the edge of the table, testing his weight as he stood.

"Guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then," he said lazily, stretching his arms above his head.

You blinked. "Tomorrow? I thought you told me today would be your last day."

"Hm." He tilted his head slightly. "Guess you misheard."

You stared at him, searching for any indication that he was lying. But he remained as unreadable as ever, his expression betraying nothing.

"I think you’re lying," you sighed, shaking your head.

"Maybe." He turned, making his way toward the door. Then, just as he reached it, he glanced over his shoulder and—just barely—smirked. "But you don’t seem to mind."

And with that, he was gone.

You sat there for a moment, staring at the empty space where he had just been. Your heartbeat was annoyingly loud in your ears.

—

You were done for the day, ready to pack up and go home when the doors to your office were opened unexpectedly. Sae Itoshi stood in the doorway, his usual unreadable expression in place. He wasn’t limping, wasn’t clutching any sore muscles—he looked perfectly fine. Too fine. So damn fine.

He paused for a fraction of a second before offering the most unconvincing excuse you’d ever heard. "I’m hurt."

You crossed your arms, unconvinced. "Oh? Where?"

He hesitated, just barely, before pressing a hand to his abdomen. "Here."

You stared at him, unimpressed. "That’s your excuse? A tummy ache?"

"It’s real," he said, completely unfazed by your skepticism.

"Uh-huh. And why didn’t you just go to an actual doctor?"

Sae met your gaze, and with a calm, deliberate tone, he said, "Because you’re more qualified to help me than anyone else."

Your breath hitched for a fraction of a second before you forced yourself to stay composed. Rolling your eyes, you stepped behind him, placing your hands on where he claimed to be feeling pain. His muscles were firm beneath your touch, his body warm even through his shirt.

"You’re not even tense," you muttered.

He let out a quiet hum, tilting his head slightly. "Feels nice, though."

Your heart skipped a beat.You should’ve pushed him away, told him to stop wasting your time, but instead, you stayed there, hands still resting on his abs.

Oh my god, you were touching his abs.

"You didn’t come here for treatment, did you?" you asked softly.

Sae exhaled through his nose, a hint of amusement in his voice. "No."

You swallowed. "Then why?"

Finally, he turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at you from the corner of his eye. "Isn’t it obvious?"

It was obvious. It had been for a while now with the lingering glances, the unnecessary teasing, the way he always seemed to find a reason to come back to you, even when he didn’t need to.

Your heart pounded as his gaze flickered down to your lips. He wasn’t cocky now, wasn’t teasing. Just waiting.

And before you could overthink it, you leaned in.

The moment your lips met, Sae responded immediately, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, holding you there like he had been waiting for this moment just as much as you had. He kissed you slowly, deliberately, like he wanted to memorize the way you felt against him.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, he didn’t move far. His forehead nearly touched yours, and the corner of his mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk.

"So," he murmured, his voice lower now. "Do I need to fake another injury tomorrow, or will you just let me come back?"

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. He chuckled, pressing a quick, final kiss to the corner of your mouth before pulling in for another kiss.

That was how your relationship began.

—

The match ended in victory, and the team erupted in cheers, but you stayed back, allowing them to celebrate. Your role was never in the spotlight, always in the background, ensuring everyone was taken care of.

Sae was the last to leave the field, his usual composed self as he made his way toward the tunnel. You followed at a distance, knowing he’d be heading to the medical room for post-match treatment.

When you entered, he was already on the treatment table, undoing his cleats.

"You were reckless," you said, locking the doors before setting your bag down.

He smirked slightly. "You worry too much."

You shot him a look before gently lifting his foot onto your lap, beginning to work on his ankle. "Someone has to, since you clearly don’t."

His smirk faded as he watched you, his expression unreadable. You didn’t say anything, focusing instead on your task. But you felt the heat of his gaze, the way his fingers lightly brushed against your wrist as if grounding himself in your presence.

"This isn't easy," he said after a moment, eyes softly following up your body.

You looked up. "What isn't?"

"Keeping this secret." His voice was quieter now, more raw. "Not being able to acknowledge you outside of this room."

Your hands paused for a fraction of a second before resuming their careful work. "You know why we have to."

"I know." He exhaled. "Doesn't mean I like it."

You swallowed, feeling the weight of his words. You had accepted this arrangement because it was necessary. Because it was the only way to have him without risking everything. But moments like these, when his barriers were down and his honesty slipped through, made it harder to pretend it didn’t hurt.

"Sae," you started, but he interrupted.

"Just… stay a little longer."

It was rare for him to ask for anything, even rarer for him to show even a sliver of need.

So you stayed.

"Need you," Sae murmured against your skin, his breath warm as it ghosted over your neck. His voice was low, almost a sigh, as if admitting it took more out of him than any match ever could.

Before you could even process his words, his hands gripped your waist, strong and sure, pulling you flush against him. He moved with an effortless grace, lifting you onto the treatment table as if you weighed nothing. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your ass before sliding lower, grasping at you possessively, as if he was terrified of letting you go.

His lips crashed into yours, hot and desperate, his usual composed exterior completely shattered. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, only the raw, unfiltered need pouring out of him with every kiss. He melted into you like butter, pressing his body closer, deepening the kiss like he was trying to imprint himself onto you.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging slightly, and the soft groan he let out sent a shiver down your spine. His hands roamed, gripping, kneading, keeping your hips firmly anchored against his lap. The heat between you was unbearable, electric, like the air before a storm.

But it still wasn’t enough.

Sae pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, filled with something primal. Then, without warning, he flipped you over onto the table, pressing his body against yours, his weight grounding you. His breath was ragged, lips hovering just above your ear.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, voice laced with frustration, as if even he couldn’t understand how much he wanted you. His fingers traced up your spine before gripping your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

Sae’s hands were quick, urgent, as he pulled you closer. The tension between you was overwhelming. He didn’t waste any time. Every movement was a testament to just how much he needed you. He quickly and messly pulled down his shorts and boxers before burying his desire inside of you.

You could feel his breath hot against your skin as he pressed against you, the space between you shrinking with every second. His lips found your neck again, soft at first, but then deeper, as if kissing you could somehow ease the growing hunger in him. His hands were everywhere, rough but tender, anchoring you to him.

“I need you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, barely more than a breath. He didn’t care about time, or place. He needed to feel you close. Not in the car, not in the apartment, not in the bedroom, no. Now. You pulled him in tighter, responding to his need in his every move. He let his moans muffle themself into the crevice of your neck.

—

“I got another job offer.” You spoke quietly, your words hanging in the air between you and Sae. The weight of the confession pressed against the comfortable silence that had filled the room, and you waited for his reaction. His gaze shifted to your hand, where his fingers still traced soft circles across your skin. You could tell he knew you weren’t lying, his silence told you everything.

“Oh,” was all he said at first, his voice softer than usual. He didn’t look up, still continuing his gentle touch. But you could tell that the news had caught him off guard. His fingers paused for a moment before starting again, but his focus shifted away, avoiding your gaze.

“If I took it…” you hesitated, gathering your thoughts before continuing. But as the words escaped your lips, you caught a flicker of something on his face, something like offense, or maybe frustration.

The thought of leaving this place, leaving the life you’d built together in secret, seemed to hurt him more than you expected. You tried to push forward, but his reaction stung.

“That would mean I’d see you less,” you continued, your voice quiet, careful not to push him too far. You could feel the tension in the air, thickening with every word. “But it would also mean we could be together without hiding.”

Sae didn’t respond right away. His thumb continued to trace circles on the back of your hand, but there was a slight tension in his fingers now. He was thinking, processing.

“If I stayed here, with Re Al, I’d get to see you far more than if I went to the other team,” you said quietly, your voice tinged with hesitation. “But we’d still have to keep everything secret. We’d have to hide it all, just like we are now. Nothing would change in that way.”

He met your eyes then, and the expression on his face was unreadable. But his words, when they came, seemed almost detached. “How’s the pay?”

The shift in his focus caught you off guard, but you answered quickly, trying not to let the undercurrent of tension show in your voice.

“About the same.”

“Hm,” he muttered, his brow furrowing slightly.

The room felt suddenly quiet, heavy with unsaid words. Sae’s gaze returned to the floor, and you could see the gears turning in his mind. He was conflicted, caught between his feelings for you and the reality of the situation. The reality that no matter which choice you made, it would hurt in some way.

You took a deep breath, trying to ease the knot of uncertainty in your chest. “I haven’t made a choice yet,” you said softly, as if the words might somehow bring clarity.

Sae remained quiet for a long moment. His hand finally stilled, resting gently on yours. You could feel the weight of his thoughts, even without him voicing them.

If you took the job, you’d be with a different team. You’d be on the road, traveling constantly, and Sae would be doing the same. Seeing each other would become a rare occasion. But at least you wouldn’t have to hide that you were together.

But then, there was the other choice. If you stayed here, with Re Al, you’d be close to him, able to see him more often, but it would still mean living in secrecy. Every meeting, every touch in public, would have to be hidden, kept in the shadows. There would be no public acknowledgment, no way to share your love with the world. No able to go on dates in public or walk down the street holding hands. It’s exhausting having to look over your shoulder to make sure paparazzi weren’t watching you.

“I’m just worried people might find out about us, and it could hurt your career,” you admitted, the weight of your concern pressing on your chest. “I don’t want to ruin that for you.”

Sae scoffed, his expression shifting from one of concern to mild disbelief. “Ruin?” he echoed, his voice tinged with shock. “Y/n, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You could never ruin anything.”

The words hung in the air between you, his confession striking a chord deep inside.

You opened your mouth, but no words came out at first. Best thing? The phrase echoed in your mind, and for a moment, you felt lost in it.

“Oh,” was all you managed to say, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard.

Sae sighed and reached for your hand, his grip gentle but firm. “Stop that,” he said, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “It’s my career, so it's mine to worry about.”

There was something undeniably genuine in his tone, a confidence in what he was saying. You could see how much he meant it. He wasn’t worried about his career. He wasn’t worried about the risks, the secrets, or the sacrifices. He just wanted to be with you, and that was all that mattered to him.

He looked at you, his expression crestfallen. The love was there, clear as day, but there was something else there too—a quiet sadness. He knew, just as you did, that this was more than just a decision about a job. This was about your future, about whether or not you could both have the life you wanted, together.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper, but filled with so much emotion that it felt like a punch to your gut. That was worries him.

The silence between you two stretched on, filled with the weight of your unspoken worries. As you sat there, his hand still resting gently over yours, you realized that no matter what, you couldn’t picture your life without him in it. You leaned over, pressing a kiss of reassurance to his lips before cupping his face in your hands.

You exhaled, feeling your chest tighten. You made your decision right then and there. “You won't.”

#sae x you #sae itoshi #sae x reader #bllk sae #itoshi sae #sae itoshi x reader #bllk #blue lock #blue lock sae #sae itoshi x you #blue lock x reader #sae x y/n

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pucksandpower · 11 months ago

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Help, My Cat Drank My Red Bull!

Max Verstappen x veterinarian!Reader

Summary: in which Sassy gets into an open can of Max’s energy drink and inadvertently leads Max to the love of his life

Max sighs as he exits the sim-rig, stretching his arms over his head. After a few intense hours of virtual racing, he could use a pick-me-up.

He wanders into the kitchen, spotting the full can of Red Bull he had left on the counter earlier.

Perfect.

But as Max reaches for the energy drink, something catches his eye — a sticky puddle on the granite countertop where the can should be. He leans in, sniffing cautiously. The unmistakable sweet scent of Red Bull wafts up.

“What the ...” His voice trails off as a blur of tan fur darts past the corner of his vision.

Sassy skids into view. Her pupils are dilated to the size of marbles and she’s practically vibrating with excess energy. Max’s jaw drops as the realization hits.

“No, no, you didn’t ...”

But the evidence is irrefutable. Sassy must have knocked over the can and lapped up every sugary drop.

Max runs a hand through his curls, panic rising. Too much caffeine could be incredibly dangerous for a cat her size. He needs to get her to a vet right away, but at — he checks his watch — 2:14 in the morning, his usual clinic will be closed.

“Come here, Sassy!” He calls, slowly advancing on the hyper feline.

But Sassy just stares at him, unblinking, before bolting in the opposite direction with a manic burst of speed. Max gives chase, cursing under his breath as she darts around furniture and ricochets off walls. After several frantic minutes of pursuit, he finally manages to corner the cat and scoop her into a carrier.

Sassy yowls in protest as Max secures the door, but he has no choice. He grabs his keys and races down to the parking garage, carefully settling the carrier into the passenger seat of his bright red Ferrari before peeling out toward the nearest emergency vet clinic.

The drive seems to take an eternity with Sassy howling the whole way. Max’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel as he haphazardly parks outside the clinic and jumps out, slamming the door behind him.

Only to stop dead a few steps later, the realization crashing over him like a wave. In his haste, he left the cat in the car.

“Shit!” Max spins on his heel, cheeks burning as he hurries back and grabs the carrier, cradling it awkwardly against his chest.

He strides through the front doors of the clinic, the receptionist looking up in surprise at his abrupt entrance.

“Please,” Max gasps out, eyes wide. “My cat, she drank a whole can of Red Bull. What do I do?”

The receptionist’s brows knit together briefly before her features smooth into a professional mask. “Okay sir, please have a seat in exam room three. The doctor will be right with you.”

Max nods frantically, hurrying down the hallway as directed and gently depositing the carrier on the exam table. He resumes his pacing, running anxious hands through his hair.

After what feels like an eternity, the door finally opens. But the person who walks in absolutely takes Max’s breath away.

You are, without a doubt, the most gorgeous woman he has ever seen. From your cascading locks to your warm eyes, Max can’t tear his gaze away. Your figure is highlighted by pale blue scrubs as you cross the room, a soft smile playing at the corners of your mouth.

“Good morning, I’m Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. What seems to be the trouble?”

Max’s throat is suddenly, inexplicably dry. He clears it harshly. “U-uh, hi. I’m Max. Max Verstappen. My cat, Sassy, she — well, I had a can of Red Bull out and she must have knocked it over because when I came back, it was empty but the counter was sticky and then she was just … super hyper and crazy ...”

His words stumble to a halt as you lean over, gently pulling the still-feisty Sassy from her carrier and depositing her on the table. You murmur soothingly, stroking her soft fur as you examine her dilated pupils and elevated pulse.

“Hmm, yes, it does sound like she’s had a bit too much caffeine.” You shoot Max a reassuring smile that makes his heart skip a beat. “Not to worry though, we’ll get her taken care of.”

As you deftly slip a mild sedative into the crook of Sassy’s leg, Max can’t help but watch in awe at how gentle and caring you are. He’s never seen someone so compassionate and loving toward an animal before.

Within minutes, the sedative takes effect and Sassy transforms from a blur of frantic energy to a lazy puddle of fur, watching the room with heavy-lidded eyes. You scratch between her ears, lips quirked.

“There we go, that’s better. She’ll be feeling pretty groggy for the next little while as the caffeine works its way out of her system.”

Max nods dumbly, completely mesmerized as you deftly check Sassy’s vitals again.

“Her temperature and heart rate are looking good. I’d just recommend keeping her awake and hydrated until the effects have fully worn off in six to eight hours, then she should be back to normal.”

“Okay, yeah. Thank you so much, really,” Max gushes, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was so worried when I realized what happened.”

You shrug with an easy smile. “Oh, it’s no trouble at all. Better to get these things checked out, just to be safe.” A teasing glint enters your expressive eyes. “Although, I have to ask — how exactly does a Red Bull can get knocked over and lapped up by a cat?”

Max feels his cheeks flush again as your gaze meets his, warm and friendly and so incredibly beautiful up close.

He clears his throat. “Uh, well, you see I was sim racing for a while and just left it out, which was dumb of me ...”

As he rambles through the explanation, Max can’t tear his eyes away from the crinkles that form around your eyes when you smile or the melodic lilt of your laughter. By the time he’s finished, he’s even more smitten than before.

An awkward silence falls as you finish up examining Sassy. You turn back to Max, expression soft.

“Well, it seems like your girl is going to be just fine. I’ll get the discharge paperwork ready for you.”

Your footsteps retreat toward the door and panic seizes Max’s chest. He can’t just let you walk away, not without at least trying ...

“Hey, uh, Dr. Y/N?” He calls out before he can overthink it.

You pause, eyebrows raised expectantly as you turn back.

Max suddenly can’t remember what he was going to say. His mind goes blank, palms growing sweaty, as he shuffles his feet. The words completely escape him as he’s overwhelmed by your warmth and beauty.

“I, uh … thanks again. For helping Sassy,” he stammers out instead, mentally kicking himself.

You smile patiently. “Of course, I’m just glad she’s going to be okay.”

An awkward silence stretches between you as Max wars internally, desperately trying to muster the courage to ask you out properly. But the moment slips away as you begin to turn back toward the door.

“Well, I’ll get those discharge papers ready for you.”

“Right, yeah, okay. Thanks ...” Max’s words trail off lamely as you exit the room.

He squeezes his eyes shut, smacking his forehead in frustration. He just completely blew his chance with the most incredible woman he’s ever met, all because he’s a bumbling idiot who can’t even form a simple sentence around someone that effortlessly beautiful and caring.

Max blows out a long breath, trying to refocus on the fact that Sassy is going to be alright, at least. As he carefully gathers her sleepy form back into her carrier, he can’t help the pang of regret that settles in his chest.

Maybe your paths will cross again someday under better circumstances. A guy can dream, right?

***

The next week drags by for Max in a blur of monotony. He finds his thoughts drifting constantly back to the emergency vet clinic, replaying his disastrous non-attempt at asking you out on a date. Just the memory of your radiant smile and warm eyes is enough to make his heart stutter.

But as the days pass with no sign of you around Monaco, Max’s hope slowly fades. Of course someone as incredibly kind, caring, and beautiful as you would never go for an awkward guy like him. He’s an idiot for thinking he even had a chance.

Exactly one week after the Red Bull incident with Sassy, Max is moping on his couch, idly stroking Jimmy as he channel surfs. He pauses on a cheesy romcom, watching with mild disdain as the bumbling male lead performs increasingly ridiculous stunts all for a chance to see his love interest again.

It’s utterly ridiculous. And yet … Max feels a strange sense of kinship with the hapless romantic on screen.

Because as he stares at the TV, a crazy idea begins to take shape. If he wants to see you again so badly, why not take a page from the movie’s playbook? With a jolt of determination, Max scoops up a disgruntled Jimmy and tucks him into his carrier.

“Looks like you’re coming with me on an adventure, buddy,” Max murmurs, grinning slightly at Jimmy’s unmistakable look of disdain. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while. I just need you to play along so I can see Y/N again. You’re going to help me make her yours and Sassy’s new mom.”

Jimmy yawns pointedly, seemingly unimpressed with Max’s romantic scheming. Max just chuckles, scratching the cat between the ears before grabbing his keys and heading for the garage.

He settles Jimmy’s carrier into the passenger seat of his Ferrari, the engine roaring to life under his expert control. As he navigates Monaco’s winding streets, Max keeps up a steady stream of conversation with his distinctly unreceptive feline audience.

“You’re going to love Y/N, I just know it,” he insists, pulling up to a red light. “She’s the kindest, most compassionate person I’ve ever met. The way she took care of Sassy with such patience and gentleness ...” Max shakes his head in wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Jimmy blinks slowly at him, conveying an impressive blend of judgment and displeasure at being awake, much less participating in this ridiculous plan. Max just barrels onward.

“Look, I know this seems crazy. But Y/N … she’s just special, you know? And if this is what it takes to get to know her better, then I’m all in.”

He pulls up to the familiar sight of the clinic, parking much more calmly this time before grabbing Jimmy’s carrier and heading inside. The same receptionist from before looks up in surprise as he approaches.

“You again? Is everything okay with Sassy?”

Panic grips Max’s chest as he realizes he didn’t actually come up with an excuse for bringing Jimmy in beforehand. He scrambles for something, anything, to say.

“Uh, well, actually it’s Jimmy here who needs to be seen,” he rushes out, nodding toward the disgruntled cat. “You see, I was just, uh … brushing him earlier and he seemed great. But then I went to pick him up and it was like … bam!” Max mimes an explosion gesture. “Total f-fur explosion, just hair going everywhere! It was like he was … moulting, but not in the normal way, you know?”

By the time Max finishes, the receptionist is staring at him in bewilderment. He can feel the flush creeping up the back of his neck as she blinks slowly.

“A … fur explosion,” she repeats flatly.

“Exactly!” Max insists with a vigorous nod. “Just an absolute furpocalypse, you would not believe it. So I figured I’d better bring him in to get checked out, just in case?”

A beat passes as the receptionist seems to silently debate arguing with him further. Finally, she just shakes her head.

“Okay, well … go ahead and take Jimmy back to exam room three again. Dr. Y/L/N will be right with you.”

Max’s heart leaps into his throat at the mention of your name as he forces a polite smile and heads back down the hallway to the familiar room. He carefully lets Jimmy out to explore as they wait, praying fervently that you’ll actually be the one to walk through that door.

The minutes drag by in tense silence, Max gnawing nervously at his thumbnail. Just as he’s starting to think this was all a terrible idea, the door swings open and you step inside.

It’s like the world stops spinning for a moment. You are … breathtaking, even more gorgeous than Max remembered. From your tumbling locks of hair to the gentle curve of your smile, he’s completely mesmerized all over again.

You glance up from the chart in your hands, doing a slight double-take as you recognize Max.

“Well, hello again you!” Your voice is bright and melodic. “I can’t say I was expecting to see you back so soon. What happened?”

Your inquisitive gaze meets Max’s and he very nearly blurts out the entire truth right then and there — that he absolutely made up an excuse just for the chance to see you again. Somehow, he bites back the words at the last moment.

“Oh, uh, it was the weirdest thing,” he stammers instead, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I was brushing Jimmy, my other cat, earlier and all of a sudden his fur just started … exploding everywhere! Like, full-on furmageddon. It was insane.”

He cringes inwardly at how stupid he sounds, watching as a crease forms between your brows in contemplation. After a moment, though, your features smooth out into an easy smile and you move closer to gently stroke Jimmy’s silky fur.

“Well, let’s take a look, shall we?”

For the next several minutes, Max watches in rapt fascination as you thoroughly examine Jimmy from ears to tail, gentle hands ghosting over his fur as you murmur soothing reassurances. Just being in your presence is intoxicating.

You’re so caring and patient, even with the obviously fabricated reason Max invented to see you again. It only makes his growing infatuation burn all the brighter.

Finally, you straighten back up and turn to Max with a warm smile.

“Well, I can definitively say there was no fur explosion or moulting crisis with Mr. Jimmy here,” you tease lightly, arching one perfect eyebrow. “He seems perfectly healthy to me. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

Your knowing look pins Max in place, cheeks flushing guiltily. He rubs at the back of his neck again, trying to decide if he should just come clean or stubbornly dig himself deeper into this ridiculous invented scenario.

But as he opens his mouth, ready to try and bumble through another excuse, something stops him. Maybe it’s the patient understanding in your warm gaze or the gentle amusement playing at the corners of your mouth. Or maybe it’s just Dutch stubbornness rearing its head.

Either way, Max’s words grind to a halt as he takes a deep, fortifying breath.

“You know what? I’m just going to put it all out there,” he blurts before he can second guess himself further. “The truth is … I made up this whole thing as an excuse to come see you again.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but Max presses onward, suddenly unable to stem the flow of words.

“I tried to ask you out last week after you helped Sassy but I completely chickened out like an idiot. And I just … I couldn’t stop thinking about you, about how caring and amazing you were.”

Max’s heart thunders in his ears as he runs an anxious hand through his hair.

“So, I don’t know, I got this stupid idea to bring Jimmy in so I could see you again. Which is insane, I know, and you probably think I’m some total weirdo stalker creep now but-”

“Max.” Your soft voice cuts through his panicked rambling like a lighthouse beam in the fog. “Breathe.”

He sucks in a shuddery breath, feeling his cheeks flush scarlet under your gaze. This is it, the moment you shut him down for being a complete crazy person and he has to slink out of here in shame. Maybe he can move to Timbuktu and become a goat herder to escape his humiliation-

“I have to admit, this is a new one for me,” you continue, a teasing lilt to your words. “Most guys don’t go to such elaborate lengths just to see me again.”

You take a step closer, eyes sparking with a hint of mischief that has Max’s breath catching in his throat.

“Though I have to say, faking a pet illness is definitely an … original move. Do you go to such dramatic extremes for all your romantic pursuits?”

Max can’t help but huff out a surprised laugh at that, some of the tightly-wound tension easing from his shoulders.

“No, I uh … you’re pretty definitively the first person I’ve literally made my cat an accomplice just to spend more time with.”

The laughter that bubbles up from you at that is bright and infectious, warmth blooming in Max’s chest as he drinks in the delighted crinkles at the corners of your eyes.

“Well, as harebrained schemes go, I suppose I’ve encountered worse,” you tease warmly. “Though in the future, you’re welcome to just ask me out like a normal person.”

A weighted pause hangs between you as realization dawns in Max’s thundering heart. Is this … is this your way of giving him that very opening?

He clears his throat roughly, feeling oddly like he’s standing at the edge of a precipice, every molecule vibrating with anticipation and hope and sheer, pounding need.

“Does that mean … I mean, would you want to?” The words stick in his suddenly dry throat. “Go out with me, that is? On like … a date?”

The breath rushes from Max’s lungs in a dizzying whoosh as he finally gets the words out. He watches you intently, hands clenched into nervous fists as he waits for your response with bated breath.

For a moment, you’re quiet, considering him with an inscrutable expression. The silence seems to stretch into eternity, suffocating Max as a thousand worst-case scenarios start to race through his mind.

This is it, he’s blown it forever. You’re going to turn him down, probably with a gentle let-down about having to be professional or not dating clients or something. He’ll be crushed, forced to slink away and change his name and flee to the farthest reaches of Nepal to become a hermit and-

And then, finally, you smile. It’s soft and warm and sends relief crashing through Max in a blissful wave.

“You know what, Max? I would really like that.”

He blinks, feeling a little dizzy as the words bounce around his head. “You … you would?”

You laugh again, low and melodic, taking another step toward him. “I would. In fact, I’d love nothing more.”

A giddy grin splits Max’s face before he can rein it in. You actually said yes! To him! After his utterly insane made-up pet emergency, you still somehow agreed to go out with him.

The absurd wave of giddy elation and disbelief must show on his face, because you shake your head fondly.

“What am I going to do with you, Max Verstappen?” You say, voice warm with wry amusement. “Anyone else might have turned and ran after that nonsense, but I have to admit … there’s something terribly endearing about your attempts at romance.”

You brush past him then, headed for the door with a coquettish glance over your shoulder.

“I’ll get those discharge papers ready. And maybe once the completely fabricated fur crisis is dealt with, you can take me out for that date one of these days?”

Max can only nod dumbly, wide smile still firmly in place as the exam room door swings shut behind you. He glances down at a disgruntled Jimmy, scratching his cat’s ears with a breathy chuckle.

“Looks like your little acting gig paid off after all, buddy. Your new mom’s gonna take me out on a date!”

***

A few months later, Max can barely contain his excitement as he weaves through the familiar organized chaos of the Monaco paddock. This race holds a special thrill every year as one of the marquee events on the calendar. But today, there’s an extra level of anticipation thrumming through his veins.

Because for the first time ever, you’re here with him.

After months of gentle coaxing and meticulously planned days off, he’s finally convinced you to spend an entire race weekend as his guest. The chance to show you his world, the intoxicating intensity of a Grand Prix up close, fills Max with a buzz of elation.

He can’t wait for you to experience it all — the roar of finely-tuned engines, the crunch of data analysis, and even the mundane periods of hurry-up-and-wait that are all just part of the hectic lifestyle he loves. Just having you by his side makes everything seem that much more vibrant and alive.

Max throws you a brilliant grin as he catches your eye, unable to resist drinking in how gorgeous you look, face glowing with curiosity and excitement at taking it all in. His breath catches a little at the warmth in your returned smile. Even after months together, he’s still constantly amazed that this funny, caring, wonderful woman actually agreed to be his.

A gentle hand on his arm breaks through Max’s reverie. He glances over to find his trainer indicating they should move on for the next pre-race commitment. Max nods easily, squeezing your hand as he slows.

“Why don’t you wait here? I’ll just be a couple minutes with Rupert going over some details, then we can grab some food, yeah?”

“Sounds perfect.” You lean in to press a lingering kiss to his cheek that makes his head swim. “I’ll be here.”

Max’s grin is so wide it borders on goofy as he tears himself away to follow Rupert toward the motorhome, throwing one last look over his shoulder. You’ve settled onto a stack of tires just around the corner, radiant smile still in place as you watch the surrounding action unfold.

His trainer’s voice pulls Max back to the present as they walk, and he does his best to shelf his heartsick infatuation for a few minutes to focus. This is it, the most famous race of the year. The track with no room for error during qualifying. He should be mentally locking in, triple checking every detail and sensor read-out.

Instead, his mind keeps drifting back to how soft your lips felt against his cheek, how undeniably right it feels to share this with you.

By the time their brief walk-through wraps up, Max is practically shaking with anticipation to rejoin you. Only as he turns back toward where he left you, jacket slung over his arm … you’re nowhere to be seen.

A crease forms between Max’s brows as he scans the scattered tires and tool chests, looking for your familiar figure. You couldn’t have gone far in such a short span.

Then a flash of movement from the Mercedes garage entrance catches his eye and Max feels his heart plummet. There you are, crouched down animatedly in front of the German team’s pit … with none other than Lewis Hamilton and his bloody bulldog Roscoe.

Of course. Of course Lewis-freaking-Hamilton would zoom in the second Max’s back was turned to try and work his charms on you. Even bringing that dumb dog out like the world’s most obnoxious prop to appeal to your soft heart for animals.

Max sees red, an irrational wave of protective jealousy surging through his veins as he watches you laugh at something Lewis says, completely charmed. Your hand strokes Roscoe’s broad head idly, pure affection written across your features.

And just like that, Max is moving before his brain can catch up, feet carrying him hastily across the pavement as if drawn by an invisible cord.

You glance up as he approaches, smile stretching even wider. “Max! Lewis was just-”

But Max pays your words no mind, slipping an arm around your waist and tugging you snugly against his side as he sizes up Lewis with narrowed eyes.

“Everything okay over here?” His gaze pointedly avoids the dog panting at their feet.

He sees confusion flicker across your features, but Lewis just chuckles good-naturedly.

“Just making a new friend is all! Your girl here is an absolute natural with Roscoe.” He shoots you a warm grin and motions to his dog, who thumps his stubby tail happily against the pavement.

Max feels his jaw tighten, irrational possessiveness flaring hot and bright as Lewis’ approving gaze lingers a little too long for his liking.

“Oh, the pup’s adorable!” You enthuse, dropping into a crouch again to ruffle Roscoe’s velvety ears. “You’re being such a good boy, aren’t you?”

Max scowls down at the dog, annoyed by his besotted panting and frantically wagging tail as you dole out affectionate pats. Like the mangy thing has any inkling how lucky he is.

Leave it to Lewis to trot out something irresistibly cute like that just to try and win you over.

Seeming to sense his silent brooding, you straighten back up and loop your arm through Max’s, squeezing his bicep gently. “I’m getting a little thirsty, actually. Do you mind if I run to the hospitality tent for a drink quickly?”

Lewis perks up instantly. “I can show you whe-”

“She knows the way,” Max cuts him off, perhaps a bit too sharply judging by your surprised blink. He softens his tone with an effort. “To Red Bull hospitality, I mean. I’ll walk you over.”

He turns on his heel, tugging you along in the wake of his hasty dismissal. Your brows knit together and you open your mouth, no doubt to question his odd behavior.

But Max stubbornly presses on, only slowing once you’ve turned past a row of transport trucks and the Mercedes garage is out of sight. He releases a long, slow breath, some of the weird, clawing tension ebbing away now that you’re back by his side.

“Everything alright?” You ask carefully, mouth curved into a bemused half-smile. “That was … a bit of an abrupt exit back there.”

Max snorts, shaking his head ruefully as you fall into step together. How is he supposed to put this in a way that doesn’t make him sound like a completely irrational, jealous idiot?

“Yeah, everything’s great. Just felt like it was time to move on before Lewis could really get going, you know?” He shoots you a sidelong look, arching one brow meaningfully. “Dude loves to hear himself talk.”

You huff out an amused breath, lips twitching like you’re struggling not to grin wider. “I’m not sure I’d go that far. He seems perfectly lovely from what I could tell.”

Max shrugs one shoulder, brushing off the statement and its implicit critique of his attitude. Lewis is a fine enough guy … he just also happens to be a chronic flirt who clearly recognizes a beautiful, charming woman when he sees one. And that activates Max’s protective instincts on a level he didn’t quite anticipate until he saw Lewis zeroing in on you like that.

You drift closer as you walk, bumping his shoulder with yours playfully.

“You know, it was kind of sweet, actually — him bringing Roscoe out to meet me. I think he knew I’m a sucker for a cute dog.”

Sweet. Right. Because Lewis was just doing it all out of the goodness of his bleeding heart.

“Don’t you mean Roscoe is the real competition here?” Max tries for a teasing tone, only half-joking. “Pretty sure that mutt was the one working overtime to charm you.”

He tosses you an exaggerated leer, stoking the banter to cover his lingering irrational annoyance at the entire situation. If you noticed his blatant brush-off of Lewis, you’re being mercifully subtle about calling it out.

Sure enough, you lift one delicately arched brow, lips curved into an indulgent smile. “Is that so? And here I thought it was just Lewis trying to get on my good side. My, what a dilemma!”

Max chuckles despite himself at your playful tone, some of the weird tension ebbing further from his shoulders. Of course you’re not fazed by all this nonsense — you never are. Not only are you unfailingly kind and patient, but you clearly know him well enough by now to recognize when his protective instincts are causing the occasional bout of unreasonable jealousy.

Even though he swears up and down he isn’t actually jealous, not really. Just … being cautious after finally finding someone as incredible as you.

Red Bull hospitality comes into view up ahead, its distinctive energy drink logos splashed across the entrance. You start to slow as you approach, hand trailing lightly down Max’s arm until your fingers brush his.

“I wasn’t gone that long, you know,” you point out, regarding him with those warm, knowing eyes. “I wouldn’t just run off and leave you behind on your big weekend.”

Something in your tone, soft yet insistent, assures Max that you see right through his childishly competitive display. He doesn’t even have the decency to look sheepish as you continue.

“Max, you don’t have to worry about anyone trying to steal me away or whatever it is that’s going through that handsome head of yours. I’m yours, remember?”

Your fingers tangle through his and your free hand comes up to cup his cheek, grounding him fully in the moment. He nods slowly, leaning into your touch as the last wisps of stupid, needless jealousy evaporate under the warmth of your fond gaze.

“You’re right, I know. I do remember.” He turns his head slightly, brushing his lips across your palm. “And I’m yours.”

“Exactly.” You raise up on your tiptoes to dust a feather-light kiss across his mouth that leaves Max’s head spinning delightfully. “Now, what do you say we get something to drink so we can enjoy the rest of the weekend together?”

Max grins, feeling lighter than he has all day as he catches your hand and tugs you toward the tent entrance.

“Lead the way, liefje. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

And he absolutely would, too — past Lewis and Roscoe and any irrational jealousy that rears its head. Because having you by his side through all the whirlwind of Formula 1, getting to share this wild life with the woman he loves more and more every day?

It’s the only competition Max has any interest in winning.

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sasheemo · 6 months ago

Text

Friday Thoughts

Chapter 1

Word count: 5.3k

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

Four months. That’s how long it’s been since you stepped into the quiet, modern house nestled at the end of a well-kept street. Four months since you met Nicholas, bright-eyed and full of questions, the kind of kid who could win over even the most reluctant babysitter. And four months since you met his mother, Agatha Harkness.

Agatha had been polite, professional, and just distant enough to make her presence intoxicating. At first, you told yourself it was nothing, just admiration for someone so self-assured, so obviously in control of her world. But as the weeks passed, admiration turned into fascination, and fascination into a quiet, gnawing ache you couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t as if the two of you shared many conversations. Agatha kept things brief—efficient, almost clinical. A quick rundown of Nicholas’ dinner preferences and bedtime routine, a reminder to call if anything urgent came up. She never offered more than the bare minimum needed to keep things running smoothly, yet her presence made every exchange feel heavier than it should.

You tried not to think about her too much. Tried to focus on Nicholas, the job, anything else. But ignoring Agatha Harkness was like trying to ignore gravity - inescapable, pulling you in whether you wanted it or not.

It wasn’t just her appearance - though that certainly didn’t help - it was the way she occupied space, commanding attention without effort. The way her gaze would flick to you, sharp and assessing, like she was filing away every detail for later consideration.

And when she left… she didn’t just leave. She left behind. The faint scent of her perfume, rich and warm, clinging to the air long after the door had closed behind her. The lingering echo of her voice, low and smooth, a melody that at times could feel almost too calculated to be accidental.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just a natural reaction to being around someone like her: refined, confident, and utterly out of reach. But the longer you spent in her home, the harder it became to convince yourself of that, especially when so much about her remained shrouded in mystery.

You had no idea what she did for a living, only that it involved late-night calls, countless virtual meetings, a constant stream of emails at all hours, and events that demanded an air of authority as much as they did elegance.

She was always impeccably dressed, whether she was working from home or heading out for an event: power suits tailored to perfection, silk shirts and blouses that radiated precision as sharp as the cut of her blazers, and fitted dresses that looked like they belonged on the cover of a magazine.

She exuded the kind of confidence that made you certain she held a position of influence, something important, something that carried weight. CEO, maybe? Or some high-ranking executive? It would explain the polished demeanor, the frustration that would sometimes edge into her voice during a call you definitely weren’t meant to overhear, and the meticulous organization of her home office.

Then again, she had an air of mystery that didn’t quite fit neatly into the corporate box. She was decisive, yes, but there was something else beneath it, something restrained, like she was only showing a fraction of what she was truly capable of.

You didn’t even know Agatha’s exact age. There were old photos scattered around the house, most of them of Nicholas as a baby, a few of her alongside Rio, her ex-wife. You’d caught glimpses of them during one of Nicholas’ enthusiastic storytelling tangents, the kind of childlike recounting that brought those still frames to life. Rio looked noticeably younger in the pictures, which only deepened the intrigue surrounding Agatha. How old was she? Late forties? Early fifties?

Not that it mattered, or at least… it shouldn’t have. But the more time you spent in her orbit, the harder it became to ignore just how much space she occupied in your thoughts. It was unprofessional, irrational, and entirely out of your control, as if every little detail about her demanded a corner of your attention whether you wanted it to or not.

The first time you met, you’d thought she was intimidating. There was something about the sharpness in her gaze, the way she seemed to size you up as if you were being evaluated for a job far more critical than babysitting.

You’d left the interview certain she didn’t think much of you. But then she’d hired you.

To be fair, you hadn’t exactly taken the job because of your love for children. Babysitting seemed like an easy way to make some extra cash while juggling your morning part-time job. You hadn’t expected to enjoy it, much less grow attached to Nicholas.

But Nicholas wasn’t like other kids. He was curious, creative, and so full of energy that you couldn’t help but be drawn in. He’d ask you about your favorite books, try to teach you the names of constellations from his room, and once insisted on making you a friendship bracelet out of beads and string.

And then there were the quieter moments. Like the time he’d curled up beside you on the couch after a rough day at school, falling asleep mid-sentence while you read his favorite book. Or the time he’d asked, out of the blue, “Do you think my mom gets lonely when I’m at school?”.

You hadn’t known how to answer that one.

Nicholas made the job feel… easy. Comforting, even. But his mother? She made it kind of impossible.

Every time you walked into her home, you’d feel her presence. Not physically, she was rarely around long enough for that, but in the little things she left behind, subtle markers of her existence woven into the very own fabric of the house.

The low hum of her voice drifting from the upstairs study during late-night calls, words too muffled to make out but carrying a cadence of control that made you pause, just to listen. The faint impression of her meticulousness in the perfectly aligned cushions on the couch, the neatly stacked mail on the counter, the absence of even a stray sock or misplaced book.

Then there was the way her heels clicked against the floor when she came downstairs, the sound crisp yet unhurried. She didn’t rush, Agatha Harkness was not the kind of person who rushed. Her movements seemed to shape the rhythm of the house itself, setting a quiet standard for everything and everyone in her space.

Soon, you began picking up on details you had no business noticing. Small, fleeting moments that clung to the edges of your thoughts like whispers you couldn’t quite ignore. Like, the slight smirk she gave when Nicholas said something clever, a mixture of pride and amusement softening her features. Or the way she adjusted her hair when she was stressed, tucking loose strands behind her ear with a practiced motion, revealing the elegant curve of her neck.

And then there were the more unconscious gestures, each one driving you wild in its own very excruciating way. The quiet rhythm of her foot tapping against the kitchen floor when she sipped her coffee between meetings. The faint click of her tongue against her lips when Nicholas tested her patience, a subtle attempt to hold back words she clearly wanted to let loose. The way she stood when she was lost in thought, her arms loosely crossed as one finger absently brushed against her lips, almost as if she was tasting the edge of an unspoken idea.

And her laugh. God, her laugh. It wasn’t often that Nicholas managed to coax it out of her, but when he did, it was warm and rich, a sound that lingered long after she left the room.

Everything about her seemed carefully curated, controlled at all times. And yet, in those instants, you saw something else. A woman who, despite all her poise and precision, carried the weight of something she never let anyone else see.

You weren’t supposed to think about her like this. Not when she was the mother of the child you babysat. Not when every interaction with her reminded you of just how far apart your worlds were. Not when she was so far out of your league, it was laughable.

She is older, accomplished, and entirely unattainable. The kind of woman who probably spends her evenings at upscale dinners or in rooms filled with people who match her level of sophistication. Women who are successful, and as captivating as she is, people she could meet as equals.

And who are you? Someone who stumbles over your words if she so much as glances your way for too long. Someone whose idea of ambition is stringing together part-time jobs to pay the bills.

It isn’t just that she is out of your league, it’s like she is playing a completely different game.

But that didn’t stop your mind from wandering.

You knew it was ridiculous to even entertain the idea of her seeing you as anything more than a babysitter. And yet, in the quiet moments, when her voice lingered in your head or her laugh replayed itself unbidden, the thought of her crept in, no matter how hard you tried to push it away.

It didn’t help that most of the nights you were working at her house were predictable, almost comforting in their routine: dinner, homework, reading or watching a movie with Nicholas. A lovely rhythm, easy and unassuming.

Except for Fridays.

Fridays were different. Fridays were harder. Fridays were the nights when Agatha didn’t stay holed up in her study, immersed in work or late-night calls. No, she would step out in one of her perfectly tailored outfits, leaving behind a quiet hum in the air, like the house itself was holding its breath in her absence.

And like clockwork, every Friday night, when she walked out the door, you’d find yourself wondering. Where was she going? Who was she meeting? What would it be like to occupy even a fraction of her time? Did she let others see pieces of herself you’d only glimpsed in passing? Did she laugh with them the way she sometimes laughed with Nicholas?

The questions gnawed at you in ways you hated to admit, piling up in your mind uninvited and unrelenting, until all you could do was let them sit there, unanswered and far beyond your reach.

“Get a grip.” you mutter to yourself as you approach the house, tugging your hoodie tighter against the evening chill. But you can’t shake the feeling that this Friday, like all the others, will leave you tangled in questions you have no right to ask, about a life that’s so close yet impossibly far away.

When you reach the door, you pause, taking a breath to steady yourself. You knock and when Agatha opens the door, you momentarily forget how to breathe.

She stands before you in a deep navy suit, the tailored jacket hugging her form perfectly, the sharp lines of her trousers elongating her already commanding presence. A delicate gold chain rests against her collarbone, catching the light every time she moves, and her fingers gleam with matching gold rings. Her hair is swept back, leaving a few strands to frame her face, and her pointy black heels click faintly as she steps aside to let you in.

“Evening, hon.” she greets, her voice a smooth hum that settles in the space between you like a low melody. Her gaze sweeps over you, unreadable as always, but you catch it - a flicker of something in the corner of her mouth, an almost-smile that makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Hi.” The word slips out, and you pray she doesn’t notice the slight quiver in your voice. You grip the strap of your backpack a little tighter, as if that will steady you.

Stepping inside and closing the door, you let the familiar warmth of the house wash over you, the faint sound of Nicholas’ laughter from the living room grounding you just enough. You focus on it, using the noise as a lifeline to ignore the way your pulse quickens in her presence.

Agatha moves toward the hall mirror, tilting her head as she checks her lipstick. The movement is casual, something you’ve seen her do countless times in the past months, and yet your eyes are drawn to her like a magnet.

“You know the drill.” she says suddenly, her voice breaking the silence and startling you just enough to snap your attention away. She doesn’t turn, her focus still on her reflection, but her tone commands yours. “Dinner’s already set out for Nicky, and he’s got homework to finish before he’s allowed any TV. I should be back around midnight, but call if you need anything.”

“Got it.” you nod quickly, keeping your response as short as possibile, not fully trusting your voice.

As she turns to reach for her bag, your ‘Friday thoughts’ spill out right on time, tumbling over themselves in a chaotic rush you can’t seem to contain. Your weekly ritual of overthinking, courtesy of one Agatha Harkness.

Where is she going tonight? Another date? She has to be dating. It would explain the Friday nights routine, the flawless outfits, the faint whiff of perfume that lingers long after she leaves. Nobody has ever come home with her or even close to the house in the past months. Does that mean the dates go poorly? Does she cut them short, brushing the other person off with the same composed finality she seems to apply to everything else? Would she even bring someone back here?

Probably not. No, if anything, she’d go to their place. Some immaculate apartment, probably, with clean lines and expensive furniture. Somewhere she could walk in, take control, and leave just as effortlessly when she wanted to.

You shake your head, trying to banish the images from your mind. They always feel so intrusive, like you’re stepping into corners of her life you have no right to imagine.

Agatha’s voice breaks the silence once again, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts.

“Don’t let him con you into staying up late.” she says, a playful lilt in her tone as she heads toward the door.

Your lips curve in a faint smile as you manage a reply, your voice steadier than you expect. “I’m not so easily corrupted, you know.”

She pauses in the doorway and turns back slightly, her gaze fixated on yours not long enough to offer answers, but just enough to stir more questions.

And then, she’s gone. The front door clicking shut and the soft echo of her heels fading into the night feeling so anticlimactic compared to the storm she leaves behind in your head. You stand there for a moment, staring at the door.

What is it about her that makes you care so much? Why does she take up so much space in your mind when you know, deep down, that you’re nothing more than the babysitter?

But even that thought doesn’t hold. If you’re just the babysitter, then why does her gaze linger more now than it did in the beginning, like a challenge, like she’s daring you to figure her out? Why does it feel like the tension between you has been building over the weeks, simmering beneath the surface, a game you don’t fully understand but can’t help wanting to play?

And why, in those moments, does it feel like she’s not just looking at you, but through you, as if she’s started seeing pieces of you that even you aren’t ready to admit?

It wasn’t always like this. At first, her attention felt brief, almost incidental - a fleeting glance here, a curt smile there. But now, there’s something deliberate about it, something that leaves you questioning everything every time you’re near her.

But that’s all it is: questions. Never answers. And it’s maddening.

The hours pass quietly after Agatha leaves. Nicholas breezes through his homework with minimal resistance, though not without a few dramatic groans and exaggerated complaints. Dinner is uneventful, save for a minor debate over whether carrots are better raw or roasted.

By the time the clock strikes nine, Nicholas is sprawled on the couch beside you, his favorite blanket draped haphazardly across both of you. He’s already halfway to sleep, eyelids fluttering as he fights the inevitable.

“One more movie.” he murmurs, his voice soft and drowsy. “I promise I’ll go to bed right after.”

You tilt your head, arching an eyebrow as you shoot him a skeptical look, the kind of look you’ve perfected over the months, the one that makes him squirm just enough to admit he’s pushing his luck.

He flashes a sheepish grin, clutching the blanket tighter.

You shake your head but don’t press the matter, reaching for the remote to start the movie. He inches closer as it plays on, the way he always does when he’s tired but too stubborn to admit it. You feel the weight of his trust in the quiet way he settles, his breathing growing slower, his eyes fluttering closed more often than they stay open.

As minutes pass, Nicholas’ resolve doesn’t hold. Not even halfway through, his head tips against your arm, his breathing evening out into the quiet rhythm of sleep.

You glance down at him, his small frame curled against your side, and a wave of warmth washes over you at the sight. With a quiet sigh, you adjust slightly, sliding an arm around him. He leans into you instinctively, his trust so natural it tugs at something deep within you. A faint smile touches your lips as you shift your gaze back to the screen.

But your attention falters. The soft hum of the house, the rhythmic flicker of light from the TV, and the quiet cadence of Nicholas’ steady breathing create a cocoon of calm. The atmosphere wraps around you, soothing and lulling, until your eyelids grow heavier with each passing moment.

You try to resist, telling yourself you’ll move in just a minute, maybe two. But before you know it, sleep creeps in.

The soft click of the front door opening stirs you awake a couple of hours later.

For a moment, you lie frozen, still caught between sleep and wakefulness. Then, the faint sound of heels clicking on the floor reaches your ears, steady and unhurried, until Agatha steps into view.

Her suit only slightly rumpled and her hair just a little out of place, as the tired look in her eyes shifts to something softer when she takes in the scene before her.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” she mutters, though her voice carries more amusement than irritation.

You blink, sitting up carefully to avoid jostling Nicholas. “I, uh… he insisted on watching the movie, and I guess…” You trail off, gesturing vaguely at the blanket.

Her lips twitch, hovering on the edge of a smile. “So much for not being so easily corrupted.”

You let out a soft laugh, brushing a hand over the blanket. “I’d say I wasn’t corrupted, I was just… strategically outplayed.”

Agatha lets out a playful scoff before her gaze flicks back to Nicholas, and for a moment, something in her demeanor shifts. The dim light of the living room catches her profile, tracing the delicate lines of her features, fleeting but unmistakably tender.

She crosses the room and kneels beside the couch. With a soft touch, she brushes a hand over Nicholas’ shoulder, murmuring his name in a low, soothing tone until his eyes flutter open. Groggy but obedient, he reaches for her hand, and she helps him to his feet.

You hover awkwardly by the couch, unsure whether to follow or retreat. But when Agatha rises and leads Nicholas toward the stairs, you find yourself trailing behind them instinctively. Agatha walks beside her son, her hand lightly resting on his back, steadying him as he shuffles up the steps rubbing his sleepy eyes.

At the top of the stairs, she pauses in front of his bedroom, guiding him inside. You standing awkwardly by the doorway, caught between the pull of the moment and the nagging sense that you’re intruding on something sacred, watching as she tucks him in.

When Agatha finally steps back, she lets out a quiet sigh, brushing her hand across her son’s hair one last time. She moves toward you without looking, gently nudging the door closed behind her with the faintest click.

For a moment, the two of you remain in the hallway, the silence between you heavy but not uncomfortable. It gives you just enough time to glance down at yourself.

Comfy sweatpants, an oversized hoodie, and the faintest smudge of Nicholas’ dinner on your sleeve - a smudge you hadn’t noticed until now. It’s not awful, not disheveled, but standing next to her, you feel like a rough pencil sketch beside a masterpiece.

There’s no denying it, the gap between you. She’s poised in a way that seems effortless, innate. There’s this weight to her sophistication, not showy but intrinsic, as if it’s simply woven into the fabric of who she is.

It makes you feel impossibly small. A painful reminder that she’s untouchable, a fantasy so far out of reach it feels foolish to even consider.

Agatha leans lightly against the wall, her arms crossing in a way that feels unhurried, almost lazy, a stark contrast to the usual precision she carries herself with. Yet even in this quiet repose, she doesn’t lose an ounce of her commanding presence.

She exhales softly, a subtle sound that fully draws your attention. It’s like she’s letting go of the weight of the night piece by piece, and it feels oddly grounding, a rare glimpse into something unspoken.

“Long day?” you ask breaking the silence, your voice quieter than you intend, almost hesitant.

At the sound, her eyes snap up to meet yours, a flicker of surprise crossing her face as if she’d forgotten you were there. It’s fleeting, quickly masked by a practiced neutrality, but for that brief moment, she looks almost caught off guard, as though your presence is something she hadn’t actually accounted for.

“Longer than it was worth.” she replies, her tone low and even.

You hesitate as the air between you grows thick, pressing down on your chest until, before you can stop yourself, the words slip out.

“Bad date?” they tumble from your lips unbidden, and the moment they’re out, your heart lodges itself firmly in your throat.

For a moment, the hallway feels suspended in time, her gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that has your pulse pounding in your ears. Agatha tilts her head slightly, her eyebrow arching as she studies you, the corner of her lips curving upward - not quite a smile, more a deliberate flicker of amusement.

“Bold of you to assume it was a date.” she says, her voice low and tinged with intrigue, as if daring you to explain yourself.

Your cheeks burn, but you can’t backpedal now. “I mean—it’s Friday, and you looked so—uh, dressed up…”

“Careful, hon.” she interrupts smoothly, her tone laced with teasing. “Flattery will only get you so far.”

You swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of how her perfume lingers faintly in the air between you. “I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t mean to—”

Agatha cuts you off with a low, rich laugh, the sound curling around you like smoke, warm and unshakable. It’s the kind of laugh that feels like a statement, as though she knows exactly how flustered she’s made you and isn’t above enjoying it.

She doesn’t say a word, but her gaze stays on you for just a beat longer than necessary, her eyes catching yours in a way that feels way too deliberate. Then, with a grace so effortless it almost feels unfair, she pushes off the wall, brushing past you as she moves downstairs.

You linger for a moment in the hallway, trying to steady your breath after the quiet intensity of the exchange. But when you finally descend the stairs, the soft clink of glass pulls your attention to the kitchen.

That’s exactly where you find Agatha, illuminated by the soft glow of the light above the sink. She’s holding a glass of red wine in one hand, her other arm braced casually on the countertop.

Once again, you find yourself hesitatingly watching her from the doorway. Your gaze settles on her hand, on the way the graceful tilt of her wrist makes the wine swirl in the glass.

“Done sneaking around?” she teases without turning to look at you, her tone low and laced with amusement.

Your cheeks flush, and you step into the kitchen, fumbling for an excuse. “I wasn’t sneaking. I just- wanted to say goodnight before I left.”

She finally turns upon hearing your voice, her eyes catching yours with unsettling ease as she leans lazily against the counter, the glass cradled in her hand. “Isn’t that sweet.” she murmurs, her tone softer, thoughtful. “Almost as sweet as falling asleep on the couch with Nicky.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“It—it wasn’t—” you stammer, trying desperately to find your footing. “He was tired, and I guess I was too. It just… happened.”

Her lips curl into the faintest smile, and she takes a slow sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving yours. “No need to be so defensive.” she says, her voice dipping into something almost indulgent. “It’s a good thing. You’re great with him. Not everyone would be.”

The compliment strikes you square in the chest, and for a second, your brain struggles to process it. Your heart pounds so loudly you’re certain she must hear it. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but your words dissolve under the weight of her gaze. It’s calm and far too knowing for your liking, like she’s pulling apart every layer of you with ease.

And then, just as you think the moment can’t possibly get any more overwhelming, she does something that makes your thoughts screech to a halt.

Her tongue flicks over her bottom lip, unhurried and purposeful, as if savoring the last lingering taste of the wine. It’s a fleeting gesture, but one that feels maddeningly intentional, and the way her eyes darken as they hold yours sends a jolt of electricity straight through you.

As if perfectly aware of the effect she’s having on you, her expression shifts. Mischief crosses her features, the corner of her mouth tilting upward in a way that feels more dangerous than playful.

“Maybe” she says, her tone low, teasing, and just a touch too intimate “I should ask you out next Friday.”

The words land like a thunderclap. Your jaw slackens, your brain completely short-circuits, and you’re sure you’ve just imagined it. There’s no way she just said that.

“I—what?” you manage to stammer, your voice barely a whisper, your pulse now hammering in your ears to the point you fear you’ll grow deaf because of it.

Agatha tilts her head, her expression the picture of innocence, though the gleam in her eyes betrays her. “What?” she echoes, as though she has no idea why you’re reacting this way, casually swirling the wine in her glass like she hasn’t just flipped your entire world upside down.

You blink at her, your thoughts spiraling in every possible direction. There’s no way she means it. It’s a joke. It has to be a joke. But the way her eyes hold yours, the subtle curve of her lips, the raw energy she’s exuding - it all feels so charged, that you can’t help but question everything.

Your breath catches again as her smile deepens, and for a moment, you think she might actually say something else, something that’ll either clarify or completely unravel you.

But instead, she leans back against the counter, watching you with an expression that’s equal parts amusement and intrigue, like she’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

You can’t move. You can’t think. All you can do is stand there, your thoughts looping in an endless cycle of ‘What just happened? Did I imagine that? What does she mean?’.

“I should, uh… go.” you finally mumble, retreating toward the door as your brain struggles to keep up with your body.

“Of course.” she says smoothly, her tone as composed as ever. And then, as you reach the door, she adds, “Early shift tomorrow, right? Seven, if I’m not mistaken.”

You freeze, your hand on the doorknob, and glance back at her. “How did you—?”

“You mentioned it once, a couple of months ago.” she replies casually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I tend to remember things like that.”

Her gaze lingers just long enough to make your pulse spike up once again before she finally looks away, taking another sip of her wine. “Goodnight, hon.”

You barely even register the door clicking shut behind you. The night air greets you like a slap, cool against your flushed cheeks, but it does absolutely nothing to steady the whirlwind of emotions spiraling inside you. Your feet carry you forward on instinct, each step heavier than the last as her words loop endlessly in your head.

Maybe I should ask you out next Friday.

The sentence hits like a gong, reverberating through your entire body. She remembered your schedule. Not just vaguely, she knew the exact time your shift starts. And then she said… that.

Was it a joke? A casual tease? A test? A mistake? Was she - no, she didn’t seem drunk.

Your steps quicken, as if you can somehow outrun the storm in your mind, but it’s a losing battle. The echoes of her voice, the deliberate flicker in her gaze, the way she’d licked her lip like she knew exactly what it would do to you. It’s all still there, clinging to you like a second skin.

You stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk, pressing both hands to your head like you can physically stop the spiral. “Nope. Nope. Nope. That did not just happen.” you mutter, your voice growing louder with every word as if volume alone will make it less real. “She’s messing with me. She has to be messing with me.”

But even as you say it, doubt creeps in. You’d thought that before, but it couldn’t all be in your head, could it?

Your hands drop, and you stare blankly at the street ahead, your mind flitting through every possible explanation like a detective unraveling a conspiracy.

‘Ok, so she’s teasing me. No, she’s testing me. No—oh God, what if she’s just bored? What if I’m like, some kind of entertainment for her?’

And then, the most dangerous thought of all slinks into view, unbidden and relentless.

‘What if she wasn’t joking?’

Your knees nearly buckle at the thought, and you force yourself to keep walking, shaking your head like you can physically dislodge the idea.

By the time you reach your door, your heart is still pounding, your face still burning, and your thoughts are definitely still stuck in an endless loop of ‘what the actual fuck just happened?’.

You step inside, kicking the door shut behind you with a quiet thud. The thought of changing or even turning on the lights feels like too much effort, so you head straight to your room. Dropping your bag by the door, you collapse onto the bed face-first, muffling a groan into your pillow.

You let out a long sigh, turning your head just enough to breathe as the pillow muffles the rest of your thoughts. Your body sinks into the mattress, heavy with exhaustion, but your mind refuses to quiet down.

You close your eyes, willing the tension to drain from your shoulders. The weight of her words, of her gaze, of all of the questions. You just want sleep to come quickly and take it all away.

And somehow, after a few restless minutes, it does.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #aaa #aaa fanfic #agatha all along #agatha all along fanfic #agatha harkness #agatha coven of chaos

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venomvalley · 4 months ago

Note

Erm what about sevi giving her gf nipple piercings??-$-&/&/88/0/0-8:-$/$/&/9/8/8

And also going insane because she can’t rlly do much until they heal 👅👅

anon are you in my walls cause this is the exact same situation my girlfriend and i are experiencing....

warning for blood mention and needles. 18+ please!!

One of the biggest pros to your girlfriend working at a tattoo shop is getting free piercings in a relatively clean, comfortable environment. Even better that your girlfriend is the piercer providing you free, professional service.

Like today, after months of debating on a very popular, arguably painful piercing. Her presence is a comfort that soothes the anxiety fluttering in your chest, the room clean and neat—so unlike her personal space at home.

"You do realize that these take six months to heal," Sevika says, looking up from the new pack of gloves she just opened to raise her brows at you.

She looks good in her element, sat at her station in a rolling chair and a cut-off tank top that bares muscled arms and the trim curve of her waist. You can't even focus on the size of the needle without straying to the sight of her long fingers clad in sterile gloves.

One of the biggest cons to your girlfriend piercing you? She takes her job very seriously. No funny business, no joking around, no PDA. When you sit in her chair, you're a client just like everyone else.

"You've told me fifteen times over the past week," you say, curling a playful foot around the back of her leg. "I'm ready to get this over with."

You know what she means, though: six months without me touching your tits. Frankly, the time frame is daunting, a bit dreadful to think about. Six long months without her mouth on you.

Damn. You could cry at the thought of it.

With a huff, she clasps her hands together to adjust her gloves over her fingers. "Shirt off."

You wore a simple button-down for the occasion, easy to get on and off in the event of an unexpected guest (as if any other artist would dare interrupt when you're in the room). You slowly work each button free from its toggle with a wiggle of your brows and a sensual arch to your back.

She stares at you like you've grown a second head, but still glances down at the slow reveal of skin. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to seduce you." Your eyes narrow. "Is it working?"

She shrugs, lips twitching into a teasing grin as her chair rolls across the floor. "Not really." So close you can reach out and touch her, elbows balanced on her knees as she tracks the path of your fingers.

Your shirt falls open, hanging from your shoulders before you tease the fabric down your arms. She's good at pretending, but not good enough. Her swallow is audible in the silent room, and the chair creaks when she leans back, hips shifting.

"What, don't wanna give 'em one last kiss?" you ask, pressing your tits together with your arms. An invitation.

One she promptly ignores when she rips open the package of an alcohol wipe. "No. I don't."

The air leaves your lungs in a harsh scoff. "You're so rude."

"I'm piercing you for free."

"With that attitude? I'd rather go to—"

Behind the cold alcohol pad, her fingers pinch at your nipple, jolting you in the chair. "Don't finish that sentence."

You consider heeding her warning, then decide that the possible consequences are worth it. "… Margot."

After a long, tense moment of mutual staring, she grumbles, "Be grateful I already have my gloves on."

There's nothing explicitly sensual about the sharpie that she dots on either side of each nipple, or the way she holds your tits to ensure an even marking (doesn't even get a little squeeze in, the asshole). More clinical work-up than secret rendezvous. But that changes when she runs her tongue over her bottom lip, gaze sharp and focused. Anticipation licks heat up the back of your neck as you wait for her to finally cave, to give you some form of pleasure that your brain is hard-wired to expect.

"Deep breath," she says, voice soft and calming. On instinct, you tense up, lungs filling with air. "Just relax. You're alright."

You close your eyes and exhale, the needle a sharp sting through your skin only moments later. Another wave of pain blooms when she feeds the piercing through, your heartbeat a frantic thrum in your ears—the sweet release of adrenaline that keeps you coming back to her chair, addictive and euphoric.

Her lips press to yours in a slow, tender kiss, same as always. Equal parts reward and reassurance. "You did good. Now, the other."

The second nipple hurts worse, just as she said it would, but you try to keep still, to be good for her. You suck a sharp breath through your teeth as she puts the second piercing in place, more rough with screwing the ball on in exchange for speed. Better to just rip the bandaid off, you suppose.

She dabs at the pebbling blood with a square of gauze, then strips off her gloves and traces the bottom curve of your tits with her thumbs. Lifts them once again to check the evenness of each piercing.

"How do they look?" you ask, a bit lightheaded from the warmth of her touch (and probably from the fact that your nipples just had a needle stabbed through them).

Her mouth twists into a frown, fingers dimpling the flesh. "I regret not taking you up on your offer."

"That's too bad. Shop's closed for six months."

A sharp glare aimed your way. "Don't remind me."

As expected, the next six months are a trial of patience for both of you. A teasing push-and-pull where you remind her of your predicament every time you have sex, and she tortures you with the heat of her mouth on every inch of skin but where you crave her most. Still, she copes with the situation worse than you do. Can't lay on your chest like she used to, or suck on your tits when she's bored, or cradle them in her hand as she falls asleep.

But once the healing period is over (she keeps the exact date in her calendar), you have just enough time to step through the front door and remove your shoes before she pounces on you. Yanks up your shirt and bra and runs a thumb over the metal.

"You couldn't let me sit down first?" you ask, backing up against the wall beside the door.

She pinches a nipple between thumb and the knuckle of her forefinger, twists hard enough to leave you arching into her hand. "No."

You expect more of a response from her, but her mouth quickly becomes occupied by the same nipple previously grasped between her fingers. She soothes the ache with her tongue before closing her lips around your flesh. Suckles soft and sweet.

Fucking finally.

Pleasure lances down your spine at the wet heat of her mouth, her hand pressed to the curve of your back. She pulls away long enough to sit you on the entry table before her mouth latches onto each of your tits, back and forth and back and forth.

Your breathing stutters when her arm curls around your back, tugging you as close as possible against her. On instinct, your legs part, hips chasing stimulation.

And then she pulls away with a wide, teasing grin. Stands to her full height and steps back, lips slicked with spit.

Your mouth falls open in shock when she says, "Maybe next time, you should go to Margot."

#sevika x reader #sevika x you #arcane x reader #arcane x you #x reader #my fics #fic: six months #ns/ft

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kdyq · 5 months ago

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The start of a new beginning

Ambessa x Fem!reader

Part one of a my mini series

Context : As Ambessa steps into a new role one of fierce protector and tender caretaker. While navigating the delicate early days of potential pregnancy with the help of Hextech IVF.

The lab was quiet except for the soft hum of Hextech crystals glowing faintly along the walls. Piltover’s finest alchemist stood before you a meticulous mixture of science and magic in his hands. Within the small vial he carried was the culmination of countless discussions, hopes, and dreams shared between you and Ambessa a mixture of your genetic material prepared for implantation through the marvel of Hextech fertility.

Ambessa stood beside you her imposing figure like a fortress of strength. Her golden eyes usually so sharp and calculating flickered with an emotion she rarely allowed herself to show… hope. “This is it” you said your voice quiet but steady as you reached for her hand.

She took your smaller hand in hers, her touch surprisingly gentle. “This is the beginning of something greater than either of us.”You smiled up at her warmth spreading through your chest. “You sound more optimistic than I expected.”

Her lips quirked in a rare soft smile. “Let’s call it confidence. We’ve fought for this and Medardas don’t lose battles.”The alchemist cleared his throat reminding you both that this moment was more than just words. “Shall we proceed?”

You nodded and Ambessa gave your hand one final squeeze before releasing it. “I’ll be right here”she promised her deep voice grounding you.

The process was not painful but it was deeply intimate. Lying on the sterile table you felt a strange mix of vulnerability and strength. The alchemist worked with precision the glowing Hextech apparatus buzzing faintly as it did its work.

Ambessa sat by your side her chair pulled close. She had insisted on being present for every second refusing to leave your side even for a moment. Her large hand rested on yours her thumb tracing soothing patterns across your skin. “Does it hurt?” she asked her voice uncharacteristically soft.

“Not really” you replied glancing up at her. “It’s just… strange. Knowing this could change everything.” “It will change everything” she said firmly her golden eyes locking onto yours. “And I’ll be here for every step of it.”

The procedure concluded without complication. The alchemist stepped back his expression one of professional satisfaction. “The implantation is complete. Now we wait for confirmation.” “How long?” Ambessa asked her tone calm but commanding.

“Two weeks” the alchemist replied. “ I’ll provide instructions to ensure the process is as smooth as possible. Minimal stress plenty of rest and careful monitoring.”Ambessa’s jaw tightened slightly but she nodded. “Understood.”You knew from that point own you wouldn’t lift a single finger until that conformation.

From the moment you left the clinic Ambessa transformed into a one woman security detail. She insisted on carrying you into the estate despite your protests.

“I’m perfectly capable of walking!” you said laughing as she scooped you up effortlessly.“Humor me” she replied her voice tinged with rare amusement. “You heard the alchemist minimal stress. I don’t take chances.”

Over the next few days her overprotectiveness became both endearing and slightly irritating . She refused to let you lift a finger but you know this is a love language for her she just doesn’t wanna tell you that. She’ll be reorganizing your usual routines with military precision.

“Ambessa I can pour my own tea” you said one morning as she carefully placed a steaming cup in front of you.“Not while I’m here” she countered her tone leaving no room for argument.

“oh my god your gonna drive me crazy” you teased though the warmth in your voice betrayed how much you appreciated her care.She leaned down her golden eyes locking onto yours. “Good. It means you’ll stay put.”

One evening as the two of you sat in the estate’s sprawling garden you finally managed to coax her into relaxing. The stars above were bright and the soft hum of the estate’s wards created a comforting background noise.

“You’ve been hovering “you said, leaning your head against her shoulder.“And?” she replied her smirk audible in her voice.

You laughed softly. “And I love you for it. But you don’t have to treat me like I’m fragile.”Ambessa shifted slightly, turning to face you. Her large hands cradled yours, the contrast between your smaller fingers and hers a reminder of her strength.

“You’re not fragile,” she said, her voice low and serious. “But this…. this life we’re creating…. it’s the most important thing I’ve ever done. And I won’t take any risks with it or with you.”The intensity in her gaze left you momentarily speechless. You reached up, cupping her cheek and she leaned into your touch.

“I know love” you said softly. “But you don’t have to carry it all on your own. We’re in this together.”Her expression softened and she pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You’ve always been better at balancing strength with softness. Maybe I could learn from you.”

As the two weeks stretched on your interactions grew even more intimate. Ambessa was a constant presence her protective instincts balanced by moments of vulnerability she rarely showed anyone else.

One afternoon she found you curled up in the library flipping through a book of baby names.“Already planning?” she asked her tone light as she sat beside you.“Just… imagining,” you replied, leaning against her. “Do you have any preferences?”

She took the book from your hands, flipping through it thoughtfully. “Something strong. Something that carries weight.”You smiled. “That’s very you.”

She looked down at you, her golden eyes warm. “And something that honors you.”The day of the follow up appointment arrived and Ambessa’s usual composure was replaced by a quiet tension. She held your hand tightly as you both awaited the results.When the alchemist finally returned holding the glowing test tube that signaled success, you felt tears well in your eyes.

“It worked”he said simply his voice filled with warmth. “Congratulations.”You turned to Ambessa your heart full. She stared at the test tube for a long moment before pulling you into her arms.

“You’ve done it” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “We’ve done it.”In that moment, surrounded by her strength and love you knew that this child would be born into a world shaped by both power and tenderness a legacy built on the unshakable bond you shared.

“THE END”

AN/ This took me so long to jus think about how im gonna do this whole story but im just about done with the part 4 ish I just wanted to have all or most of this mini series done so it wont be a long time between each “chapter”. Next one shot is Ambessa and then Sevika 🥸

#arcane #ambessa league of legends #ambessa medarda #ambessa x reader #arcane ambessa #arcane x reader #arcane x you #mel and ambessa #ambessa x you #ambessa the chosen of the wolf

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fandomfablesunleashed · 1 month ago

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Rapid heartbeat

Zayne x reader

Summary: An annual check-up, but your heart races a little too quickly...

Slightly suggestive

Words: 1.1k

Notes: Hippa? We don't know her here 💅

English is not my first language

Masterlist

Your annual checkup.

Even though you and Zayne had developed a closer relationship beyond his office, he was still your doctor. And in that role, he was unwaveringly professional.

The visit proceeded as usual. But as he moved through the motions of the examination, you couldn’t help but wonder if, after everything was done, you could be a little less professional and ask him if he wanted to have dinner with you again sometime soon.

That was until he needed to check your heartbeat.

He asked you to sit on the recliner as he moved closer, placing the stethoscope’s earpieces in his ears.

“Take off your sweater, please.”

His tone was clinical, matter-of-fact—exactly as it should be. And yet, a tiny, irrational part of you bristled at how utterly unaffected he seemed by the prospect of seeing you without it.

You pushed the thought aside as quickly as it came, reminding yourself that here, in this space, he was your doctor first. Tugging your sweater over your head, you barely had a moment to brace yourself before the cool metal of the stethoscope met your skin.

“Deep breaths.”

So you did.

But it was hard to focus on breathing properly when he was so close to you. You had noticed he was handsome during your very first visit, but now that you knew him outside the office as well, you simply couldn't take your eyes off him.

You hadn’t defined anything between you yet, but you were certain something more was slowly building. And now, sitting so close to him, your sweater gone, your heart pounded. You couldn’t help but think how much you would rather feel his hands—his steady, big hands—on you instead of the stethoscope.

His eyebrows furrowed as he listened. Then, he pulled the stethoscope away.

“Your heartbeat is too fast. Are you under a lot of stress?”

“No,” you answered quickly. Too quickly.

“You said you were feeling fine. You shouldn’t lie to me.” Was that disappointment in his voice?

“I’m not lying,” you rushed to reassure him. “I’m fine.”

“Your heart tells me something different,” he stated, leaning away as he walked toward his desk, deep in thought. “We need to run more tests to determine the cause. It could be a sign of—”

You tuned him out as he started listing a series of strangely named illnesses, seemingly talking more to himself than to you.

You hated seeing him so worried. And you definitely didn’t want to waste his time and hospital resources over this.

“Zayne,” you interrupted.

He turned to you immediately. “Hmm?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry. I promise it’s not usually like this. I swear,” you tried again, hoping to convince him. But it didn’t seem to work.

“Then why is it beating so fast now?”

You flushed, embarrassed. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

“I, um… Um, it’s…” You stumbled over your words, looking anywhere but at him.

“What is it?” he asked firmly.

You sighed. “Do you really need me to say it?”

You dared to meet his gaze. He stood there, his eyes locked onto you, as if dissecting every inch of your being. He truly had no idea of the effect he had on you.

You had to spell it out.

“It’s because of you.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Why? I’ve checked your heartbeat multiple times before.”

“Yeah, but… um, it’s a bit different now.”

He was silent for a moment, trying to decipher your meaning. Deciding how to proceed.

“Am I making you nervous?”

“Kinda, yeah,” you mumbled.

You couldn’t handle his intense eye-contact, so instead, you focused on his desk—particularly on the small seal plushie. It was the same one you had in your collection, the one you'd practically insisted he take when you somehow ended up with a duplicate. And to your pleasant surprise, there it was, proudly displayed front and center on his desk, like a quiet little reminder that he’d kept a piece of you.

You didn’t even register when he moved until his hand was suddenly under your chin, tilting it up, so your eyes met his again.

Those beautiful, captivating eyes.

He placed the stethoscope against your skin once more, his focus intense. Then, slowly, he moved his other hand—brushing against your cheek, then trailing down your neck, then…

He chuckled.

“Interesting.”

Your heart? It was practically hammering now, every beat a loud confirmation of how much he was affecting you.

“Zayne! Don’t embarrass me!”

“I apologize,” he said, though there was nothing sincere about the way the words slipped from his lips as he pulled the stethoscope away. Then, as if to shift the mood, he added, more earnestly this time, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you assured him. You weren’t. His touch had never made you feel that way. It always felt safe, secure—and, unfortunately for you, right now, incredibly arousing.

You could swear he read your mind at that moment.

“Then what is it?” he teased.

Some might not have caught it—it sounded almost the same as his usual tone—but you knew him too well. Without a word, you shot him a glare that said everything.

His lips tugged into that faint, lovely smile you adored. Then, as if he’d just realized the boundary he’d toyed with, he cleared his throat and straightened, seamlessly slipping back into his professional persona.

“I’m going to have someone else check your heartbeat—to ensure everything is as it should be.”

You were about to protest. You really didn’t feel like explaining to Greyson or any of Zayne’s other acquaintances why he could no longer do it himself.

And once again, Zayne seemed to have too much insight into your mind.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get an intern and tell them it’s part of their training.”

You exhaled in relief.

“As for my recommendation,” he added, “perhaps people who provoke such... interesting reactions in you should keep their distance.”

You couldn’t help the sharp response that slipped out. “Don’t you dare.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not sure I can keep away now. So… how about dinner tonight? You’re my last patient.”

You smiled. That was a nice coincidence.

Although… was it really? Or had it been planned? Judging by Zayne’s expression, it just might have been the latter.

“I would love that,” you answered eagerly, a little too excited, as you grabbed your sweater, practically ready to leave. The idea of spending more time with him was too tempting to resist.

But then, with a slight, knowing shake of his head, Zayne’s smile deepened, a teasing edge creeping into his voice.

“Not so fast. You still need your heartbeat checked—this time, without me around.”

#zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace fic #zayne li #doctor zayne #lads zayne x reader #zayne x reader #lnds zayne #zayne x you #lads x reader

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bucketgetter535 · 1 month ago

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No Margin for Error: Chapter Two

CW: language

WC: 7.5k

Notes: I almost broke this into two chapters but if yall prefer just combined longer chapters lmk. Anyway a little more of azzis POV this chapter. She does a lot of #noticing.

Azzi could feel the sweat slipping down her back before she even peeled off the top half of her race suit.

It was that kind of heat.

Sticky, impossible, the kind that clung to you through layers of clothes and carbon and adrenaline. The kind that wrapped around your spine and didn’t let go. The kind that made you dream of plunging face-first into an ice bath and never coming out.

She unzipped her suit halfway, tied the arms around her waist, and pulled her fireproof undershirt away from her chest with a wince. The fabric slapped back wet. Her sports bra was soaked. Her body felt like it had been steam-cooked inside a metal box at 300 kilometers an hour for 30 minutes — which, to be fair, it had.

She didn’t even want to talk.

She couldn’t talk, not until her breathing slowed. Not until her pulse backed off from the red zone. Her throat was dry, her arms shaking in that low-buzz way they always did after a race that took more out of her than it gave. The points were fine. The sprint race had been fine. 4th, she thought. Or was it 5th?

It didn’t matter yet. Not until qualifying. Not until the real race.

For now, she dropped onto the bench in the Ferrari cooldown room, eyes closed against the fluorescent lights. Across the small space, Paige was already there — legs sprawled out in front of her, race suit hanging open, undershirt clinging to her in a way that made Azzi’s eyes flick over and away before her brain caught up.

There was something about seeing another driver this wrecked. This undone. Even if it was Paige.

Especially if it was Paige.

Her face was flushed, eyes glassy, like she hadn’t had a full breath since the moment she climbed into the car. Her hair was stuck to her forehead and temples, some flattened from the helmet, some wild from the heat. The veins in her arms were raised, still pumping from the effort. Her collarbones were sharp under the thin material of her undershirt, sweat glinting in the hollow of her throat.

It was a whole lot of information. Azzi didn’t need it. Didn’t ask for it.

She looked away again.

“I hate China in April,” Paige muttered.

Her voice was rough, but not sharp. Not snappy. It was more… honest. Tired honesty. Too drained to be anything else.

Azzi snorted quietly, too cooked to argue. “Try doing this in July.”

Paige let out something between a laugh and a groan. “God, don’t remind me.”

They didn’t speak again after that. Just the soft hum of the AC unit kicking in. Just the sound of both of them breathing through the weight of it.

The cooldown room was private — thank God — a small, merciful space inside the Ferrari garage with a padded bench, a hydration station, a fan no one had pointed in the right direction, and enough room for two drivers to pretend they weren’t about to pass out. No cameras. No mics. No PR team. Just them. And now, thankfully, her.

The door opened and in came Dr. Liao — short, calm, efficient. Female, thank God. That was new this year. That was them.

Azzi had barely known Paige when they’d made the request, but when it came to asking for a female team doctor, they’d been perfectly aligned. No debate. No friction. They’d both wanted it. Needed it.

Azzi remembered how it used to feel, being half-conscious post race in front of a guy almost twice her age. Even if he was kind. Even if he was professional. It was just… never fully comfortable.

Dr. Liao didn’t make them feel like patients. She made them feel like people.

“Hydrate,” she said simply, passing water bottles to both of them before crouching to check Paige’s vitals first. Her tone was steady, clinical. “You’re both running hot. Paige, hold out your hand.”

Paige obeyed without a word, her fingers trembling slightly as the pulse oximeter clipped on. Azzi watched out of the corner of her eye.

Still flushed. Still glassy-eyed. Sweat running down the back of her neck.

Dr. Liao noted something down on her tablet. “You’re fine. Just overheated. Take five, then cold compress. Azzi?”

Azzi rolled up her sleeve as the doctor shifted over, not protesting when her wrist was taken. Her legs were jelly, and her hair was damp all the way to the roots. She thought about peeling off her undershirt too, but the effort felt like too much. She settled for pulling the hem up, letting her skin breathe. Paige had already yanked hers off, sitting back now in just a black sports bra, her skin gleaming under the industrial light.

It wasn’t like Azzi stared. She didn’t.

It was just… there.

The lines of her stomach. The quiet rise and fall of her chest. The tattoo on her rib that Azzi hadn’t known about. The heat radiating off her like she’d swallowed the damn engine.

This wasn’t the first time she’d seen her like this — they changed in the same room pre race, trained in the same gym, stretched next to each other before sessions — but something about today made it harder to ignore. Maybe the heat stripped too much away. Maybe exhaustion blurred the edges of resentment. Maybe it was the way Paige hadn’t said anything bitchy for once.

They didn’t argue. Not today.

There just wasn’t enough energy for it.

Dr. Liao handed each of them a cold compress, then stood.

“Try to stay cool until the debrief. Get protein in you before qualifying.”

Azzi nodded. Paige, too.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence again.

Paige tilted her head back, eyes half-closed, the cold pack pressed to her neck. “I don’t think I’ve ever sweat this much in my life.”

Azzi leaned back, matching her without thinking. “Yeah. That was brutal.”

A pause. Then another. Then—

“Thanks for the doc,” Paige said, not looking at her.

Azzi blinked. “You asked for her too.”

“Yeah,” Paige said. “Still. I wouldn’t’ve spoken up if you hadn’t first.”

Azzi didn’t know what to say to that. So she just nodded.

It was strange, sitting here like this. Close but not quite. Tired but not open. Just adjacent. No press cameras. No engineers. Just the low thrum of two hearts cooling down from something unspoken and hard to name.

They weren’t friends.

They weren’t even friendly.

But for the first time since joining the same team, Azzi didn’t hate being next to Paige.

That probably didn’t mean anything.

But maybe it did.

—

China was a success and Azzi couldn’t stop smiling.

She had been on enough podiums to know the routine, but that didn’t dull it — the rush of standing on the top step, the Ferrari red wrapped around her shoulders, the trophy cold in her hands. The champagne didn’t taste like anything, but that didn’t matter. It was hers. First win of the season. China was hers.

The anthem roared. The crowd beneath them waved flags — some Ferrari, some with her name on them, a few even homemade signs with glitter and gold stars. Cameras clicked and flashed. She felt the weight of her cap on her head, the sun on her back, the ache in her calves. Every inch of her buzzed with adrenaline and heat and relief.

Azzi Fudd. Winner in Shanghai.

She closed her eyes for half a second and let it all settle in her chest.

Her engineer, Mateo, had all but lifted her out of the car when she’d pulled into her first place spot. “Brava,” he’d said into her helmet mic before she’d even parked. “You were perfect out there. Absolutely perfect.”

The car had felt good. Not flawless, not light — the track still had its bumps and moments, but Azzi had driven the hell out of it. Gotten pole. Won the race. Controlled the pace. Managed the tires. Held off pressure. All of it.

It was textbook. And it was hers.

So why couldn’t she stop looking for Paige?

Fourth wasn’t a bad finish. In theory. But Paige had been running third with five laps to go. Right behind her, almost, for a while. Then just—gone. Dropped pace, like someone hit a switch. Fell back behind a Red Bull and a Mercedes. No fight. No spark. It hadn’t made sense.

Azzi had noticed. She hadn’t meant to. But she had.

She caught Mateo on her way off the podium, still drying her hair with a towel as they walked toward the media pen.

“Hey,” she said, voice low beneath the noise. “What happened to Paige?”

Mateo hesitated for just a beat too long.

“I saw her start to fall off,” Azzi added quickly. “The car wasn’t handling?”

“She had no cooling,” Marco said, cutting to the chase. “Whole race. It didn’t work. System failure. We caught it too late.”

Azzi’s chest tightened.

“No cooling?” she repeated.

“None. Full suit temp. Cabin temp was off the charts by lap ten.”

“Jesus.”

“She should’ve pulled out. But she didn’t.”

Azzi blinked hard. Something sharp pricked the base of her neck — guilt? Concern? Something else? She shook her head.

Mateo glanced at her. “She’s with Dr. Liao now.”

Azzi nodded but said nothing.

The next twenty minutes blurred. Media. Photos. The usual rinse-repeat of post-race interviews. Smiles, nods, answers on autopilot. Yes, the car felt great. Yes, we’re thrilled with the pace. Yes, we’ll take this momentum into the next race. She knew the script. Delivered it well.

But behind every answer, her mind was somewhere else.

It wasn’t that she cared about Paige. Not like that. They weren’t friends. Barely even teammates in the traditional sense. She didn’t know Paige’s middle name, didn’t know what music she listened to, didn’t even know who she called first after a good race.

But still. Azzi found herself turning down the wrong hallway on purpose. She justified it in her mind by saying she just needed to make sure her teammate could handle the intensity of Ferrari. Not any other reason.

The garage was quieter now. Engineers half-unpacked the gear. Mechanics wiped sweat from their brows. She bypassed the debrief room. Ignored the congratulations.

Dr. Liao’s office door was closed, but not locked.

Azzi knocked, once.

A voice from inside — not Dr. Liao. Not Paige either. Just a soft “yeah, come in.”

The room was cooler than the hallway — AC turned up, fluorescent lights dimmed, medical bags open across the counter. Paige sat on the small exam bench, still in her race pants, now in just a sports bra again. Her hair was damp and loose now, clinging to the curve of her jaw.

Her eyes lifted when Azzi entered.

Surprise first. Then… unreadable.

Dr. Liao stood beside her, looking up from her tablet.

“Azzi,” she said with a small smile. “Come to check in?”

“I—yeah.” Azzi shifted. “Mateo said Paige was here.”

“She is,” Dr. Liao confirmed. “And she’ll be okay. But I’m glad you’re here too.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I like to check on both my drivers. Not just the one who got cooked.”

Azzi chuckled quietly, rubbing the back of her neck. “I’m good. Cooling systems worked.”

“Good,” Dr. Liao said, not missing a beat. “Still, you’re not leaving until I take a look.”

Azzi made a face but stepped further in. Paige hadn’t said anything yet. Her gaze lingered for half a second too long before she looked away.

“I heard about the cooling,” Azzi said finally, voice low.

Paige tilted her head, jaw tight. “Yeah. Wasn’t fun.”

Azzi crossed her arms. “You didn’t retire from the race.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve.”

“I know.”

Silence.

Dr. Liao glanced between them and then took the opportunity to go wash her hands at the sink, clearly giving them a second alone.

Azzi studied Paige again. There was color back in her face now. A little more strength in her shoulders. But there was something hollow about her too — not fragile exactly, just… scraped down to the nerve.

“You didn’t tell anyone it was that bad?” Azzi asked.

Paige shook her head. “Didn’t want to give up the points.”

Azzi didn’t say anything right away. Just stepped closer, eyes flicking to the bottle of water in Paige’s hand, half-empty.

“You were 3rd.”

“I know that too.”

Another beat.

Azzi sighed. “You’re a dumbass.”

Paige finally looked at her again. Her mouth quirked — not a smile, not quite. “You’re welcome.”

Dr. Liao returned then, stepping between them gently.

“Paige is cleared,” she said, nodding toward her. “Azzi, sit. I’ll check your core before you disappear.”

Azzi sat.

Paige stood, gathering her towel and pulling her suit back on over her hips. The movement was slower than usual. Not weak, just tired.

She lingered by the door for a second too long before leaving.

Azzi watched her go.

The win still buzzed under her skin. But now, something else did too.

Something quieter. Something not quite nameable.

Maybe it was just the heat.

Or maybe not.

—

Azzi had only been back in the States for two days, but already her shoulders were looser.

New York in the spring was loud and half-unruly — cab horns echoing off glass, puddles still crusted with oil from the last rain, pigeons that refused to move even if you walked straight through them. But from the forty-eighth floor, the chaos became background hum. Low, distant, almost comforting. Like the city was alive beneath her feet and she didn’t have to answer to it.

Her penthouse was mostly quiet. Sleek lines, dark floors, wide windows. A glass coffee table she didn’t use and a white sofa she regretted buying the second her team shipped over the red wine she liked. It was the kind of apartment people expected a two-time world champion to live in — tall, polished, borderline impersonal — but she liked it anyway. It had her books. Her candles. Her kitchen. Her rules.

And her silence.

Mostly.

Azzi sat curled in one of the window alcoves, legs stretched out, loose tee barely hanging on one shoulder. A half-finished glass of cabernet balanced on the ledge beside her, and her tablet screen was glowing faintly in the dimness — emails, most of them irritating.

PR had stacked her inbox like always. New sponsorships. New media requests. A mildly threatening note from her stylist about her refusal to attend the Vogue-sponsored cocktail hour in Tokyo. And, worst of all, a bullet-pointed agenda for the next “Brand Alignment Workshop” Ferrari had set up for her and—

Ugh.

Her eyes lingered on the name.

Joint driver promo content. Must align schedules. Please coordinate availability with Paige directly.

Azzi exhaled through her nose. She stared at the line for a full ten seconds before tapping open the attachment. There were six concepts. Three were worse than the others. One involved pretending to bake together for a TikTok series about “F1’s softer side.”

She laughed once. Sharp and alone.

A second later, her phone buzzed in her lap.

PAIGE BUECKERS

[Incoming Call]

Azzi blinked. Then answered.

“Did you see the email?” Paige’s voice came through first — dry, edged with disbelief.

“Unfortunately,” Azzi said, lifting the wine to her lips.

There was a pause. Some muffled sound on the other end — something clattering, maybe wind.

“You’re in New York, right?” Paige asked.

Azzi didn’t answer immediately. She glanced toward the skyline — the Empire State glowing soft yellow in the dark.

“Yeah,” she said eventually. “You in Minneapolis?”

Another pause. “Yeah.”

Azzi could almost hear it now — the difference in Paige’s background. Less hum, more hush. The kind of quiet you couldn’t get in New York City, the kind you could only get where the sky spread wider and the houses didn’t fight for air. There was a dog barking distantly, a screen door closing somewhere. Then footsteps — bare, maybe on hardwood — soft and lazy.

“You actually gonna do the baking video?” Paige asked, voice tinged with something amused.

“God, no,” Azzi said, grinning. “Unless you’re into pretending we’re PR girlfriends.”

“You wish,” Paige shot back without missing a beat.

Azzi huffed a laugh. “I’d be the hot one.”

“You’d be the controlling one.”

“Same thing.”

Another silence, but not uncomfortable this time.

Azzi shifted, tucked one leg under the other. She leaned into the window glass and tried not to think about how nice Paige’s voice sounded when it wasn’t clipped from a radio or low over engine noise. It was warmer. Throatier. Maybe a little tired.

“Did they tell you what time they want to film?” Azzi asked after a moment, mostly to give her brain something to do.

“Yeah. Morning sessions in Tokyo before media. Six a.m. local.”

Azzi groaned. “They hate us.”

“Deeply.”

Another beat.

Azzi could hear something now — not quite music, but something soft in the background. A record? Or a playlist with too many vowels in the band names. Paige didn’t strike her as someone who had a speaker system set up in her living room, but she had something going. There was also the faint sound of water — maybe a kettle? Or a tap.

“You home alone?” Azzi asked without meaning to.

There was a hesitation. “Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“You?”

“Yeah.”

They didn’t say anything after that.

Azzi picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. The call should’ve ended by now. It was only supposed to be about the email. Confirm the date. Maybe complain once or twice. But Paige hadn’t hung up, and neither had she.

Instead, they both sat in different cities — Azzi with her wine, Paige with her whatever — and let the space between them stretch.

“You like it there?” Azzi asked finally.

“Where?”

“Minneapolis.”

Paige paused. “It’s quiet. It’s mine.”

Azzi nodded slowly. “I like it here, too.”

She didn’t mean to imagine it — Paige curled up on a couch somewhere, phone in hand, in sweats and a tank top, her hair loose, a light on in the kitchen. Azzi didn’t want to picture it. But her mind filled in the blanks anyway.

“What’re you drinking?” Paige asked, pulling her back.

Azzi smirked faintly. “Wine.”

“Of course you are.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just—of course. You’re the type.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “And what type is that?”

“Fancy. Dramatic. Probably drinking it from one of those glasses that cost a hundred bucks just because they’re thin.”

Azzi glanced at her glass. “…They were a gift.”

Paige chuckled. “Sure they were.”

Azzi leaned her head back against the window and closed her eyes. The silence returned — softer now, more like a blanket than a wall.

“You should get some rest,” she said, voice quieter.

“You too.”

“We’ll survive the PR thing.”

“Barely.”

Azzi hesitated. “Text me when you land in Tokyo.”

There was a pause.

“Yeah,” Paige said. “Alright.”

Azzi didn’t say goodbye. Just let the line go quiet, then tapped her phone off.

Outside, the city blinked like it always did — constant, fast, golden.

Inside, her wine had gone warm.

She didn’t know what any of this was, or why Paige’s voice was still echoing in her head.

But she let it echo anyway.

—

Japan was always fast.

Suzuka bit into tires and punished mistakes. It rewarded bravery and flow, and this year — finally — it loved the Ferrari.

From the first lap of practice, Azzi could feel it in her spine. The car was alive. Light on its feet. Responsive in ways it hadn’t been since pre-season. The balance was still twitchy in places, but it was raceable. And more importantly — it was fast.

Not that Paige made that easy to enjoy.

Every meeting was an argument. Every debrief felt like walking a wire. They weren’t even fighting about anything important anymore — Azzi swore Paige was just contradicting her for sport. Tire wear, lift-off points, different calibrations in the steering wheel, goddamn front wing angles. Every word Paige said sounded like a challenge.

And the worst part was that sometimes Paige was right.

But race day was race day.

On Sunday morning, Suzuka felt like it was holding its breath. Cloudless sky. High grip. Grandstands full and loud. The Ferrari team garage was buzzing — calm urgency, polished adrenaline. Both girls in the top three, the Red Bulls boxed in behind. A real chance.

Azzi strapped into her car with a jaw set like steel.

Paige did the same three feet away — lips taut, fireproof mask already pulled up — and Azzi didn’t even look at her.

Not really.

—

The start was clean.

Lights out, and Azzi surged forward like she was born for it. The launch was perfect. The traction was instant. She pulled clear by the end of turn two and never looked back. The Ferrari was a machine beneath her, practically begging for corners.

And behind her — just close enough to feel — was Paige.

Azzi saw the red flash of her number on the boards every lap. Heard the team radios updating split times. Knew, somehow, Paige was pushing with everything she had.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

The race unfolded like poetry — strategic, tight, unbothered by chaos. Red Bulls squabbled with McLarens. Mercedes fell back. The midfield chewed itself up.

But Ferrari? Ferrari flew.

By lap forty-four, the result was obvious. Azzi crossed the line with a roar of the engine, four seconds ahead of Paige.

1st.

2nd.

1–2.

Ferrari dominance.

—

Azzi had won before. Many times.

She’d stood on podiums in countless different countries. Held trophies twice her size. Sprayed champagne until her fireproofs were soaked. She was used to it.

But this one felt clean. Effortless in the way only total control could feel. She let herself enjoy it — the cheers, the anthem, the weight of the trophy.

Then she glanced sideways.

And saw Paige.

It was Paige’s first podium. Her first. And the expression on her face—

Azzi didn’t have a word for it. Pure maybe. Or blinding.

Paige had her helmet off, hair matted to her forehead, cheeks flushed, and she was grinning like she couldn’t breathe. Laughing, actually. Wide-eyed, flushed, completely drunk off adrenaline. She wasn’t even holding her champagne right — just looked like she couldn’t believe she was up here.

Azzi felt something twist in her gut.

She hated that smile.

She really did.

Or at least she wanted to.

—

They came down from the podium together, not speaking much as the media crews swarmed. Paige took every question with that same giddy excitement, talking about pace and grip and how amazing the car felt today.

Azzi watched from a few feet away, answering her own questions with clipped professionalism. She smiled when she needed to. Gave credit where it was due. Spoke like a champion.

But she could still hear Paige’s laugh cutting through the noise. Could still feel the way she’d lit up when the camera caught her looking out over the crowd, her first bottle of champagne in hand.

And Azzi thought, God, she’s such a rookie.

She remembered her own first podium. Remembered how her cheeks had ached from smiling, how the photographers caught her mid-laugh, soaked and shaking with disbelief. Back when she still looked around and thought I’m here. I made it.

She didn’t smile like that anymore.

Paige did.

Paige still had that look in her eyes — the one that said this all meant everything. That look made Azzi itch under her skin.

—

They were walking back to the paddock when Paige caught up beside her.

“Good race,” she said, out of breath but beaming.

Azzi kept her pace. “You didn’t even try to pass me.”

Paige shrugged. “Didn’t have the tires. Or the gap.”

“You had the straight-line speed.”

“And you had clean air.”

Azzi gave her a sidelong glance. Paige’s fireproofs were tied around her waist now, black tank clinging to her shoulders. Her cheeks were still pink from the heat. Helmet hanging loose in one hand. She looked like she was still riding the high of it all.

Like she was invincible.

“You’re painfully fast in Bahrain and Jeddah,” Azzi muttered before she could stop herself.

Paige blinked. “Thanks?”

Azzi didn’t reply.

She hated that about Paige too — how Bahrain always brought out something feral in her. How her driving in Jeddah was so stupidly aggressive that it worked. Azzi remembered from the junior days — watching Paige brake late and still stick the apex. She’d never admit it, but there had been weekends back then where she’d had to fight to keep up.

And Vegas? Vegas was her playground. That annoyed Azzi most of all.

Of course Paige loved the show of it. The lights. The spectacle. It was such a Paige thing — chasing the glamour, soaking it up like it was part of her fuel. Azzi had always thought that made her unserious. Showy. Too caught up in the theater of it.

But now she wasn’t so sure.

Now she was wondering if Paige just loved it. The whole thing. The speed, the cameras, the people. The joy. The pressure.

And maybe that’s why Azzi hated her.

Because she used to love it like that too.

And now?

Now she just loved to win.

—

Bahrain was still dry and hot as usual.

Azzi had been here enough times to know how the track behaved at night — when the desert air cooled just enough to fool you, and the tarmac gripped like it had a personal vendetta. She liked Bahrain. She usually did well here.

But today?

Today sucked.

She was in the garage, gloves still on, helmet still half-unclipped, watching the final moments of qualifying play out on the monitor in front of her. It felt like a personal insult that she had to sit here and watch.

Paige was still out on track.

Of course she was.

Azzi had spun out earlier — turn nine, back stepped out, grip just disappeared like it never existed. Saved the car, barely, but it killed her lap. That was it. No more softs, no more time. She was lucky to get through to the top ten at all. Tenth on the grid. Double digits. Garbage.

And Paige?

Paige had been purple sector after purple sector. Flying.

Azzi leaned forward in her seat, jaw clenched tight, eyes on the monitor. Paige’s car snaked through the final sector like it was glued to the circuit — smooth, clean, fast. She looked calm in the cockpit too. Like she belonged up there.

Azzi hated how calm she looked.

Final corner. DRS open. Clean launch to the line. The screen flashed green.

3rd.

Azzi blew out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Not 1st, at least. The Red Bulls locked out the front row — again — and for once, she was glad for it.

“Great lap, Paige,” Luca’s voice said through the radio on the broadcast. “That’s 3rd. Really solid session.”

Paige’s voice came back, light and professional. “Yeah. Car felt good. Let’s get ‘em tomorrow.”

Azzi’s fingers curled into a fist against her leg.

—

The debrief was short, but it didn’t help her mood.

She knew what the data would say before they even pulled it up — rear instability, mid-corner rotation issues, maybe something weird with tire temps. The wind hadn’t helped either. She’d pushed too hard on her hot lap. She’d been angry. Frustrated. Pressing when she should’ve waited. It was a classic Azzi overdrive moment.

But what pissed her off more was that she didn’t feel like she was wrong. She should’ve been faster.

She was the better driver.

She knew that.

So why did it look like Paige was the one carrying Ferrari this week?

Why did every camera cut to Paige like she was the star?

Why was her name all over the board while Azzi’s sat in tenth like a joke?

Paige had no business being this fast. She was barely in her second year in F1. She was supposed to still be adjusting. Still learning. Still catching up.

But Bahrain had always suited her. Even back in junior formula. The long straights, the late braking zones, the high-speed rhythm of it all — it played into Paige’s strengths. Her aggression. Her absolute belief in her ability to control a car on the edge.

And Jeddah? Azzi didn’t even want to think about next week.

If Paige looked this good now…

Hell, she could win this week. If the Red Bulls messed up their start, or pitted at the wrong time, or if there was a safety car at the right moment—she was right there. 3rd. In striking distance.

Azzi ran her tongue across the inside of her cheek.

A podium was one thing.

But a win?

That would change everything.

And Azzi didn’t know why that felt like such a threat.

—

‘

She peeled off her gloves in the silence of her driver room, the dull hiss of post-qualifying interviews humming through the wall. She was supposed to join them. Eventually. After she cooled off.

She dropped onto the small padded bench and leaned her head back against the wall, eyes closed. Helmet still in her lap. She could feel the heat of the Bahrain night pressing in through the concrete.

She knew she should be thinking about the race. About tire strategy, about overtaking, about the million things that could still go wrong tomorrow that she could maybe make go right.

Instead, she was thinking about Paige’s face on the screen. The way she’d looked getting out of the car. Hairline damp, smile tight but focused, fist bumping a few mechanics like she’d been there before. Like this was routine. Like she belonged on the front two rows.

Azzi hated how much space Paige was taking up in her head.

This was supposed to be her season.

Her championship.

Her team.

She wasn’t about to lose to someone who still treated the Ferrari like a shiny new toy.

Especially not Paige.

Azzi exhaled hard through her nose, grabbed the towel off the bench, and threw it across the room.

She needed to sleep.

Tomorrow was race day.

And God help her if Paige really did win.

—

Race day got off to a good start.

The lights went out, and Azzi launched.

Not flawlessly. Not cleanly. Just hard. Aggressive. Maybe a little reckless. Tenth place felt like prison, and she was clawing her way out of it corner by corner.

By lap two, she was already in eighth.

By lap twelve, she was in sixth.

By lap thirty-two, she was in fourth.

Bahrain had always been a rhythm track, and Azzi had the rhythm now. The car felt heavy early, tires needing longer to come in, but once they did — once the grip arrived and the fuel load dropped — it was hers again. Hers to push. Hers to punish.

She chased down Mercedes like they were standing still. She cut through McLaren with surgical precision. She was so deep into race mode she barely registered Mateo’s voice until he brought up the inevitable.

“Paige is in 2nd and closing on the race leader”

Azzi didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t have time to.

She was on the outside of turn four, elbows out, sending it up the inside into five, and the Alpine driver gave her just enough room. That was fourth. She was in fourth.

And Paige was still ahead of her.

—

The thing about Bahrain was that the podium wasn’t just a stage. It loomed.

From the garage, from the cool-down room, from every replay and every still image — it was there. Lit up under a thousand bulbs like a goddamn cathedral.

Azzi had stood on it. She’d owned it. She knew what it smelled like, what it felt like. She knew the weight of the trophy in her hands. She knew the cadence of the anthem as it played.

But tonight, she wasn’t on it.

And Paige was.

Again.

Red Bull had won, as expected — cool, untouchable, boring. Paige, on the other hand, had clawed her way into second. Not a lucky second either. Earned. Fought for. She had the gap down under a second when she crossed the line. Under a second behind a much more experienced driver.

That was real.

That was close.

That was…

Azzi stood behind the screens in the Ferrari garage, jaw set tight, arms crossed over her chest as she watched Paige pull up to her assigned spot. The second-place board was in front of her car. Mechanics and engineers swarmed around her, but Paige stayed still for a moment, helmet tipped back against the headrest, hands resting on the wheel.

Then she pulled it off, and Azzi watched her face.

It was flushed. Red from the heat, damp with sweat, but relaxed. Not ecstatic — Paige was too composed for that — but she had that look again. The one that said she knew she belonged up there. She stepped out of the car, peeled off her gloves, undid the top of her suit just enough, and walked over to the other drivers like she’d done it a hundred times.

Like she wasn’t the rookie in this lineup.

Azzi felt something twist in her chest.

She wasn’t jealous.

She knew she wasn’t.

She’d won races. Championships. She had the legacy, the records, the reputation. She had nothing to be jealous of.

So why did it feel like something was being taken from her?

—

Her manager, Marco, found her after the debrief. They were going over tire data when the screens showed Paige again, this time on the podium, shaking the bottle of champagne like it was her goddamn coronation.

“She’s on a run,” he said, nodding at the screen.

Azzi didn’t look. “So was I last year.”

“You still are. Fourth place from tenth is a hell of a drive.”

Azzi grunted. She didn’t need the pep talk. She didn’t need the sugarcoating. She knew how to read a result sheet.

But still. She couldn’t shake the image — Paige smiling, Paige shining, Paige so thrilled about second place like it was gold-plated.

Azzi had been there. She remembered her first podium. The breathlessness of it. The sensory overload. How nothing else in the world had existed for those ten minutes. She remembered what it felt like to finally be seen.

Maybe that’s what was bothering her.

Because she wasn’t being seen right now. Not the way Paige was.

And what kind of two-time champion did that make her?

—

She showered quick. Changed quicker. Avoided most of the media. Gave the team her thanks, her praise, her apologies for qualifying, her comments on strategy — all clean, all clipped, all professional.

By the time she stepped outside the paddock gates, Paige’s name was still trending. Paige’s second-place finish was being clipped and re-posted with headlines like “Ferrari’s Future?” and “Bueckers Blossoms.”

Azzi hated how fast the world turned.

But more than that — she hated that she was still thinking about Paige’s face on the podium.

Because underneath all the irritation, all the cold professionalism, all the competitive instinct that churned in her blood like fire — there was something else. Something quieter. Something more dangerous.

She’d watched Paige get up there tonight.

And a part of her — a part she didn’t understand — hadn’t wanted to look away.

—

Jeddah was here. And that meant a pre race debrief.

The conference room wasn’t large, but it was private — a quiet corner carved out of the Ferrari motorhome, insulated from the chaos of media obligations, fan zones, and the constant background hum of hospitality. The air-conditioning ran cold, like it always did on race weekends in the desert, and the lights overhead buzzed softly, fluorescent and clinical.

Azzi sat on the left side of the long table, shoulders relaxed but posture perfect, the heel of one boot propped over her opposite knee. Her black Ferrari polo was clean and crisp despite the heat outside, sleeves tight around her biceps. Paige sat across from her, hunched slightly forward, elbows on the table, her damp hair into a lopsided bun.

There was a notepad in front of her. Azzi hadn’t brought one. She didn’t need it.

Fred Vasseur, the team principal, stood at the head of the table. Calm, stern, the same expression he always wore when he was about to say something he didn’t want misinterpreted.

Beside him was Alessandra — head of driver development and one of the few people Azzi actually listened to. She wasn’t as cold as Fred. But she wasn’t soft either. Alessandra’s eyes flicked between the two drivers before she spoke.

“Let’s keep this focused. No press questions, no sponsor talk, just the race. This weekend, we’re not chasing headlines. We’re chasing performance. Understood?”

Azzi gave a single nod.

Paige did too, a second later.

Fred clasped his hands behind his back. “Jeddah is high-speed, narrow margins. Precision above all. You both know that. We’re not asking for heroics.”

Azzi didn’t react outwardly. But part of her bristled at the implication. She didn’t do heroics. She did excellence. That was the difference.

“We want two cars clean through turn one,” Alessandra continued, “and we want race pace that allows for flexibility. Both of you have shown that in data — in moments — but this weekend has to be execution, not potential. We’re past the warm-up phase now. Bahrain was proof we have the car. But you both need to bring it together.”

Azzi lifted her chin. “Are you saying we haven’t?”

There was the briefest pause. Not hesitation. Calculation.

“You’ve both had flashes of brilliance,” Fred said. “But there’s still time on the table. Sector two especially. Paige, we need you to trust your braking a touch deeper. Azzi—” He looked her straight in the eye. “We need less correction mid-corner. More throttle discipline.”

Azzi’s jaw flexed.

She wanted to argue. She wanted to say the balance still wasn’t where she liked it, that she was adjusting to inconsistencies in rear grip, that the telemetry didn’t tell the whole story. But she didn’t. Not here. Not with Paige watching.

Alessandra shifted focus. “Let’s talk goals. Real ones. No sponsor-speak. Paige, you first.”

Paige blinked, caught slightly off guard. She tucked one hand under her opposite elbow. “I want a clean first stint. I want to keep Red Bull in range. Ideally, I’m out ahead of them, but… if I’m 3rd or 4th off the start, I want to be close enough to capitalize. Strategy’s gonna matter. Tire temps too.”

Alessandra gave a single approving nod. “And?”

Paige hesitated, then added, “And I want to beat her.”

Azzi arched an eyebrow.

Paige didn’t look away.

Fred, unbothered, turned. “Azzi?”

“My goal is the same as it always is,” she said, voice calm and clipped. “I want to win. Full stop.”

Alessandra tilted her head. “Even from 7th?”

Azzi’s lips curved in the faintest smile. “Especially from 7th.”

The room held a beat of silence. Not tense. Just full.

Fred crossed his arms. “Look — we aren’t interested in internal rivalry becoming public spectacle. We’re not Red Bull. We don’t cannibalize talent. But let’s be clear — neither of you is here to coast.”

Azzi felt Paige shift slightly in her chair. Maybe it was the way Fred had said that. Neither of you is here to coast. Like someone had. Like maybe Paige had in Bahrain.

“We’re giving you both full race strategy autonomy tomorrow,” Alessandra added. “There won’t be team orders. Whoever gets track position keeps it. Whoever earns the win gets the win. But don’t expect us to fix it for you. This is still a team. And we are Ferrari.”

The last three words rang out like doctrine.

Paige leaned back in her chair. She looked tired. But focused.

Azzi, meanwhile, was too proud to feel tired.

She didn’t need to be reminded what the logo on her chest meant. She didn’t need to be told how fast the Red Bulls were or how Paige was “finding her form” or how brilliant the strategy team could be when everything clicked.

She knew all of that.

And she knew that Jeddah was her kind of track — fast, technical, tight. All instinct and nerve. You didn’t flinch in Saudi. You committed.

“I want the gap to be clear,” she said finally.

Everyone looked at her.

“What gap?” Alessandra asked.

“Between us,” Azzi said, nodding slightly in Paige’s direction. “If I win, I want it to be obvious. Not luck. Not pit stop timing. I want it to be mine.”

Paige didn’t speak. But her eyes burned.

Alessandra looked at both of them for a long moment. Then she straightened the edge of the strategy sheet in front of her, even though it didn’t need it.

“Well,” she said quietly. “I guess we’ll see tomorrow.”

—

Azzi had a lot of complicated feelings about how that race went.

Paige Bueckers had stood on the top step of the podium, sweat clinging to her jawline like it belonged there.

Her helmet was off. Her suit half-zipped. Her fireproofs soaked through, sticking to her arms and sides and everything in between. Her face was flushed the way it always got when she was overheating — too pink across the cheekbones, damp strands of blonde hair curling wild around her face, her whole body breathing hard like the race was still happening.

And behind her, the podium lights glowed purple. Of course they did.

Jeddah did everything in neon. The night shimmered with it — track walls, halo boards, hospitality towers, all of it wrapped in that surreal violet tint that turned everything slightly more dreamlike. Slightly more unreal.

Paige looked… unreal.

Azzi blinked once. Then again.

Her own body still hadn’t settled. Her pulse was high from the heat. Her hands smelled like the steering wheel. Her ribcage felt too tight beneath her suit. She’d just driven the hell out of a race, made every inch of the track bend to her will — and still, she was watching Paige on the top step. Not herself.

Ferrari 1–2. Paige first. Azzi second.

It was still dominance.

Just not hers.

–

She could hear the anthem playing — not Italy’s, not Ferrari’s, not even the sound of a team celebrating — but Paige’s. The Star-Spangled Banner blared in grainy perfection from the podium speakers, and Azzi almost laughed at the way Paige tipped her head back like it meant something. Like it really was hers.

Maybe it was.

It was stupidly cinematic.

Purple light, breeze moving through her sweat-wet hair, eyes closed to the sky.

Paige wasn’t singing. She just stood there, soaking it in. Letting herself be seen.

Azzi didn’t know what to do with her face. She clapped, because that’s what you do. She smiled, because the camera was pointed at her. But none of it reached her bones.

Her bones were too busy noticing.

The way Paige looked afterward — once the champagne exploded and she got absolutely drenched — was worse.

Not worse in the painful way.

Worse in the dangerous way.

Because her smile then? It was real. She didn’t fake that joy. She didn’t even try to hide it. She laughed, loud and unrestrained and open-mouthed, the kind of laugh that made her whole body shake. Her eyes were nearly shut from how hard she was laughing as another tried to spray her from behind and missed entirely. Azzi aimed better. Drenched her again. Paige didn’t care.

Confetti fell. She leaned into it. Tilted her head up again and let it hit her. Arms out, palms up like the whole night was made for her.

Maybe it was.

Maybe Azzi hated that.

Or maybe she didn’t.

She didn’t know.

What she did know — what was undeniable in that instant — was that Paige looked good like this. Lit up in champagne and glory, framed by purple neon and gold confetti, laughing like she’d been born to win.

It was Azzi’s least favorite thing.

And maybe the most beautiful thing she’d seen all month.

–

Afterward, backstage in the cool-down zone behind the podium, Azzi barely said a word.

She watched Paige towel off. Watched her press a bottle of water to her temple, eyes fluttering closed from the contact. She was still dripping, still pulsing with heat, but her whole body radiated that particular stillness that only came after something that mattered.

Azzi had felt that once. The first time she won. She knew what it did to you. The way it carved your name into the season. The way it lingered, hours after the track had gone quiet.

And Paige had it now.

Azzi’s arms were crossed over her chest.

One foot tapped quietly, impatiently.

She stared at the floor instead of Paige.

She shouldn’t care.

She shouldn’t notice how Paige’s neck looked in the light.

She shouldn’t notice how defined her shoulders were in a soaked fireproof.

She shouldn’t notice how Paige’s eyes kept glancing at her like she expected something — a reaction, maybe. A smile. A nudge. Something shared.

But Azzi gave her nothing. Or tried to.

Even when her body betrayed her and her eyes drifted upward. Even when her heartbeat flickered at the memory of Paige on that step, drenched in light and champagne.

–

They flew to Miami next. The calendar didn’t wait for anybody. Wins or not, the circus rolled on. But tonight was Paige’s night. That was plain. That was carved into the lights and the scoreboard and the air itself.

Azzi didn’t clap again.

Didn’t linger near her.

Didn’t congratulate her beyond the expected.

But later that night, she closed her eyes in her hotel room and saw the purple glow behind Paige’s head like a halo. The champagne in her lashes. The smile that didn’t stop at her mouth.

And for the first time in her life, Azzi Fudd didn’t want the top step.

She wanted to understand what the hell it was she felt watching someone else on it.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi #pazzi fics #uconn wbb #uconnwbb #dallas wings

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lonely-ey3s · 1 month ago

Text

Heartlines | Chapter Three

pairing: harry castillo (materialists) x f!reader

chapter summary : After you take lunch to his work, Harry asks you to be his date to his work masquerade party. However, he takes you shopping for the event beforehand, showing you how important you are and how serious he is about being with you.

chapter warnings: fluff, slow burn, angst, Harry speaks Spanish (translations will be there), switched POV's, drinking, thoughts of smut (18+ MDNI), flirting, if I missed anything, lmk!!

word count: 10.6k

a/n: i am super proud of this chapter. i hope you all enjoy it as much as i loved writing it. something about watching episode 2 just made me want to write anything but what i was feeling and it just poured into this chapter for harry and the reader.

also just a reminder! chapters will be every other sunday alternating ride or die !! enjoy 💗

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune

Masterlist

You were called into the office early the next morning, another hiccup.

After everything calmed down and everyone from the wedding party had left for the airport or checked out, you had the rest of the day to yourself.

After talking with Lila last night, and how well the conversation went with Harry, you wanted to return the favor to him.

You ran to a classic sandwich shop down the street from the hotel, then took a cab to the address Lila provided you for where Harry worked.

You got out of the taxi, and a tall building stood in front of you.

You'd lived in New York most of your life and the skyscrapers in the city weren't anything new, but they still overwhelmed you when you got this close.

You looked up and estimated it had over 100 floors, easily.

You took a deep breath as a wave of anxiety washed over you. Your heart started to pound — you felt like you were going to be sick. Something inside of you was trying to pull you back and away– put the walls back up.

You shook your head and swallowed it all down, you weren't going to let it control you anymore. Not when you had a chance at being happy.

With that you put one foot in front of the other and made your way inside.

Lila told you to go to the elevators and go to the 64th floor, so that’s what you did.

The bellboy smiled at you as you entered. “I’ve not seen you here before…” he said, looking down at the bag you were holding. “Bringing someone lunch?”

You nodded and looked down at the bag, smiling softly.

“64th floor is all those investors… your friend rich?” he asked, trying to make small talk.

You chuckled as you tilted your head upward, watching the numbers slowly rise. “He does well for himself…”

He scoffed and turned to look at the doors, back to assuming his position, “That’s just a nice way of saying he’s loaded,” he teased.

You shrugged, letting out a small chuckle, then looked at the doors as you approached the 64th floor. “I guess it is...”

The bell dinged, and the doors opened.

You looked over at him and nodded politely, “Thank you.” Then you stepped out and began walking down the hallway toward the large glass doors with the company logo on it.

The moment you stepped inside, the air shifted.

It was colder than you expected — not in temperature, but in tone. Sleek, polished, professional. The kind of place where every inch had been carefully curated to project power without ever needing to say it aloud.

You swallowed at the scale; the complete change of environment from where you worked was overwhelming.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along one wall, letting in the hard, clear light of the city. Every desk gleamed like it had been buffed ten minutes ago. Dark wood, glass, leather chairs—everything was uniform, clean cut.

The soft hum of voices and muted clicks of keyboards filled the air — no shouting, no chaos — just the efficient, almost clinical buzz of money moving from one place to another.

Men and women in sharp suits moved through the space with purpose, their watches catching the light, their gazes focused and far too busy to notice you lingering near the front.

Behind a massive desk, a receptionist with a headset gave you a tight, polite smile. Her nails tapped against the keyboard like she was marking time until the next meeting.

You noticed the voice coming from the other side of the desk and immediately felt relieved at the first sign of someone interacting with you instead of ignoring you. "Delivery?"

You came over and shook your head shyly, “I’m uh, not delivering, I'm actually here to have lunch with a uhm, someone who works here? Harry Castillo?” you looked at her with an eyebrow raised, hoping you were in the right place.

She smiled brightly, “Oh, Mr. Castillo! Let me page his assistant!” She touched a button on the desk phone.

“No!” you shouted, making her jump. “Sorry, no… I uh, I’m surprising him,” you chuckled nervously.

“Oh!” she softly giggled, nodding. “Let me take you to where his office is. You can wait for him in there,” she smiled softly and stood to walk around the reception desk, “He’s just in a meeting for maybe another 15 minutes or so…”

You nodded and smiled politely as you trailed closely behind her.

She started to walk through the office, smiling and nodding at a few people here and there. You looked around and got a sense of what Harry might do for work, picking up on small details.

You heard your name being called from across the office floor and turned to follow where the call was coming from.

Ben smiled and waved to you. “What the heck are you doing here?” he said as he started to come over to you.

You smiled and chuckled lightly, holding up the bag you had in your hand, “I was going to surprise Harry with lunch…” You nodded towards the receptionist, who stopped walking as you did.

Ben waved her off, “I’ll take her the rest of the way, Lucy, thank you for helping,” he smiled.

She nodded and walked back to her desk, leaving you and Ben alone.

“So... you and Harry?” he grinned and offered his arm for you to hold while you two continued to walk.

You chuckled as you took it, “Nothin’ is… we uhm, we aren’t exclusive.” You shyly scrambled over your response.

Ben huffed out a small chuckle, “Not exclusive? He’s head over heels for you! And I think, based on how Lila came home last night, gossiping about your little phone call– you are feeling the same way,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes and nudged him playfully.

There was a small pause before you spoke again, “I’m not sure how to feel. We haven’t gone out on an official date yet. Just flirting, you know... getting to know each other…” You glanced up at him.

“Ah, I see…” he nodded, softly tutting. He then opened a door that had Harry’s name on a placard by it. “Can I offer some advice then?”

You stepped in and let go of his arm. “Advice for me or him?” you joked.

He chuckled at your jab but then sighed softly and smiled somewhat sadly, “I’ve known Harry for a long time. He’s been hurt just as much as you have.” He looked down for a moment and then back up at you. “He’s someone who puts everything into someone…” he nodded towards his desk, “If you can… find a way to reciprocate it? Give each other a chance. Let him take care of you, but also... take care of him…”

Your eyes scanned over his desk. Of all the other desks you saw, Harry's had a warmth to it. There were framed photos and even a small Lego Batman figure you assumed was from one of his nephews or nieces. A flashback from the wedding make you chuckle as you thought about the joke you two had walking down the aisle.

You then looked back at Ben, understanding what he meant. “I’ll do my best,” you smiled softly.

He nodded and gently patted the door frame. “I know you will,”

You both heard his name being called from another part of the office. He cleared his throat and sighed. “I’m being summoned,” he said, chuckling.

You nodded and came over, gently kissing his cheek, “It’s good to see you. I’ll come say goodbye before I leave.”

He nodded and returned the gentle kiss on your cheek, “You better…”

You chuckled softly and nodded, then walked back to sit in a chair that sat in front of Harry’s desk before he closed the door and left.

Harry’s POV

He had been in this meeting for almost an hour now, and Kent’s monotone voice was almost lulling him to sleep.

Slide 28 of 35.

‘God help us all.’ he thought as he looked at his watch to see the time, eager to get on with his day.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting back to the slideshow in front of him and the rest of the executives as they attentively watched.

Another chart. Another bullet point. Another pointless deep dive into data he’d already skimmed three days ago, processed, and moved on from.

He glanced at his phone, barely visible in his lap under the glass table. He’d been itching to give you a call back since this morning. Especially after last night's phone call was cut short by his own fatigue.

He sat there and wondered what you were doing right now. God, how he wanted nothing more than to spend 20 minutes in your presence.

Ever since the wedding, it seemed like the two of you couldn’t catch a break. You both are constantly being pulled away from each other. The mere thought of having a whole evening with you, dinner or something, where the two of you can just be… it was all he could think about.

“…and now we’ll open it up for thoughts on how we might approach portfolio diversification in Q3,” Kent’s voice at the end of the table cut through his thoughts. “Harry, any thoughts?”

He looked up sharply, blinking once as the room’s attention shifted toward him.

He softly cleared his throat, put his phone into his pocket, and straightened his tie. He leaned forward just enough to appear engaged, not like he had mentally disconnected from the meeting 10 slides ago.

“Well,” he began smoothly, “given the volatility we’ve seen in international equities and the Fed’s latest posture, I’d say it’s less about diversification and more abou–” he stopped.

For a moment, he thought his eyes were playing a sick joke on him as he saw you, smiling, walking through the office. His office.

He blinked to refocus his vision, but you were still there. Arm in arm with Ben, both of you heading towards his office.

His heart stuttered, then picked up speed like it was trying to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. A warmth flooded his chest—not the soft kind, but the kind that made him feel a little dizzy. It made him feel alive.

The only thing he could focus on was you— how the light caught your eyes, how your smile lit up the room.

A small smile cracked through onto his lips.

Another executive cleared his throat, which snapped his attention back to the group.

He cleared his throat and turned a soft shade of red. “Excuse me. As I was saying, uh…” He chuckled softly, feeling a bit nervous from his sudden distraction.

He looked at you once more before turning his attention to the table, “It’s less about diversification and more about precision. Risk-adjusted returns only mean something if you’re holding the right risk.”

He watched as a few heads nodded in agreement. One guy scribbled something down on his pad as if it were gospel. No one questioned it. They rarely did with Harry.

He leaned back in his seat and anxiously tapped his thumb against the file folder in front of him, creating a soft thumping.

He wasn’t eager for this meeting to end due to its boredom now; he was keen for it to end so he could go to you.

He watched your location from the corner of his vision. After a few minutes, Ben left and closed his door, meaning only one thing: you were in his office alone, and he could have you all to himself.

About 10 minutes later, Mr. Clarkson, the CEO, stood up and started gathering his belongings. “Thanks so much for your time today, everyone. As a reminder, Ruby will send you all the formal invitations for our dinner party this Friday, involving Tets Investments closing with us.”

His ears perked to the announcement. He'd completely forgotten about it. 'That's it. I'll ask her to be my date...'

Everyone else stood and collected their bearings, nodding in acknowledgment.

A young man opened the glass door and headed towards Harry.

It was his assistant Peter. He had a tablet and a few folders in his arm along with a wireless headset in his ear. “Ok, so you’ve got a meeting with Angela and Bryan from accounting in about 30 minutes. This is the paperwork you need to look over,” he handed Harry the file folder, exchanging it for the one he had from the meeting.

Harry started walking out of the conference room, buttoning his suit jacket up as he strolled, “I need to reschedule that.” He held the folder for Peter to take back.

Peter scoffed, letting out a bewildered chuckle, “What, why?” He took the folder back and began scrolling through Harry’s calendar on the tablet, trying to see what openings were in their schedules to rebook.

“Something came up. Just make it happen please...” he smiled as he straightened his tie and huffed his breath into his palm to check if it smelled decent.

Peter turned his head to observe everything he was doing, confused for a moment but continued. “Uhm, do you need me to reschedule your 3 pm meeting with Elsie from marketing then?”

“Let’s keep that, but I’ll let you know if that needs to be changed.” He went to reach for the handle, but Peter beat him to it out of habit and opened it.

“Of course. Just let me kn—” he stopped, seeing you in the middle of Harry’s office. “Oh…”

You quickly stood and smiled, putting your hands in front of you shyly, “Surprise…” you beamed.

Harry’s head quickly snapped from looking at Peter to you and smiled brightly, playing along with your surprise, “You’re here…” he chuckled and squeezed through the door that Peter was standing gobsmacked in front of.

He came over and gently touched your hand, leaning down to kiss your cheek.

You held up the bag of food in between you, “I uhm, I brought lunch… do you have some time?” your cheeks turned rosy red as he looked down at you.

Peter cleared his throat softly and grinned sinfully, "I’ll see if Elsie can reschedule for tomorrow. I'll tell her something came up...” he teased.

Harry looked back at him and shook his head, smiled softly at the jab, “This is my assistant, Peter.” he looked back at you.

You smiled and held out your hand as you walked over to him, “Peter, it’s lovely to meet you. I’m Y/N.”

He took your hand and grinned wider, “Wait... Y/N as in Y/N from the wedding?” he looked at Harry, jaw slacked dramatically.

You chuckled and looked back at him, “Have you been talkin’ about me around the office now?” you teased.

Peter smirked, “Oh, he’s not shut up since… he won’t—”

Harry interjected quickly, turning red, “Is that the phone I hear?” he nodded towards Peter’s desk.

There was no phone ringing.

You bit your lip, trying to hide a giggle, and looked down shyly.

Peter cleared his throat softly, getting the memo Harry was trying to send. “It’s lovely to meet you again,” he said, touching your arm gently. “Enjoy your lunch.”

You smiled softly and thanked him before he closed the door softly.

After a moment of silence, Harry softly cleared his throat and looked over at you, “I uhm… I’ve been meanin’ to call you since last night…” He took off his jacket, placing it on the back of the chair where he stood, and started to roll up his sleeves.

You turned around and tucked some loose hairs behind your ears. “I’ve been meaning to do the same.” You walked over slowly, the tension suddenly felt high.

Another small moment of silence.

“I had things end a little earlier than we planned at the hotel, so I thought I’d… you know… return the favor and come surprise you.” You softly smiled at him.

The act of you matching the level of interest he'd been displaying since the wedding was heartwarming to him. He was getting what he put in, put out towards him. It was something he hadn't had in a partner in a very long time. It was all he wanted, someone to match his love language, or at least appreciate it.

He had a sweet and warm smile across his lips as he watched you, “I’ve missed you…”

You looked down into the bag shyly, “I’ve missed you too…” You started pulling the food out and setting it on the table.

Harry watched for a moment from where he was standing and then moved to stand behind you, putting his hand on the small of your back. “Can I help?”

It was just a touch—barely anything. His hand was barely on your back, light as a whisper.

But it hit like a lightning strike.

A wave of warmth flooded your chest, spreading out like someone had turned on a light from the inside.

Your cheeks burned instantly, that unmistakable flush that crept up your neck no matter how hard you had tried to will it away. Your heart skipped a beat, the one that made your mind short-circuit.

Butterflies? More like a full-blown riot in your stomach.

You turned your head to look at him and nodded but then got lost in his gaze momentarily.

He said your name softly, his eyes flickering to your lips.

You inhaled a shaky, nervous breath before blurting out. “N-Napkins…”

His gaze flickered up to your eyes, grinning like he knew what he was doing to you.

“Do you have any napkins?” you grinned sheepishly.

He nodded. “Yeah, they're in my desk…” He walked around to the other side to retrieve them.

You looked down at the food you’d laid out and tried to settle yourself– taking in a small deep breath.

Harry tutted, “So– I may have figured out a first date for us if you’re up for it?” He looked up from his drawer.

You glanced at him and softly chuckled, “Oh? What would that be?”

He came back around his desk with a small pile of napkins, smiling warmly. He sat down on his desk before taking his sandwich, then patting the area beside him for you to sit. “I have a work dinner party on Friday. It’s a masquerade-type thing…” he kept his gaze on the sandwich as he spoke.

You sat down and looked at him as he spoke, unwrapping your sandwich, “Are you asking me to be your date, Mr. Castillo?” you teased, lightly nudging his side with your elbow.

He let out a light chuckle and looked at you, a twinkle in his big brown eyes had become clearer now that you were closer. “I’m askin’ you to be my date, sweetheart…”

You hummed, and your eyes danced across his features, then you looked down at your sandwich. “In that case, I need to go shopping for a mask…” You smiled as you bit your bottom lip.

“Is that a yes?” he kept his gaze on you, his smile slowly grew.

You looked back up at him and your smile became softer, “That’s a yes…”

He looked back at his sandwich and took a bite, saying with his mouth somewhat full, making you giggle, “Good. Then that means I get to take you dress shopping…”

You also took a bite and then paused, covering your mouth with your hand. “Wait, what?” You thought you misheard him.

He chewed and swallowed, turning to look at you. “I’m taking you dress shopping,” he shrugged, smiling to himself as if it were no big deal.

You chortled, now thinking he was joking.

“What’s so funny?” he smiled innocently.

You tilted your head to the side to gauge him out and scooted away from him to see him better, “Harry, you’re kidding, right?”

His smile didn’t waver as he shook his head, “Why would I joke about that?” he snickered softly.

You stuttered, “I just… like you want to go with me when I shop? Help me pick out something?” You set your sandwich down. This now needing your full, undivided attention.

He set his sandwich down as well and turned slightly, finding you amusing, “I want to buy you a dress, accessories, shoes… the mask… anything you might want for the event.” He reached forward and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I want to take care of you.”

You looked down shyly at your hand sitting flat on the desk. You didn’t know what to say. You felt like words weren’t computing inside your brain. It was like you were short-circuiting again.

“Will you let me do that?” he asked.

Ben’s words echoed in your head, ‘Let him take care of you.’

You looked up and did the only thing you could. You nodded while a shy smile slipped onto your lips.

“Good.” He leaned forward and softly kissed your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. It was as if he were savoring the tender contact, the intimate gesture. He pulled away and smiled warmly, “Do you have time to go this evening?”

“Yeah… I’ve got time,” you croaked out, your voice cracking slightly. You cleared your throat and lightly let out a chuckle, for which he joined in.

You readjusted to sit back as you were before and picked up your sandwich.

You sat there for a moment, then scooted closer and leaned your head on his shoulder. “So tell me, how was your meeting?” You took a bite, then slid your hand into his.

He couldn’t help the idiot grin he had on his face but couldn’t give a shit.

He hummed softly, contentedly, and took his sandwich with his free hand and sighed softly, “Long version or short version, hermosa?”

You nuzzled your head in softly, “Long version…”

After you left Harry’s work and went back to yours, he told you that he’d pick you up from the hotel to go shopping around 5 pm.

In true Harry Castillo fashion, he was 10 minutes early, standing outside his car with a new bouquet. This time, it was of peonies.

You clocked out a few minutes early and walked out to find him leaning against the all black SUV, his eyes on the flowers. He was now dressed in a tan button-down and dark-wash jeans.

You smiled at the sight, “Do you ever not look dashing?” you teased.

His eyes snapped up to you and instantly had a smile on his face, “Hey there, beautiful…”

You came up and gently kissed his cheek. “What do we have this time?” you looked down at the flowers, your cheeks pink.

He leaned down and kissed your cheek back, then held up the flowers a little to present them, “Peonies…”

You took them from him gently and took a small sniff, “Ooh, I like the smell of those…” you glanced up at him.

He smiled wider, excited, “Oh? Have we found a favorite?” He had his hand gently on yours, his thumb rubbing the outside of your wrist.

You blushed at the tenderness, “I think we have a contender, but let’s still run through other flowers. You know, just to be sure…” You winked.

He chuckled, “Noted.” He then leaned in and kissed your forehead. “Shall we?”

You nodded and went to get into the front passenger seat out of habit.

Meanwhile, he opened the back door for you and waited for you to notice.

You turned around to him, confused about why you'd be sitting in the backseat. But then you saw there was a driver in the front seat and tutted. “Should have known better,” you giggled and came back, getting in the back seat.

Ted, Harry’s driver, took you both to a shopping plaza in SoHo.

The moment Harry opened your door and you stepped out, you saw places like Chanel, Dior, and Louis Vuitton.

You chuckled and shook your head, backing up towards the car, not knowing how to react. “Harry, we are not shopping at places like this… It’s too expensive… I…” You looked up at the pretty neon signs above the store's doors. “This is…” You scoffed, not able to find the words.

You didn’t feel worth it.

You didn’t feel that him spending this much money on you was something you deserved.

It felt wrong. But there it was again, Ben’s words, ‘Let him take care of you,’ and for Harry, this was his way of doing just that.

He chuckled at your reaction and looked at Ted. “Meet us back here in a few hours.”

Ted nodded and drove off, leaving you looking at Harry with a bewildered smile on your face, to which he just smiled adoringly at you.

“What?” you giggled.

He held out his hand and sighed. “Just trust me?” he said, smiling warmly.

You bit your lip and shook your head, but then sighed playfully, “Alright… fine…” You slid your hand into his.

He led you into the first store, Chanel, where a shopping attendant greeted you both at the door, eager to make a nice commission.

She looked lavish and expensive, dressed head to toe in 'completely out of your budget' attire—even the air she was exhaling made you feel poor. “Welcome in! My name is Genevieve. Is there anything I can help you find?”

You looked up to Harry, unsure of what to do or say. Everything about this seemed like an out-of-body experience to you.

He smiled and looked at her, letting go of your hand, setting his on the small of your back. “Genevieve, we have a masquerade ball this weekend, and she needs a new dress, new shoes… she needs it all,” he grinned.

You smiled shyly at her, “Maybe we can just start with a dress? I have stuff at home, I’m sure I can use…” You looked up at Harry for a moment, then back at her.

You didn’t want to be like every other girl Harry had been with; you didn’t want to feel like a gold digger.

He mouthed to her, ‘Everything’, then winked and grinned.

She chuckled and nodded at him, understanding completely. “Well, that sounds like fun!” She looked at you and said, “Let's start with what colors you have in mind?”

She started to walk through the store, heading towards the dresses, and you both followed close behind.

You looked around, eyes scanning over everything. It was all so immaculate, gleaming, and expensive. You’d never even thought you’d own anything like this, let alone be walking through one of the stores. “Well, I usually go towards darker colors, but I’ve been told I look good in red?” you glanced at her.

She nodded and started skimming through some of the selections, grabbing some options, humming as she did so.

Harry walked to another section with you, pulling out a dark red dress, one with a slit up the thigh, but it was just what you liked or would have picked out yourself. “Thoughts?” He glanced at you.

You nodded and smiled, barely running your fingers over the silky fabric, “I like it.”

Genevieve gasped, coming over, seeing his selection, “Good choice!” She smiled and took it from him, putting it in the small pile she’d gathered over her arm. “Why don’t we try these on? And then we can narrow down what we do and don’t like– and if we need to go from there.”

You nodded and smiled.

“Perfect. If you’d follow me… and then Mr. Castillo, if you’ll take a seat, we’ll get started.” She nodded for you to follow her.

Harry softly rubbed your back, “I’ll just be out here,” then kissed your cheek gently.

You nodded and smiled up at him.

You walked away and followed her into the dressing room, your hands shyly behind your back.

You entered the dressing room and changed into a dark brown dress with a very deep bust and dangerously high slit up the thigh. It felt a little too inappropriate for the party you were attending.

You looked at yourself in the mirror and shook your head, then looked at Genevieve, “I think this is too much…” You looked down at the plunge that opened up your cleavage, blushing at what Harry might think.

“Do you want to go out and show your boyfriend? Just to get a feel for it?” She smiled and tilted her head, “You know, give him a show?” She giggled playfully.

“Oh, um, he’s not my— well not yet… I mean, I hope eventually he– Fuck sorry...” You were stumbling over your words.

She grinned and tilted her head mischievously, “Even more reason to then…”

You chuckled lightly and looked back at yourself in the mirror. You had to admit, you looked good. No. You looked fucking amazing. The dress accentuated your curves, complemented your skin tone, it made you radiant. “Alright…” you looked at her. “What’s the harm?” you smirked and picked up the front to walk out.

She cleared her throat and began walking to the main floor to catch Harry's attention.

Harry was sitting back on the couch, but then immediately straightened up and turned a light shade of red the moment he saw you. He quietly cleared his throat and mumbled under his breath, “Fuck me…”

You stepped onto the platform and turned to look in the mirrors, watching Harry’s reaction from behind you with a slight smirk.

“You’re wearing one of our vintage evening gowns from 1987…” She began straightening some parts as she continued, “This is typically worn with black velvet gloves, which would go quite nicely with your masquerade theme…” She began to adjust the train of the dress to present it.

Harry was speechless. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you, off your body.

His mouth went dry. His mind—usually so sharp, so calculated—was suddenly fogged with one thought, one need, one echo pounding in time with his pulse:

Want.

His pulse thundered in his ears. The slit in the dress climbed like a secret up your thigh, and the way your eyes flicked to him in the mirror—slow, knowing—sent fire curling in his gut.

His thoughts? Completely undone. Replaced by vivid flashes: your back against a wall, lips crashing into his, fingers in his hair, that dress tangled somewhere on the floor.

Genevieve clocked his reaction in the mirror and glanced at you, giving you a knowing wink and a slight smirk.

You turned around and smiled innocently his way, “Thoughts?”

His eyes continued to drink you in, eyes trailing down your body— not hearing a word you said.

You let out a soft giggle, “Harry?”

His gaze snapped up to yours, and he cleared his throat, turning a darker shade of red.

“Sorry, sweetheart, did you say something? I…” he ran his thumb over his bottom lip and looked back down your body, “You look…" he exhaled, "Wow…” he said lowly, sitting forward a bit.

You blushed and turned back to look at yourself in the mirror. “I feel it might be too much for a work party, you know?” You slid your hands down your body to smooth out the dress. Not knowing it was doing something to him, giving him a little show.

He chuckled nervously as he adjusted his hips from the unwelcome bulge starting to form. “I… look, you’re hearin’ no complaints from me…” He swallowed, trying to calm himself down.

You looked back at him and bit your bottom lip, “So, you like this one?”

His eyes snapped back up to yours and he grinned, “Darlin’, you make anythin’ look good… Of course I like it.” he nodded towards the dressing rooms, “But let’s try on some more, get a feel for what you like, not what I like...” he raised his eyebrow, being supportive of you dressing for you, not for him.

Genevieve spoke up, “I like what he said. This is about what you like.” She offered her hand. “Plus, we can always return to this one and see if our minds change…” She looked up at you and smiled politely.

You looked down at Genevieve, taking her hand, stepping off the platform, and smiled back, “I agree…”

She nodded and then led you back to the dressing room, where she had you put on a few more dresses.

You walked out and showed Harry each time, but they didn’t have the same reaction as the first—for you or him.

However, there was one last dress.

It was the one that Harry had found.

And once it was on you, it fit like a glove.

It was everything— elegant, sexy, tasteful, but allowed for slight teasing.

It had a high slit up the thigh and had a somewhat lower cut in the bust. However, it was more tasteful than the first as it highlighted your collarbones and shoulders beautifully.

You couldn’t help but beam when you looked at yourself in the mirror.

You looked radiant.

You walked out to see Harry on his phone texting, but the second he heard Genevieve’s high heels hit the floor, his attention snapped up.

It was like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs the way his breath caught as he saw you.

You bit your bottom lip and blushed at the clear reaction. You knew this one was it with how his eyes drank every inch of you in.

The first was fun—something to wear to a more intimate and casual event. However, this one was tasteful and had the exact same effect on him, leaving him speechless.

You stepped up and looked into the mirrors. You now were able to see how it hugged every curve of you beautifully. Every line— highlighted.

You worked your angles, making sure everything fit perfectly, and then looked at Harry in the mirror, “Thoughts?”

He took a moment to absorb how beautiful you looked.

He was thinking about how much he’d been waiting for so long to feel this way for someone, and now here you are— right in front of him. He wasn’t going to let you go or let you down. As he looked at you in this moment, not only was the dress the one, but so are you.

He smiled adoringly and nodded at you, “I’m going to be the luckiest man at the party with how beautiful you look in that dress, querida…” He leaned forward, giving you his fullest attention.

You blushed and found his eyes in the mirror. You took a deep breath and nodded at him, "Ok, this is the one."

Genevieve giggled, which pulled your focus to her. She clapped her hands together a couple times, “Ah! I love it! This dress was made for you…”

She took a step back and hummed, “However, it’s missing something…” She tapped her fingers on her lips as she began thinking for a few seconds, then she lit up and held up a finger, “I’ve got it! Wait here…” She then disappeared into the store on the hunt.

You looked back over your shoulder and chuckled, “What could possibly be missing?”

Harry looked behind his shoulder to see where she had gone, but couldn’t find her.

He looked back at you, and both of you smiled shyly at each other.

He stood from the couch and made his way over to you. The closer he got, the more his eyes ran over every part of you. You shyly looked back at the mirror and watched his movements.

He hummed before offering his hand for you to step off the platform, “Well… it may not be what she’s thinking… but I do have something in mind that I’ve been thinking might make it better…”

You took his hand and stepped off the platform, slightly confused but intrigued. You looked up at him and smiled softly, “Oh? What would that be?” you teased, feeling shy under his gaze.

He swallowed down his nerves, then found your eyes, “Just my opinion, but…” He slowly reached up and cupped your cheek before leaning in, his voice a hushed whisper lost between the beats of your heart. His thumb brushed gently along your cheekbone, eyes searching yours like he needed to be sure this moment was real.

The world seemed to blur around you—no more noise, no more people, just the closeness between you and him. You could feel the warmth of his breath as the space narrowed, your lips a breath apart.

Your hands—unsure at first—found their way to the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling lightly near his chest. You could feel his heartbeat beneath your palms, quick like yours. One hand slid up almost instinctively, fingertips grazing the side of his neck, drawn to the way he leaned into your touch.

“…this,” he finished, his words trembling on the edge of a kiss.

Your thoughts became rushed—Is this really happening? Can he feel how nervous I am? God, please don’t mess this up. But beneath all that noise was something quieter, something softer: I want this. I want him.

And then he closed the distance.

It was gentle and deliberate, as if he wanted to memorize the shape of your lips. Your eyes fluttered closed, and for a moment, all those thoughts dissolved. There was only the feeling—the warmth, the closeness, the way the world melted away until it was just him.

Your fingers tightened slightly in his shirt as the kiss deepened, just a little, and you tilted your head to meet him more fully. You felt seen. Wanted. Safe.

When he pulled back, barely an inch, his forehead rested against yours. His breath mingled with yours, both of you smiling in the quiet.

Your eyes flutter open, and you let out a soft chuckle, whispering, “I um, I think to add that to the outfit, there’s an added fee…” you joked, gently caressing his jawline with your fingertips, studying his features, memorizing everything about this moment.

His eyes remained closed, forehead still against yours as he chuckled, low and warm in his chest, before he leaned back in and murmured against your lips, “Whatever the price… I’ll pay millions if it means I get to kiss you like that, querida…”

You barely had time to smile before his lips were on yours again—this time slower, deeper, like he had all the time in the world and no intention of rushing any second of it.

His hand slid from your cheek down to your waist, fingers splaying there as he gently pulled you in, closing the last bit of distance between your bodies. The warmth of his touch burned through the thin fabric, and the feeling of his body pressed against yours sent a shiver down your spine.

Your hands moved instinctively, trailing up his chest—feeling the steady beat of his heart — before loosely wrapping around his neck, fingertips threading into his hair. You tilted your head slightly, leaning into him, meeting the kiss with just as much quiet urgency.

It was deep, but not desperate—tender in its intensity. He kissed you like he needed you to feel what he couldn’t quite say out loud yet. Like he wanted you to know this wasn’t just a moment. It was the moment.

Your breaths mingled, uneven now, but neither of you seemed to care. The world outside your embrace didn’t exist anymore—not when his thumb was drawing slow circles against your waist, not when you felt him smile slightly against your lips like kissing you was the best decision he'd ever made.

Genevieve’s voice cut through the haze you two were in, making you both slowly pull away and look at each other, both smiling like idiots.

“I found thi—” she saw what she’d interrupted and shyly chuckled, “Oh, pardon me, umm…” she turned away, attempting to give you both privacy.

Harry lightly chuckled and kissed your forehead. “No, no… pardon me...” He let go of your waist and looked at Genevieve as she turned back around, his lips somewhat red and cheeks rosy. “What did you find for her?” he nodded to her as he went and sat back down.

You let out a slow exhale, and tucked a strand of loose hair behind your ear as she came over and had some jewelry and handbags to show you.

You looked away first, cheeks warming all over again as Genevieve continued talking, holding up a clutch with little gold details. You nodded along, barely catching half of what she said—your heart still somewhere between his hands and that kiss.

You caught him glancing at you again from the corner of your eye.

Not in a way that demanded anything, just… there. Warm, steady, a little breathless—like he was still replaying that kiss in his head the same way you were.

Your lips curved into a shy smile before you could stop it. You no longer tried to hide it. Not when the air still hummed between you. Not when he looked at you like that kiss opened up that part in his heart deep down like it did for you.

He tilted his head just slightly, like he was memorizing the way you looked when you were trying not to smile. Like this was his new favorite view.

Genevieve didn’t seem to notice—or if she did, she was kind enough to pretend. She kept chatting as she turned to the mirror, holding up one of the necklaces to your neckline.

And in the quiet moment that followed, your eyes met his again.

This time, you held the look.

Long enough for it to say everything,

I liked that. I want more. We’re not done.

And when he gave you that barely-there smile again—the one that said I know, me too—your heart skipped, flipped, and practically melted into your chest.

Friday

You managed to get off work around 4 pm, as you were panicking about being ready on time.

Harry told you last night that he’d pick you up at seven. With that being said, that would give you 3 hours to run around your place like a madwoman while Lila chased you around, trying to help put you together.

As expected, he knocked right on time, 7 pm sharp.

Lila was still there unexpectedly, as there was a last-minute makeup snafu.

You whispered hearing the door, “Fuck! You aren’t supposed to be here!”

She quietly giggled and shoved you towards the door.

You turned back and chuckled, pointing behind the couch, “Hide! Quickly!”

She ran and hid behind the couch, peeking around so she could see the front door.

You let out a breath and shook your hands shaking out all the nerves.

You hadn’t seen Harry since that day he took you shopping. Afterwards, both your schedules picked up again– his taking him out of town for the last couple of days.

All the nervousness and tension had been building up from the calls and texts you two shared over the last couple of days. You both were very eager to see each other.

Lila popped out and loudly whispered, “Oh for Christ sake, open the door!”

You turned around and waved her off, shushing her, giggling.

She popped back down, and you opened the door— and there he was.

He looked absolutely devastating in a dark, subtly patterned suit that hugged his frame perfectly, the crisp white of his shirt peeking through just enough to make him seem both dangerous and heartbreakingly polite. His hair was tousled back, like he’d run his hands through it a few too many times in nervous excitement. He had a little smirk across his lips — the one that made his deep-set eyes soften — aimed straight at you.

‘God damn it, how was I supposed to survive tonight when he looks like that?’

He was holding a bouquet that was wrapped in brown paper, tied sweetly with a dark red bow, one to match your dress.

The moment he laid eyes on you, for a second — maybe longer — he forgot how to breathe.

He dragged his eyes back up to yours, trying (and failing) not to look too awestruck. His heart was pounding like he’d just run a mile.

"Wow..." he breathed out, voice a little rougher than he intended. He chuckled low, shaking his head as he stepped closer, the world around him narrowing down to nothing but you.

"You’re... you're going to ruin me tonight, aren’t you?" he smirked.

Before you could even tease him back with a response, he was already moving, drawn in like gravity had decided you were the center of the universe.

He cupped your face gently, and then he kissed you — slow at first, like he wanted to savor the moment, then a little deeper when he felt you lean into him.

It wasn't rushed, wasn't messy — it was the kind of kiss that promised a night neither of you would forget, filled with heat, laughter, and something dangerously close to falling head over heels.

When he finally pulled back, barely an inch, his forehead rested against yours, and he whispered, a little breathless, "You have no idea what you’re doing to me..."

You breathlessly whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek, “I’ve missed you…”

He smiled like he’d never smiled before hearing that. His arm moved down to wrap around your waist and pull you close to him, “God, I’ve missed you too…”

You giggled and leaned back in, forgetting about Lila completely– who was watching from behind the couch with a shit eating grin on her face trying not to make a peep.

This time, you kissed him deeper.

You melted into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, needing something to hold onto as the kiss grew hotter, messier — the kind that made time stutter and your heart pound in your ears.

He tilted his head, deepening it even more, a low sound escaping from the back of his throat that made your knees threaten to give out. It wasn’t just desire in the kiss — it was something hungry, something that said he’d been waiting for this without even realizing it.

When you finally broke apart, both of you felt a little dizzy. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in like you were oxygen.

"If we don't leave right now..." he murmured, his voice thick with desire, "... I’m not sure we ever will." He gently squeezed your waist, pulling you close to him.

You swallowed and nodded, your eyes staying closed for a moment while you centered yourself.

Your eyes opened, and slowly, reluctantly pulled away from him, blushing, “I uhm, I need to grab my mask and purse.”

You nodded to your living room, “Make yourself at home.”

You went to turn away when he gasped and pulled you back, “Shit, I uhm, I got these for you…” he held up the bouquet between the two of you, smiling down at you.

You leaned down and sniffed them, blushing as he watched.

“Chocolate ranunculus…” he softly said.

“I like them. They match my dress…” You smiled sweetly up at him.

He tutted and tilted his head, biting his lip, “That may have been intentional, hermosa…”

You hummed and took them from him softly, “Well, I’m going to go put these in a vase before we leave… I’ll be quick.” You reached up on your toes and pecked his lips, leaving him smiling like a fool as you disappeared down the hall.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, still feeling the ghost of your lips, and began casually pacing your living room — taking in the framed photos, souvenirs, and small touches that felt undeniably you.

His smile widened when he spotted a photo of you and Lila on your wall at the beach, arms wrapped around each other, laughing mid-splash.

That’s when he heard it — the soft creak of movement behind the couch.

He tilted his head slowly. “You know,” he said, loud enough to be heard but still casual, “if you’re gonna spy on your sister’s love life, Lila, you should at least bring popcorn to enjoy the show.”

Lila popped up like a guilty meerkat, her expression caught somewhere between sheepish and exasperated. “I knew I should’ve hid in the coat closet,” she muttered.

He crossed his arms, grinning smugly. “That would’ve made it so much less suspicious...” He chuckled.

“Don’t look so proud of yourself, okay?” she grumbled. “I wasn’t spying. I was... waiting for my moment to escape when you two left.”

“By hiding behind a piece of furniture like a sitcom character?” he teased.

“You were early!” she snapped, pointing an accusatory finger.

He just laughed. “I was on time!”

Just then, you reappeared, carrying a vase of freshly arranged flowers — and immediately froze.

“Oh my God.” You stared at the two of them, eyes wide. “Lila you didn’t just see—”

“She did,” he said, without missing a beat.

“She didn’t,” Lila cut in at the same time, trying to sidestep around him with her dignity barely intact.

“You did, you saw…” you groaned, half-laughing, half-mortified.

Lila chuckled, feeling your embarrassment, “I’m sorry… but for the record... you guys are adorable... all love sick and needy!” she teased.

You waved a hand at the door. “Just go. Get out. Shoo. Go. Vanish...”

Lila muttered something under her breath that made Harry chuckle, then finally slipped out, leaving the door swinging shut behind her.

He looked at you, still smiling. “You two really are sisters.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your clutch and mask. “Oh, stop it...” Your cheeks are still red with embarrassment.

He chuckled lowly. “You’re cute when you’re like this…” he said, offering you his arm. “Ready?”

You looped your arm through his, still grinning as the two of you stepped out into the night — leaving behind the flowers, the laughter, and the sister-shaped chaos.

Ted drove the two of you to the Cipriani 25 Broadway venue.

When the two of you got inside, the hall was packed.

His hand was warm against the small of your back as the heavy doors creaked open before the two of you. For a moment, you both just stood there, the world inside the ballroom spilling out, enchanting you.

The hall was bathed in gold and shadow, candlelight flickering off marble columns — soaring, painted ceilings.

Nearly two hundred masked figures swirled and laughed, their movements weaving an intricate and glowing motion.

You could hear music coming from a hidden quartet, which made the atmosphere feel delicate and rich.

You felt his breath hitch– you glanced up to find him already looking down at you. His dark suit caught the light just right. It was enough to hint at its texture — and the sharp line of his jaw was only partly hidden by the black Venetian mask he wore. He looked deliciously handsome, and you could instantly tell he was the envy of the room — as most of the women’s heads turned towards him.

"You’re breathtaking," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear, his voice rough around the edges. His fingers squeezed gently at your waist to reassure himself that you were real and his.

You smiled behind your delicate, dark red mask and reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his with easy, intimate familiarity. “I feel quite lucky tonight…”

He let out a soft chuckle as the two of you began strolling further inside to find a table. “Why’s that?”

Sharp eyes behind jeweled masks raked over his tall frame, his dark suit cut to perfection, as he strode with quiet confidence.

And then they looked at you. At his hand, which you held. How close the two of you walked. At how his attention — his energy — and how it was wholly yours.

It felt electric. Intoxicating.

You lifted your chin slightly as you moved past them, feeling bold beneath your lace mask. Their stares didn’t shake you once. In fact, you felt emboldened by them. Let them look. Let them wonder who you were, and what you’d done to make him look at you the way he did.

“You seem to have been the goal for all the single ladies tonight, and I’m afraid I may have stepped on some toes... burst some bubbles…” You nodded towards a group of women — their eyes not so subtly watching the two of you, drinking champagne, surely gossiping about who you were and why you’re with him.

Harry looked that way, then he stopped and slowly pulled you close, “Then why don’t we give them somethin’ better to stare and gossip about?” he grinned sinfully.

You barely had time to process the mischievous gleam in his eye before he slid his hand along your jaw, tilting your chin up toward him. The music, the crowd, the glittering spectacle of the ballroom — all of it blurred into nothing the second he leaned in.

His mouth captured yours in a slow, almost teasing kiss. His thumb brushed along your cheek as if he was savoring the moment, deepening it little by little until you felt yourself melting into him.

Gasps rippled through the nearby crowd that you’d just pointed out. You could feel the stares on you like a thousand tiny sparks, but you didn’t care. Not when his arms wrapped fully around you, drawing you so tightly against him that there was no mistaking it — no mistaking the claim he was making by doing this.

The kiss grew deeper, hungrier, his hand sliding down your spine in a way that made you arch instinctively closer. When he finally pulled back — reluctantly, slowly — he stayed close enough that you could still feel the brush of his breath against your mouth.

He grinned, all wickedness and charm.

“Think they got the message?” he murmured, softly nudging his nose against yours.

You barely found your voice. “Loud and clear.”

He chuckled low, stealing one more soft, lingering kiss before slipping his arm firmly around your waist and leading you further into the glittering masquerade, leaving behind a trail of envious stares and whispered speculation in your wake.

And you couldn’t help the smile that curved your lips.

If they weren’t watching before, they sure as hell were now.

The night went on with dinner and the importance of this event was discussed around you — closing the deal with Tets Investments.

When the two of you sat down to eat dinner a few of his coworkers attempted to talk shop. However, he constantly shifted the conversation to topics you could be included in as well as the other plus ones.

You admired how he spoke to others — he was confident but not arrogant. He made everyone feel welcome, included, and supported. It wasn’t a shock that there were so many people who came to say hello. Each time he’d hold you close, introduce you, and keep you involved in whatever was being discussed.

Close to 9 o'clock, the rhythm slowed down, and the two of you stood in the back of the ballroom, sipping champagne, watching those on the dance floor.

Harry stood with his arm around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. He whispered little facts or stories about certain people to you he'd pointed out, fully opening up his world — his life to you.

You had never felt so welcomed into someone’s life. Everyone you’d been with in the last couple of years was always so shut off. They always had something to hide. They feared letting you get too close, or maybe you didn’t want to get that close deep down. But, things with Harry felt different. At some points, it's all too good to be true. You’ve thought he deserves better, but there he is, every time those thoughts come up, reassuring he wants nothing — nobody but you.

—

The music shifted at one point—a slow, pulsing waltz began. Without a word, he moved from behind you and tugged gently at your hand, his other settling possessively at your waist. Your breath caught as he pulled you close, chest to chest, the heat of him sinking through the silk of your dress.

"You owe me a dance," he said, voice a low tease against the shell of my ear.

You smiled, tilting your head up toward him. "I don’t remember agreeing to that, handsome."

His mouth curved into a lazy, wicked grin. "You didn’t. I’m cashing it in anyway."

Before you could say another word, he guided you onto the floor, folding you into him so naturally it felt like both of you had danced this way a hundred times before.

He pulled you closer, his hand sliding low on your back as you moved together, bodies swaying in time with the slow, sultry music. The candlelight flickered across his mask, but you could still see the warmth in his brown eyes — the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the entire room.

He leaned in, his mouth brushing just beside your ear as he whispered, voice rich and teasing, "You know, I think you might just be my favorite view tonight."

Your breath caught, a smile curving your lips as a delicious shiver ran down your spine.

You tilted your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze — playful, daring.

"Just tonight?" you teased.

He laughed under his breath, the sound low and intimate, and tightened his hold ever so slightly, pulling you even closer.

"Darlin', you've been my favorite view every night since that wedding..."

Your heart skipped wildly in your chest, the world around you fading even further away as you let yourself fall a little deeper into him.

The music slowed down as it wrapped around you both. His fingers tightened gently on yours, and without warning, he spun you out — just a step, just far enough that you caught a few eyes, those still envious of you and their stares aimed at you.

You laughed, the sound light and breathless, and the moment your hand found his again, he pulled you right back in — closer than before.

The smile he wore was adoring and charming — he looked at you as if you were the moon and stars.

Then, before you could catch your breath, he slid his hand down your back and dipped you low, his arm strong and sure behind you, the beautiful painted ceiling above you with the skylight creating a halo around his head.

The world spun, tilted, and all you could do was cling to him, laughing, and breathless as you stared up into his smiling eyes.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispered, just for you.

He brought you up slowly, holding you so close your masks brushed, your noses almost touching, your breaths shared in the tiny space between you.

You clutched at his lapel, heart hammering in your chest, completely lost in the moment — but completely his.

You tilted your chin up and closed the distance between the two of you.

The kiss started slow, achingly slow — the two of you memorizing it all, the feeling of each other in one another's arms.

But then he groaned low in his throat, a sound that went straight through you, causing an ache to stir deep below, between your legs.

You deepened the kiss — heated, hungry, losing every bit of restraint you had pretended to have all night.

His hand slid higher, threading into the hair at the back of your head, anchoring you to him.

When he finally pulled back after the song ended and started into a new one, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, smiling without meaning to.

"God help me…" he muttered against your lips, "... you’re going to be the death of me tonight if you keep kissin’ me like that."

Before either of you could speak again — still breathless, still clinging to the high of that kiss, a deep, rich voice cut clean through the haze.

“There you are.”

You both turned slightly, still tangled together. A tall man in a navy velvet jacket stood a few feet away. He exuded the unmistakable air of people around him beckoning to his call.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he added with a cheeky smile that said otherwise, “but I need a quick word with you before the Tets people get too deep into the champagne.” he nodded towards a group of people across the room, all enjoying the party. He turned to Harry, touching his shoulder, starting to pull him to join him, completely ignoring you.

You felt Harry shift, his posture subtly straightening, and just like that, the man you’d been dancing with, the one who’d whispered things that still buzzed in your veins — slipping into something more polished, more composed. But his hand didn’t leave your waist, he didn’t let himself be pulled away towards the gentleman.

“Of course, sir,” he said, then paused — just long enough to turn to you and place a steadying hand on the small of your back. “But before I disappear—” he looked back at the man, his voice smooth, but warm, “—I’d like to introduce you to my girlfriend.”

‘Girlfriend? Did he really just say that?’

The word hung in the air for half a second longer than it should have, stealing the breath from your lungs and making your heart pound excitedly.

Your eyes fluttered up at him, but he didn’t flinch — just gave you the softest, quickest squeeze at your side. His eyes flicked down, as if to say yes, I meant that, and I hope you’re okay with this, all at once.

A blush flared beneath my mask, but you managed a graceful and polite smile as the gentleman held out his hand for you to shake.

You gently took it and quickly ran through your head at who he may be. He was someone higher than Harry who commanded respect. From conversations with him, the only person you could think of that he could be was the CEO, so you took a blind shot. “You must be Mr. Clarkson, it’s lovely to meet you, sir.”

“Pleasure is all mine, sweetheart,” he said, gently shaking your hand.

'Bullseye. Thank god'

He offered a short soft smile. “Glad he’s not here alone — man needs someone to keep him grounded.”

You shook his hand and offered some polite response that you barely remembered the second it left your mouth, because your brain was still short-circuiting around that one word.

Girlfriend.

Mr. Clarkson nodded at Harry to follow him before walking away.

Harry leaned down again, his voice lower, private, “I’ll make this fast. Don’t run off too far.” he joked and gave you a quick wink.

“Wouldn’t dream of it” You whispered back, still trying to keep the smile in your voice as your thoughts were running wild.

He brushed his lips against your cheek ever so softly.

Before you knew it, he turned to follow his boss toward the edge of the ballroom, already murmuring numbers and terms as they walked away — leaving you on cloud nine.

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