#radio-controlled clock

[nerdycheol]

Love, On Air || Choi Seungcheol (valentine's special)

♡ Pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader

♡ Genre: best friends to lovers, romance, fluff, slice of life

♡ Word Count: 7.8k

note: Happy Valentine’s Day! 💖 This is a special Valentine’s edition based on the poll results(so if you voted—congrats, you manifested this 👀). A massive shoutout to @facethesunflower for proofreading and making sure this didn’t turn into a total disaster. 😆 Hope you enjoy this fluffy, slightly dramatic, finally-they-confess moment.

Remember: if your best friend is acting suspiciously like Cherry… maybe it’s time to connect the dots. 👀💕

The clock hits 9 PM. You take a deep breath, adjusting the headphones on your ears as the familiar hum of the radio booth wraps around you. The room is small, dimly lit by the soft glow of the equipment and the neon sign flashing LIVE on the wall. 

"Alright, we’re live in 3... 2... 1..."

Your hand hovers over the soundboard as you smile into the mic. 

"Good evening, lovely listeners, and welcome back to The Heartbeat Hour, your go-to late-night show where we talk all things love, relationships, and everything in between," you say, your voice smooth and warm, like a cozy blanket on a cold night. "I’m your host, __ , and tonight is extra special because we’re in the heart of Valentine’s week. So, buckle up, folks—this week’s all about confessions, crushes, and, of course, giving you some advice to help you sort through your feelings."

You press the button for the first song request, the soft strains of a romantic ballad filling the room. As the music plays in the background, your eyes scan the requests that have been flooding in. The chat box is constantly ticking with messages—listeners asking for advice, sharing their love stories, or seeking songs that speak to their hearts. You feel that rush, the adrenaline of knowing you’re connected to so many people in real time.

"Now, I’ve got a message here from a listener who needs a little help," you say, pulling up the request. "This one’s from 'Cherry,' who writes in: ‘I’ve been crushing on someone for a while, but I’m not sure how to confess. Any advice?’"

You let out a small breath, your fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk as you think. This one’s a classic. You've seen it all before, but every confession still feels fresh. You smile softly into the mic.

"Ah, 'Cherry,' I get it. Confessing your feelings can be scary, but it’s also one of the most real things you can do. Here’s my advice: Keep it simple. No need for grand gestures, no elaborate speeches. Sometimes, the best way to let someone know how you feel is through a small, sincere gesture. Maybe write a note or give them a little gift that shows you’ve been thinking about them. And when you tell them how you feel, just be honest—there’s no such thing as a perfect confession. Just be you."

You pause, feeling the warmth of the words settle into your heart. The music swells in the background, adding to the ambiance of the moment.

"Remember, 'Cherry,' it’s not about getting it perfect—it’s about being brave enough to say it. And hey, the worst that can happen is they don’t feel the same way. But you know what? You’ve still won because you were true to yourself. So take a deep breath and go for it. You got this.”

You let the silence linger for a moment, Cherry’s words still hanging in the air. Then, with a small smile, you reached for the controls.

"Alright, Cherry, and everyone out there holding onto feelings they haven’t found the words for—this one’s for you. Maybe it’ll give you the courage to say what’s in your heart, or at the very least, remind you that you’re not alone."

With a soft click, the studio filled with the delicate, wistful melody of "From the start" by Laufey—a song that is the ultimate friends to lovers song for all delusional daydreams.

Leaning back in your chair, you glanced out at the city lights reflecting against the glass. Somewhere, maybe Cherry was listening, hesitating over a letter they weren’t sure they’d ever send. Or maybe, just maybe, they had already begun writing.

After an hour of song requests, confessions, and quiet laughter shared through the airwaves, the LIVE sign dims. You take off your headphones, stretching your neck as the studio falls into silence. Another night, another show wrapped up.

Gathering your notes, you stack them neatly before grabbing your now-lukewarm latte from the desk. The faint chatter of coworkers drifts through the halls—other RJs wrapping up, producers discussing schedules.

"Great show tonight, ___," someone calls out in passing.

"Thanks! See you tomorrow!" you reply with a small smile, pulling on your coat.

Near the exit, your producer glances up. "Don’t forget—tomorrow’s segment is longer for the Valentine’s special. Get some rest!"

"Got it. Night, everyone!"

Pushing open the station doors, you step into the cool night air. The city hums in the distance, but here, it’s quiet—still. You take a slow sip of your latte, savoring the warmth against the crisp breeze.

And then, just a few steps away, you see him.

Leaning against his car, hands tucked into his coat pockets, Seungcheol watches you. The street lamp casts a soft glow over him, catching the faint curve of his lips.

You stop in front of Seungcheol, raising an eyebrow. "What are you doing here?"

He tilts his head, acting like it’s the most casual thing in the world. "I was just passing through."

You narrow your eyes. "Passing through? Your workplace is nowhere near here."

"Okay, fine," he chuckles, pushing himself off the car. "I thought I’d pick you up. It’s been a while since we had dinner together."

"Ah, I see. You missed me." You smirk, taking another sip of your latte.

"Don’t flatter yourself, " he scoffs, but the amusement in his eyes gives him away.

You let out a laugh, shaking your head before walking around the car. "Alright, alright. Let’s go before you start crying about how I never have time for you."

He pulls open the passenger door for you with a teasing bow. "Your chariot awaits, my lady."

Rolling your eyes at his theatrics, you slip inside, and he shuts the door before making his way to the driver’s seat.

As he starts the engine, Seungcheol glances at you. "Nice show today."

You blink. "Oh? What’s up, Choiseung? You’re complimenting me?" You raise an eyebrow, grinning.

He scoffs, shaking his head. "Forget it. Should’ve just let you believe no one listens to your rambling at night."

"Too late. I’m taking this to heart forever," you joke, leaning back in your seat.

A few minutes into the drive, Seungcheol reaches into his coat pocket and hands you a neatly folded envelope.

"Here."

You glance at it, then at him. "What’s this?"

"Just open it."

Curious, you unfold the letter inside. His familiar handwriting stretches across the page, carefully written, filled with warmth. It’s a simple note—thanking you for being in his life, for always listening, for just being you.

Your heart softens as you read.

"Ohh, Cheol... this is so sweet. Thank you so much, friend." You smile, touched by the gesture.

The moment the word leaves your lips, he freezes—just for a second.

Then, with a short nod, he looks away, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.

"Yeah… friend." His voice is light, but something about it feels off.

You don’t notice. Or maybe, you just don’t understand.

"Hm? Did you say something?"

"Nothing," he clears his throat, turning into a street. "We should hurry before the restaurant gets packed."

You let it go, tucking the letter safely into your bag as the city lights blur past.

Dinner is simple—warm bowls of stew and easy conversation. You catch up on each other’s lives, laugh over childhood memories, and argue over who should pay the bill (which Seungcheol wins, as always). It’s comfortable, familiar—just like it’s always been.

But every now and then, Seungcheol watches you with something unreadable in his gaze. Something just beneath the surface.

Later, he pulls up in front of your place.

"Thanks for dinner, Choiseung." You grin, unbuckling your seatbelt.

"Yeah, yeah. You can pay next time."

"I’ll believe that when it happens." You laugh, stepping out of the car. "Goodnight!"

He waits until you disappear inside, only driving off once your lights flicker on.

And then he waits.

Seated in his car, he watches as your silhouette moves around the room. It’s only when your lights finally turn off that he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck before driving away into the quiet night.

The next day passes in a blur of work, coffee, and the usual routine. You go through meetings, reply to emails, and try not to fall asleep at your desk. It’s just another regular day—until night falls, and you’re back in the studio, headphones on, mic live, slipping into the comfort of your show.

"And that was 'Moonlight' to set the mood for tonight," you say, adjusting the volume on the console. "Now, let’s see what’s on your mind, listeners. Late-night confessions, random thoughts, love letters—I'm here for it all."

A familiar name pops up in the chat, and you smile.

"Ah, a message from ‘Cherry’ again," you muse, skimming through it.

"So, Cherry says: ‘I wrote them my feelings, but I feel like they didn't get the hint. Any advice?’”

You lean back, thoughtful.

"Confessions are tricky, aren’t they? But if words feel too heavy, why not try something else?"

You pause, then smile.

"Here’s an idea—make a playlist. Fill it with songs that subtly express your feelings, and share it with them. You can name it something meaningful, like ‘For You’ or ‘Songs That Remind Me of You.’ Maybe they’ll get the hint, maybe they won’t, but either way… music has a way of saying what we can’t."

A soft melody plays as you set up the next song, your voice lowering.

"Speaking of confessions… Cherry, this one’s for you."

___

After the show, you gather your things, stretching as the familiar hum of the studio fades into the quiet of the night. Stepping outside, the cool air brushes against your skin—and there he is, leaning against his car, arms crossed, waiting.

"You again?" You arch a brow, teasing.

Seungcheol smirks. "What can I say? Madam needs her personal chauffeur." He pushes off the car, opening the door for you with a playful grin.

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you slide in. "More like my chauffeur needs his daily dose of validation."

He chuckles, shutting the door before rounding the car. "Can you blame me? Gotta make sure my most important passenger gets home safe."

You shake your head, biting back a smile as he starts the engine. The familiar warmth of routine settles between you, comfortable and unspoken.

As you drive, soft music fills the space—a melody unfamiliar yet strangely intimate. You pause, listening. It’s not his usual sound. Gone are the heavy beats and sharp rhythms he prefers. Instead, the speakers hum with gentle tunes, lyrics drenched in longing.

You glance at him, amusement flickering in your gaze. "Since when did your taste in music change this much?"

His fingers flex over the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road. "Dunno. Just felt like switching things up."

You hum along absentmindedly, letting the melody wrap around you, comforting in ways you don’t fully understand.

Seungcheol exhales quietly, gripping the wheel a little tighter, sneaking a glance your way. Because this playlist isn’t just a mix of songs—it’s a confession. One he can only hope you’ll hear.

As Seungcheol pulls up in front of your place, he shifts the car into park but doesn’t make a move to unlock the doors just yet. Instead, he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, stealing a glance your way.

"__, since tomorrow’s the weekend... you wanna hang out?" His voice is casual, but there’s something just a little hesitant in the way he says it.

You turn to him, brows raised. "Sure. Where?"

Seungcheol clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away. "Nothing much… just the amusement park. Maybe a café after, y’know."

You blink before breaking into a small smile. "Huh, it’s been a while since we’ve gone there."

He nods, still avoiding your eyes. "Yeah. Thought it might be fun."

You tilt your head, watching him for a second before nudging his arm. "Well, if you’re paying, I’m definitely in."

He scoffs, rolling his eyes but grinning nonetheless. "Yeah, yeah. Just don’t go overboard with the snacks."

You laugh, reaching for the door handle. "No promises. See you tomorrow, Choiseung."

As you step out, he waits, watching until your lights flicker on inside. Only then does he drive off, the soft hum of the playlist still playing in the background.

The next day, the weekend air carries a hint of excitement as you step outside, spotting Seungcheol waiting by his car. Dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, he looks effortlessly relaxed—except for the way he keeps checking his phone, as if trying to act nonchalant.

"Wow, you’re actually on time today," you tease, walking up to him.

He scoffs, sliding his phone into his pocket. "Please, I was born punctual."

You snort. "Sure, if 'punctual' means making me wait at least ten minutes every time."

Seungcheol rolls his eyes but opens the car door for you anyway, his usual playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Just get in, before I make you walk to the amusement park."

You laugh, sliding in as he rounds the car. Soon, you're both on the road, the soft hum of music playing in the background.

"So, what’s the plan, tour guide?" you ask, glancing at him.

He shrugs, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "Nothing fancy. Just rides, food, and you trying not to chicken out on the roller coasters."

You gasp dramatically. "Excuse you, I do not chicken out—"

"You literally backed out last time," he deadpans, making you groan in protest.

The banter continues, filling the car with laughter as the amusement park comes into view, the vibrant lights and distant screams of thrill-seekers setting the perfect scene for the day ahead.

As Seungcheol parks the car, you glance at the towering rides ahead, the excited chatter of parkgoers filling the air.

"Alright, where to first?" he asks, stretching as he steps out of the car.

You scan the park, lips pursed in thought before pointing towards the roller coasters with a challenging grin. "Since you’re so confident, let’s start with that."

His eyes widen for a split second before he huffs. "I wasn’t the one who backed out last time, remember?"

You laugh, linking your arm with his and pulling him along. "Exactly. Time to redeem myself."

The line moves faster than expected, and soon, you're seated, the bar locking in place. You grip the handles tightly, sneaking a glance at Seungcheol. He looks relaxed, but the way he exhales deeply before the ride starts doesn’t go unnoticed.

The moment the coaster shoots forward, your screams mix with laughter, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you grip the bar for dear life. When it finally slows, you glance at Seungcheol, only to see him looking at you instead of the ride’s descent.

"What?" you ask, breathless.

He shakes his head, a small, fond smile on his lips. "Nothing. Just glad you didn’t chicken out this time."

You roll your eyes, nudging him playfully as you both step off the ride, your legs slightly wobbly from the rush.

The day continues with more rides, playful bets on who can win the most arcade games (he cheats, you swear), and an unnecessary but hilarious attempt at a claw machine.

"Face it, I'm just naturally gifted," he boasts, tossing you a small stuffed bear.

"Naturally full of it, maybe," you grumble, but take the bear anyway, hugging it to your chest.

Finally, as the night settles, you both find yourselves on the Ferris wheel, the gentle hum of the ride filling the comfortable silence. The city sprawls below, glowing under the streetlights, and in the distance, fireworks begin to bloom in the sky.

"Didn’t think today would be this fun," you admit, leaning back against the seat, the cool glass behind you a contrast to the warmth in your chest.

Seungcheol glances at you, something unreadable in his expression. He exhales softly, his fingers tapping against his knee.

"Yeah... I, uh—" He hesitates, licking his lips, his voice quieter now. "There's actually something I—"

But before he can finish, a particularly loud firework crackles in the sky, painting the cabin in flickering colors. You turn quickly, eyes lighting up as you take in the view.

"Oh, look at that one! It’s so pretty" you say, completely missing the way Seungcheol sighs, his half-spoken words swallowed by the moment.

He leans back, running a hand through his hair, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah," he murmurs, gaze lingering on you instead of the fireworks. "It is pretty."

Eventually, you both find yourselves at a cozy café just outside the park, the scent of coffee and pastries filling the air.

After placing your order, Seungcheol suddenly pushes back his chair. “Be right back,” he says, flashing a quick smile before heading toward the counter.

You don’t think much of it, scrolling through your phone until the waiter returns with your drinks. As they set your cup down, you notice the delicate heart design floating atop the foam.

You tilt your head, stirring it slightly with your spoon. “Oh? Is this some kind of Valentine’s special?” you ask, amused. “Did you get one too?”

Seungcheol, who’s just returned to his seat, glances at his own plain coffee and shrugs. “Yeah… no.”

You raise a brow. “Huh. Guess they just like me more.”

He chuckles, taking a sip of his drink, but you don’t notice the way he hides his small, satisfied smile. Because the truth is, he had asked for that heart—just for you.

//

The next evening, the soft glow of the studio lights casts a warm hue as you settle into your seat, adjusting your headphones. Outside, the city hums with life, but a sudden downpour has turned the streets into shimmering reflections of neon signs.

"Looks like we’re in for an unexpected downpour tonight," you say, adjusting your headphones with a small chuckle. "So if you're heading home, grab an umbrella—or better yet, find someone who’ll share theirs with you—if not, maybe this is your chance for a classic movie moment. You know, the whole ‘one umbrella, two people’ thing."

With a quick tap, you queue up a slow, dreamy melody.

"Wherever you are tonight—rushing through the rain or just watching it fall—I hope this keeps you warm. Stay safe out there." As the song plays, you sit back, stretching your arms with a sigh. 

As the show wraps up, you take off your headphones, letting out a small sigh as the last song fades into silence. The studio, once filled with the hum of voices and music, now feels still. Gathering your things, you push open the door, stepping into the quiet hallway.

Outside, the rain still falls in soft sheets, blurring the glow of streetlights. You pause near the entrance, rummaging through your bag. No umbrella. Right. You meant to bring one this morning, but in the rush, it completely slipped your mind.

 You pause at the entrance, contemplating making a run for it, when a familiar voice calls out.

"Figured you’d forget yours."

You blink as Seungcheol steps forward, holding out an umbrella, his usual smirk in place. His hair is slightly damp, his coat dusted with droplets, like he had hurried here without much thought.

A small flutter, barely noticeable, stirs in your chest. You shake it off with a teasing smile. "What, no chauffeur duty today?"

He chuckles, tucking a hand into his pocket. "Uhh, not tonight. I have to stay late for that project."

You tilt your head, a little surprised. "So you came all the way here just to give me this?" You motion toward the umbrella in your hand.

"Yeah," he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Before you can say anything else, his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, sighs, then looks back at you. "I gotta go. Text me when you get home, okay?"

You nod, watching as he jogs toward his car, the red taillights fading into the rain.

For a moment, you just stand there, gripping the umbrella a little tighter. You don’t know why, but the weight of it in your hands feels different.

Then, shaking off the thought, you open it and step into the rain, heading home.

//

As morning arrives, the first thing that comes to mind is Seungcheol. You blink at your phone, thumb hovering over his contact.

Texting him isn’t anything new—you’ve done it countless times before. But for some reason, tonight, it feels… different. Maybe it’s your coworker’s words still echoing in your head, or maybe it’s the way he’s been occupying your thoughts more than usual.

Before you can overthink it, you start typing.

You: Did you get home okay?

A second passes. Then another. You bite your lip, debating whether to add something else.

You: And did you even sleep well? Don’t tell me you stayed up all night working.

You press send before hesitation can creep in. Almost instantly, the dots appear.

Seungcheol: Wow, checking up on me? I must be special.

You roll your eyes, already imagining the smug grin on his face.

You: Forget I asked.

Seungcheol: Wait, wait— I did sleep. Kinda. Had a long day, but I’m home now.

You: Good. Don’t overwork yourself.

Your fingers hover over the screen for a beat before you add one last message.

This time, he takes a little longer to respond.

Seungcheol: You too.

You lock your phone, exhaling softly as you sink into your pillow.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re just overthinking. But the warmth unfurling in your chest suggests otherwise.

At work, the usual hum of chatter fills the office. You’re halfway through your emails when a coworker slides into the seat beside you, a teasing grin already in place.

"I saw you yesterday," they start, leaning in slightly. "With a guy. Was he your boyfriend?"

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard.

"What? No!" The denial is immediate, instinctive. Too quick. You clear your throat, forcing a casual shrug. "Just a friend."

Your coworker chuckles, clearly amused. "Mmm, sure. You should’ve seen your face just now."

You scoff, shaking your head. "Oh, please. It’s not like that."

They raise an eyebrow, smirking as they lean against your desk. "Right. Just a friend, huh?"

You roll your eyes, waving them off, but as they walk away, their words linger.

Just a friend. 

You’ve said it a hundred times before. So why does it feel different now?

The soft glow of the studio lights wraps around you like a familiar embrace as you settle in for another night on air. The playlist hums in the background, filling the quiet spaces between your thoughts as you scroll through messages from listeners.

One catches your eye.

“I think I’ve fallen for my best friend. It wasn’t sudden—more like a slow, creeping realization. One day, I caught myself smiling at my phone just because they texted me. I don’t know if they feel the same, and I’m scared to lose what we have. What do I do?"

You hesitate for a moment, the words settling heavier than they should. There’s a flicker of something familiar in them, something that makes you sit up a little straighter.

You take a breath and lean toward the mic. “That’s… complicated,” you begin, your voice even, steady. “Falling for a best friend is tricky. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it. One day, they’re just… them. The same person they’ve always been. And then suddenly, everything feels different.”

Your breath catches slightly. A part of you wants to laugh at the timing, but instead, you clear your throat and lean into the mic.

You exhale softly, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of your notes. "I think the scariest part isn’t even confessing—it’s the thought of what happens after. What if they don’t feel the same? What if things change? But… at the same time, isn’t it worth knowing? Isn’t it better than wondering ‘what if’ forever?"

The words come naturally, maybe a little too naturally, and you catch yourself mid-sentence, blinking at the realization. Your fingers tighten slightly around the papers in front of you.

You shake it off with a light laugh. "Anyway, I’m not a love expert. But if you’re listening… maybe ask yourself this—would you rather take the risk or live with the regret?"

As the segment transitions, you queue up the next song, the soft melody of Can't Help Falling in Love by Kina Grannis filling the airwaves. A bittersweet smile tugs at your lips as you lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling.

//

The idea of a team dinner had been floating around the office for weeks, but it wasn’t until today that your producer finally put his foot down.

“We’re going,” he declared, arms crossed as he leaned against your desk. “No more excuses, no more ‘let’s do it next week.’ Tonight, we eat.”

Your coworker snickered, spinning lazily in their chair. “You just don’t want to go home and cook.”

“Exactly,” he admitted shamelessly. “Besides, it’s been a while since we all hung out outside of work. You in?”

You hesitated for a beat, glancing at your screen before sighing. It wasn’t like you had anything better to do. “Yeah, I’m in.”

And that was that. A few hours later, you found yourself walking toward the restaurant with the rest of your team, the air buzzing with conversation. Your producer was still arguing about food, insisting that this place was “decent at best” while another team member defended it with an almost personal level of passion.

You laughed at their banter, falling into step behind them—until something made you slow down.

A familiar figure stood just outside the restaurant, hands tucked into his coat pockets. Even before he turned, you knew who it was.

Seungcheol.

Your brows lifted slightly in amusement. “Are you a stalker?” you teased as you approached. “You’re literally everywhere I go.”

He turned toward you, chuckling under his breath. “No, I’m here with someone. My cli—”

“Shall we go?”

The voice belonged to a woman who stepped up beside him, her posture poised, her tone polite. She looked… elegant. The kind of effortless elegance that didn’t even need to try.

Your gaze flickered between them, something unreadable tightening in your chest before you smoothed your expression. “Who…”

The woman met your eyes and smiled. “Oh, I’m Lee Hana. I’m working with Seungcheol on a project.”

You nodded, lips curving into something light, something easy, even as something else tugged inside you. “Right. Nice to meet you.”

Seungcheol’s gaze lingered on you for a second longer than it should. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” you blinked, shifting slightly. “Our team is having dinner.” You motioned toward the restaurant behind you. “You know, bonding and all that.”

He nodded, but before he could say anything else, Hana touched his arm lightly. “Shall we?”

There was a pause—brief, barely there—before he cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah.” Then he glanced at you again. “Bye, then. Have fun.”

And then he was gone, walking away with her at his side.

You watched them leave, something unspoken pressing against your ribs. It’s not jealousy, you told yourself. Not really. But the feeling stayed anyway.

A voice broke through your thoughts. “Oh, isn’t he the umbrella guy?”

You turned to see your coworker standing beside you, glancing after Seungcheol with mild curiosity before their gaze shifted back to you. “Did he come here with a woman?”

You said nothing, but that seemed to be enough of an answer.

They hummed knowingly. “You really must be just friends.” And with that, they walked inside.

You stayed there a second longer, staring at the spot where Seungcheol had just been, before shaking yourself out of it and following them in.

The night air is crisp as you walk back home, the sounds of the city buzzing softly in the background. Your team dinner had ended a while ago, but instead of feeling full and satisfied, there’s a strange heaviness in your chest—a weight you don’t quite understand.  

As you turn the corner to your apartment complex, you slow down, your steps faltering.  

There, leaning against his car with his arms crossed, is Seungcheol.  

Your brows knit together. “What are you doing here?”  

At your voice, he straightens, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You didn’t look well back at the restaurant,” he says, his tone light but laced with something else—concern, maybe. “So, I thought I’d check on you.”  

You blink at him. “You drove all the way here for that?”  

He shrugs. “It’s not far.”  

Liar. His office is nowhere near your place.  

There’s a brief pause. The usual banter is on the tip of your tongue, but for some reason, the words don’t come out as easily tonight. Maybe it’s because he actually showed up. Maybe it’s because you don’t know what to do with the way your heart stutters at the sight of him standing there, waiting for you.  

You shift your weight. “Do you… want to come in for coffee?”  

At that, he chuckles, shaking his head. “Coffee? At this time?” He tilts his head at you, amused. “You must really hate me if you don’t want me to sleep tonight.”  

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Then I’ll give you plain water. Just come in.”  

His lips twitch into a smirk before he pushes himself off the car. “If you insist.”  

And just like that, he follows you inside.  

The door clicks shut behind you as you step inside, flipping on the lights. The familiar warmth of your home settles around you, but with Seungcheol standing in your living room, it suddenly feels… different.

“You can sit,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the couch as you move toward the kitchen.

He hums in response, wandering over but not immediately sitting down. Instead, he looks around, eyes flickering to the small details of your space—the stack of books on the coffee table, the blanket draped lazily over the couch, the half-full cup on the counter from this morning.

“By the way,” you start, keeping your voice casual as you pour warm milk, “who was that woman earlier?”

Seungcheol hums in acknowledgment, but when he answers, it’s after a slight pause. “Just a client. I’m handling a project for her company.”

“Ah.” You nod, stirring the coffee a little too forcefully. “Looked like you guys were close.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Are you interrogating me right now?”

You scoff, bringing the mugs over to the table and handing him one. “No. Just making conversation.”

You drop onto the couch beside him, curling your legs under you. He’s been here so many times before, and yet tonight, the usual comfort feels a little different—like you’re hyper-aware of the way he leans back, his long legs stretched out in front of him, the way he watches you over the rim of his mug.

“You seemed off earlier,” he says after a beat. “Something wrong?”

“No,” you lie, but even you don’t sound convinced.

Seungcheol doesn’t press, just tilts his head slightly, studying you like he’s figuring out a puzzle. “If you say so.”

After a while, he stretches, glancing at the time. “I should go.”

You nod, following him to the door. He lingers for a second, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Text me when you wake up, yeah?”

You frown. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Just ‘cause.”

You roll your eyes, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes your chest tighten. “Fine.”

He smirks. “Good.”

And then, with a small wave, he’s gone.

You stand there for a second, staring at the closed door, fingers curling tightly around your cup.

The theater is dim, the soft glow from the screen casting flickering lights across Seungcheol’s face. The film has barely begun, but the hum of quiet conversations and the rustling of popcorn bags fill the space around you.

You’re not sure who suggested this movie. Maybe he did. Maybe you did. Maybe it was just one of those things—where he casually texted, "Movie?" and you didn’t even think before replying, "Sure."

The movie plays, but your focus wavers. You’re aware of him. Of the way his shoulder is just barely brushing yours. The way his fingers drum lazily against his knee. The way he shifts slightly every now and then, getting comfortable.

And then, his hand moves to the popcorn bag between you.

Your fingers accidentally graze his. Just for a second.

You don’t think much of it—until it happens again.

The second time, neither of you pull away immediately. It’s not intentional, not deliberate. Just… a pause. A moment that lingers for a beat too long before he finally retracts his hand.

Your pulse stutters, but you keep your expression neutral.

A few more scenes pass. You’re getting lost in the film when suddenly—

A jump scare.

It’s sudden enough that your breath catches, and before you can stop yourself, your hand darts out, grasping the closest thing—his arm.

Seungcheol doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t say a word. Just glances down at your fingers curled around his sleeve.

You realize what you’ve done a second too late. Heat creeps up your neck as you start to pull away.

But then—

His arm shifts just slightly, just enough that your hand slides from his sleeve to his wrist, fingertips brushing against his skin.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The moment stretches, unspoken, unacknowledged. Not quite intentional. But not exactly not intentional, either.

And suddenly, the movie is the least interesting thing in the room.

The movie ends, and the crowd slowly shuffles toward the exits. You stretch your arms as you step out of the dimly lit theater, the cool night air greeting you.

"That wasn’t as scary as I thought," you say, glancing at Seungcheol.

He scoffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Sure. That explains why you nearly ripped my sleeve off."

You roll your eyes, nudging him lightly with your elbow. "That was one time."

He smirks. "Uh-huh. And what about the other time? And the time after that?"

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real bite behind it. He’s enjoying this way too much.

"Okay, whatever. Where are we eating?" You change the subject swiftly, and Seungcheol hums, pretending to think.

"Ramen?" he suggests.

Your stomach growls at the mention of food, and you nod. "Sounds good."

It’s a short walk to the small ramen shop tucked away on a quieter street. The place is cozy, warm, and familiar—one of those late-night spots you’ve both ended up in more times than you can count. The moment you step inside, the comforting aroma of broth and spices fills the air.

Seungcheol orders for both of you, as he always does, rattling off your usual without even asking. The cashier doesn’t even blink, already used to it by now.

You shake your head with a small smile. "One day, I’m going to switch things up just to mess with you."

He leans against the counter, grinning. "No, you won’t."

He’s right, and you hate that he knows it.

The two of you settle into a booth, the conversation flowing easily between bites of food. Seungcheol steals a piece of your fish cake without asking. You retaliate by swiping a sip of his drink. It's effortless, familiar.

By the time you step back outside, the streets are quieter. The late hour drapes the city in a peaceful hush, the occasional headlights casting long shadows on the pavement.

Neither of you say much as you walk, but it isn’t an awkward silence. Just the kind that lingers when words aren’t needed.

At some point, Seungcheol slows his pace, falling into step beside you instead of slightly ahead.

The street lights flicker above, the air crisp but not too cold. You rub your hands together out of habit.

A beat passes before Seungcheol exhales through his nose and, without a word, reaches out.

His hand brushes yours, just barely.

You think it might be an accident until he does it again.

This time, he doesn’t move away.

And neither do you.

The apartment is quiet when you step inside, the familiar space wrapping around you like a well-worn blanket. You toe off your shoes, set your bag down, and exhale, as if the night still clings to your skin. The soft hum of the refrigerator is the only sound filling the air, but your mind is anything but quiet.

You wander into the kitchen on autopilot, reaching for a glass, but your fingers hesitate over the cabinet handle. The thought slips in, uninvited.

What if he already knows?

The question lingers, settling into the corners of your mind like an echo. You shake your head as if that alone could shove it away, but it doesn’t work.

Maybe it’s the way he laughed tonight—soft, genuine, like the sound itself belonged to you. Or the way he leaned in closer, just enough that his warmth almost touched you. Maybe it’s nothing at all, just the way he exists around you—familiar, steady, yet suddenly… different.

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to chase the feeling away, but it’s stubborn. Because now that you’ve noticed it, you can’t unsee it. Every teasing remark, every lingering glance, every small, meaningless moment—it’s all been leading to this.

And the worst part?

You don’t even know when it started.

You sink onto the couch, pressing the cool glass against your palm, grounding yourself. You try to convince yourself it’s nothing. You’ve always been close. He’s always been there.

But tonight, when his hand brushed yours and he didn’t pull away… when he said goodnight like he meant something else…

Your heart had stuttered.

You bite your lip, staring at the ceiling, willing your heartbeat to settle.

...What if he already knows?

//

The studio is quiet except for the soft hum of the equipment. The city lights flicker through the window, casting faint shadows against the booth. You scroll through the messages, eyes landing on a familiar name.

Cherry.

“I tried everything you said—gave them a letter, took them out, spent so much time together. And honestly? I swear they like me too. But… nothing. What do I do?"

You let out a breath, tapping your fingers lightly against the desk.

"Okay, first of all—don’t give up. I know it’s frustrating when someone doesn’t read between the lines, but sometimes, people need things to be said plainly. No metaphors, no subtlety. Just… real words."

You lean back slightly, eyes flickering toward the dim window of the booth, where the city blurs in the distance.

"Because here’s the thing—what if they do feel the same way? What if they’re just as scared as you are? Wouldn’t you rather know than spend your days wondering?"

The words come easily, almost too easily, and for a split second, you wonder if you’re really just talking to Cherry anymore.

You exhale and push forward.

"So here’s my advice, Cherry. Tell them. No hints, no half-confessions. Just look them in the eyes and say, ‘I like you.’ And if they don’t feel the same? At least you’ll know. At least you won’t have to live with ‘what if.’"

Your hand hovers over the controls for a moment longer than necessary before finally pressing the next song cue.

The melody flows through the studio, soft and steady. And yet, your heart is thudding slightly faster than it should.

The night air is cool against your skin as you step out of the building, the faint hum of the city filling the quiet. Work is done for the day, your coworkers already heading their separate ways after a few lingering goodbyes.

You stretch your arms slightly, exhaling as you adjust the strap of your bag—only to freeze mid-motion.

He’s there.

Standing just outside the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket—except for one, which lingers behind his back, hiding something.

Your heart stirs, something instinctive. “Seungcheol?”

His lips twitch in a small, almost nervous smile. “Hey.”

“You’re waiting for me?” You shift your bag on your shoulder, stepping toward him.

“Yeah.” A soft exhale. “I had to.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Why?”

Seungcheol hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Then, with a slow exhale, he pulls his hand from behind his back—revealing a bouquet of flowers, delicate and vibrant under the streetlights.

Your breath catches.

Your fingers brush against his as you take it, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

“Seungcheol…” Your voice is softer now, unsure. The gesture feels too deliberate, too thoughtful. It makes your heart ache in a way you don’t fully understand.

He watches you for a second before exhaling, running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve said this sooner. A long time ago, actually.” His voice drops slightly. “I think—no, I know—I’ve liked you for a while now.”

Your breath catches.

He holds it out to you, a faint chuckle escaping his lips. “I know it’s kind of cheesy, but... I saw this and thought of you.”

Your fingers brush against his as you take it, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

“Seungcheol…” Your voice is softer now, unsure. The gesture feels too deliberate, too thoughtful. It makes your heart ache in a way you don’t fully understand.

He watches you for a second before exhaling, running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve said this sooner. A long time ago, actually.” His voice drops slightly. “I think—no, I know—I’ve liked you for a while now.”

The world feels like it slows down.

His eyes flicker with something—uncertainty, vulnerability, an honesty so raw it makes your chest tighten.

“I tried not to,” he continues, voice steadier now. “I thought maybe it would pass, that maybe we were just friends and I was misreading things. But then you started showing up in my thoughts at the most random times. I’d hear a song and think of you. I’d pass a café and wonder if you’d like their coffee. And no matter how much I tried to ignore it… it was always you.”

Your fingers tighten around the flower.

“So I’m done pretending.” His voice is quiet but firm. “I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time.”

You swallow, fingers tightening around the flower as your heart stumbles over itself. The weight of his words settles over you—not heavy, not suffocating, but something warm, something undeniable.

For a long moment, you don’t speak. You don’t know if you can.

Seungcheol watches you carefully, his usual confidence laced with something softer, something uncertain. You can tell he’s waiting, bracing himself for whatever comes next.

So you inhale slowly, steadying yourself.

“You—” Your voice falters slightly before you clear your throat. “You’ve liked me for a long time?”

He nods, lips curving into a self-deprecating smile. “Yeah.” A beat. “I thought you knew.”

Your breath catches.

Did you?

You think back—to the lingering glances, the easy laughter, the way he’s always been there, steady and constant. The way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice. The way your heart has been shifting, your feelings unraveling into something you weren’t ready to name.

“I…” You pause, lips parting, your heart beating so fast it’s dizzying. And then you laugh, a little breathless, shaking your head. “God, I feel so stupid.”

Seungcheol blinks, caught off guard. “Huh?”

You meet his eyes, and this time, there’s no doubt, no hesitation.

“I like you too, you idiot.”

For a second, everything is still.

Then Seungcheol lets out a sharp breath—a laugh, almost disbelieving—and suddenly, that teasing smile you know so well is back, but there’s something else in his expression now. Something real. Something unshakable.

“Yeah?” His voice is quieter, laced with something warm.

You nod, lips pressing together. “Yeah.”

And then, he pulls you in—his hand resting at the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair.

His lips press against yours, gentle at first, then firmer, like he’s been holding this in for too long. His other hand stays over yours, the bouquet still between you, petals brushing against your skin.

The city buzzes in the background, but all you can hear is the quiet rush of your own heartbeat. And in that moment, with his warmth, his touch, his everything—

It just feels right.

You pull away just enough to look at him, breathless, your forehead still resting against his. His hands remain on your waist, warm and grounding, as if neither of you wants to let go just yet.

And honestly? You don’t think you ever want to.

A soft laugh escapes you, light and airy. “You know… a listener of mine also loves their best friend,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly. “They tried everything—subtle hints, letters, taking them out—but their best friend was too dense to get it.”

Seungcheol chuckles, his thumb brushing over your wrist. “Sounds familiar.”

“Right?” You sigh dramatically. “So, I told them to just confess. No hints, no half-confessions, just… real words.”

He hums, nodding thoughtfully. “Good advice.”

“Yeah,” you grin, looking up at him. “I wonder how it went for them.”

Seungcheol pauses for a second, then leans in just a little, his voice playful yet quiet. “I’d say pretty well.”

You blink. “Huh?”

His lips quirk up, and suddenly, the way he’s looking at you feels a little too knowing.

And then, before you can process it, he says it—just two words, but they hit you like a ton of bricks.

“I know.”

You stare. “What?”

He grins, tapping a finger against your forehead lightly. “Your listener. Cherry.”

Your brows furrow. The pieces are there, but your brain refuses to connect them. “What about them?”

He hesitates, as if savoring the moment, before finally confessing, “It’s me.”

Silence.

You tilt your head, processing his words. “...You’re Cherry?”

Seungcheol nods, clearly holding back a laugh at your expression.

For a second, you just stand there, staring at him.

Then, with a dramatic gasp, you lightly smack him with the bouquet in your hands.

“Ow—hey!” He feigns pain, stumbling back slightly, but the wide grin on his face betrays him.

“You idiot!” You hit him again, though there’s no real force behind it. “You made me give love advice for your own confession?”

He catches your wrist, still laughing. “Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

You narrow your eyes at him, but before you can retaliate, he tugs you forward, pulling you into another hug.

This time, it feels different.

Familiar, warm, but with something new. Something neither of you have to question anymore.

You sigh against his shoulder, shaking your head. “I can’t believe you.”

He grins. “Believe it, Baby.”

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One

There’s a bloody and battered Steve Harrington on Phil Callahan’s couch. 

There’s also a somewhat shellshocked (but otherwise perfectly fine, thank God) Eddie Munson passed out on the other side of it, having refused to leave after dragging Harrington to Phil’s front door. 

Hopper and Powell both are unable to be raised via radio, dispatch is being cagey and keeps insisting they know nothing (but also cannot send an ambulance his way due to ‘unusually high call volumes’, what the fuck) and being that it’s now 3 am, Flo has long left the station.

Which leaves Phil as the last adult standing, slumped in a chair and quietly wondering if this is how the apocalypse starts. 

(Given the ER has apparently been overtaken by some sort of government task force to deal with a “gas leak and related poisonings” --suspicious quotation marks very much implied-- it kind of feels like it might be. 

“There are men in containment suites here. The big bulky white ones you only see in movies.” 

The nurse he begged through back channels to talk to had hissed on the phone, voice low and frantic. 

“There’s talk they’re going to quarantine the hospital. Do not bring that kid here. If you think he’s worse tomorrow, drive him to St. Peters in the morning, but otherwise just keep an eye on him.” 

St. Peters, the next closest hospital, is a full hour and a half drive away--and that’s if Phil takes his cruiser and keeps the lights and sirens on.) 

Callhan alternates between watching the clock and the rise and fall of Harrington’s chest as he breathes. Contemplates when his small town, boring life started going completely sideways. 

The nurse had assured him Steve probably just had a concussion and a few fractured ribs. The head wound had already closed by the time Phil checked it and it likely won’t need stitches unless it reopens. 

They are living out the best case scenario here. Steve’s (probably) going to be fine. He just needs to take things easy for a while, which Phil himself will be insisting he do, since that kid will not be going home to an empty house.

Not when he knows Steve's parents are gone and as helpful as Munson’s been, Phil can't ask him to watch Harrington.

For all the chains, swagger, and dumb habit of stealing Phil’s cowboy hat, Eddie Munson’s still a kid himself. 

Nevermind that Phil’s pretty sure the two aren’t even friends, let alone friendly. 

Sure Munson’s been spotted at a couple of Harrington’s parties, and yes there’s definitely rumors the brat's started dealing, but unlike most of Steve’s crew, Munson knows to bolt long before the cops show up. 

Definitely isn’t the type to play sports, in the same way Steve isn’t the type to stage large scale lawn-flamingo heists. They just don’t cross paths much. 

Plus it’s just downright irresponsible to even think of asking Munson and okay, maybe as a cop Phil himself has a responsibility to the city of Hawkins, but the city isn’t currently bleeding all over his couch. 

Add on the little fact that Steve had repeatedly said that he didn't want to be left alone…

(That he hadn’t realized how bad off he was until he was already behind the wheel of his car, chasing down a half-remembered promise of help Callahan had once offered. 

Phil would bet his last dollar that was why Munson hadn’t left yet. 

That he’d watched the way Steve had clung, first to Munson and then to Phil,  wrecked and shaking, his voice splintering as he pleaded, “Please stay, I don’t wanna die alone, I--sorry, please--”

Phil had been in a full-blown panic trying to reassure the kid he wasn’t about to keel over and he was a cop, for fuck’s sake!

Munson, who had once famously melted down in middle school over animal control’s attempts to put down an injured possum and tried to start a riot?

Even if he hadn’t needed the extra hands, Phil would’ve let the little brat linger, if only to head off the inevitable nightmares this whole screwed-up mess was bound to leave behind.) 

No ones going anywhere until Phil has answers or orders. 

The clock chimes in the background, a reminder of the late hour and he uses it to shove all thoughts of death and teenagers away. 

Attempts, once again, to walk through what he’ll do if the next call he gets is about an evacuation, or a curfew, or some other government issued order, and he still can’t get a hold of Hopper or Powell. 

If the hospital closes they’ll need to make a statement. Call some sort of town hall about what to do, where to go in case little Suzie or Bobby eats shit on their bike. 

Calm some people down in case the gas leak thing gains traction. Starts going around causing the same panic Benny’s death and Will Byers disappearance had. 

Wouldn’t be hard, given those two incidents happened last year.  

(Would the county send the stupid staties if Phil was the one to call in? Say he can’t get a hold of his own people? 

Would they care about the lowest guy on the force panicking, or would they think him a small town moron and ignore him until it was too late?

What if this really is the fucking apocolypse and Phil’s the only cop left around? 

‘Can I survive the end of the world with two teenagers in tow’ is not a thought exercise he’s ever entertained.

If he had, King Steve and Menace Munson would have been his last possible pick for the role, definitely not with one of them injured, and oh, dammit, he’s catastrophizing again--) 

Running on caffeine fumes and sheer panic, Phil’s thoughts loop relentlessly, the clock chiming again and again until the first light breaks through the windows and Steve finally stirs. 

Finds he must have fallen into some sort of half-asleep trance because he’s jerked to full awareness when Harrington moves to get up and ends up falling back down, loudly hissing and clutching his head. 

“Easy, easy.” Phil mutters, up in a shot, coming to hover over Harrington like the kid’s a nervous horse. “You’re with--uh, Officer Callahan? At my house.”

Then, like Steve might not know, adds;  “You’re pretty hurt, kid.” 

“Oh.” Steve says, squints up at him, holding his head in both hands. “Alright.”

That's a dramatic under-reaction, and Phil’s instantly worried about brain damage as Munson starts to come alive next to them. 

He crouches down next to Steve, hands hovering uncertainly. “You remember what happened?”

Steve stares at the floor, then at Phil. 

“Sort of?” 

“Waz’ goin’ on?” Munson says, blinking rapidly into awareness. 

“Go grab an ice pack for Steve,” Phil says distractedly, as he reaches out, telegraphing his movements. Begins gently combing through Steve’s hair to get a look at the cut. “Top shelf, left side of the freezer.”

He earns a foggy stare and a grunt that might’ve been “Sure”--or possibly, just a default teenager noise, before Munson tumbles upright, staggering off like a baby deer. 

Phil might’ve rolled his eyes and made a comment on teenage zombism, if Steve didn’t flinch every time his fingers so much as brushed against his skull. 

“Scale of one to ten, how bad’s the pain?” He asks, only just remembering to keep his voice down.

“It’s throbbing, man.” Steve replies, which isn’t as concerning as the fact he’s allowing Phil to manhandle his entire head without complaint, despite the pain. 

Thankfully, Phil’s prepared.

“Let’s fix that, then. Pick a hand, any hand.” He jokes lamely, as he fishes in the pocket of his pants, finally pulling out the little pill bottle he’d retrieved earlier. 

“Uh…” Steve stares at him uncomprehendingly until Phil holds out his palm and shakes the pill jar, two pills bouncing down. 

“Oh.” Steve says. “That hand then.” 

“This will make you a little loopy, but it’ll help with the pain.” Phil warns, handing them over. “I’ll get you a glass of water to take it with.” 

Not that he apparently needed to because Steve’s already popped the pills in his mouth and swallowed them dry. 

“Hope that’s because of the pain and not because you’re used to doing that.” Phil chides sarcastically, rising to his feet. Water will do Steve good anyway, he could barely get any down the kid last night. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Steve tosses at his back, the first real sign of his usual attitude. 

Which means the kids’ definitely going to be okay, at least. 

Phil rolls his eyes, fighting the urge to show relief as he passes Munson, the older teen now looking far more awake despite his hair looking like a rat made its home there. 

“Munson?” Steve says, startling loudly when Eddie drops down next to him on the couch. “Shit I thought I hallucinated you.” 

“No such luck, your majesty. Here, ice pack,” The older teen still sounds like he gargled gravel.  “Put it on your head.” 

Phill grabs a water bottle for him too. 

He returns as Eddie manages to wedge the ice pack into Steve’s limp hands, holding two bottles of water himself; one for Harrington and one for Munson,  who sounds like he could probably use it too.

“Do that, drink this, then,” Phil says, trying not to push but needing answers as he hands out the water, “Start talking. What the hell happened?”

Harrington presses the ice to his temple, and meets Phil’s eyes.

“How much do you know?” 

And nope, no, fucking no, that is not how this is going to work today, thanks!

“Uh-uh, you answer first!” Phil snaps, arms crossing over his chest. “All we have established is that you showed up here looking like you went ten rounds with Michael Myers and then tried to drive afterwards.” 

He’s been balancing on the knife’s edge of panic all night, and now that Harrington’s finally stringing full sentences together, it’s starting to show. 

Phil needs something here, he’s beyond desperate.  

Even if it’s just normal dumb teenager bullshit. 

“No, like, how much has Hop told you?” Steve clarifies hesitantly. “About the--the stuff? With the lab?” 

Which just makes things worse, since all roads seem to circle back to them.

(He knew that lab made evil space lasers and shit!) 

“I'm sorry, who's asking questions here? From the top, Harrington.” He raises his hand in the air, just in case Steve needs visual representation as Phil’s anxiety grapples with him. “Pretend Hopper hasn’t told me anything. Right now, you can pretend he doesn’t even exist.” 

Harrington squirts at him disbelievingly under the ice pack. 

Mutters; “I forgot you get bitchy when you’re upset.” 

Which is rich, coming from a Harrington. Their entire family turned being bitchy into an inherited skill set!

“The hospital says there’s a gas leak happening.” Phil prods, tone tight despite himself. “Is it from the lab? The government?” 

Was this a weapon that got away from them? Did they have Hopper? Is that why he wasn’t answering his damn radio!?

Phil knew they were on a time limit here, with the meds, but he hadn’t exactly anticipated Harrington starting off by talking about the lab. Selfishly thinks he’d have held off for a second if he had known this was related to whatever the hell was happening in town. 

“You kept mentioning the junkyard and some kid named Dustin.” Munson interrupts, hanging his elbows on his knees and peering at Steve. “You said you were going to be pissed at him if you died because he was being stupid.” 

Phil resists the urge to shush him. 

Unfortunately Harrington grabs onto that and runs with it, launching into a rambling, half-baked story involving babysitting, Hargrove being one of the kid’s racist stepbrother (unsurprising, Phil’s met his jackass of a dad), fighting with loose dogs and helping Hopper in the tunnels. 

Every mention of tunnels and dogs is delivered with sharp little glances at Phil, like he’s supposed to be in on something here. 

Phil isn’t, which he does not like, given the overall feeling of impending doom. 

Fortunately for Harrington’s head, but tragically for Phil’s sanity, the meds kick in after just twenty minutes.

On an empty stomach, ill-advised as that is, they hit even faster.

Which means any good information Phil might’ve squeezed out gets steamrolled by Harrington’s slow-motion nosedive into delirious nonsense. 

The kid’s answers grow less filtered and more disjointed, stopping part way through one sentence to start another. Phil makes the mistake of asking about the lab again right as Steve drops the word mindflayer, and suddenly Munson is firing off questions like it's a pop quiz on some weird board game.

Wings his hands in the air and drops back down in his chair as he mentally writes off getting anything when it dissolves into an argument over what a ‘demogorgon’ looks like. And sure, maybe he shouldn’t have expected too much, but then, he’s running on zero sleep himself here. 

 He turns on the TV with a frustrated sigh and flips it to the news station, keeping the volume down as low as it’ll go. 

Half-heartedly tunes in just enough to catch Stacy Whitherspoon droning about the weather, while listening for anything that might signal their impending doom. 

“--I’m telling you man, I don’t care what the kids say, it doesn’t have claws--” 

“Were you fucking there? No you weren't, cause you woulda seen the claws coming through the wall--” 

Eddie keeps throwing side-glances towards Callahan, like he’s checking to see if Phil’s clocking all this, and Phil mostly ignores it, because it’s more fun to watch Munson think Steve’s serious about actually seeing a monster. 

(Considers it payback for all the lawn flamingos that the brat’s stuck cowboy hats and sheriff badges on, and then splashed dramatically with red paint.)  

Of course Steve can’t just stick to the monster shit, and apparently, takes a jump into ‘whoops I may have given him too many pills’ land when he abruptly stops talking to just stare at Munson. 

“Dude,”  he says, with a thunderstruck expression, “did you know you have like, really pretty hair?” 

“Thanks, your majesty.” Eddie snarks in return, but it's too soft to be a reprimand. 

“Can I touch it? I wanna touch it.” 

Yeah, the drugs have definitely kicked in.

“If you let Callahan put the ice pack back on your face you can. You keep taking it off.” 

“Nooooo.” Steve whines pitifully, “It’s cold!” 

“Jesus Harrington, you really hit your head.” Eddie chuckles, now looking outright panicked as he coughs and looks pointedly at Phil, doe eyes seemingly sending out both ‘Are you hearing all this?’ and ‘Hello!? SOS!’  

“I gave him some Percodan.” Phil finally admits. “He’s fine, he’s likely just a little loopy from it.” 

He does not mention the pills are his own, left over from a minor surgery and not something all cops just happen to have on hand. 

He also does not comment on the fact that Munson looks instantly relieved, like he knows what a Percodan is. 

“I’m only loopy because Hargove cheated.” Steve grumbles in complaint, one foot in the conversation and the other off in space. “He hit my head. With a plate. Which is cheating.” 

“With a plate?” Munson and Phil both blurt out, nearly in unison. 

“With a plate!” Steve repeats with a bitchy undertone. “He tried to attack Lucas!” 

Another disbelieving scoff, much like the King Steve persona Phil’s grown familiar with.

“Lucas is like,” Steve pauses and looks down, counting on his fingers. Pauses again, then looks back up at them. “Maybe ten?” 

It’s stupid to even ask, but Phil can’t help himself. Steve had never truly clarified anything in all his rambling, and the Hargrove part had mostly focused on Steve’s worry over the kids, and the fact that the guy apparently had some sort of hard-on for bullying Harrington. 

“Is that where all your injuries are from? The fight with Hargrove?”  

He kind of hopes Steve says yes, if only because that’s normal shitty behavior. 

Phil can deal with normal shitty. He knows exactly what to do with normal shitty!

(Government agents in hazmat suits taking over the hospital is crazy shitty and he has zero idea how to even approach that mess.) 

Steve raises a hand, wobbily tilts it side to side in a ‘sort of’ motion. 

“I mean half was Billy, half was the demo, the dem, the dogs.” He struggles, before making a comically upset face. “An’ the tunnel. Fuck those tunnels, man.” 

Then corrects himself by saying, “Language, asshole.” 

“Steve,” Eddie says, and Phil can tell he’s struggling not to laugh. “You’re the one that said it.” 

“Oh.” Steve’s face untwists, taking back on the overall confused air. “I shouldn’t do that. Hey,” 

He tries to sit up, lean forward. “Did you know you have really pretty hair?” 

This would all be way more entertaining if Phil didn’t still need actual answers out of Harrington. 

Lesson learned: next time Harrington needs meds, he’s getting a pill. As in one, as in singular. 

“You should let me--like,” Steve trails off for a moment, apparently fighting the drugs and his messed up head both. “Like..style? That’s not the right word…” 

“You can play with it later. You have melted ice on your face.”

Steve is horrified instantly. “I have mice on my face!?” 

“No.” Eddie's struggling not to grin, and it's so easy to tell it's a real one when Phil has seen every shade of fake on that brat’s face.  “Here, let me get it.” 

He bats Steve’s hands away when the other attempts to ineffectively wipe at his cheeks, pulling out one of the black hanky’s he’s been sporting since about fifth grade to help and Phil freezes, because this one is different. 

This one he recognizes, because it’s from a specific bar in Indiana. 

“Just remember when this is over that you're mad at Callahan, not me.” 

“Why would I be mad at you?” 

“King Jockstrap, accepting help from the Freak? You tell me why that'd go badly.” 

A specific, special bar. One he himself visited a couple times, first on a dare and next out of curiosity, before he met Tracy and got engaged/married/divorced. 

It’s the kind of place with blacked out windows and multiple exits. Where he had made damn sure no one in there knew he was even associated with the police, let alone training to become a cop. 

Steve sounds downright hurt. “I gave all that stuff up. I gave everything up.” 

“What, being King Jockstrap?”

“Bring King of anything.” 

Phil felt that intuition of his kick in again. The one that said things like a Darcelle XV’s handkerchief weren’t exactly something a teenager just casually found. 

Definitely not in a town like Hawkins. 

(Absolutely not a kid like Munson.) 

“I can’t do it and help the kids. Jonathan and Nancy are both--” Steve cuts himself off. Starts again. “They keep telling me it's just me and. I don't want them to feel like they're…”

“Alone?” Eddie finishes for him, voice soft. 

Steve hums. 

“Yeah.” 

Phil only went a handful of times and he doesn’t recall what all the colors for the hankey’s meant, but staring at it, he’s hit with the same feeling he gets when he helps Flo complete a puzzle, or when he has one of those moments where he helps someone, instead of making their day worse. 

It doesn’t take much to change an entire worldview, but processing it? 

All the interactions Phil’s ever had with Munson, the complaints, the rumors?

 It’s like watching an explosion in real time, everything falling into place so fast it almost hurts. 

“Hey. If you're uh, if you're actually not mad at me, after this? I wouldn't mind continuing to make sure you're not alone.” 

“What's that mean?” 

What that means is Eddie Munson is going down in flames in real time, directly in front of the straightest kid Phil's ever met. 

Well. Okay. He's seen the hairspray, maybe not straightest ever, but…

Phil takes one long breath as the situation recontextualizes itself, then follows his gut and barrels over whatever clearly ill-advised, teen-crush filled nonsense Munson looks ready to blurt out.

“I went to Darcelle’s a couple times, when I was in my early twenties.” 

Phil has to talk to the ceiling, because he really doesn’t want to see Munson’s face right now. 

Harrington’s either, but Harrington likely won’t remember shit later. 

“I wouldn’t be let in if I went back now, not unless I pretended I wasn’t an officer, but.” He swallows. Tries to think on how much he wants Munson to know, and what actually would be a reassurance, here. 

Realizes, in that weird, back of the head sort of way, that offering reassurance is what he’s trying to do. 

“It’s a cool place.”  He finishes awkwardly. 

Dead silence meets his words and after a moment Phil pulls his gaze back to Harrington. 

Who is half leaning into Munson’s hands like a cat, completely unaware of the conversation happening around him, while Eddie stares frozen at Phil in a sort of mute horror. 

Silence stretches uncomfortably between them, long enough that Phil’s gearing up to say something really stupid to get himself out of this, when Eddie whispers; 

“Would you go back?” 

And shit, he hadn’t known Munson knew what a whisper was, let alone how to get his own voice to do it. 

Phil thinks honestly on the question though. He started this, he’s the adult here and he knows damn well he’s being asked something else. 

“Yeah.” He says, and can’t even tell if he’s lying or telling the truth. Figures it doesn’t matter, so long as Munson understands what Phil’s actually saying back. “Yeah I think I might. After the uh, divorce finalizes.” 

Eddie carefully extracts his hands and hanky both from Steve, fiddling with it in his hands. 

“I really want to go there again.” It’s spoken like a secret spilled, a careful thing Munson’s still unsure that he wants out there, attached back to him. 

Phil nods. Feels a weird lick of fondness he probably shouldn’t have for him, given the way the brat seems to enjoy being Hawkins PD’s self-assigned pain in the ass, but, well. 

He already opened his door for Steve. 

What’s another wayward kid? 

Except this one he recalls, isn’t as wayward as he seems, or at least, not anymore, and he feels a little guilty as he remembers that Wayne Munson both exists and might be worried about where his nephew is. 

“You’re a good kid, Eddie.” He says, and watches as that seems to hit the teen harder than not-quite admitting Phil’s been to a gay bar. “Phone’s in the kitchen. Go call your Uncle, he should be home by now. Let him know where you are.” 

“Yeah, okay.” Eddie says, and then actually goes to do so, like a proper citizen who listens to adults and authority figures instead of a semi feral rugrat.

Which just leaves Phil with Steve, who’s slumped sort of sideways on the couch. 

“Hey Callahan?” The kid says quietly, drawing Phil’s attention to him. 

“Yeah?” 

“Thanks.” 

The knee jerk response Phil has is to ask What for, but drops the idea the second he realizes the kid’s eyes are drifting shut. 

Internally curses himself for apparently deciding to half-adopt teenager asshole’s while he himself is barely in his 30s, but fuck it. 

“Anytime, Harrington. Anytime.” 

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Seven

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, more angst (IM SORRY IT'LL GET BETTER SOON I PROMISE).

Notes — Welcome to Oracle Red Bull Racing, Amelia Brown.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2020

The office was quiet in the way only offices designed for genius could be; not sterile, but reverent. Drafting boards and CAD monitors hummed quietly in the background, interrupted only by the soft tick of a mechanical clock that someone had insisted on keeping analogue.

Amelia sat stiffly in the chair opposite Adrian Newey.

He was perched on a stool beside a massive whiteboard, sleeves rolled up, fingers stained faintly with pen ink, as though he’d been sketching ideas directly into the fabric of his shirt. His presence was oddly... nerve-racking. 

Neither of them spoke for the first few minutes.

Amelia rolled her golf ball between her hands in her lap, trying not to bounce her knee. Adrian made a few marks on a fresh sheet of paper, muttering under his breath. It sounded like a stream of formulaic gibberish to anyone else. To her, it was almost a lullaby.

He paused. Looked at her. “Do you have any thoughts?”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear them.”

Adrian hummed, and then there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I will always listen. I will also always tell you when you are wrong.”

She swallowed, then nodded. Then she gestured to his paper pad. “You’re already sketching the '21 nosecone?”

“Yes. The frontal vortex targets under the new regs are… absolutely maddening. They’ll make cooling a nightmare.” He muttered. 

She shifted forward, almost involuntarily. “Mm. Not if you separate the low-pressure bleed early and feed it into the underside of the side-pod. It could trick the wake into thinking it’s interacting with a full-body airflow.”

He went very still. 

“Interesting,” he said slowly, standing and crossing to the nearest drafting board. He didn’t ask her to explain it again. He just started drawing. She stood too, walking around the conference table in order to stand at his side. Without looking at her, he handed her a pen. 

She made a face at it. “I like red.” 

He didn’t say anything. Just took the black pen back and found her a red one. 

By the time lunchtime rolled around, they had filled three boards, made seven sketches, and the early formation of a concept that wouldn’t just survive under the 2021 regs; it would thrive.

They hadn’t spoken much, not conversationally. Just fragments.

“This doesn’t breathe well at speed.”

“What if we taper the upper control arm here instead?”

“Why does this remind me of the '98 car?”

But somehow, it worked.

By mid-afternoon, Adrian glanced up at her from the schematic they were both hunched over.

“You think in shapes,” he said.

She blinked at him. “You think in sound.”

He smiled, and it was full of promise. “We will make a wonderful pair, Miss Brown.”

She let out a quiet breath. “Oh. Good. I was afraid that you would regret spending three million pounds on me.”

He stared at her for a long moment before laughing shortly. “No regret, Miss Brown. Not a single one.” 

For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel anxious. Or lonely. Or burning with the guilt of abandoning McLaren, the team that was synonymous with her family name. 

She tucked the golf ball back into her pocket. “I’ll draw up a more formal aero flow map tonight.”

“Don’t bother,” he said, flipping to a new page. “We’ll build it first. Then reverse-engineer the explanation.”

She grinned, sharp and fast and excited. “We can do that?”

“We can do anything we want.” He told her. 

— 

Christian pushed open the door to the technical office with the kind of hesitant curiosity reserved for someone who was pretty sure they’d told everyone to go home six hours ago.

The light was still on.

At first, he thought maybe the cleaners had left it by mistake. But as he stepped inside, the faint scratch of pencil on paper, the rustle of blueprints, and the hum of two very intense brains in quiet dialogue stopped him dead in his tracks.

Adrian was barefoot now, barefoot, perched on a wheeled chair with one leg pulled up under him like some kind of engineering gremlin, holding a scale model in one hand and gesturing toward it with the other, mid-monologue.

Amelia was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a yellow golf ball tucked beneath her heel, grease-smudged notebook balanced on her knee, jotting notes at lightning speed while murmuring confirmations like, “Yeah, but the boundary layer separation’s going to collapse here—unless we change the outwash angle…”

Neither of them noticed Christian standing in the doorway.

The room was covered in paper. The whiteboards had no white left. Someone, probably Adrian, had scrawled equations on the glass wall. There was a half-eaten croissant on the radiator. Half of the work was done in black ink. The other half was done in red. 

He took one silent step backward.

Paused.

Then slowly, quietly, pulled the door closed behind him.

From inside, he could just barely hear Adrian’s voice, “Did I ever tell you about the time I built a full wind tunnel model out of my wife’s hairdryer and a vacuum tube?”

Amelia sucked in a breath. “Did it work?”

“It blew the roof off my shed.”

She laughed, genuinely, full of lightness.

Christian exhaled and reached for his phone.

—

iMessage — 00:45am

Christian Horner

We are going to become world champions. 

Helmut Marko

How can you know?

Christian Horner

Newey is barefoot. His intern is laughing. 

Helmut Marko

Mein Gott.

— 

The drive home from Milton Keynes had been quiet; just the low hiss of the car heater and the soft murmur of the radio.

It had been her first week working at Red Bull Racing. She’d stayed in Max’s flat, the one he kept in Milton Keynes but only used when he was in town for sim sessions. 

The high of her first week was still humming under her skin; the buzz of purpose, of being understood, but underneath that, exhaustion tugged at her bones. She felt stretched thin. Too much stimulus, too many new faces. 

But the moment she stepped through the front door, into the warm, lemon-honey air of the house she’d grown up in, none of that mattered.

Her mum was in the kitchen, back turned, humming softly to the radio.

Amelia didn’t say anything.

She dropped her bag quietly, kicked off her shoes, walked straight over and folded herself into her mother’s arms from behind, pressing her forehead between her shoulder blades, breathing her in.

Tracy stilled. Just for a moment. Then she reached back, tugging Amelia around until she could hold her properly; one hand at the back of her head, the other wrapped around her shoulders, thumb rubbing slow circles into her jumper.

“Hello, darling,” she whispered. “I missed you.”

Amelia pressed closer, her cheek against her mum’s collarbone. “I missed you too.”

They stood there like that for a long time, the hum of the radio filling the silence between them, a wooden spoon tapping gently against the edge of a pan.

“I saw the article,” Tracy said eventually, voice soft. “And the photos.”

Amelia tensed.

Another piece had gone live, following the Motorsport.com exclusive. Red Bull had shared her official announcement — complete with photographs of her in team gear, standing in the middle of Max and Alex. 

Tracy didn’t let her pull away. “You looked very professional. And happy.” 

“I am,” she said, too fast. Then again, slower. “I am. I just… I’m wishing that he wouldn’t make it so hard.”

Tracy sighed into her hair. “Your father’s not angry with you, love. Not really. He’s angry with himself. He had no idea that you were even receiving offers, let alone considering any.”

Amelia swallowed. Shrugged. “He didn’t want me at McLaren. He never offered. I gave him every chance to.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Tracy pulled back just far enough to look her in the eye. “And you were right not to wait forever. You did the brave thing. You put yourself first. I’m proud of you.”

Amelia blinked fast. “I’m not used to that,” she admitted. “Putting myself first. It feels… selfish.”

Tracy brushed a strand of damp hair from her face. “No. Not selfish. It’s how you grow. You’re building race cars with Adrian bloody Newey. That’s something to be incredibly proud of.”

Amelia smiled, weakly. “They call me Mini Newey. All of the engineers. Christian. Max thinks that it’s funny.”

Tracy chuckled, pulling her into a tight squeeze again. “They should call you Better Newey.”

That pulled a real laugh out of her, small and sore and soft.

“Now,” Tracy said, letting her go, “go change into your favourite pyjamas and let me feed you. I bet you haven’t eaten a real meal all week.”

“I’ve been living on machine coffee and stale pastries,” Amelia admitted, already peeling off her jumper. 

Tracy shuddered. “Criminal behaviour. Go on, love. I’ll have dinner on the table in ten.”

As Amelia padded toward the stairs, warmth blooming in her chest, she heard her mum call gently after her. “He’ll come around. He loves you too much not to.”

She didn’t answer, but she nodded once, before disappearing up the stairs.

— 

iMessage — 01:43am

Lando Norris did u leave bc of me like. mclaren it’s okay if u did i just. i just need to know feels like maybe u did and idk. i feel shit also this is prob a bad time. i had like 5 beers and a shot of smth blue was v blue. tasted like acid

Amelia Brown No. Not because of you. You don’t matter to me that much.

Lando Norris ouch ok but like partly bc of me?

Amelia Brown Not everything is about you, Lando.

Lando Norris but some things are

Amelia Brown You started ignoring me. For no reason. Then I got a job designing a future championship-winning car. Those two things are unrelated.

Lando Norris when did u become so meannnn :(

Amelia Brown I’m not being mean. You’re just used to me being quiet when people treat me badly.

Lando Norris i didn’t mean to treat u badly i just panicked everything was getting weird and real and i didn’t know what to say

Amelia Brown So you said nothing. That’s still a choice.

Lando Norris yeah. i know. i’m sorry i miss u sometimes just thought u should know that

Amelia Brown That doesn’t change anything.

Lando Norris yeah i figured ok

Amelia Brown Go home. You are going to feel terrible tomorrow morning. 

Lando Norris already do thanks i guess goodnight mini newey 

Amelia Brown Don’t call me that 

— 

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor with her laptop open in front of her, the Red Bull Racing CAD interface glowing on the screen. Max was half-stretched out on the couch behind her, a bowl of strawberries balanced on his stomach and a bottle of Heineken in hand.

“Okay,” Amelia said, tapping the trackpad. “Front wing redesign is about eighty percent locked. We’re still playing with DRS and airflow under braking, but I think what we’ve got is going to make the car ridiculously sharp into corners.”

Max took a sip of his beer, watching her over the rim. “Ridiculously sharp sounds nice.” He noted. 

“It’ll bite if you get lazy,” she warned him.

He shrugged. “So, just like you.”

Amelia didn’t even look up at him. Over the past few weeks of working with him, she’d learned how to decipher his tones — he was teasing her. “I’m not lazy. You’d die without me.”

He tossed a strawberry at her. She caught it and took a bite.

She turned back to her laptop, sighed, and opened up the email thread that she and Adrian had going. 

Max cleared his throat. “Ah, have you talked to your dad yet?”

Amelia’s fingers froze over the trackpad. “No.”

Max nodded. “He’s still not talking to you?”

“Nope.” She popped the ‘p’. 

“Your mom?” He questioned. 

“She’s trying. He’s just… stubborn. You know what he’s like.” Amelia exhaled. “He thinks I betrayed him.”

“You didn’t.”

“I know that now.” She rubbed her temple, leaned her head back against the couch. “But I also think I became inconvenient. It was easier when I was just the kid who wanted to build toy cars in the corner. Now I’m—”

“Mini Newey,” Max offered, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She groaned. “Max, stop.”

He rolled his eyes. “You are, though. And you’re building my car, so I’m not complaining.” A pause. “Have you talked to Norris?”

Amelia blinked slowly, then shut her laptop with a quiet snap. “He messaged me two weeks ago. Drunk. Asked if I left McLaren because of him.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Did you?”

“Of course not.” She scoffed. What a ridiculous idea. “He just… doesn’t get it. He thinks that everything is about him.”

Max laughed. “He’s nineteen. His brain is still soft.”

“I’m also nineteen,” she muttered, tipping her head back against the couch to look up at him. “I think he’s just emotionally illiterate.”

Max blinked, then grinned. “Tell him that to his face. I’d pay to see it.”

“You’re not a world champion yet,” she shot back. “You don’t get to make demands like that.”

He leaned in, until their faces were almost level. “I will be. And when I am, I’ll buy you a stupidly expensive watch for every podium we get.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You say that now.”

“Mark my words,” he said, puffing his chest in mock pride.

They sat there for a while — not quite friends, not just colleagues. Something in-between. Teammates in the truest sense. Bound by a shared obsession: a championship. A car so fast it betrayed the law of physics.

“I miss him,” she said quietly.

Max exhaled through his nose, slow and even. “He’s a nice boy. Stupid, but nice.”

“I know.” Her voice was barely a breath.

— 

iMessage — 18:15

Fernando Alonso How has your first month at RB been? Do I need to make any angry phone calls?

Amelia Brown It’s been great. Everything’s going better than I could’ve imagined. I’m already making progress. Adrian and I work really well together.

Fernando Alonso I told you so, did I not? You two are very alike!

Amelia Brown It’s a perfect fit, actually. I feel like I’m finally being heard.

Fernando Alonso Good, good. I knew it. You made the right choice. And now, you’re three million pounds richer. That helps too.

Amelia Brown Haha, yes. Very much. I would've probably taken £5, so, thank you for handling the negotiation for me.

Fernando Alonso Mi Nina, for your talents, they would have paid three billion.

Amelia Brown I miss you so much. When are you coming to visit?

Fernando Alonso Soon. I’ve got some meetings in London next month.

Amelia Brown Anything exciting?

Fernando Alonso You’ll be the first to know if there is.

Amelia Brown :)

— 

Lando stood with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched, posture defensive. Across the polished meeting table, Zak leaned back in his chair, arms folded tightly over his chest, eyes fixed on the floor like it might offer him an answer he hadn’t already lost.

The silence had stretched too long. 

“She’s really gone, huh?” Lando finally muttered.

Zak didn’t look up. “Yes.”

Lando blinked hard. He wasn’t sure what he expected; some kind of denial, maybe. Some reassurance that there was still a version of this where she came back. That maybe Red Bull was just a phase. A test. Something to prove a point.

“She left a hole here,” Zak said eventually. “Not just in the team. In the culture. She was…” he paused, trying to find a word that wouldn’t sound too sentimental. “I didn’t realise how important she was to the team. How much she was involved in.”

Lando didn’t answer right away. His jaw was tight. “We all let her down.”

Zak looked at him then. Really looked at him. “You liked her.”

It wasn’t a question. Not judgment, either. Just a fact. Like pointing out a flat tire or a burning building.

Lando flinched. “Yeah. I really liked her.”

“You shouldn’t have listened to us,” Zak said quietly. “Any of us. You should’ve fought for her.”

“I couldn’t.” Lando’s voice was sharp, brittle. “I was scared. And stupid.”

Zak let out a rough, humourless laugh. “And I was selfish. I never gave her the recognition she deserved.” He paused. “She was the brain behind the Mercedes deal.”

Lando’s head jerked up, eyes wide.

Zak’s voice dropped, heavy with something close to guilt. “She pulled it all together, handed it to me in a file with start-to-finish instruction. Never asked for credit. I knew she wanted more, deserved more, but I didn’t give it to her. Not because she wasn’t ready. Because I wasn’t brave enough.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“I didn’t want to be the one who gave her a shot, because I knew what people would say. Nepotism. Favouritism. They’d talk about her name before they ever looked at her work. And I thought I was protecting her from that.” He shook his head. “But I wasn’t. I was just holding her back.”

Lando stared at him. Silent.

There it was.

The ugly truth of it all.

Lando swallowed thickly. “She was never going to stay.”

“No,” Zak said. “No. I don’t think so.” 

Lando ran a hand over his face. 

She had belonged here once. She had. And they’d both let her feel like she didn’t.

Now she was designing the future with the enemy.

And they just had to sit back and watch it happen.

— 

The paddock buzzed with the usual pre-season chaos; the rhythmic whirr of engines, the sharp sound of tires scraping against the asphalt, and the chatter of team members huddled in tight circles. 

Amelia stood near the Red Bull garage, her posture stiff but her eyes alert, scanning the familiar sea of cars and faces.

It was the start of the 2020 season, and everything felt both familiar and brand new. The sharp smell of fuel lingered in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of freshly waxed cars. But this time, she wasn’t in McLaren orange or one of her father’s old team shirts; this time, she was in Red Bull team gear. Black and dark blue with that iconic bull on her chest, the Red Bull Racing logo proud on her back.

And tucked around her neck, a pair of navy blue Red Bull ear defenders. 

She glanced to her left. Max was chatting animatedly with Christian, the two of them gesturing towards the car as the crew worked around it. Adrian was nearby, bent over a laptop, his face creased in concentration. Amelia would soon be next to him, diving into the data and throwing out her ideas. But for a moment, she lingered at the edge of the paddock, trying to ease herself into this new, new, new. 

Amelia’s gaze drifted toward the McLaren garage, even though she knew she shouldn’t be looking. There was Lando, standing with her dad, his usual smile present but different. Amelia tried not to flinch.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of her ear defenders, the cool plastic grounding her, just a little. She had left her golf ball in her office, determined not to need it. 

Her eyes flicked back to the Red Bull car, sleek and aggressive in its design. It was more than just metal and carbon fiber. It was partly her work, her heart and soul poured into something tangible. 

And then, from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a camera crew approaching her.

Her stomach dropped. 

The journalist’s voice reached her first, though she barely registered the words. “Amelia, first season with Red Bull Racing. You’ve been working behind the scenes for a while, but now you're here, in the paddock, in full Red Bull gear. How does it feel to be wearing navy blue now, after spending so much time with your father’s team, McLaren?”

Before she could formulate any kind of response, a familiar presence appeared beside her. Max.

He stepped in without hesitation, his body language calm and protective as he leaned slightly into her space. His gaze shifted to the interviewer, who looked briefly excited at the new addition. 

"Need an out?" Max asked her, his voice low enough only for her to hear. His stance was relaxed, but there was something in the way he held himself; a quiet assurance that, if she needed him to, he would get her away. 

The camera crew hovered expectantly, but Max didn’t flinch. He didn’t let the pressure reach her. He stayed right there, like a grounding force beside her.

"Amelia?" The interviewer prompted, waiting for her response.

Max’s eyes softened as he glanced at her. “Say whatever feels right,” he murmured, offering her a smile that was small but understanding. “You don’t owe them anything.”

For a moment, Amelia felt the tension drain from her. This wasn’t a performance. She didn’t have to give them the perfect soundbite. She could speak her truth, on her own terms.

She took a deep breath and, feeling Max still there, solid and supportive beside her, looked directly at the interviewer.

“It feels powerful,” she said simply, her voice steady but soft. It was the truth. For the first time, it felt like she was owning her decisions, not just navigating them. Powerful because this was her journey now. Because, despite everything, she was in total control.

The interviewer didn’t push for more, probably sensing the finality in her words. But the moment lingered for a second longer, like they were all collectively taking a breath.

Max gave her a subtle nod of approval, his lips twitching into a smirk. 

And, just as quickly, the two of them turned and started walking away, the cameras still rolling behind them, but it didn’t matter. Amelia’s shoulders relaxed, a weight lifting, and her feet carried her toward the garage.

— 

iMessage — 19:51

Lando Norris I’m sorry. I know that’s not good enough but I am I’m really sorry. And I want you to know that I’m happy for you. I’m not being sarcastic. You looked beautiful on camera. I’m glad Max was there with you. I wish it had been me.

Amelia Brown Congratulations on the podium finish, Lando.

— 

The morning sun was bright over the circuit as Max and Amelia walked into the F3 paddock. Amelia was wearing a denim dress. Max, in his typical laid-back skinny jeans and plain shirt, had his hands in his pockets and a baseball cap perched low over his eyes. He was always eager to watch the younger drivers, always curious about who might be the next big thing in motorsport.

She was more used to the engineering side of things, but she’d been a fan of motorsport in general since she was a child. The thrill of being here just to watch was amazing. 

They settled into the VIP viewing platform. The race kicked off with an energy that seemed to buzz in the air. Engines roared and the young drivers raced past, navigating the tight turns and high-speed straights with a determination that made Amelia feel the thrill of the sport she’d always loved.

As the race unfolded, Amelia’s eyes were drawn to car 81; Oscar Piastri. The young Australian was carving through the field with an almost eerie calm, moving up with a precision that belied his years. He raced like someone who had been here for ages, his every move instinctive yet calculated, as though he had been born for this.

Amelia felt that familiar pull. It was the same feeling she had gotten watching Lando in Formula Renault all those years ago — a sense that she was witnessing something special. Piastri surged ahead, eventually crossing the line first, claiming the win in the season opener.

“Damn,” Max muttered, impressed. “Kid’s fast.”

Amelia leaned in closer to the barrier, watching as Piastri celebrated with his team, their joy radiating from every hug and high-five. She turned to Max, who was watching her closely, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Don’t get too attached,” he teased. “He’s not yours to claim yet.”

“I’m not trying to claim him,” she replied, her tone steady, though there was an undeniable certainty in her voice. “But I will. When the time comes. And I think...” She trailed off, watching Piastri for a moment longer. “It will come for him very soon.”

Max grinned, shaking his head fondly. “Always thinking ahead, kleine zus.”

Amelia’s eyes remained on the Australian driver, a quiet feeling settling deep in her chest. She couldn’t quite place it.

“His manager?” she asked, her gaze still on Oscar as he laughed with his team, the world around him seeming to pause for a moment.

“Mark Webber,” Max replied, his voice neutral, but his expression unreadable.

“Ah.” Amelia’s lips tipped upward into an amused smile. Mark Webber, who had been central to Red Bull's rise in the sport. She glanced sideways at Max, then back at Oscar. “Mark Webber,” she repeated, her voice soft. “It’s strange, isn't it? Fernando and Mark; rivals. And now, I’m working at Red Bull thanks to Fernando, and Oscar is under Mark’s wing.” She looked at Max, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Formula One is a funny place.”

Max grinned, clearly entertained by the thought. “You can make connections out of anything, can’t you?”

Amelia let out a soft laugh, her gaze returning to the young driver in the distance. “I guess I do,” she said, her voice quieter now, a subtle sense of realisation setting in. “And somehow, they always seem to circle back to Red Bull.”

It was funny how Formula 1 worked that way: legacies, rivalries, and new beginnings always intertwined.

—

iMessage — 00:42am

Amelia Brown

Are you in Woking?

Lando Norris

Yes…?

Amelia Brown

I’m home alone. Come over. I am still angry at you, but I’m ready to talk to you now.

Lando Norris

Ok im omw like right now

NEXT CHAPTER

[ozarkthedog]

𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐀𝐜𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬

summary: Declan introduces you to a friend.

pairing: Declan O’Hara x afab!reader / Rupert Campbell Black

warnings: 18+ mdni. filth. unspecified age gap. oral sex (m). Declan calls the shots. fingering. edging. no m/m. slight anal play. dirty talk. squirting. rough sex. Rupert pushing the boundaries aka he’s a menace. cuckhold of sorts. male masturbation. cream pie. light, barely there after care. ep 8 spoilers. w.c: 2.4k

author’s note: i'm a Declan girlie but I had to write something feat. Rupert.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬 ⋅ 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

Soft golden rays bleed through the aged windows of the O'Hara estate. Its owner, Declan, sits comfortably on a worn chair in the middle of his study. Books and papers litter the room, even on the small sofa adjacent to the chair. As the fireplace crackles, the bright orange flames warm your skin as you kneel naked between your employer's thighs.

Declan groans as he feeds you his cock. His thighs widen, as much as his unzipped trousers will allow, on the tattered chair, giving you more room to swallow him down. His heart beats steadily under his lush brown sweater as you suckle his cock while looking up at him under your lashes.

Declan enjoyed times like these when the house was empty, and he got you all to himself. With Maud gone, leaving everything to Taggie was unfair, so he caved and hired a housekeeper. Little did he realize he'd fall head over heels for you.

You both took your time dancing around one another like nervous teenagers at a school dance. Harmless flirting and late-night conversations over the meals you'd cook for him led to Declan taking matters into his own hands.

He was used to control. He enjoyed it, really. The power felt comfortable, and he had no issue wielding it.

Declan was still on edge one day after a trifling day at Coriniuim. His usual soak and cig in the tub wasn't helping. The radio was blasting ear-aching songs, and the water was getting too cold too fast, but that all changed when you walked in on him with an armful of fresh towels.

He took a chance, one that could've ended with him locked up, but you didn't run. You followed his dubious commands and let him exert his dominance, allowing him to reign over you.

Since then, you two have been inseparable.

"Ah, right on time," Declan notes, looking at the clock perched on the mantle in his study as the large front door creaks open.

Declan mentioned inviting a friend over earlier in the day, but you didn't think he meant now.

The sight of your wide doe eyes makes his gut fervently twist. He's always appreciated someone yearning after what was his, especially an individual so well-loved by the women of Rutshire.

"Don' stop, Love," Declan instructs. His Irish accent dips low as he curls a solid hand around your head when you start to draw back. Your wary, garbled sounds vibrate Declan's cock eliciting a hiss from his lips. He sends you a pensive look and keeps you locked as the steps draw near. "You know I like people ta watch, but I wan' to try somethin' new."

Your heart lodges in your throat. Declan had divulged this kink not long after the two of you began dating. It was harmless fun flirting with other men while Declan observed from the shadows like a deviant; the journalist grew feral until he could no longer hold himself back, scurrying off with you in his arms, leaving the poor target in a stupor.

No one could ever come close to Declan; you never want them to.

"I seem to have come at a rather inconvenient time, have I not?" A pondering English baritone fills the room.

Rupert Campbell Black.

With arms crossed, the affluent man leans on the rustic doorframe. He catches your uneasy gaze with a cheeky smile, prompting a wildfire in your belly.

Declan shakes his head, his thick mustache ticking excitedly, "Not at all. Come in."

You try to move again, but Declan doesn't budge an inch. Your brows knot in confusion as your hands fly to cover your exposed bits as best you can.

"Say hello, ta Rupert, Swee'heart," Declan instructs, his dark chestnut eyes alight with devilry.

Your gaze trails from the man's supple leather loafers and pressed lined slacks to the sepia colored dress shirt that exposes a svelte chest as the top two buttons are undone. Rupert oozes high society and overt confidence, the kind of man you'd go dumb even looking at.

"My, my, where has Declan been hiding you?" Rupert croons. His azure orbs fixate with dark intrigue at your naked, shivering form.

As you greet Declan's neighbor, a slight garbled noise barely registers to the men. Tauntingly, Rupert leans over and puts a hand behind his ear, "Sorry, Angel. What was that?"

Your belly flips, and butterflies flutter carelessly in the wake of being so degraded. Still, your cunt produces a wave of arousal and clenches around nothing.

Knowing he doesn't have much patience, you chance another look at Declan and wish you hadn't. His white teeth bared, and his lips pulled back into a light sneer, like a wolf facing down prey, waiting for you to heed his command.

Declan bites back a moan at the hedonic sensation of you stringing together a messy greeting for the affluent man.

Rupert snickers. "Aren't you cute."

"Thatta' girl." He praises before thrusting his length into your throat and cutting off your air.

He waits for a beat, relishing in the watery glaze that coats your eyes and how your chest heaves. Fidgety hands dig into his darkened slacks, knocking the loose ends of his belt. Drool spills down your chin and settles at the base of his cock.

"Ya know ya waited too long ta give Rupert a warm welcome." He fumes, his expression twisting lightly with displeasure.   

With a soft growl, Declan eases his grip. You fall back on your heels, a blight, coughing up spittle and trying to suck down fresh air at the same time.

"Might I say, you've got a real treasure here," Rupert leers down at your messy face and spit-soaked breasts that make your nipples shine in the light. "Lovely to meet your acquaintance."

"Though' you migh' like a taste." Declan offers, looking up at Rupert like you weren't perched at their feet, anxiously awaiting their next move.

"Would I ever." A Cheshire grin tugs at Rupert's lips. He makes a show of folding his button-down sleeves over his muscular forearms as he stalks around you.

Declan beckons you with the tilt of his head, "C'mere, Love. I ain't done wit' your mouth."

You sniffle before taking your place between his knees once more. Declan can sense your worry as Rupert traces a finger down your spine while he crouches behind you. "Don' worry abou' him. He won' do anythin' out of line."

Declan taps his bulbous crown against your swollen lips, drawing your attention away from the blue-eyed beau. His sturdy thighs are a protective shield, enveloping you like a fortress from harm.

As curious fingers tickle your sticky thighs, your lips part with a gasp, allowing Declan to thrust into your warm, wet mouth.

"Jesus Christ, she's soaked." Rupert husks as he softly skims your glistening folds. Your cunt throbs from his unfamiliar touch, coursing a frightening spark of arousal up your spine.

"She's not 'ad much experience." Declan hisses as his crown breaches the tight confines of your throat. Your hand tugs at the thick base that's peppered with dark curls, fingers barely overlapping, pumping in time with his languid thrusts across your tongue.

"You don't say." The Englishman trails off, no doubt thinking of all the crude ways he could defile you.

As you start a slow rhythm, bouncing your head up and down Declan's cock, making the older man unashamedly moan, Rupert swipes his fingers across your seam and gathers all your shiny slick, drawing it up to your clit before lazily circling the tender bud.

Bright lights erupt under your eyelids. Blood rushes south, pooling in your core, heightening your suffocating lust as your body bends to his will.

"Ah ah, Angel." Rupert tsks, grabbing hold of your wriggling hips. His grasp keeps you stock still, unable to evade his voracious touch.

The pads of Declan's fingers press into your scalp as a soft warning. "Be good ta Rupert."

Being pushed and pulled between the two older men was agony of the luscious kind. You only knew of Declan's touch, the succulent highs and lows. The amorous sublime.

A gentle hand glides over your ass before massaging the plump cheek. Your frantic cries are a mumbled mess as you're pushed higher and higher into the pleasurable abyss from Rupert's caress.

He winds two fingers into your core, cursing from your tightness, and splays his dexterous digits along your walls. His thumb lands square on your clit, swiping back and forth with prowess. "So sweet and responsive. Such a good girl." he curls his fingers along your walls, drawing pathetic noises from your chest.

Your body rolls like waves, back and forth between the two men. Rupert's teeth sink into the tender skin of your ass before a gentle tongue soothes the marks and trails down the valley of your cheeks, causing you to choke around Declan's cock.

A wad of spit lands directly on your rosebud just before a wicked tongue ravishes the tight, untouched hole.

Your belly drops at his vulgar touch. No one ever touched you there before. A heavy wave of arousal slips from your cunt as you fight the urgent need for release. Rupert moans hungrily as he laps the rim of your ass.

Your incessant wriggling alerts Declan to Rupert's perverted actions.

"What'd I say, ya daft cunt?" Declan fumes. His mustache twitches as he shoots daggers at the man posed behind you.

Rupert swirls his tongue one final time before leaving your rosebud with a loud pop. "Sorry, chap. I forgot you haven't filled all her holes yet." The tug of his lips says otherwise.

Declan mumbles under his breath and leans back in his chair, focusing on you. "What'a fuckin' sight," he grunts, yanking your tear-coated face off his girth. His large hand completely cups the side of your face, making you feel like a doll with glossy, swollen lips as he stares at you like a man possessed.

Rupert twists his wrist, and your eyes grow wide as saucers. The need to come moves to the forefront of your mind. Declan can tell you're fighting, doing everything you can to hold back as you're slowly dragged to the edge.

Your jaw goes slack, and eyelids flutter; you're willing to endure any repercussions for coming without approval, but then Declan stamps your orgasm out just as quickly as it started.

"No, no, no. Don' be greedy," he tsks, shoving your dumbstruck face back down onto his length.

With Declan's cock stretching your lips and drooling pre cum over your taste buds and Rupert curling his fingers into the spongy spot behind your clit, your nerves scream for release.

The insides of your thighs are soaked, slick from want and a need held so close yet so far away. A soft cry falls from your spit-stained lips as Declan snatches your head off his cock and curves a large hand under your chin, holding you like a precious piece of art.

His opaque orbs sweep across your face, wild and feral; he's on the edge of breaking but holds steady like the stubborn man he is.

"Come on, Declan, let the girl come," Rupert implores to the stoic man holding captive your utmost pleasure.

The corner of Declan's lips tilts. He knows what'll happen. He can see it in your face, how truly gone you are, how nearly close the dam is to breaking.

"Go on, show 'im what he's missin', Swee'heart." Declan encourages, finally allowing you the taste you've wanted all this time.

Your body writhes in their combined hold with unkempt ecstasy as a ravenous cry fills the large study. You come like a geyser, locking like a vice around Rupert's fingers, forcing a curse from his lips as you coat his wrist and trousers with your creamy release.

"Jesus-" Rupert moans, dark and depraved, watching with rabid fascination as your core pulses in time to the beat of his heart.

Declan gathers you into his arms, away from the still man, propping your knees on either side of his thighs. "Sit on the couch and watch," he orders a dumbstruck Rupert before easing you down on his swollen cock.

A whimper catches in your throat from the obscene stretch as his girth widens your channel for the first time that day. Declan grabs your ass and steadily bounces you on his length, helping you rise and fall since your legs have turned to jelly.

"Gone so dumb, ya can' even move," Declan mocks. Coarse whiskers chafe your skin as he nibbles your chin, pouring filthy praises against your jaw, "Still so tight. Maybe two cocks'll do the trick," he drives his girth into your exhausted body. "Wan' your pretty cunt gapin' fa' me."

The seam of his brown sweater grazes your clit on every thrust; the fibers are soft yet overstimulating, your body boils, on the verge of combusting, and there's nothing you can do.  

A low moan catches your attention, dragging you from your frenzied state. As you turn your head to find the strange noise, you see Rupert with his swollen cock in his hand, barely out of his trousers. His cock weeps, the bulbous tip pulsing red, while he sucks your juices off his glistening fingers like a man starved for days.

His animalistic gaze bores into where you and Declan connect. You can imagine how obscene it is. Declan's sticky balls thwap immorally against your ass. Sticky sounds bounce off the walls as he draws more slick from your core, staining the base of his cock in a creamy ring.

Rupert's eyes flit to yours. You silently mouth his name, playing with the man who's used the women of Rutshire like a kid with infinite toys. The subtle action pushes the posh man over the edge.

Biting his knuckles, Rupert spills over his other set with a ragged string of grunts. The image sets off a chain reaction. You follow suit, crying as you come around Declan's cock, and dragging your other half with you. Declan's thick brows furrow, groaning his ecstasy as he fills you with ropes of white.

The three of you gradually come down from the hedonistic scene. Your hearts beat to their natural rhythm as the birds outside sing a dusk setting song.

"T'was lovely to meet you, Angel," Rupert flirts, cleaning his cock with a handkerchief before tucking himself into his trousers. "Hope to see you again real soon."

"Fuck off, Rupert," Declan quips, jutting his chin toward the door.

Rupert sends you a wink before rounding the couch and exits with the fattest smile you've ever seen.

Declan mumbles under his breath and curls his arms around you. He tucks your head under his chin, letting you unwind comfortably before the crackling fire.

"Was that okay, Swee'heart?" Declan's asks with softened eyes.

With a satisfied sigh, you snuggle deeper into his hold, seeking the warmth and protective embrace he can only give. "More than."

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which the paddock is extra chaotic this time around especially when you make podium

The Dallas heat feels different when you're not behind the wheel. You're stretched out on Paige’s couch, limbs tangled, her head tucked under your chin as a movie plays on low volume. It’s been months since you last saw her—your racing calendar taking you across Europe, while she’s been diving into life as a newly drafted Dallas Wing.

“You still coming to Austin?” you ask, fingers lightly tracing circles on her shoulder.

Paige shifts to look up at you, her lips curving into a lazy smile. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You raise a brow at her, already suspicious. She’s grinning too hard.

“…What?”

She bites her lip. “So… the girls wanna come too. Is that okay?”

You blink. “The girls?”

“Azzi, Nika, KK, Sarah, and Aubrey.”

You laugh. “So not just a friend. The entire UConn reunion tour?”

She gives you her most innocent smile.

“Yeah, of course. Just warn your PR team—it’s gonna look like an all-star lineup in the paddock.”

The sun’s blazing, the track is buzzing, and your head is already halfway in race mode when you get word: Paige and her friends are here.

Chaos doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Between the roaring engines, the pit crew radios blaring, and the VIP paddock buzzing with fans and media, the energy is electric. But the real frenzy starts when a group of tall, athletic women walk into the McLaren garage wearing oversized team jackets and sunglasses.

It starts small—just a few fans clocking Azzi Fudd with her signature braids and Nika’s unmistakable style. Then it snowballs. Phones are out. Videos are rolling. WNBA Twitter is already five tweets deep before you even spot them.

You barely make it out of the garage before you spot them—Paige at the center, flanked by her basketball crew in McLaren merch, all towering, sunglasses-wearing chaos.

Nika’s filming something for her Instagram story. KK’s pointing out car parts like she knows what they do. Azzi’s looking around like she’s trying to memorize every detail. Aubrey’s already chatting with one of your pit crew like she belongs there.

Sarah grins when she sees you. “The legend herself!”

You laugh, pulling her into a quick hug before greeting the others. Paige lingers at the back, looking at you like she hasn’t seen you in months—even though you’ve been wrapped around each other all week.

“You made it,” you say softly.

She smiles, stepping into your arms like it’s muscle memory. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Behind her, Nika groans dramatically. “God, it’s even worse in person.”

Azzi elbows her. “Let them be cute.”

“Okay, I’m not saying this lightly,” you grin, greeting Azzi with a fist bump. “But y’all might be more famous than me in here right now.”

Aubrey lifts her glasses. “We’re just here to cheer for your girl. She’s been a mess without you.”

Paige, now blushing beside you, shakes her head. “Don’t listen to them.”

“I don’t know,” KK says, eyeing you both. “You should’ve seen how fast she packed to get here.”

Aubrey nods toward your car. “So… who do I bribe to sit in that thing?”

You roll your eyes playfully. “C’mon, let me show you where the magic happens.”

The tour is a hit. You show them the garage, the tire compounds, the steering wheel controls (Sarah literally gasps when you demonstrate the radio toggle), and even let Paige sit in your car—something you hadn’t even let the press do yet.

Fans outside the glass panels are already recording. The edits are incoming.

You lead them through the inner workings of your world: telemetry screens, tire compounds, even let them take turns pretending to talk on the radio headset. Paige is tucked close by your side, occasionally whispering questions in your ear that make your neck flush.

“You actually understand all these buttons?” she asks, eyeing your steering wheel like it’s a spaceship.

You grin. “Every single one. Want me to quiz you later?”

Azzi’s watching you both like she’s mentally recording every interaction. “I swear, y’all could be a reality show.”

KK shakes her head. “Paige talks about you like you built the car and the track.”

“She’s not wrong,” Paige deadpans. “She kind of did.”

You catch her hand and squeeze it—quiet, grounding.

Nika notices. “I’m posting that.”

It’s hot, the competition is tight, but you’re in the zone.

Lap after lap, you push. Clean overtakes. Flawless pit stop. Every sector in the green. You don’t know where Paige and the girls are watching from, but you feel her—like a warmth in your chest every time you brake into Turn 12.

Final lap. You’re in the lead.

And when you cross the finish line—P1, arms up, the team roaring in your ears—your comms crackle with a voice you’ve memorized in a hundred different tones.

"You’re unreal. P1 never looked so good. I’m so proud of you, baby."

You laugh into your radio, heart full. “Is this my new race engineer? Because I’m keeping her.”

Back in the garage, the team is in chaos. Cameras flash. Your suit’s half unzipped, still radiating heat when Paige runs up and throws her arms around you.

“P1 looks good on you,” she says against your chest.

“And you look good in my team jacket,” you murmur.

Before either of you can lean in, Nika whistles.

“Y’all gonna kiss or can we breathe first?”

Aubrey’s holding a bottle of water like she’s about to throw it at Paige. “SIMP.”

KK’s doubled over laughing. “I cannot believe how whipped you are.”

Azzi’s just recording the whole thing on her phone, panning between your red ears and Paige’s flushed face.

“She ran to the radio,” Sarah tells everyone. “Shoved one of the engineers out of the way.”

You wrap an arm around Paige’s waist, unfazed. “That’s my girl.”

@/f1fanvids PAIGE BUECKERS IN THE MCLAREN GARAGE? THIS IS NOT A DRILL. Her helping reader zip up her suit?? Holding her helmet??? We’re screaming.

@/trackgirledits Paige Bueckers congratulating reader over team radio after the USGP win is my new religion. [“You Are In Love” – Taylor Swift]

@/courtandtrack [Paige + the UConn girls taking over the McLaren garage is actually peak crossover content. KK trying to figure out the tire compounds Azzi wearing protective earmuffs like a pro Aubrey in the cockpit]  This is their Avengers movie

@/mclaren [Paige: “She’s just really talented, y’know?” Azzi: “YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH HER.” KK: “Can we have ONE interview without simping??”] Reader is blushing off-camera btw

@/WNBAupdates Paige Bueckers bringing the whole UConn crew to support her F1 girlfriend at the US Grand Prix is the kind of crossover event we DESERVE. 🧡 #TrackCourt #PowerCouple

Later that night, the two of you are back in the hotel room. She’s in your post-race hoodie, her feet in your lap, scrolling TikToks while your phone buzzes nonstop.

“You’re famous again,” you say.

She looks up. “You won the race.”

You smile. “And you won the internet.”

Paige leans in, resting her forehead against yours. “I don’t care about any of that. I just like watching you win.”

You pull her close, heart still racing—for entirely different reasons.

[yunholic-jongholic]

Hi i’m the anon that also wants you to do the jongho fluff🤭 If your requests are still open, could you do one with Jongho where he’s protective over the reader? I think i’d be interesting to see since he doesn’t really show his emotions a lot and doesn’t like physical touch (at least out in the open lol) Thanks!!

Not Just Protective | C.JH x Reader

PAIRING | Choi Jongho x Reader

RATING | Not really bad but just in case; 16+? 18+?

CONTENT WARNINGS | FLUFF, Protective Boyfriend!Jongho, Jealousy, Hint of Possessiveness, Drinking, Alcohol Consumption, Suggestive/Talking about Smut, Bar Setting, Insecurities, Anxiety (Might be missing some. I will have to come back.)

WORD COUNT | 12.4k

AUTHOR NOTE | Omggg yes!! more Jongho fluff stories :3 (I will take all recommendations hehe) I hope you enjoy! This is a bit long hehe. I want to make an ACTUAL protective boyfriend Jongho series story... Maybe one day <3

•

You were in the middle of getting ready for work, slipping into your uniform as you caught your reflection in the mirror. You sighed quietly. The truth was—you didn’t really feel like going in today.

After finishing your associate’s degree, you’d spent months applying to office jobs, hoping for something steady, something that matched your efforts. But all you got in return was radio silence.

So, for now, you were working at a high-end hotel restaurant. Most days you worked as a hostess, other days behind the bar—wherever they needed you, really.

You grabbed your bag, gave yourself one last glance in the mirror, and headed out the door. The familiar weight of your routine settled over you as you walked to your car, keys jingling quietly in your hand.

The drive to the hotel wasn’t long, but your mind wandered the entire way—thinking about everything and nothing. The same playlist played softly through the speakers, a background to the same streets you took every day.

Pulling into the employee parking lot, you took a deep breath before stepping out, smoothing down your uniform. You could already hear the faint hum of the lobby through the entrance—soft piano music, distant conversation, the clinking of glasses from the bar.

Inside, everything was polished and perfect. The floors gleamed, the lighting warm and elegant. You clocked in, slipped on your name tag, and forced the usual smile into place. Time to play your part.

“Morning,” one of the servers greeted as they passed by, already balancing a tray of champagne flutes.

“Morning,” you replied, your voice even but distant.

Another day. Another shift. Same script.

You headed straight to the back to clock in, tying your hair up into a ponytail with practiced ease. Tonight, you were assigned to the bar—one of those nights where they were short-staffed and needed extra hands. No time to dwell, just time to move.

You made your way behind the bar and slipped into your routine, already taking orders, mixing drinks, and putting on your best "I’ve got this" expression.

Then, mid-pour, your phone buzzed from inside your apron pocket.

You let it ring the first time, brushing it off—probably nothing urgent.

But then it buzzed again. And again.

You sighed and glanced around, making sure you weren’t in the middle of something, then pulled your phone out for a quick peek.

Jongho.

Your heart softened a little at the name, even if the timing made you sigh again. You wiped your hands on a towel and quickly stepped to the side, just long enough to answer.

“Hey!” you greeted with a small smile, already feeling a bit lighter just hearing his voice.

“Hey,” Jongho replied. “Have you left for work yet?”

You sighed, glancing down at the towel still in your hand. “Yeah, I’m already here. Just started my shift at the bar.”

There was a pause on his end, then the sound of game effects filtered faintly through the call. “Hmm… I might stop by. After my game, of course.”

You could practically hear the controller clicking in the background.

“Aww, do you miss me already?” you teased, grinning as you leaned against the counter for a second, stealing a quiet moment.

“I’m just bored,” he said flatly.

You rolled your eyes, the smile still lingering on your lips. “Wow. So romantic.”

He went quiet for a beat… and then you heard him chuckle under his breath.

“You know I miss you,” he finally muttered.

That made your stomach do a little flip—like it always did when he slipped up and let the soft side show.

���I miss you too,” you said quietly, the words slipping out more tenderly than you expected.

Your cheeks flushed with warmth, and you felt your heart flutter in that familiar way only Jongho could stir—like no matter how routine the day felt, just hearing his voice reminded you you weren’t alone in it.

There was a pause on the line again, not awkward, just… comfortable. You could hear him shifting a bit, maybe setting his controller down.

“I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, softer this time.

You smiled, still holding the phone close. “Can’t wait.”

Just as you ended the call, a coworker passed by with a smirk. “Ooooh, someone’s blushing.”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh, slipping your phone back into your apron pocket. “Mind your business.”

But you couldn’t help the smile that lingered on your lips as you turned back to the bar, the night suddenly feeling a little brighter with the thought of Jongho stopping by.

You slipped back into the rhythm of work—pouring drinks, wiping down the counter, checking orders. The usual. But your thoughts kept drifting to Jongho. Even just the idea of him stopping by made everything feel a bit easier.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked in, hoodie half-zipped, hands in his pockets, and that usual soft look in his eyes when he spotted you. He made his way to the bar and plopped down directly across from you.

“Apparently Wooyoung and San are coming too,” he sighed, leaning his arms on the counter like a man preparing for war.

You raised an eyebrow, already grinning. “Oh, that’ll be fun.”

He gave you a look. “Fun for you, maybe.”

You laughed, already picturing Wooyoung’s usual chaos and San’s dramatic reactions. “C’mon, they love you.”

“They love teasing me,” he muttered, reaching for the straw in your water cup like it was his now.

“Well,” you smirked, leaning on the bar and lowering your voice playfully, “I’ll protect you… as long as you tip well.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re literally my girlfriend.”

“Doesn’t mean you get free drinks and immunity from chaos.”

Jongho just groaned, resting his head dramatically on the bar. “I should’ve stayed home.”

You laughed again, already grabbing a clean glass and sliding it his way. “Too late. You’re here now.”

Jongho sat up again, resting his chin in his hand as he watched you move behind the bar—grabbing bottles, mixing a drink for another customer, wiping down the counter with easy rhythm. You could feel his eyes on you, and when you glanced up, he didn’t even bother looking away.

“What?” you asked, giving him a playful side-eye as you filled a glass.

“Nothing,” he said, voice soft. “Just… you’re cute when you’re focused.”

You paused for a second, surprised by how casual yet sincere it sounded. That flutter in your chest returned, spreading warmth through you in the middle of your shift like it belonged there.

“Stop it,” you mumbled, trying to hide your smile as you turned away slightly, pretending to check something under the bar.

He smirked, clearly proud of himself. “Just telling the truth.”

You leaned back over the bar, elbows resting on the surface as you looked at him. “If you keep talking like that, I’m gonna make you wash dishes.”

“Worth it,” he said without hesitation.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was already melting.

He reached across the bar, brushing his fingers lightly against yours where your hand rested on the counter. It was quick, subtle—but enough to remind you how grounding his presence was, how even with all the noise around you, it felt like everything quieted when he was near.

Before either of you could say anything else, the front doors swung open, and you both turned your heads.

“I see you, Jongho!” came Wooyoung’s voice, way too loud for the room.

You groaned, laughing under your breath. “And so it begins.”

Jongho muttered, “There’s still time to run.”

You handed him a menu. “Too late. You’re mine now.”

He smiled, already bracing himself. “Lucky me.”

Jongho pulled his hand back with a sigh, sitting up straighter just as Wooyoung strolled in like he owned the place. He made a beeline for the bar, sliding onto the stool right beside Jongho with that signature mischievous grin already in place.

“Awwww, little bear visiting his girlfriend at work,” Wooyoung cooed loudly, nudging Jongho with his elbow. “That’s soooo cute. Look at you—soft and whipped.”

Jongho coughed, clearly trying to play it off, but you could see the tips of his ears turning red. You smirked as you grabbed a couple of glasses, already starting to make drinks for the two new guests.

“Be nice,” you warned, shaking a mixer with practiced ease. “Or I’ll mess up your drink on purpose.”

Wooyoung gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

As you moved around behind the bar, you caught the little frown that formed on Jongho’s face. He slouched slightly, muttering just loud enough for you to hear, “Would’ve loved it if it was just us two.”

You glanced at him, your heart tugging a little at how sincere he sounded.

Setting Wooyoung’s finished drink in front of him, you leaned a little closer to Jongho and said softly, just for him, “We’ll get our moment again. Promise.”

He met your eyes and gave a small, grateful smile—one that said he believed you.

Then, right on cue, San walked in.

“Let the chaos begin,” you whispered under your breath.

San arrived moments later, arms spread dramatically as if he were entering a concert, not a classy hotel bar. “Ahhh, I made it! The night can officially begin!” he declared, sliding into the seat on your side of the bar next to Wooyoung.

“You’re just on time,” Wooyoung smirked, lifting his drink. “Jongho’s here being all soft and romantic.”

San raised a brow, glancing at Jongho, then back at you. “You must be something special if he’s skipping game time for a mid-shift visit.”

You chuckled, handing San his drink with a playful shrug. “I’m just that magical, apparently.”

San placed a hand over his heart. “I respect it.”

You noticed Jongho glance at San after his comment—not full-on glaring, but the look definitely had an edge to it. Subtle, but there. A silent watch it kind of moment.

Before things could get weird, you jumped in to shift the energy.

“So,” you said, offering a bright smile as you leaned on the counter, “what are you guys doing this weekend?”

Jongho finally relaxed at the change of topic, leaning back in his seat, his usual calm returning.

Wooyoung perked up. “Our friend Seonghwa is throwing a party tomorrow night. Real classy, probably candles everywhere and a strict 'no shoes in the house' rule.”

You laughed. “Sounds like him.”

“Anyway,” Wooyoung continued with a grin, “he wants Jongho to come, but you know how hard that is. Someone refuses to go to parties unless food, bribes, or emotional guilt is involved.”

Jongho shot him a look. “I just don’t like people.”

“Exactly,” Wooyoung said, pointing at you now. “That’s where you come in. You’re his weakness. Help us. Use your powers.”

You laughed and nodded. “Oh, I’m totally down! I’ll just swap shifts—my manager’s pretty chill. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Bless you,” San said, raising his glass in appreciation.

You gave Jongho a wink before turning to help a customer waving from the other end of the bar. “Be right back!”

As you walked off, Wooyoung leaned over to Jongho with a smug grin. “See? She’d trade a whole shift just to party with you. That’s love, bro.”

Jongho didn’t say anything at first, just watched you as you smiled at a guest and took their order, light on your feet, completely in your element.

“Yeah… it is.”

Jongho’s voice was quiet, like the words slipped out before he could stop them. His cheeks flushed a soft pink, and as soon as he realized it, he quickly cleared his throat and looked down at his phone, pretending to check something—anything—to shake off the feeling.

You came back a moment later, smiling like sunshine. “You guys want anything else to drink?”

Wooyoung shook his head. “I’m good for now.”

Jongho gave you a small smile. “I’ll take another water if you’re not too busy.”

“On it,” you said, already grabbing a clean glass. “By the way… what time’s the party tomorrow?”

Wooyoung pulled out his phone and tapped through his messages. “Uhh… Seonghwa said people should start arriving around 7pm. And it’ll go till, like, 2am or something. You know how he is—candles, jazz playlists, and exact timing.”

You laughed and pulled out your phone, quickly setting a reminder with a little star next to it. “Perfect. I’m gonna go ask my manager to switch my schedule now before I forget.”

You were already halfway down the bar before they could even respond—determined, focused, and just a little too excited.

Jongho watched you go, a faint smile tugging at his lips again. Wooyoung leaned over with a teasing grin.

“She’s really doing it. For you. That’s girlfriend of the year energy.”

Jongho tried to play it cool, sipping his drink. “Yeah, well… she’s kind of the best.”

Wooyoung smirked. “You’re so gone.”

“I know,” Jongho muttered, almost proud of it.

San leaned over and playfully ruffled Jongho’s hair. “Aww,” he cooed with a grin, dragging the word out in the most annoying way possible.

Wooyoung absolutely lost it, nearly falling off his stool with laughter.

Jongho shot San a glare and immediately shoved his arm away, smoothing his hair back down with dramatic offense. “Touch me again and you’re walking home.”

San just winked. “Still worth it.”

Jongho grumbled something under his breath, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh.

Just then, you returned, a triumphant smile on your face. “Manager said it’s all good! I’m off tomorrow night!”

“Let’s gooo!” Wooyoung fist-pumped in the air.

But before you could rejoin the boys, a customer three seats down waved you over. “Excuse me, could I get another drink when you get the chance?”

“Of course!” you said warmly, already moving in their direction.

You chatted with them as you poured their drink, asking how their night was going, if they were staying at the hotel, and tossing in a few light jokes here and there. It was natural for you—easy. You had a way of making people feel comfortable, seen, like they belonged there.

It didn’t go unnoticed either. The guest chuckled, smiling more with every word, clearly enjoying the conversation. And a few seats away, your little trio of chaos-makers watched it unfold.

“She’s so good at this,” San said, sipping his drink. “I’d leave a tip just for the conversation.”

Jongho leaned his chin on his hand, watching you with soft eyes as you laughed at something the guest said.

“Yeah,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “That’s why everyone loves her.”

Wooyoung glanced down at him, catching that rare softness in Jongho’s voice. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “You’re so down bad, bro.”

Jongho didn’t respond. Instead, he looked away, shifting in his seat like he was trying to shake off the weight in his chest. He sat up straighter, eyes flicking toward you behind the bar as you finished chatting with the guest—still smiling, still lighting up the room like it was nothing.

Then, almost out of nowhere, he cleared his throat and said, “Well… once you both finish drinking, may I have some alone time with her?”

Wooyoung raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this new side of Jongho. “Oh? Look at you being all bold.”

San grinned around his straw, then shrugged. “Say less.”

He immediately chugged the rest of his drink like it was a challenge, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood up with a dramatic flourish. “I have no problem being a wingman. Go get your girl.”

Wooyoung, still smirking, raised his glass and finished the last sip slowly. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That narrows it down to nothing,” Jongho shot back dryly, finally cracking a smile.

Wooyoung winked and slid off the stool, following San toward the lounge area. “You’re welcome.”

Now it was just Jongho at the bar, quietly waiting for you to make your way back over, fingers tapping lightly on the counter—trying to look casual, but his heart already beating faster.

As San and Wooyoung disappeared into the lounge, the bar grew a little quieter. The clinking of glasses and low hum of conversation continued in the background, but for a moment, it felt like the world had pulled back just enough to make space for the two of you.

You walked back over, wiping your hands on a bar towel as you noticed Jongho still sitting there, alone now, quietly waiting.

“No more teasing?” you asked with a playful tilt of your head.

He looked up at you, eyes softer than before, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Only from you.”

You chuckled, resting your hands on the counter as you leaned in just a little. “Everything okay?”

He nodded slowly, then glanced down at the glass in front of him, turning it absently with his fingers. “Yeah. I just… kinda wanted a minute with you. Just us.”

You blinked, heart doing that quiet little flutter again. “You have me,” you said gently, voice dropping just a little.

There was a pause—one of those quiet silences that didn't feel empty, just full of things neither of you had said yet.

“I like watching you here,” Jongho admitted, finally looking up again. “The way you talk to people. The way you make everyone feel like they belong.”

You smiled, eyes softening. “It’s just part of the job.”

He shook his head. “No. It’s you. It’s just who you are.”

Your breath caught for a second, the sincerity in his voice hitting deeper than you expected. You reached over the counter, brushing your fingers gently over his hand.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” you said quietly. “It… means a lot.”

He turned his hand under yours, lacing your fingers together, his touch warm and grounding. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I just like being where you are.”

And in that moment—amidst the low lights, the quiet chatter, and the clink of glass—it felt like the rest of the world faded out, leaving just the two of you in that small, perfect pocket of peace.

You leaned in, forehead resting gently against his, your fingers still loosely tangled with his. For a brief, breathless moment, the two of you just looked at each other—eyes locked, everything around you fading into background noise.

“Do you want to stay over tonight?” you hummed, your voice low, a little playful, but full of something softer. Your gaze flicked to his lips, lingering just long enough to make your intentions clear.

But Jongho, ever the flustered and stubborn one, pulled back slightly and coughed—completely betraying how affected he actually was.

“Yeah… sure,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “Just… don’t tell the others I’m staying at your place tonight. They’ll never shut up about it. I’ll hear about it for a week straight.”

He looked away, clearly trying to avoid your eyes now. But you didn’t miss the pink tint rising to his cheeks.

You rolled your eyes with a teasing smile. “God forbid your friends know you actually like spending time with your girlfriend.”

He groaned quietly. “They already know. That’s the problem.”

You laughed under your breath, leaning on the bar again. “You’re lucky I think it’s cute when you act all cool and distant.”

“I am cool,” he muttered, still refusing to look at you—but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

You tilted your head slightly, voice dropping just a little. “You know if we weren’t in public right now, I’d kiss you.”

Jongho’s eyes finally flicked back to yours, a flicker of something unreadable—desire, longing, shyness—crossing his face.

“I know,” he murmured, lips twitching into a small smirk. “That’s why I’m staying.”

And just like that, your heart did that stupid thing it always did around him—fluttered and clenched at the same time.

The night moved on around you—drinks ordered, conversations drifting in and out, music playing low in the background—but your moment with Jongho lingered, hanging like warmth in the air between you.

Eventually, you sighed, reluctantly straightening up. “Alright, I’ve got like twenty more minutes until I can clock out.”

Jongho nodded, sipping the last of his drink. “I’ll hang out here until you’re done.”

“Try not to fall asleep on the bar again,” you teased, walking away to tend to a few final tables.

He smirked behind his glass. “No promises.”

The rest of your shift flew by. You stayed busy, wiping down the counter, cashing out tabs, chatting with a few regulars. Every time you glanced over, Jongho was still there—quietly watching, head resting on his hand, a soft look on his face that he thought you didn’t see.

By the time you finally clocked out and tossed your apron in the back, the bar had mostly cleared. You returned to him, slipping on your jacket.

“Ready?” you asked.

“Always,” he replied, standing up and stretching slightly before falling into step beside you.

The walk to your place was quiet, but comfortable. The streets were calm, the cool air brushing softly against your skin. Jongho kept close, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, glancing over at you every now and then like he was making sure you were still there.

Once inside, you kicked off your shoes, dimmed the lights, and threw your keys in the little bowl by the door. Jongho followed behind, slower, quieter, taking in the calm of your space.

You turned to look at him. “You can borrow some clothes if you want.”

He nodded. “Thanks. You always have the best hoodies.”

You smiled and grabbed him one from your drawer—one he’d worn before, one that probably still smelled faintly like him.

He disappeared into the bathroom to change, and when he came out, hair a little tousled and hoodie slightly too big on him, your heart did another quiet little flip.

You were already curled up in bed, blanket pulled halfway up, lights low, your phone forgotten on the nightstand.

Jongho climbed in beside you without a word, slipping under the covers and immediately letting out a soft exhale as he settled in next to you.

You turned to face him, resting your hand gently against his chest. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

He looked at you, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks for being my peace.”

You didn’t say anything—you just leaned in and pressed the gentlest kiss to his cheek, letting the moment speak for itself.

And as he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close, you knew this was it—your safe place, your quiet ending, your little piece of forever tucked into one sleepy night.

---

The next morning, you woke up with the familiar warmth of Jongho's arms wrapped around you, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. His body was relaxed, lips slightly parted, completely lost in sleep.

You shifted slightly, pressing your face deeper into his chest, not quite ready to leave the little world the two of you had created between the sheets. His warmth, the faint scent of his hoodie, the quiet—everything in that moment begged you to stay.

But reality tugged at the edges of your peace.

You sighed softly, carefully untangling yourself from his hold so you wouldn’t wake him. Your feet hit the cool floor as you padded to the bathroom, freshening up and slipping into your daily clothes.

By the time you came back into the room, Jongho was awake—barely.

He was lying exactly where you left him, the blanket halfway off his leg, phone in hand, earbuds in, and music playing just loud enough for you to catch the beat. His hair was a soft mess, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep, but he smiled lazily when he saw you.

“You’re up early,” he said, voice deep and raspy from sleep.

You crossed your arms with a smirk. “Someone in this house has to be responsible.”

He stretched dramatically, his hoodie riding up just enough to reveal the waistband of his sweats. “Mmm, give me like… ten more years. Then I’ll get up.”

You chuckled and grabbed his free hand, giving it a small squeeze. “I gotta head out soon. Want anything before I go?”

He blinked at you, squeezing your hand back. “Just one more hug.”

You smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead before sinking into the bed beside him, letting his arms wrap around you one last time before the day truly started.

You melted back into his arms for a moment, letting yourself indulge in the comfort of it—his warmth, the way his fingers found your waist like muscle memory, and how he let out a soft sigh the second you were close again.

“Okay,” you whispered, cheek against his chest. “Just five more minutes.”

“Mhm,” Jongho hummed, smug. “Told you I was the bad influence.”

You both stayed like that a while longer, the music still playing quietly from his phone. Eventually, your stomach let out a quiet grumble, and you groaned, burying your face into him.

He laughed. “That was either your stomach… or a really dramatic protest about leaving me.”

You peeked up at him. “Maybe both.”

Jongho finally sat up, stretching with a sleepy yawn as you got out of bed again, heading to the kitchen.

“Cereal or pancakes?” you called out.

“Pancakes if you’re feeling fancy. Cereal if you’re running late.”

“I’m always running late,” you replied, grabbing the pancake mix anyway.

He wandered in a few minutes later, still in your hoodie, hair sticking up in soft little waves. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you pour batter into the pan.

“You know,” he murmured, “you look really pretty like this.”

You looked over your shoulder, eyebrow raised. “Like what? Rushed and barefoot in the kitchen?”

He grinned. “Exactly that.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to fight back the smile creeping in.

He came up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder. “Let me flip the next one.”

“You? In the kitchen? Scandalous,” you teased.

“I’m multi-talented,” he replied proudly.

You handed him the spatula. “Alright, chef. Impress me.”

He flipped it… and somehow managed to fold the pancake in half mid-air.

You burst out laughing. “Wow. So talented.”

“I panicked,” he admitted, dead serious. “It betrayed me.”

The morning continued with small laughter, messy pancakes, shared bites, and clinking mugs of coffee. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t a big event. But it was your kind of morning—full of love in the simplest, most beautiful way.

Jongho had his head leaned back against the cushion, eyes half-closed as you scrolled on your phone beside him. Occasionally, he’d peek over at your screen just to see what you were watching, or randomly poke your leg with his foot like he was silently asking for attention.

You nudged him back. “You gonna nap before the party?”

He opened one eye, looking at you with the laziest smirk. “Tempting.”

You tilted your head. “If you fall asleep now, I’m leaving you behind.”

“Liar,” he mumbled.

You laughed. “Okay… maybe.”

Eventually, you both stretched and pulled yourselves off the couch, the sunlight dipping just enough to remind you the day was sliding into evening.

You walked to your room to pick out something cute but comfortable, something party-worthy but still “you.” Jongho lingered behind, checking his phone, probably responding to Wooyoung's 15 unread messages. Then you heard him call out:

“Do I need to dress up for this thing or is hoodie-acceptable?”

You grinned. “It’s Seonghwa’s place. You show up in a hoodie, he might disown you.”

“Seonghwa would never disown his favorite child,” Jongho sighed dramatically. “Guess I will try anyways.”

You pulled a few outfit options from your closet, debating in the mirror, and called out, “Wanna help me pick?”

He appeared at the door, leaning on the frame like he had nothing better to do—but his eyes lit up the second he saw you holding up outfits.

“You’d look good in anything,” he said smoothly.

“Flattery doesn’t help me choose,” you shot back, but your cheeks warmed anyway.

He stepped in, gently tugging one of the hangers from your hand. “Wear this one. It’s… very you.”

You raised a brow. “You sure?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

And just like that, you could feel the shift—the lazy morning slipping away, replaced by the excitement of what the night might bring… and the quiet thrill of having him by your side for all of it.

The sun had just finished dipping below the horizon when you and Jongho stepped out of the car, the glow of streetlights and the warm ambiance from Seonghwa’s house lighting up the front porch like a welcome sign. Music thumped softly behind the front door, the kind that set the mood without being too loud. You could already hear voices inside laughing, chatting, glasses clinking.

You looked over at Jongho as you both approached the door, nudging his arm with a grin. “You ready to socialize, introvert?”

He sighed. “As ready as I’ll ever be. I’m only here because you said you’d stay near me the whole time.”

“I never said that” you teased.

He shot you a look. “Wow.”

You laughed, slipping your hand into his as the door swung open. Seonghwa greeted you both with a warm smile, dressed to perfection as always.

“Hey! You made it!” he beamed, pulling you into a quick hug and giving Jongho a clap on the shoulder. “Didn’t think I’d see you tonight, man.”

Jongho gave a dry smile. “I was blackmailed.”

You grinned proudly. “Happy to be the reason.”

Inside, the space was glowing with soft lights—candles, fairy lights, and the flicker of ambient lamps casting a cozy, social vibe. Some people were lounging on the couch, others around the kitchen island, a few already dancing in the open space by the speakers.

“Drinks are in the kitchen, snacks on the table, and if Wooyoung challenges you to anything, don’t accept,” Seonghwa warned with a laugh before disappearing to greet more guests.

You glanced up at Jongho. “So… what’s the plan? Drinks? Couch cuddles? Social suffering?”

He smirked. “Surprise me.”

You tugged him gently toward the kitchen, already spotting San and Wooyoung waving at you from across the room, drinks in hand, chaos practically radiating from them.

You gave Jongho’s hand a squeeze.

“Welcome to the party,” you whispered.

He leaned in close, lips by your ear, voice low. “Just don’t disappear on me.”

“Never.”

You pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, watching his face immediately turn a soft shade of pink. He tried to play it cool, but the way his ears tinted red completely gave him away.

You plopped down on the couch beside him, legs brushing his as you leaned in comfortably. He shifted just enough to let you rest against him, your presence fitting perfectly into the curve of his side.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, giving his arm a gentle caress before leaning your head on his shoulder for a brief moment. “I’m gonna grab us some drinks.”

But Jongho immediately pouted, lips poking out slightly as he gave you a look of pure betrayal.

“You just said you wouldn’t disappear on me!”

You giggled, standing up anyway. “I’m disappearing to the kitchen, drama king. That’s like… twenty feet.”

“That’s twenty feet too far,” he muttered, crossing his arms and slouching into the couch like a sulking puppy.

You grinned and leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “I’ll be right back, bear. Promise.”

He peeked up at you with that reluctant smile—the kind he gave only you when he knew he was being ridiculous but couldn’t help it.

“Okay,” he mumbled. “Bring something sweet.”

“You, or the drink?” you teased.

He snorted, finally laughing. “Both.”

You winked before heading off to the kitchen, leaving him there watching you walk away with that same soft, quiet look you’d caught him wearing so many times before.

You made it to the kitchen with no issues—grabbed two drinks (something fruity for you, something simple and sweet for Jongho), and even snagged a cookie from the snack table because, well, why not?

But just as you turned around, ready to return to your pouty, sofa-bound boyfriend, you heard it.

“There she is!” Wooyoung’s voice rang out from across the kitchen like a siren of chaos.

You barely had time to blink before San popped up beside him, eyes wide with fake urgency. “We need a fourth for this game, and it’s literally life or death.”

“What game?” you asked suspiciously, backing up slightly—but too late.

They were already flanking you like bodyguards of mischief.

“Never Have I Ever,” Wooyoung declared proudly, grabbing one of the drinks from your hand—Jongho’s, of course—like it was part of some secret deal.

“We already dragged Yeosang and Yunho in, but they’re boring,” San added, grabbing your wrist. “You’re chaos. You make things fun.”

“Jongho’s gonna be so mad,” you laughed, half resisting as they started guiding you toward the living room again.

“Then tell him to come join!” Wooyoung grinned.

You looked over your shoulder, already seeing Jongho still sitting on the couch exactly where you left him—until his eyes met yours, narrowed in suspicion as you were being dragged away like a crime scene witness.

“Babe!” you called, laughing. “It’s not my fault! They’re kidnapping me!”

Jongho stood up with a groan, clearly considering whether to intervene or let it happen. “I leave you alone for two minutes.”

“Come on!” San yelled. “If she’s playing, you’re playing!”

And with that, you were plopped onto the floor with a group of overly excited friends, drinks in hand, hearts already racing from the chaos to come. Jongho sighed in surrender and slowly sat down next to you, his knee pressing against yours.

“You owe me,” he muttered.

You smirked, clinking your cup softly against his. “I’ll pay up later.”

You sat cross-legged on the floor between Jongho and San, your drink in hand, surrounded by a semi-circle of your most chaotic friends. Wooyoung clapped his hands together like he was about to summon a demon.

“Alright,” he grinned. “Never Have I Ever. The classic. Five fingers up, first one out gets a punishment. Probably something dumb. Or mildly illegal. We’ll see.”

You all lifted your hands in the air, fingers splayed. Jongho, beside you, already looked so done, but his hand went up anyway.

“I feel like I should lawyer up now,” Jongho muttered.

San smirked. “Too late. You’re in too deep.”

Wooyoung looked around like a game show host ready to ruin friendships. “Okay, I’ll start us off strong. Never have I ever… kissed someone in a public restroom.”

Gasps. Scandal. Laughter.

You stayed still. So did Jongho.

But San? Down went a finger.

“Bro!” Yunho shouted, eyes wide.

San just shrugged. “Look, it was clean. And it was late.”

“Define ‘clean,’” Jongho mumbled.

Next went Yeosang, calm as ever. “Never have I ever… lied to get out of a date.”

You dropped a finger. Wooyoung dropped two, because of course.

“Wow,” Jongho teased, glancing sideways at you. “I’m scared to ask.”

“Hey,” you grinned, nudging his knee. “That was pre-you. Obviously.”

San pointed at Wooyoung. “Your turn.”

Wooyoung took a large gulp of his drink. Already ready to bring Jongho down.

“Never have I ever… have slept with someone in this room.”

You flushed and tried to hide your smile as you very slowly, very casually… lowered a finger.

Jongho noticed. His face deep red as he lowered a finger as well.

The group exploded.

“BRO.” “YOU DID NOT—” “OUR BABY BEAR AND HIS GIRLFRIEND!!!”

You shrugged with a smirk. “Might’ve been the same person who’s pouting on the couch earlier.”

Jongho bit back a smile. The group lost it.

“I KNEW IT!” San yelled.

“THEY'RE SO GONE FOR EACH OTHER,” Wooyoung added, already throwing a pillow in the air like this was some romantic K-drama climax.

You and Jongho just exchanged a look. You—grinning. Him—trying so hard not to smile like an idiot.

Yunho, barely keeping it together, wiped his eyes. “Okay, my turn… Never have I ever fallen asleep while someone was talking.”

You, Wooyoung, and Yeosang immediately dropped fingers.

Jongho leaned toward you with a soft grin. “Is this where you confess that I bore you to sleep?”

You laughed, leaning your head lightly against his shoulder. “Only when you talk about video game updates.”

“Wow. Noted.”

After a few more rounds and a lot more chaos—accidental flirty confessions, someone admitting to stealing hotel slippers, San nearly losing a bet to Yeosang of all people—you were all breathless with laughter.

Jongho was still beside you, fingers long since folded, shoulders relaxed, his hand now loosely laced with yours.

You excused yourself quietly from the group, letting Jongho know you were heading to the bathroom. He gave your hand a quick squeeze before letting go, nodding with that sleepy-eyed look he always wore when he was finally relaxed in a crowd.

After finishing up in the bathroom, you made your way back down the hall, but your steps slowed as you passed the kitchen. You could hear low voices—Seonghwa and Hongjoong.

You paused, not meaning to eavesdrop, but their tone caught your attention.

“I don’t know, man,” Seonghwa said, voice softer than usual. “It’s weird… watching everything change. We used to talk every day. Now it’s all catching up with me.”

“I get it,” Hongjoong replied gently. “It’s life, not distance. You’re still his person. He’s just figuring stuff out, like the rest of us.”

They laughed quietly—bittersweet, but warm. It was one of those real moments between friends. Raw, vulnerable. And it made you smile a little, heart full just hearing the closeness between them.

But before you could turn to head back, a voice from behind startled you.

“Hey, cutie…”

You blinked and turned, eyebrows raised slightly.

A guy—mid-twenties, tall, casual smirk on his lips—stood leaning against the hallway wall behind you, clearly tipsy but trying way too hard to look smooth. You didn’t recognize him immediately, but you assumed he was one of Seonghwa’s coworkers or plus-ones.

You gave him a polite smile, already stepping back slightly. “Hey. Sorry—I was just heading back to my friends.”

He didn’t take the hint.

“You here with anyone?” he asked, smile crooked.

You took another small step back, tone firm but still calm. “Yeah. My boyfriend.”

“Oh c’mon,” he chuckled, brushing a hand through his hair. “Guys like that don’t appreciate girls like you. You should hang with me instead. Promise I’m more fun.”

Before you could answer—before you even had to—another voice cut in, low and sharp.

“She already said she’s taken.”

You turned to see Jongho standing there now, just a few feet away, eyes locked on the guy with that quiet intensity he rarely showed in public.

He stepped forward once, not threatening—but very, very clear.

The guy blinked, looking between you two, then laughed nervously. “Whoa, hey man, chill—was just talking—”

“Yeah,” Jongho said, voice calm but icy. “Talk somewhere else.”

The guy held his hands up, muttering something under his breath before turning and slipping back into the party.

Once he was gone, Jongho let out a breath and turned to you, gaze softening immediately. “You okay?”

You nodded, smiling a little at his protectiveness. “Yeah. He was just being annoying.”

Jongho stepped closer, his hand gently brushing yours. “If I’d known someone was hitting on you, I would’ve followed you the second you stood up.”

You chuckled, leaning into him slightly. “Aww. You were keeping an eye on me.”

“Of course I was,” he said softly. “You're mine.”

You squeezed his hand, heart fluttering just a little more than it should’ve. “Let’s go back before Yunho starts a fire trying to make s’mores on the stove.”

Jongho gave you a small, almost shy smile, still holding onto your hand as you walked back together.

But this time, he didn’t let go.

You leaned up and kissed his cheek—slow, gentle, reassuring. His face flushed a little again, but this time he didn’t pull away. He just held your hand tighter.

You both settled back on the sofa, slipping into the comfortable corner you’d claimed earlier. You took a slow sip from your drink, trying to relax back into the night, but you could feel it: Jongho wasn’t quite settled.

His arm slid around your waist with a quiet kind of certainty, pulling you closer into his side. His body was warm, but there was tension in his hold—protective, almost instinctive.

He scanned the room slowly, eyes drifting across faces, especially the people you didn’t know well. His jaw was set, brows slightly furrowed. He wasn’t being dramatic or obvious—but you knew him. You could feel it.

You rested your head against his shoulder, brushing your fingers gently along his thigh in small circles. “Hey…” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, finally glancing down at you.

“I know,” he said softly. “I just… didn’t like that guy getting near you. The way he talked to you.”

You looked up at him, your voice just above a whisper. “You didn’t even hear the worst of it.”

His jaw tightened again, but he stayed quiet.

“You can relax,” you added gently, cupping his cheek for a second. “I’m here. With you. He’s irrelevant.”

Jongho looked at you, really looked at you, and slowly, you felt his grip soften. His shoulders eased, and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“I just don’t want anyone thinking they can treat you like that,” he murmured.

“They can’t,” you said. “And you made that very clear.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Guess I did, huh?”

You nodded, snuggling back into him. “You're kind of hot when you’re mad.”

That got a small laugh out of him, and you felt the tension start to melt away. His hand found yours again, lacing your fingers together and holding them against his chest like a quiet promise.

And even though the music played on, and the conversations buzzed around you, Jongho didn’t pay attention to anyone else for the rest of the night—only you.

Wooyoung appeared out of nowhere—again—this time holding a tray of food like some kind of chaotic party butler.

“I don’t think y’all have eaten,” he said, offering the platter with an uncharacteristically sincere smile. “Here.”

“Thanks, Woo,” you said warmly, taking it from him.

Jongho nodded. “Appreciate it.”

Wooyoung gave you both a knowing grin, already backing away. “Seonghwa’s about to start a fire out back, by the way. Y’all are welcome to join if you ever stop being disgustingly adorable.”

You giggled. “Hmm… maybe.”

“Just don’t set anything on fire,” Jongho added flatly.

“No promises!” Wooyoung called out, disappearing into the crowd again.

You turned your attention back to the food—finger snacks, a couple of skewers, something warm and savory that smelled way too good to ignore. You grabbed a piece and held it out to Jongho, who blinked at you like a cat slowly waking up from a nap.

“Open,” you whispered with a grin.

He smirked but complied, taking the bite and chewing while still holding you close.

“My turn,” he said, grabbing something off the plate and lifting it to your lips.

You took the bite, humming in satisfaction as he wrapped his arms tighter around your waist, pulling you effortlessly onto his lap. He rested his chin against your shoulder, clearly more relaxed now, eyes half-lidded and full of something soft.

“Mm,” you mumbled while chewing, “we’re gonna get too comfortable and fall asleep right here.”

“I could live with that,” Jongho said against your shoulder, voice low and warm.

You turned your head slightly, brushing your nose against his cheek.

“You still wanna join the fire outside?” you asked gently.

He shrugged. “If you want to. I’m good either way.”

You smiled, watching how the flickering lights inside danced in his eyes. “Let’s finish this, then maybe we’ll go warm up by the fire.”

“Only if you promise to keep feeding me,” he murmured with a small smirk.

You laughed, feeding him another bite without hesitation. “Always.”

After finishing up the last few bites from Wooyoung’s platter (and playfully fighting over the final piece), you and Jongho finally stood, stretching just a little before making your way through the house and out into the backyard.

The fire pit was already lit, its flames dancing gently in the cool night air. The warmth reached out to greet you the second you stepped outside, the scent of wood smoke and toasted marshmallows floating lazily in the breeze.

Hongjoong stood nearby with a set of metal skewers, looking like a Pinterest dad with his sleeves rolled up and a mug of something warm in hand. San and Wooyoung were already seated around the fire, Wooyoung aggressively roasting three marshmallows at once while San was arguing with Yunho about the “correct” way to make a s’more.

You and Jongho walked over quietly, hand in hand, and dropped down onto a bench across from them. The fire cast a soft orange glow across his face as he tugged you closer, your knees brushing, your bodies naturally leaning into each other.

“There they are,” Wooyoung announced dramatically. “The lovebirds finally decided to grace us with their presence.”

“You’re just mad we didn’t need your s’more tutorial,” you teased, grabbing a skewer from the pile and poking the fire with it.

“I give great s’more advice,” he argued.

“You almost lit your sleeve on fire ten minutes ago,” San pointed out.

“Details.”

Laughter rippled through the group. Seonghwa passed out mugs of hot cocoa with cinnamon sticks in them—because of course he did—and you took one with a quiet “thank you,” your fingers brushing warm against the mug as you sipped.

Jongho sat back, letting you rest against his side as he draped his arm around your shoulders. He was quiet, as usual, but his eyes were softer than usual too, reflecting the firelight as he watched everyone talk and laugh.

You looked up at him, smiling softly. “You good?”

He nodded; voice low. “Yeah. I like this.”

“Me too,” you said, letting your head rest on his shoulder.

Wooyoung started telling a story that was probably exaggerated, San was already laughing before he finished, and someone tossed another log onto the fire, sending sparks swirling upward into the night.

And in the middle of all of it—your arm wrapped snugly around Jongho’s, the fire crackling at your feet, the sound of laughter all around you, and the kind of night that felt just a little too perfect to be real—you closed your eyes for a second and simply existed in it.

That peace, however, was short-lived.

Wooyoung, with his signature smirk and zero sense of personal space, suddenly swooped in and grabbed Jongho’s arm, dramatically wrapping it tighter around you like he was making a grand romantic gesture.

“There we go,” Wooyoung grinned. “Make it look like a K-drama, come on.”

Jongho blinked, processing the moment… then immediately blushed, his entire face turning that soft pink hue he always got when someone caught him off guard. He glared at Wooyoung and threw a light punch to his shoulder—not hard, but enough to make a point.

“Ow!” Wooyoung fake-cried, laughing even as he stumbled back. “Abuse! I’m just trying to spread love!”

San, witnessing the chaos from the other side of the fire, snorted into his drink. “He’s so whipped. It’s adorable.”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to laugh as you leaned into Jongho a little more, smug. “You know… you didn’t have to pull me closer.”

“I was already holding you,” Jongho muttered, flustered as ever.

“Mmhm,” you teased. “Sure you were.”

He groaned softly and buried his face in your shoulder. “I can’t hang out with you when they’re around.”

“Yes, you can,” you said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You just have to accept your fate.”

“Unfortunately,” he mumbled, but you felt the way his grip on you tightened slightly, like even in the embarrassment, he wouldn’t change a thing.

And as Wooyoung retold the moment to Yunho like it was a dramatic soap opera twist, and San tried to burn a marshmallow into a torch for no reason at all, you and Jongho just stayed wrapped up in your own little world.

A little chaotic. A little sweet. Just perfect.

After the fire had burned low and the group began to scatter with tired smiles and warm goodbyes, you and Jongho decided to call it a night too. This time, though, instead of him staying at your place—you went home with him.

His apartment was quiet when you stepped inside, the hum of the city faint through the windows. You kicked off your shoes and stretched with a sleepy sigh, the scent of smoke from the fire pit still clinging to your clothes.

You frowned, tugging at your hoodie. “Ugh, I smell like burnt marshmallow and regret.”

Jongho raised an eyebrow as he tossed his keys into the bowl by the door. “So… the usual?”

You gave him a dramatic look. “Rude.”

He chuckled as you wandered into his room, flopping onto his bed without a second thought. You buried your face into his pillow and groaned, muffled, “All my clothes smell like smoke. Can I borrow yours?”

When you peeked up at him, you gave your best puppy-eyed look—the one he never resisted.

He sighed playfully, already walking over to his closet. “Why do you even ask when you know I’m gonna say yes?”

“Because I like the illusion of choice,” you said with a grin.

He tossed you one of his oversized shirts and a pair of soft joggers. “Here. You better give these back.”

You stood up and took the clothes with a proud little smirk. “Are you sure about that?”

He paused mid-step, turning to look at you. “Are you… not going to give them back?”

You shook your head slowly, backing toward the bed with a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Why would I?”

And then—with a dramatic flourish—you threw yourself backward onto his bed, hugging his pillows to your face like you’d just found treasure.

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitched up. “You’re such a menace.”

“You love it.”

He walked over to the edge of the bed and leaned down, hands resting beside your head on the mattress. “Unfortunately,” he murmured, his voice soft, eyes warm.

You looked up at him with a sleepy smile. “You love me anyway.”

“Yeah,” he said, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “I do.”

You changed into his clothes, the fabric instantly comforting—warm, familiar, like being wrapped in him. His hoodie was far too big, the sleeves swallowing your hands, and the scent of him clung to every thread.

When you walked out of the bathroom, hair tied back and face washed clean, Jongho was already under the covers, the lamp casting a soft, golden glow over the room. He looked up at you with that gentle, sleepy gaze—the one he only gave you when it was just the two of you, in moments like this.

You slipped into bed beside him without a word. The second your head hit the pillow, his arm was already around you, pulling you close like you were exactly where you belonged.

You melted into him, one leg wrapping around his as you rested your face against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His hand slid into your hair, fingers brushing softly along your scalp.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

The world had quieted outside those walls. No teasing friends, no firelight crackle, no playful chaos—just warmth, soft breathing, and a sense of peace that couldn’t be faked.

“Comfortable?” he whispered, lips brushing against your forehead.

“Mmm,” you hummed sleepily. “You make the best pillow.”

“I try.”

You smiled against him. “Thanks for tonight.”

He kissed your temple. “Thanks for staying.”

You let out a long, content sigh as your eyelids grew heavier, your body sinking further into his hold.

“Don’t let go,” you murmured, voice trailing off.

“Never,” he whispered.

And with that, the room faded into silence—his arms wrapped around you, your breaths slowly syncing, hearts steady and full. The night wrapped itself around you both like a lullaby, gentle and safe.

And sleep came easy.

Together.

---

The next day rolled in peacefully, slow and golden. You and Jongho got up late, lounged around for a bit, shared a lazy breakfast, and eventually decided to head out for the afternoon—no real plan, just time together.

You ended up at a small local restaurant, the kind with cozy lighting and the smell of good food wafting out the door before you even stepped inside. You were excited, already scanning the menu in your head, and as you walked up to the counter to order, Jongho followed close behind.

But something felt… different.

You were halfway through telling the cashier your order when you felt him standing unusually close behind you—close-close. His chest nearly brushed your back, and you could feel the low hum of tension in the way he stood. His arms were loose at his sides, but his presence was… hovering. Protective. Watchful.

You blinked, confused for a moment, then glanced over your shoulder.

Jongho wasn’t looking at you—his eyes were fixed on something across the room, jaw slightly clenched, body stiff. His posture was straight, shoulders squared, like he was trying to make himself look bigger. Tougher.

You leaned back slightly into him, enough to get his attention without drawing the room’s.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, a little amused but mostly curious.

His eyes flicked down to you, then softened just slightly. “Yeah.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re acting like a bodyguard. What’s going on?”

He glanced toward the corner again before muttering, “Guy over there’s been looking at you since we walked in.”

You blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

Jongho nodded subtly, his tone low. “Didn’t like the way he smiled at you when we walked past. Just being careful.”

You bit back a small laugh, touched and a little flattered by his subtle burst of possessiveness. “Jongho… you’re kind of puffing your chest out right now.”

“Am not.”

“You are,” you whispered, grinning. “You look like you're trying to win a fight you haven't even been challenged to.”

He huffed softly and shrugged, but he didn’t back down. “He was looking at you like he wanted to come over. Not happening.”

You finished placing the order, thanked the cashier, and then turned fully to face him, poking his chest gently. “You’re cute when you get all bodyguard mode.”

He frowned slightly, but the way his hand slipped around your waist said more than his words. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” you said, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “And I love it. Just don’t forget you already won, okay?”

That finally earned a small smile from him. “Yeah… I know.”

He still kept a hand on you the whole time you waited for the food—just in case.

You both took your food to a quieter table in the corner of the restaurant, tucked near the window. Jongho sat across from you, unusually quiet as he picked at his food. Normally, you’d be sharing bites, making sarcastic comments about the weird decor, or teasing each other over who ordered better.

But today… something was different.

You watched him for a few moments, catching the way his eyes kept flicking to the door, then to you, then down at his plate. His body was here, but his mind? Somewhere else.

You reached across the table, gently touching his hand. “Hey,” you said softly. “What’s going on with you today?”

He looked up slowly, blinking like you’d pulled him out of a deep thought. “Huh?”

“You’ve been acting kinda off since this morning,” you said gently. “And not in a bad way. Just… distant. Like you’re stuck in your head.”

He hesitated, glanced out the window, and then sighed, resting his forearms on the table.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s you, so it’s definitely not stupid,” you said, giving his hand a soft squeeze. “Talk to me.”

Jongho was quiet for a beat, then spoke without looking at you. “I think I just… noticed a lot yesterday. At the party. The way people talk to you. Look at you. And it’s not that I don’t trust you—I do. I really do.”

You stayed quiet, letting him get it out.

“It’s just… I’m not used to feeling this way. I guess I’ve been thinking like… what if one day you realize I’m not enough? That you could have someone easier. Louder. Cooler.”

Your heart sank, but not in a heavy way—in the way that comes from seeing someone you love finally to reveal something they’ve been carrying alone.

You got up without a word and moved to his side of the booth, sliding in next to him. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look up—but when you reached for his hand again, he held onto it like a lifeline.

“Jongho,” you said softly, “I didn’t fall for you because you’re loud or flashy. I fell for the quiet, thoughtful, stubborn, protective, real parts of you. And you are so enough. More than enough.”

He finally looked at you, and you could see it in his eyes—uncertainty mixing with that deep need to believe you.

You rested your forehead gently against his. “I don’t want easier. I want you. Always have.”

His breath hitched just slightly. “Even when I get weirdly possessive in restaurants?”

You laughed softly. “Especially then.”

He let out a breath of relief, his lips curving into a small, lopsided smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be possessive.”

“You’re not possessive,” you whispered. “You’re just in love. And so am I.”

And for the first time that day, Jongho relaxed. Fully. Shoulders softening, tension draining, hand tightening gently around yours as if silently saying, thank you.

After lunch, you gently tugged Jongho’s hand and led him outside, not saying much—just quietly guiding him toward the small walking path near the park nearby. The air was cool but crisp, and the late afternoon sun painted everything in soft golden hues.

He didn’t resist, just walked beside you in silence, his fingers tangled loosely with yours. He hadn’t fully shaken whatever he was feeling—his quiet tension still clung to him, like he was fighting thoughts too loud for the peaceful atmosphere around you.

You let the silence stretch for a while, giving him space. Sometimes the best thing you could offer wasn’t words—it was just being there.

Still, your heart ached. You could feel how deep his fear ran. And you knew it—because you carried the same one.

You slowed your steps and finally spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “You know… sometimes I get scared too.”

Jongho glanced over, a little startled, like he hadn’t expected you to speak.

“Scared of what?” he asked, his tone softer now.

You kept your eyes on the path ahead. “That someone else will come along. Someone louder. Funnier. Prettier. Someone who doesn’t cry when they get overwhelmed or overthink every little thing. Someone who doesn’t wear your hoodies and ‘forget’ to return them on purpose.”

You tried to smile, but it trembled.

Jongho stopped walking, gently pulling you with him. His hand reached out, cupping your cheek as he made you look at him.

“You’re scared of me leaving?”

You nodded slowly. “I think about it more than I’d like to admit.”

He blinked, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But… you’re you. You’re everything.”

You gave a breathy laugh. “That’s exactly what I think about you.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The wind rustled through the trees around you, and the sun dipped just a little lower in the sky. But something shifted in that silence—something honest and wide open.

“I always feel like I don’t deserve you,” he said finally. “Like you’re gonna wake up one day and realize you settled.”

“And I always feel like I’m not enough,” you admitted. “That you’re gonna meet someone who doesn’t get anxious over dumb things, someone cooler, prettier… someone better.”

Jongho stepped closer, both hands holding your face now, his forehead resting gently against yours.

“You’re everything,” he whispered. “I don’t want anyone else. I don’t see anyone else.”

Your voice cracked a little. “Me neither.”

He kissed you, slow and grounding—like he was pouring all the words he didn’t know how to say into that one moment.

And when he pulled away, he didn’t go far. He just wrapped his arms around you and held you, right there on the path, like he was anchoring both of you in place.

Two imperfect people. Both afraid. Completely in love.

And holding each other like they’d never let go.

“You’ve never kissed me in public like that before…” you murmured, voice small and heart still racing. Your cheeks burned instantly, that warmth spreading all the way to your ears.

Jongho looked at you, a little shy himself, but smiling.

“I know,” he said quietly. “Guess I stopped caring who sees when it’s about you.”

You blinked, stunned speechless for half a second—and then he laughed, trying to play it off before his own face turned pink.

“I wish I could do more to prove how much I love you,” he added, scratching the back of his neck. “But it’s hard being broke.”

You laughed softly, the kind that came straight from your chest, warm and full of everything you felt. “That was enough,” you said, voice sweet as honey. “More than enough.”

He glanced at you, and you swore there was a shine in his eyes he was trying to hide.

You walked back to his place hand-in-hand, the world quieter now, both of your hearts a little more settled.

Once inside, you grabbed your bag from the side of the couch, letting out a small sigh. “I need to get ready for work.”

Jongho sat on the edge of the bed, watching you with that same soft look he always saved for these moments—when things felt too good and too short.

“If you want to visit me again tonight,” you said as you slipped your shoes on, turning back toward him with a small smile, “I’d love it.”

You leaned in, kissing his cheek gently, slower this time. “I always do better when you’re around.”

Jongho nodded, his voice low. “Then I’ll be there.”

You gave him one last look—affection in your eyes, a silent promise between you—before stepping out the door, already missing him the second it clicked shut behind you.

And behind it, Jongho just sat there, hand resting where you kissed him, heart full and already counting down the hours until he saw you again.

Work wasn’t too hectic yet, which was a blessing. The evening had barely begun, and the restaurant was still in that calm before the storm—dim lights, soft music, quiet chatter from a few early diners.

Your manager waved you off with a warm smile. “It’s slow for now—go ahead and chill until we pick up.”

You nodded, grateful. “Thanks.”

You slipped behind the bar and perched on one of the staff stools tucked to the side, your apron tied loosely, hair tucked behind your ears. Your coworker, Mina, glanced at you with a knowing smirk.

“Long night?” she asked as she shook a drink behind the counter.

You smiled to yourself. “No… actually, it was perfect.”

She raised a brow, passing you a drink she threw together with a wink. “Perfect usually has a name.”

You laughed, taking a sip. “It does. And he might be visiting later.”

Your coworker grinned. “Jongho?”

You nodded, pulling out your phone and shooting him a quick message.

As your coworker Mina moved back to prep for the night rush, you leaned your elbows on the bar and stared out at the slowly filling restaurant, sipping your drink and letting your thoughts wander. You could already picture it—Jongho walking in, hoodie on, soft eyes scanning the room until they landed on you. And then that small smile of his, the one no one else really got to see.

You sat at the bar, slowly nursing your drink, phone face-up next to you in case Jongho replied. A few more customers started trickling in, the soft hum of the restaurant gradually picking up—but it was still manageable, still slow enough to breathe.

Mina passed by again, offering a playful, “Still no Jongho?”

You smiled. “Not yet. He’s probably on his way, though.”

You turned back to the entrance just in time to see a familiar face walk in—not Jongho.

It was him. That guy from the party. The one who hit on you outside the bathroom.

Your stomach dipped a little.

He didn’t seem to notice you at first, heading straight to the hostess stand. But then, as the host led him toward a table near the bar, his eyes scanned the room—and landed on you.

He stopped. Smirked.

You immediately looked away and pretended to scroll on your phone, heart beating faster—not out of fear, just discomfort.

Mina leaned in slightly, whispering, “You good?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just… someone I was hoping not to see again.”

The guy casually took his seat, now just a few feet from the bar, and—of course—turned his chair slightly like he was already angling for another conversation.

And as if on cue, your phone buzzed.

"On my way there, don't fall asleep before I arrive." You read the message.

You smiled at the message—but when you glanced up, you noticed the guy was still watching you. Not in a creepy way. Just… like he was waiting to catch your attention again.

You took another sip of your drink, this time slower, more focused. You weren’t nervous. You weren’t threatened. But you were really hoping Jongho walked through that door soon.

Because some people just didn’t know when to quit.

You set your drink down with a quiet clink and slowly exhaled through your nose. The guy was still watching you—subtle, not obvious enough to call attention, but persistent. Like he thought there was still a chance you’d come over and entertain him.

You weren’t about to play that game again.

You stood from your seat behind the bar and walked out to the front casually, as if checking on something, then circled back toward his table—keeping it professional, but not shy.

His eyes lit up slightly as you approached. “Hey,” he said, that same smug smile creeping onto his face. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

You gave him a short, polite smile. “Yeah, funny how small the city is.”

“You work here?” he asked, eyebrows raising.

“I do,” you replied, voice even and calm. “Which means I’m here to take care of paying customers… not to be flirted with during my shift.”

That made him blink. “Whoa—relax, I was just being nice.”

“No,” you said, gently crossing your arms, “you were being persistent. Last night wasn’t the time, and neither is now. I’m not interested. I’m with someone. Respect that.”

He opened his mouth like he was about to argue, voice dropping into something smug.

“I promise I’m more fun,” he muttered, eyes flicking down to your legs. “Your little boy toy isn’t here to protect you.”

Before you could react, his hand slid up your thigh.

But before your body could even register the shock, the sharp slam of glass against wood cracked through the moment like thunder.

Mina.

She stood tall behind the bar, jaw tight, eyes locked on the guy with the coldest glare you’d ever seen her wear. The bottle she slammed down stood upright—but it was clear the threat wasn’t subtle.

“She is not interested,” she said, voice like steel. “Leave her alone. Or I’ll call security. And trust me, I won’t be the one to regret that.”

You didn’t say anything right away—but the small smirk on your lips said everything. You straightened your posture, eyes locking with the guy’s, letting him see exactly how done you were.

And then, before he could even respond—you felt it.

A shift in the room. A ripple of heat.

You glanced toward the door—and there he was.

Jongho.

His eyes locked instantly on the scene—on you, and the guy’s hand still on your thigh.

And that was all it took.

He stormed over in three long, heavy strides. No words. No hesitation. His hand grabbed the guy by the collar, yanking him up from his seat with a strength you didn’t see coming.

The guy stumbled back, shocked. “What the—”

Jongho’s chest puffed out, standing between you like a wall, eyes burning. “Don’t you ever touch her again.”

His voice was low, but full of fire. Calm in a terrifying way.

The guy tried to play it off, holding his hands up. “Hey, hey—I didn’t know she was—”

“You knew,” Jongho snapped. “And you didn’t care.”

The guy froze, realizing he wasn’t winning this one. Not against Jongho’s death stare. Not with half the restaurant watching. Not when Mina still had her hand on the bottle, like she wanted a reason to throw it.

Jongho stepped forward again, his voice a warning. “Leave. Before I make sure you can’t come back.”

The guy didn’t argue this time.

He turned and stormed off, muttering under his breath, disappearing out the front door in seconds.

Silence hung in the air for a beat—tense, charged, heavy.

Then Jongho turned to you.

His breathing was shaky, and his hands—though clenched moments ago—were now soft as he reached out to check on you.

“You okay?” he asked, voice tight.

You nodded slowly, heart racing. “Yeah. Thanks to you… and Mina.”

Mina gave a low whistle, finally relaxing. “Damn. That was kind of hot.”

You laughed, still breathless. “Kinda?”

Jongho didn’t smile, not yet. His hand cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing under your eye.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”

You leaned into him. “You were right on time.”

And as the tension began to melt, and Mina muttered something about needing a real drink after that, you clung to the one truth that mattered most:

Jongho didn’t just show up.

He showed up for you.

Every time.

After the guy was gone, your manager came over, told you to take a break, maybe step outside for a bit—and without hesitation, Jongho had his hand on the small of your back, gently guiding you out through the side door, away from the noise.

The evening air was cooler now, the city lights flickering just beyond the alley behind the restaurant. It was quiet back here, save for the distant hum of traffic and the thud of your own heartbeat finally beginning to slow.

Jongho leaned against the wall beside you, arms crossed, gaze downcast. His chest was still rising and falling a little faster than usual.

You stood next to him for a moment, letting the silence stretch. Then, softly, “Are you okay?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “That’s supposed to be my question.”

You turned to him, gently nudging your shoulder against his. “Well, I’m asking first.”

He looked at you then—eyes a little glossy with all the emotion he was holding back. “I almost lost it in there.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t. You handled it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated with himself. “I walked in and saw his hand on you and… I didn’t think. I just reacted.”

“You were protecting me,” you said quietly. “It wasn’t too much. Not to me.”

His eyes searched yours, almost like he didn’t believe you at first. “I was scared.”

You blinked. “Of what?”

“That I was too late,” he admitted. “That something would happen, and I wouldn’t be there. That you’d be hurt or scared and I couldn’t stop it.”

You stepped closer, slowly, carefully, and placed your hands on either side of his face, guiding his gaze back to yours.

“I was scared too,” you whispered. “But then you were there. And suddenly I wasn’t anymore.”

His eyes closed at your touch, leaning slightly into your hands.

“You didn’t fail me, Jongho. You never do.”

He opened his eyes again, softer now. “You’re really okay?”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your forehead to his chest. “I am now.”

He held you close, arms wrapping around your shoulders tightly, like if he let go, the whole world might fall apart again.

You stood there like that for a while, just holding each other under the quiet city sky. No pressure. No noise. Just the safety of his arms and the weight of everything unspoken settling between you in the most honest way.

Finally, he whispered, voice so low it was almost lost to the wind, “I love you.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “I love you too. So much.”

He smiled then—small, real, and full of everything you needed.

“Let’s go home after your shift,” he said softly. “I just wanna be with you.”

“Deal,” you whispered, taking his hand again.

And together, you stepped back inside—stronger, closer, and more in love than ever.

•

A/N: I hope you enjoyed :3 (I actually decided to make an entire series of this that is in my drafts already hehehe (this is just a short version, but I might tweak some of it in the actual series)

[jyoongim]

~Blood & BLISS~

Human!Alastor x wife!Reader

Themes: 1930 based! Human!Alastor x wife!Reader, domestic life! fluff, smut, devotion, slight manipulation, mention of children, pregnancy,  blood, murder, secrets 

chapter two

Synopsis: Marrying New Orleans famous radio host had been a shocker to everyone. You, a southern belle from an esteemed family, had somehow managed to catch the attention of the mysterious bachelor. 

Your wedding was all in the papers and talk of the town, even though the ceremony was rather private.

You quickly settled in as the homemaker as Alastor brought home the dough and took care of you. 

It was a dream come true.

But Alastor was strange, even to you and you were his wife, but you brushed it off as him just being a man.  You had nothing to complain about. You lived in a nice big house, had the finest luxuries, and Alastor would dote on you. What wasn’t to love?

Well… all those things were nice, but you were starting to crave a family with your husband.

You knew of Alastor’s upbringing and had an inkling that children might not be an option…but Alastor wouldn’t deny you what you desired most would he? Of course not ma belle.

Alastor prided himself on how people often wondered about him. The renowned radio host, who the public rarely saw. He was a mystery to many. He frequented jazz lounges and often could be found drinking whiskey as he listened to the Mimzy gossip about the latest news.

He,  himself was shocked when he met you, the prettiest thing in the city. He had to have you. He knew you were the one.

Like the gentleman he was, he sent you flowers and love letters to begin courting you. He never tired of how shy you were around him. 

It wasn’t long before he asked your father for your hand and the two of you got hitched.

And what a wedding it was! he spared no expense to your disapproval.

Alastor was the epitome of what every husband inspired to be! 

Doting, providing, and attentive.

But he had a secret he kept from his little wife…

Can he maintain control over his domestic affairs and his sinister ones?

Soft jazz played in the background as you busied around the kitchen preparing dinner. The sizzling of the oil carried the scent of fried chicken as you chopped collards and added them to another pan to fry.

You hummed along to whatever song was playing as you cooked.

You took the chicken out of the grease, poured some of it in a can for later and used the rest to make cornbread. You stirred the collards a bit, adding pepper and a little salt before turning the stove off. You glanced at the clock; 6pm, Alastor should be coming home soon.

After putting everything in pretty dishes and wrapping it in foil you sighed tiredly as you finally got off your feet, plopping down on a couch.

You almost wanted to go back into the kitchen and clean up, but thought to just wait after dinner to do so. 

You perked as your radio made a noise, static as if the channel had changed, before the voice of your husband came through.

”Well folks that is all. I have for you tonight! I hope you enjoyed today’s broadcast and I will see you tomorrow. I wouldn’t want to be late for dinner nonono haha. Until next time!”

You smiled, feeling happy he wasn’t going to stay at the studio all night.

With that in mind, you quickly ran upstairs to freshen up, wanting to greet your husband without the smell of grease clinging to you.

“I’m home!” A voice called as the sound of the front door closing had you rushing downstairs.

Alastor was taking off his coat, when you greeted him “Oh let me take that” you smiled, grabbing his coat to put it away. He let out a relieved sigh as he removed his shoes and put them by the door. Once comfortable, his long arms were around your waist, pulling you into a kiss “And how was my beautiful wife today hmm?” He asked bringing a dainty hand to his lips. You giggled “Oh nothing worth mentioning. How was work today? I heard you signing off. I hate that I missed tonight’s broadcast” you mused, untying his bow tie. Alastor hummed “oh you know same ole same ole, through I will say I got a lot of fan mail today” he chuckled as you rolled your eyes. He took a whiff of the air and grinned “Hmm looks like I actually made it in time for dinner”

You both made your way to the kitchen and you immediately went to fix his plate, while he got glasses out of the cabinet and some red wine.

Alastor practically had drool coming out of his mouth as the smell of food wafted into his nose. You took a seat across from him and smiled. “My my my dear what a meal youve prepared tonight!” He commented as he took a bite out of the cornbread, moaning in delight.

It always filled your heart with happiness seeing Alastor eat your food. When you first got married, you didn’t have a clue on how to cook. It was rather embarrassing, but you had grown up with personal cooks.

But Alastor didn’t mind teaching you, and soon enough you were whipping up delicious meals that filled his stomach, rather than upset it.

Dinner was quiet as the two of you enjoyed each others company, Alastor making comments about the lastest gossip he had heard and you catching him on the neighborhood gossip. “Oh before I forget,  Mimzy wants to know if you wanted to swing by the lounge this weekend. Something about I keep you to myself too much” Alastor laughed, swiping at his mouth. You laughed, that sounded like Mimzy. Always hoping to get a chance at you singing on stage so she could make a few extra bucks. “Well tell ‘er not this weekend, I have plans to host a few of the ladies for book club. Rosie is sure to have some gossip I’ve missed.” 

Alastor quirked a brow “You sure dear? I fear Mimzy will chew me a new one if she don’t get to see ou” You mulled it over “Well book club usually don’t take that long and its during tea time so I guess I don’t mind gracing the lounge with my presence” you giggled, getting up and taking your empty dishes to the sink. Alastor followed you and quickly swatted your hands as you reached to turn the sink on. 

“Now now my dear, you spent all evening cooking the least I can do is wash the dishes. The chef shouldn’t cook and clean” he nudged you away from the sink as you pouted.

It never ceased to amazed you that Alastor took on household chores. Most husbands had their wives cook and clean, but not your Alastor.

He didn’t like you to tire out from maintaining the home all day.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek in thanks and told him you’ll be upstairs getting ready for bed.

You had just finished rolling your hair when Alastor came up to your bedroom. You sighed as you sunk into the cool cotton sheets, finally relaxing for the day. You didn’t realized you had quickly fell asleep until feeling Alastor slide into bed beside you, arm pulling you to tuck you into his side and rest your head on his chest.

You happily cuddled into him, breathing in his scent as the sound of his heartbeat lulled you back to sleep.

A yawn passed your lips as began to fall asleep

”Goodnight” 

”Sleep tight dear”

”Don’t let the bedbugs bite”

”haha see you in the morning light love” he whispered pressing a kiss to your forehead as you sighed, chest heaving in deep breaths.

Alastor smiled at your sleeping face; how lucky was he to have a sweet wife who worked so hard while he was gone. His eyes grew heavy as he listened to your soft snores.

What bliss. He wouldn’t give this up for anything in the world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NOTE: aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh why and how did my mind conjure this when I have other things to write eeeeeeehhhh!!!!!!!

Anyway….this is gonna be ANOTHER short story hehehe. Since I wrote it on a whim it might take some time for me to post the next part but I hope y’all enjoy it nevertheless!

Remember to comment on the pinned post as I have a hard time finding everyone to tag since y’all are scattered on different posts!

if i missed anyone my bad!!!!

@nightshadelm @th3-st4r-gur1 @amurtan @lunaramune @southern-bayou-beau @monstersealclubber @certifiedcrybabyyy @karolinda007-blog @theveiledlibrarian @simphornies @yourdoorisunlocked @nettaw @purplecatsandhearts @catherine1206 @jellibean2018 @thewinchestah @wonderlandangelsposts @alishii @readergirlstuff @whydohumansss @missgurlsstuff @yuzurixx @darkovergrownforestnymph @dasimp777 @markster666 @alastorsgirl48 @alastor-simp @alastorsaries @preciousbabypeter @alastwhore666 @strawberrypimp666 @stawberrypimpsimp @queenariesofnarnia @peachedtvs @peachedtv @tpks @siiv3r @hazelfoureyes @okay-babe @aconfusedworld @chewbrry @altruisticalastor @yunimimii @dievia3 @alastorsdear @alastorsdarlingdoe @t0byisher3 @dennsfz @twismare @nanami1chu @yoongibabs @menthatilove @smoky000

[gf2bellamy]

part five: opportunity synchronicity

— ★ opportunity knocked softly this time, dressed in shared music, fortune cookies, and a bookstore on a rainy afternoon—and for once, spencer didn’t hesitate to answer.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing!

masterlist - part one ✦ part two ✦ part three ✦ part four

Spencer's mind had been spinning for months—a whirlwind of unsaid words and aborted confessions, each one dying on his tongue before it could take flight.

He was staring at the polaroid on his desk—the one from Garcia's apartment, now framed and positioned just so—when Hotch's voice cut through his daydreaming.

"Reid. My office."

The conference invitation should have been routine. But then Hotch mentioned Delaware, which was three hours away.

"You’ve been asked to speak at a conference," Hotch said, sliding a folder across his desk.

Spencer’s interest piqued. "Really? Where? What about?"

"Delaware. Forensic advancements in cold case resolution."

"Three hours," Spencer murmured automatically, his mind already cataloging potential references, studies, case studies—

"Who else is invited?" The last conference he’d attended had been with Emily, her dry commentary balancing his tendency to ramble.

Hotch steepled his fingers. "Just you."

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. "No one?" 

He didn’t mind presenting alone—he could talk for hours about his work—but the idea of driving three hours in silence, of spending the night in some generic hotel without the familiar buffer of a teammate…

"You can invite someone." Hotch's tone was carefully neutral, but the implication hung between them like a held breath.

It was as close to interference as Aaron Hotchner would ever allow himself. But even he—a man who treated office gossip like a biohazard—had limits. And watching the two of you orbit each other for so long, caught in some agonizing gravitational pull, had apparently reached them.

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it. The decision was already made. Had been made, really, the moment the words left Hotch's lips.

There was only ever one choice. Only one person he wanted beside him.

Only ever you.

The invitation had tumbled out before he could overthink it—and of course you'd said yes. Of course you'd grinned that sunrise-bright grin and declared, "God, yes, I need a break from work."

Now, an hour into the drive, your fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against your thigh as the countryside blurred past your window.

"Is it my turn yet?"

Spencer didn't need to check the dashboard clock. He knew exactly how long it had been since you'd last controlled the radio—twenty-seven minutes. The rules of your road trip playlist rotation had been established with near-constitutional precision after your third bickering match outside Baltimore.

Technically, he still had three minutes left with his science podcast.

He took one look at your pout—the one that always made your nose scrunch adorably—and surrendered. "Sure. It's your time."

Your triumphant sound filled the car as you lunged for the dial, scrolling through stations. When the opening chords of that song spilled from the speakers, your entire body lit up.

"My favorite song!" you crowed, already humming along.

The opening chords punched through the speakers, and Spencer's grip on the wheel turned white-knuckled.

Your song.

The one that had played the morning of the grocery run. The anthem of his awakening, the soundtrack to every synchronicity that had led him here—to you, to this car, to this moment.

The drive could have lasted days and Spencer wouldn't have minded—not with you in the passenger seat, humming along to the radio and stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn't looking.

Two hours later, Delaware welcomed you with a barely lit hotel lobby and an elderly receptionist who peered over her glasses with knowing eyes.

"One room or two?"

Spencer's throat went dry. His fingers twitched at his sides as he turned to you—only to find you already answering, your voice steady despite the way your thumb worried at the ring he'd given you.

"One."

You didn't look at him. Didn't explain. Just gave him a look with a nonchalance that would've been convincing if not for the way your ring almost slid off your finger.

The receptionist's smile deepened as she took in Spencer's flushed ears, the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. "Here are your keys," she said, handing them over with a wink you pretended not to see.

The elevator ride up was silent. Tense. Electric.

You broke it the moment the door clicked shut behind you, flopping onto the nearest bed with a dramatic sigh. "Finally," you groaned into the duvet, kicking off your shoes as Spencer hovered near the desk, suddenly hyper aware of every inch of space between you.

He busied himself with the room service menu, if only to stop imagining how your hair looked fanned out against the pillows. "What do you want to eat?"

What followed was a familiar routine—Chinese takeout containers spread between you, the scent of sesame oil and sweet-and-sour sauce thick in the air as Spencer outlined his conference talk. You listened with that focus of yours, the one that made him feel like the only person in the world, interjecting with questions that proved you'd been paying attention.

And if your feet occasionally brushed his under the table, if his hand lingered when passing you the soy sauce—well.

The room might've had two beds, but the distance between you had never felt smaller.

"Catch."

The fortune cookie arced through the air, landing neatly in Spencer's palm. You were already cracking yours open, the snap of plastic wrapper loud in the quiet hotel room.

Spencer watched as you unfolded the tiny slip of paper, your lips moving soundlessly as you read:

"Your patience will soon be rewarded."

A beat. Then two. 

Your fingers stilled around the paper, knuckles whitening just slightly. The silence stretched long enough that Spencer's chest tightened—until you finally looked up, offering a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.

"Maybe I'll get the raise I asked for," you joked. Your voice was slightly shaky and so was your smile. 

Spencer knew deflection when he heard it.

"What does yours say?" You nudged his foot, the contact sending a jolt up his spine.

With careful fingers, he pried his cookie apart. The paper inside was crisp against his skin as he smoothed it out:

"What you seek is seeking you — watch for the signs."

The air left his lungs in a rush. When he dared to meet your gaze, he found you already staring—both of you wearing identical, awkward smiles.

"Sounds like a threat," you giggled, the sound slightly strained.

A threat from the universe, Spencer thought.

Or perhaps a promise.

The night stretched endlessly, the space between your two beds feeling both infinite and insufficient. Sheets tangled around restless limbs, pillows were punched into submission—neither of you slept, though neither spoke of it. 

Morning came too soon.

You watched from your perch on the edge of the bed as Spencer paced, reciting his presentation under his breath for what must have been the twentieth time. His fingers danced along an invisible keyboard, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The nervous energy radiating off him was palpable.

Seizing the moment, you reached across the chasm between beds, your fingers brushing his restless hand. "Spence," you murmured, your thumb tracing idle circles over his knuckles, "you'll do great."

His breath hitched at the contact, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his palm up to meet yours, squeezing gently as he shot you a grateful smile—the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your stomach flip.

A glance at his watch shattered the moment.

 "We should go," he mumbled, though his fingers lingered against yours a heartbeat too long.

The conference hall was mercifully close. As you stepped inside, you turned to him with a raised brow. "Where do you want me to sit?"

Spencer's gaze swept the growing crowd before landing on the front row. "Maybe first row?" The request came out softer than intended, barely more than a whisper.

He didn't say why. Didn't need to.

The thought of looking up from his notes and immediately meeting your eyes—your encouraging, loving eyes—was the only anchor he needed.

The conference was a triumph.

Spencer knew his material cold, but it wasn't the crowd that had his pulse racing—it was you. Sitting front and center, your gaze never wavered from him. He caught himself seeking you out between points, not for reassurance, but for the way your eyes lit up each time they met his. That particular smile—the one that started slow before blooming across your face—was becoming his new addiction.

You'd always looked at him like that.

He just hasn't understood why.

The moment he stepped off the podium, you were there, arms wrapping around him before the applause even faded.

"You did so so good, Spencer," you murmured against his shoulder, your breath warm through his dress shirt. When you pulled back, your hands lingered—palms cradling his jaw, thumbs brushing the apples of his cheeks—before reluctantly letting go.

Spencer barely had time to smile at you before others approached with questions, but Spencer felt your presence like a physical thing.

Through every technical discussion, every eager handshake, he was hyper aware of you standing off to the side, smiling that private smile reserved only for him.

As an elderly man with kind eyes approached Spencer, Spencer replied to the questions with his carefully thought out answers. But he couldn’t help himself. His eyes kept darting to you. 

The way you were watching the crowd. The way you smiled proudly when you saw an elderly couple loudly compliment the conference. The way your eyes met his eyes more than once, and the way they would sparkle in ways that no one could cause but Spencer.

Spencer smiled softly as he finished his sentence, realizing he’d probably been rambling distracted for way too long now. He finally looked at the man, who had seemingly followed Spencer’s eyes.

"I remember those times," the man said wistfully, patting Spencer's shoulder. His wedding band glinted in the fluorescent lights. "Don't wait too long."

Spencer opened his mouth—to protest, to explain, to something—but the man just smiled and walked away, leaving him standing there with his heart pounding and your name on his tongue.

Across the room, you looked up as if sensing his stare, your eyes crinkling in that way that made his chest ache.

The universe had given him signs. Strangers had given him warnings.

"You're not paying," Spencer insisted for the third time as you dragged him toward the diner, your fingers curled around the crook of his elbow.

"Look how cute it is!" you beamed, ignoring his protest as the neon sign cast pink halos around your silhouette. The booths and checkerboard floors looked straight out of a 1950s postcard—the kind of place Garcia would call "romantic" with that knowing lilt in her voice.

Then the bell above the door jingled, and the universe delivered its coup de grâce.

Your song.

The same one from the car, from the grocery store, from every pivotal moment of his awakening—now piping through the diner's crackling speakers as you chatted animatedly with the hostess.

You didn't even notice, too busy confirming the reservation you'd made the second his conference ended.

Spencer stood frozen in the threshold, the scent of sizzling bacon and maple syrup wrapping around him as Jung's words echoed in his skull: "Synchronicity is an ever-present reality for those who have eyes to see."

He'd analyzed the concept a hundred times since the dream—poring over texts until his eyes burned, tracing the threads that connected every "coincidence." 

The Buddhist proverb he'd stumbled upon last week floated back to him now: When soulmates meet, it's the culmination of five centuries of cosmic preparation.

Five hundred years of atoms rearranging, of stars collapsing and reforming, all to bring him here—to this chrome-and-vinyl booth where you were currently stealing his fries with that smirk he'd loved across lifetimes.

Rain began pattering against the diner windows as you split the last chocolate chip cookie—because of course you’d ordered them, because the universe seemed determined to weaponize every memory he cherished.

You gazed out at the storm, then back at him with that grin that always made his ribs ache. 

“Drip drop,” you said, crunching into the cookie with relish.

Spencer's stomach flipped. The words—your words, from that rain-soaked night—hung between you.

“Drip drop,” he echoed, the words tasting like nostalgia and longing. His smile faltered—until your ankle hooked around his beneath the table, just as he’d done to you countless times in cafes and briefing rooms. The contact burned through his sock like a brand.

“These are so good,” you mumbled around a mouthful of crumbs.

Spencer hummed, reaching for another cookie just to have something to do with his hands.

“I do hope you won’t start preferring these over mine, though.” You waved a half-eaten cookie in his face, your eyes glinting with mock severity. “I put a lot of work and love into my cookies, you know.”

"Never," he said immediately, plucking the treat from your fingers with deliberate slowness. His lips brushed your fingertips as he took it, and the sharp inhale you tried—and failed—to hide didn't escape him. "I love your cookies."

Then you grinned, kicking his ankle playfully under the table, and the moment passed—but not the promise thrumming in his chest.

The storm raged through the night—rain splashing against the windows that faded into white noise while you played chess with Spencer's travel set, your knees pressed together beneath the coffee table. 

He let you win. You pretended not to notice.

Morning brought no reprieve. Rain still splashed against the glass when Spencer appeared at your shoulder, close enough that his breath stirred your hair.

"I don't think it's safe to drive home," he murmured.

You hummed in agreement, watching water cascade down the pane.

"There was a bookstore next to the conference building," he added casually—too casually, the way he always did when trying to sound spontaneous about things he'd clearly researched in advance.

"Of course you noticed that," you laughed, already reaching for your jacket. When you tossed him his scarf—the one he'd worn religiously since that fateful morning—his hands fumbled to catch it, the wool soft and familiar between his fingers.

The walk was a disaster. Within minutes, the downpour had soaked through your coats, your hair plastered to your foreheads as you splashed through ankle-deep puddles. The bookstore owner glared when you dripped across her threshold.

"As if it's our fault it's raining," you muttered under your breath, wringing out your sleeve.

Spencer shot you that boyish grin that always made your stomach flip—the one reserved for moments when you were being "adorably incorrigible"—before offering the owner a sheepish apology.

You drifted apart naturally, pulled toward your respective genres like planets orbiting the same sun.

From the philosophy section, Spencer watched you trail fingers along fantasy spines, your lips moving silently as you read titles. Yet every few minutes, one of you would glance up—searching, always searching—until your eyes met across the stacks.

The rain drummed its approval against the roof.

And for the first time, Spencer wondered if storms had souls—if this one had waited centuries just to strand you here, together.

Time slipped through the bookstore's aisles like sand through fingers. Spencer found himself in the classics section, fingers trailing over worn spines until they caught on a rare edition of The Importance of Being Earnest.

The discovery sent a jolt through him—the same play whose quote you'd scribbled on his cookie note what felt like lifetimes ago. His thumb traced the gilded title with reverence, the memory of your looping handwriting surfacing.

"Hello." Your voice at his shoulder startled him. 

Before he could turn, your cheek came to rest against his upper arm, warm even through his damp sweater. The contact sparked a dizzying sense of déjà vu—your weight against him in the dream-library, your breath ghosting over the same spot as you handed him that fateful blank book.

"Whatcha looking at?" you murmured, tilting your head to peer at his find.

Spencer swallowed hard before raising the book for your inspection. "Oscar Wilde," he managed, voice thick. His gaze dropped to the volume in your hands. "What did you get?"

When his gaze dropped to the notebook in your hands, his breath hitched. Gold filigree curled across its cover in the exact same pattern as the book from his dream library—the one you'd handed him with that devastating promise: "This one gets filled after you admit it to me."

You lifted your head slowly—too slowly. "Just a pretty notebook," you said, cracking it open with deliberate care.

Blank pages.

Just like before. Just like always.

"It's pretty," he managed, though the words weren't about the book at all.

You went very still, your smile faltering nervously when you saw the affectionate look in his eyes . "Yeah," you agreed softly, your gaze locking with his. "It is."

The moment stretched, the air between you charged with everything unsaid.

And Spencer was suddenly, terrifyingly certain that if he didn't speak now, he might never find the courage again.

But then your gaze darted nervously past his shoulder—then froze.

"Oh my god."

Spencer turned just as you reached toward the shelf, your fingertips hovering near a weathered copy of Pride and Prejudice. There, perched on the spine like a punctuation mark, sat a single ladybug.

"It must be hiding from the rain," you murmured, gently coaxing it onto your finger with the same care you reserved for his favorite books and Garcia's trinkets.

Spencer's breath caught.

The ladybug from your hair clip.

The ladybug from Garcia's book.

The ladybug that had been haunting him for so long now.

"It's so cute," you whispered, returning it to its perch with a tenderness that shattered his last thread of restraint.

When you turned back to him, a smile still playing on your lips, you found Spencer staring at you with raw, unfiltered wonder—like you'd hung the moon and every star in your wake.

Then the words burst forth like a dam breaking:

"I'm in love with you." The confession tumbled out in a rush. "And I think I have been for—for forever, and the universe keeps screaming at me about it, and at first I thought they were coincidences but there are too many, and—"

Your lips silenced his.

For one heart-stopping moment, Spencer stood frozen—every synapse short-circuiting at the warmth of your mouth against his. Then instinct overrode shock, and his hands cradled your face like something precious, kissing you back with all the tenderness of a man who'd waited lifetimes for this.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and grinning, the ladybug spread its wings and took flight—as if its work here was done.

Spencer stared at you, wide-eyed and breathless, his lips still tingling from the kiss. You met his gaze with a smile that could power cities, your fingers curled tight in the fabric of his vest.

Then you remembered the fortune cookie's promise.

"Guess my patience has been rewarded," you murmured against his mouth, feeling his breath hitch.

Spencer made a soft, questioning noise, his dazed eyes dropping back to your lips like he couldn't quite believe they'd been there moments before.

"I've been in love with you forever, you dummy," you confessed, tugging him closer by his lapels. "I've been waiting ages for you to do this."

"Really?" The word came out strangled, hopeful.

"Really."

That was all the confirmation he needed. Spencer surged forward, capturing your lips in a series of breathless, giddy pecks between stumbling words:

“I have—” kiss “—been so—” kiss “—scared—” kiss “—to do this.” kiss “But also—” kiss “—I never want to stop.”

You were giggling now, your fingers in his hair, and he was smiling so much he could barely kiss you properly, but neither of you cared.

Each press of his lips felt like a promise, each aborted sentence a love letter years in the making. The ladybug had long since flown away, but its message lingered in the space between your shared breaths.

A thousand kisses later—or perhaps only thirty, though Spencer had lost count somewhere between the philosophy section and the hotel elevator—you lay tangled together in bed as he recounted every cosmic sign.

"I was wearing a pink version of your sweater in your dream?" you asked, chin propped on his chest as you studied him. The lamplight caught the flecks of gold in his eyes, turning them molten. "Why?"

Spencer's cheeks flushed that endearing shade of pink you'd come to adore. "Well, chromatology suggests pink symbolizes affection and love in dreams," he began, fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine. "There was a 1978 study where—"

You pressed a fingertip to his nose, silencing the impending lecture. He blinked, then huffed a laugh.

"I think I still need to get used to this," he admitted, his breath catching as your fingers wandered across his collarbone.

You sat up abruptly. "In a good or bad way?"

"Good," he said too quickly, scrambling upright. The headboard creaked as he leaned against it, watching you. "Obviously good."

A beat of silence. 

"What?" you grinned, crossing your legs beneath you.

Spencer's blush deepened. "When did you—" He stopped. His eyes darting to the wall behind you. You grinned.

"—start liking you?" you finished, scooting closer until your knees brushed his. At his nod, you pretended to consider. "Probably at Garcia's apartment."

His eyebrows shot up. "The Polaroid?" The realization lit up his face like sunrise. "You're telling me your descent into lov—mmph!"

Your finger against his lips cut him off, though his triumphant grin remained. He caught your wrist, turning your hand to press a kiss to your palm before intertwining your fingers.

"Yes," you admitted, suddenly shy under his gaze. "You have me falling in love with you captured on a Polaroid."

Spencer's smile could have powered entire cities—that brilliant, boyish grin now shining just for you.

In the quiet that followed, you both stared at your joined hands—his long fingers slotting between yours like they'd been made to fit.

"Seems like ladybugs are our thing," you murmured, thinking of the photograph, the book, all the tiny moments that had led you here.

Spencer brought your knuckles to his lips again. "Yeah," he agreed softly, the word a vow against your skin.

The old Buddhist saying floated back to Spencer as he watched you trace idle patterns across his palm—when you meet your soulmate, remember the act to bring you together was five hundred years in the making.

Five centuries of atoms rearranging.

Of stars collapsing and reforming.

Of every seemingly random choice and chance encounter conspiring across lifetimes to deliver you here—to this moment, this bed, this perfect alignment of souls.

Your fingers stilled against his skin as if sensing his revelation. When you glanced up, Spencer saw eternity in your gaze—the same timeless connection he'd felt when you kissed him in the bookstore, when you laughed over chess, when you wore his sweater like it belonged to you all along.

He cradled your face, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek with reverence. No equations could quantify this. No textbook could explain how every synapse in his brain now burned with the certainty that you'd been written into his DNA long before either of you took your first breath.

You were his.

He was yours.

And five hundred years from now, some version of you would still be finding each other across crowded bookstores and rainy diners and ladybug-kissed moments, because this love wasn't made for just one lifetime.

[itsnesss]

𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐩𝟐𝟎 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝟏𝟎 | oliver bearman × fem!reader

summary | you watch nervously as ollie starts the race in p20. with every lap, he climbs the ranks, overtaking one driver after another. the crowd roars as he reaches p10, defying all odds

warnings | gf!reader, fluff, romantic, kisses, competition stress

word count | 1.1 k

🖇️ more ob87 🖇️ f1 masterlist

The first lap is always the hardest. The deafening roar of the engines, the heat from the asphalt, and the feeling that every turn could be the last. All of this surrounds you as you watch the start of the race from the grandstands. No matter how many times you've seen it, it's just as exciting. But today, the nerves are different. Today, everything is focused on Ollie.

The green light flashes, and the engines roar as the cars speed off. At the start, Ollie is in P20. The position isn't ideal, and you know he has a long road ahead to get where everyone wants him to be. But it's not the first time he's been in this situation. The difference is that today, something feels different.

You watch him in his car, focused, eyes on the road ahead with a determination that makes you feel that, in some way, he is destined to exceed expectations. His team's car isn't one of the fastest, but Ollie has something the other drivers don't have: his ability to read the track, his patience, and, above all, his ability to stay calm even when everything seems to be against him.

The race clock ticks on, and you wonder how long it will take until you see him take the first turn. The team has hope in him, but to be realistic, the odds aren't in his favor. However, you've always believed Ollie can surprise, that he has something the others don't expect.

In the early laps, he makes his way through the traffic. Every overtaking is a victory. P20 to P18. P18 to P16. Despite the small advances, there's still a long way to go, but something in his driving makes you feel that he has it all under control. He doesn't let the desperation of overtaking quickly drive him, but instead, he goes at his own pace, taking advantage of every opportunity without forcing things.

The radio crackles again, and his engineer's voice rings in your ears.

Engineer: “Ollie, P16, there’s still a long way to go. Stay calm, don’t rush it.”

Ollie nods, his focus unwavering. You know that even though you can't see it, in his mind, he’s analyzing every turn, every overtaking, every change in strategy. There’s something almost magnetic about the way he moves on the track, like time bends around him.

As the laps progress, the group of drivers in the middle of the pack becomes denser. This is where Ollie begins to show his true talent. On a brutal braking maneuver on turn 3, he overtakes two drivers who didn't expect his move. The crowd erupts in applause. The other teams didn't see it coming. Ollie's ability to read the track and anticipate the moves of others puts him in a privileged position.

Engineer: "P12! You’re doing it, Ollie! The top 10 is within reach.”

You, from the stands, feel your whole body tremble. Not only because of the impressive maneuver but because you know him so well. You know this isn’t just luck, that the position he's in now isn’t an accident. Ollie is playing with the others, like a chess player anticipating every move before it happens.

The circuit is a maze of speed, and even though there are other drivers fighting for positions, you can't help but notice how Ollie seems to be in a league of his own. Each overtaking is more calculated than the last. On turn 5, you see a driver blocking the path, but Ollie, with the skill of a professional, takes advantage of the space to overtake without putting his own car at risk. He reaches P11.

Engineer: “P11, Ollie! The top 10 is within reach. Keep the focus.”

The tension rises, and the atmosphere around you becomes almost unbearable. Every time Ollie overtakes another driver, he seems to be closer to achieving what seemed impossible at the start of the race. P20, a disadvantaged position that seemed to dictate the rhythm of his day, now feels like a distant memory, and he’s proving that nothing is impossible.

On the final lap, the weather changes. Some drivers begin to make mistakes under the pressure. One of them slides on a turn, and Ollie seizes the space to overtake them effortlessly. P10 is his. The top 10, the position he had been aiming for all race long, is now a reality.

The checkered flag waves. The crowd erupts in cheers. You've seen it, you've felt it. Ollie, who started so far back, has done what few thought was possible. The car crosses the finish line in P10, and you, among the crowd, feel like you're floating. You’ve lived every second, every lap, every overtaking. You knew he could do it, but seeing him pull it off is an indescribable feeling.

When you finally see him, Ollie is out of the car, sweaty, with a satisfied smile on his face. He quickly walks toward where you are, his breath heavy but his expression relaxed.

“I did it. I made it. P10. Incredible, right?”

You can’t help but smile, his grin is contagious. You see him as a champion, just as you’ve always seen him: unstoppable, determined, but above all, with a heart full of passion for what he does. Sweat drips from his face, but the light in his eyes is what stands out the most. He comes even closer, and you can't resist the urge to hug him, to wrap your arms around him as you sink into the feeling of having lived that moment as intensely as he did.

“I knew it. I knew you’d do it. I always knew you had what it takes to be there.”

You hug him tightly, and for a moment, the whole world seems to stop. The roar of the crowd fades as he, with one hand on your back, holds you and looks you directly in the eyes. There's something in his gaze, something deep, that makes you feel like nothing else matters except this moment.

“Thanks for being there. I wouldn't have made it without you.”

His voice is low, almost a whisper, but clear enough for you to hear. Before you can respond, he pulls you by the waist, and without warning, his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s gentle yet filled with emotion. It’s a kiss of celebration, but also of complicity, of everything you’ve shared together up to this moment.

When you break apart, he looks at you with a mischievous smile, his eyes shining brighter than ever.

“This is just the beginning, you know?”

You, blushing, can’t help but smile too. You feel like everything that has led you here, everything you’ve experienced with Ollie, has been a journey that’s only just beginning.

And in that moment, with the sound of the engines fading and the crowd beginning to disperse, you realize that this isn’t the end of anything. It’s just a new beginning, one that you and Ollie will share.

[jjkilll]

-—✫UNTIL THE END OF TIME | JJK✫—-

warning: this is completely fictional. this story details personal injuries infilicted upon a main charater. reader discretion is advised. please read all warnings before proceeding. 18+

— pairing | ex-fiancé/idol jungkook x y/n

— summary | six months after you two broke up, you realized life's too short to not hold each other until the end of time.

—  warning | personal injury (car accident), mentions of blood and surgery, a coma brought on by personal injury, mentions and the planning of marriage, pwp (big time), smut, reader giving jk a handjob, cum eating(?), spit(?), ass slapping (jk can't control himself)

— word count | 3.9K

— song | until the end of time - justin timberlake (this is gonna ruin the tour)

— a/n: flashback in bold, enjoy!!

——-—-—-—-✫-—--—-—-——

your phone rings waking you quickly. you at up answering your phone. “i’m sorry to wake you, is this y/n l/n?” a man asks through the phone. “yes, is there something wrong?” you ask eyes barely open.

“unfortunately, yes. i’m dr. hill, your fiancée has been in an accident. will you come down and provide some extra information for me?” he asks sincerely.

“what?! is he okay? is he awake?” you sit up. “um, i think it’s best if i share this news in person.” your heart drops.

you stand quickly throwing on some clothes. “i’m coming. i’m on the way.”

you and jungkook had been broken up for six months. you broke off your engagement. he really didn’t want you to go.

——-—-—-—-✫-—--—-—-——

you asked him to go with you to ask your friend to be in your wedding. you planned a lunch and jungkook never showed. you watched the clock tick and the time pass and nothing but radio silence. you tuck the handwritten letters back into your bag.

you got home and jungkook was passed out on the couch. you woke him, “hey go get in bed.” he stands barely awake, and walks into the bedroom flopping down onto your bed.

you walk past him into the bathroom. “where were you?” he mumbles. “lunch with my friends.” you say simply, taking the pins out of your hair.

“until 7 pm on a thursday? what for?” he asks. you sigh continuing to take your hair down from its high ponytail style. you don’t say anything until he groans lifting himself on the bed walking over to the bathroom door and standing in the frame. “what's wrong?” he asks you cluelessly which angers you. “nothing.” you say very monotone.

“you’re mad. why are you mad?” you don’t say anything and continue looking at yourself in the mirror. “i’m not.” you say simply. “ you aren’t even looking at me.” he grabs at your waist and you pull away. “stop.” you say moving away. “can you just tell me what’s wrong? i’m too tired for this shit.” he spits and that’s your final straw. you we so upset with him, that you didn't say anything at first trying to make sure you didn't say anything you didn't mean.

“today was the day we were supposed to ask my friends to be in the wedding and you didn’t even show. i sat there like a dumbass checking the clock hoping you’d show up. you didn’t. you didn’t even call. so yea, it’s very fucking clear that you’re too tired for this shit.” you motion back and forth between the two of you.

“you know damn well that’s not what i meant. i’m sorry babe, things just got so hectic today,” he explains.

“then a text would have eased my mind,” you spoke.

“i was busy, baby. what do you want me to say? you know what i do prepping for a comeback isn't easy.”

“whatever jungkook.” you dismiss him not trying to get more upset.

“did they all say yes?” he asked sitting on the edge of the tub. “i didn’t give them the letters.” you say simply. “why not?” he asks. “because i need more time.” he raises his brow. “for?” he presses.

“to think. see if this is something i even need to do.” you spit.

“what does that mean?” he asks standing up beside you. “jungkook, you haven’t put your input in. you haven’t seen the venue. you don’t care about the colors and you can’t even show up to a fucking lunch. yes, i know how hard it is to prep for a comeback, but planning a wedding by yourself is bullshit. we haven’t had sex in four weeks. you don’t want this relationship as bad as i do.” you explained.

“i want you more than anything.” he says. “then you’d make time! you'd act like it! i don’t ask for weekly dinners, and i don’t complain when you get home at 3 am and leave at 6 am. but, this is different. this is our marriage. i can’t help but think this is what our marriage will be. i’ll just keep waiting on you to find a balance for this shit, the whole world gets everything you got and i just get your last name. i sit at home and watch you create a life without me. that’s why i need to think jungkook.” you finally turn and look at him.

your eyes brimming with tears. “baby, i’ll figure it out i promise. it won’t be like this forever.” you shake your head as your tears fall. “you don’t know that. you know know your job is ever changing. i love you, i do, and i know how much your job means to you. i would never ask you to choose me over your job, but i make time for you even in my schedule. i’m a personal assistant for an idol. I’m gone just as much as you are.” you explain tears choking you up. he pulls you close and you sob in his arms. “what's wrong with me? why can't you make time for me?”

you take a deep breath, “i can’t do this anymore.” you realize he’s crying too. “don’t say that. please don’t say that.” he begs. “i’m sorry jungkook.” you back away from him. you hate how quick he is to let you go. you twist the beautiful ring jungkook gave you months ago, off your finger. you place the ring in his palm. “please,” he looks down at you. “i’m sorry.” you say walking back into your bedroom. you walk into your closet grab clothes and shove them into a duffle. “you don’t have to go tonight. just stay.” he pleads.

“i’m sorry, baby, please. please don't leave.” he cries. you move faster sobbing, you hated hearing him cry. your chest is heavy, as you cry so hard it’s hard to breathe. he walks into the closet and hugs you tight. “please don’t leave me. i don’t want to be alone tonight. please if you want to leave i have to be okay with letting you go, but i want you, i need you to know that I'm not giving up on us. just one more night. stay with me one more night, let me know you're not giving up on me.” you cry. you want to fall apart. “okay.” you say. he hugs you and doesn’t let go. he holds you so tight and so sure. his hands are shaking as he pulls you in. you get this feeling in your gut, you need space and so does he. one night only.

he finally lets go and holds your hand. you strip yourselves of your clothes and lay in bed holding each other, both of you praying this wasn’t the last time you'd hold each other so close.

——-—-—-—-✫-—--—-—-——

you arrive at the hospital. “jeon jungkook.” you speak to the front desk clerk. “relationship?” she asks. “umm, he’s my-my fiance.” she types quickly as you flash your id. “room 613,” she says.

you speed to the elevator taking it up to the sixth four. you look around the floor and run up to the door. you look through the small cut-out of glass. he’s just lying there, an oxygen mask on his face. tears start to pour from your eyes.

“oh my god” you back up starting to panic. “ma’am?” a doctor calls. you turn. “i’m doctor hill. are you his fiancee?” you nod. “yes, please tell me what happened.” you beg. “unfortunately, he was on the expressway southbound, and it seems that he lost control of his motorcycle, he ran into the back of a semi. he’s helmet saved him from any brain damage, but he is having a hard time breathing on his own as he’s punctured his left lung. he hasn’t woken up since we put him under anesthesia, the surgery was a success.” he explains looking at the file in his hands.

“he’s in a coma?” you ask. he nods sincerely. “he is alive and stable, but we aren’t sure when he will come out the the coma, it could be days, maybe months.” you began to sob. “i’m so sorry.” your soul is fading, it was hard to believe. you walk back up to the glass. you stare at him and curse yourself for ever leaving his side. you open the door and walk up to him. you just look at him, and tears fall. he has a black eye and some stitches about his eyebrow.

“i’m so sorry, baby.” you sob quietly. you hold his hand and sob harder when he doesn’t do the double squeeze he’d usually do. you kiss his cheek. “i’m not going anywhere. i’ll be right here i promise.” walk to the other side lay down your purse in the chair and push it to his bedside. you sit laying your head beside him. you gripped his hand and held it tightly.

you didn’t realize that you had fallen asleep until a nurse awakes you. “i’m sorry, here’s his belongings.” she hands you a clear bag with jungkook’s stuff inside. grab the back sitting up and opening it. his jacket was covered in blood, which made your eyes brim. his wallet you noticed something poking out of it. you pulled out a small polaroid of you and him on your first date. you wore disguises and went to six flags. you’d ask another couple to take the photo after you got off the batman ride. you smile reminiscing about how much fun you both had that day.

at the bottom of the bag is a chain with a ring on it, your ring. it was covered in blood as well. you sob, the nurse turns after checking on jungkook. “i’m so sorry ma’am. is there anything i can do for you. are you hungry? coffee?” you shake your head thanking her anyway before she leaves.

you undo the chain sliding your ring off. you hold it up walking over to the sink, washing and drying it, your tears still falling. you slide the ring onto your finger, holding it close to your chest. you walk over to your chair sitting and laying next to him again. “please wake up. please.” you beg.

you wish you never left his side. this was your fault, you thought to yourself. somehow, some way you had a feeling you could've stopped this.

——-—-—-—-✫-—--—-—-——

it had been three weeks since the accident. you were at the hospital every day since. you called your mom to pack a bag for you with everything you needed. your boss a friend of jungkook’s understood, telling you to take how long it took for jungkook to get better.

“good morning aundra.” you speak to the nurse you have grown closer with since being there. “morning darling!” she says cutely. “i’m happy to see you in a better mood today.” she speaks. “yea dr. hill says jungkook can breathe on his own. he’s getting stronger.” you explain. “i know. you’ve got a trooper on your hands for sure.” she smiles.

a few hours later you’re on facetime with the boys telling them how much jungkook has been progressing since they saw him the first time. they sigh a sigh of relief. “he’s so strong guy. we know he’ll be back and kicking as soon as he wakes up. you nod, telling them you were going to try to sleep before the next nurse came to check on him telling them you’d talk to them later.

you lay your head on his lap looking at him. “my pretty boy. you’re so strong. you know i never understood this part of you. you take on so much and come back so strong. you are otherworldly, baby.” you kiss his hand and stand going to nap on the bench across the room. you lay down slowly drifting to sleep.

——-—-—-—-✫-—--—-—-——

you wake to some talking. “how long has she been here?” you hear a low familiar voice. “3 weeks. every day since the accident. this is the longest she’s slept.” you hear a female voice. you turn your eyes fluttering open. you see jungkook sitting up stuffing his mouth with food.

“jungkook!” you scream running over to him hugging him tightly and he groans. “oh im sorry! you’re just you’re awake. my god youre awake. i’m so fucking happy youre okay. jesus please you scared me half to death.” you hug him sobbing. he hold you tight. he swallows his mouthful of food. “hi baby, im sorry im just so hungry.” you giggle looking at him and pecking his lips.

“you were here this whole time?” he asks. you nod. “everyday, 24/7.” you smile. “thank you. i love you.” he looks at you pecking your lips again. he hold both your hands feeling your ring on your finger his eyes shoot down. “you put your ring back on?” you hum. “yeah… i did. i should’ve never taken it off.” he smiles.

“where were you even going?” you ask him, now you must know. he bites his sandwich and swallows before speaking, “your house. i had taken two weeks off of work, i wanted to show you i was serious. i talked to my manager, and he told me, that if i start doubling down every other day it’d speed things up for us, meaning more free time. more time for us.” you smile at him your eyes spilling with tears. he was on his way to you. you were happy he was thinking of you just as much as you were thinking of him. unfortunately, though you can't help but feel like this was your fault. you shake the thought as he grabs your hand, you interlock fingers.

“i love you so fucking much. so so fucking much jungkook.” he kisses your cheek. “i love you more baby.” he says biting his sandwich. “i heard hospital food sucks, and this could just be because i haven’t eaten in three weeks, but this sandwich is fucking amazing.” you giggle.

“oh i have to call the boys.” you speak wiping away your tears. “i talked to them earlier.” jungkook says. “how long have you been up?” you ask raising your brow. “45 minutes or so, i just didn't want to wake you. the nurse said you had barely been sleeping,” he said.

“duh! my fiancé was unconscious in a hospital bed. if someone sleeps peacefully during that, lock them up and throw away the key.” you state. he chuckles lightly.

“i like when you call me that. it feels good to hear that again.”

“what fiancé?” you ask. he nodded cutely.

“so what are the colors?” he asks all of a sudden. “colors of what?” you ask. “for the wedding. what were you thinking?” you smile and sit beside him. you quickly pull up your pinterest board showing him all your ideas. he didn’t show it but knowing you kept them, comforted him.

“white arch? it’ll clash with your dress.” he points out. “oh. oh my god, you're right! we could do green, maybe like ivy leaves?” you suggest. “i think that’ll be immaculate with my grey suit, too. yea, it’ll look amazing.” he adds.

“you already did so good without me baby.” he says. “but it’s clear that i need you. i would’ve been crying for days about that fucking arch.” he chuckles. “i’m still so stuck on flowers.” you pout. “well dr. hill says i have six weeks to recover before i can’t start schedules again. we have time.” he says. you kiss his cheek fluffing his hair.

——-—-—-—-✫-—--—-—-——

for the first time in six months, you walk into your shared apartment. your pictures still hanging on the wall, everything exactly where you left it.

you lay in bed next to him. he wraps his arm around you pulling you in. he kisses the top of your head. “the bed was so cold without you.” he whispers. “i’m never going anywhere ever again.” you peck his lips.

“i need you. i haven’t gotten a good rest in ages, my sleep paralysis started to act up again. just laying in the hospital room with you i slept more than i have in the last six months.” you say. “you just make me breathe better.” you express.

he pouts it hurts him to hear how badly you were struggling. “i was suffocating without you. i love my job but coming home to you made me feel like i won the lottery. i didn’t realize how much i had won until i lost it. i will not fuck it up this time. winning the lottery once is just luck, but twice is a sign.” you giggle rubbing your nose along his.

“i missed you so much, baby.” he says. “trust me i missed you more.” you reply. “impossible.” he whispers before kissing you deeply. you hum into the kiss, the way he kissed you makes your body tingle. you nervously bury your face into his chest. “you are so cute, why so shy? it’s just me.” he smiles. “you just got that effect on me. you make me feel like a teenager, kicking my feet and daydreaming and shit.” you mumble into his chest, he giggles brightly.

“kiss me again,” you say looking up at him. he obeys quickly kissing your lips. jungkook never found the idea of sucking someone’s tongue until he met you. the way you kiss him had a tent quickly growing in his pants.

he hums. “i’m so hard for you right now.” he states pecking your lips. you lightly push him away tutting. “no physical activity for you sir. dr. hill told me it’s imperative that don’t do anything that requires too much physical activity, for your lungs. so no sex right now.” you explain. “what?! come on. i haven’t felt you in months. now i have to wait even longer?” you nod and he groans throwing his head back in frustration. suddenly an idea pops into your head.

“what if…” he hums letting you know he's listening, “ i give you a handjob?” you whisper. “be serious, babe. don’t tease me.” he whines in his last sentence.

you giggle sliding your hands down his sweats. you stroke him slowly. you quickly look up at his licking your fingers before swirling them on his tip. “oh shit. that feels good.” you continue stroking him at a steady pace. “fuck” he mutters. “i wasn’t trying to cum this soon.” he chuckles nervously. “it’s okay baby. give me your cum. i want it so bad” you say teasingly.

he moans biting his lip. you stroke him faster, “just like like that, ohh shit.” you groan. you stroke him just how he likes. he kisses you deeply as you stroke him. “you are so fucking hot.” he whispers. you kiss him again lightly tugging on his bottom lip. “i’m cumming.” he mumbles moaning as he shoots his thick load onto your hand and in his pants. you slide your hand out covered in him. you look at him licking his cum off your knuckles. he looks at you in awe. “mm” you hum lightly flashing him a smile.

“i just want pick you up and fuck you.” you giggle at his bluntness. “jungkook.” you laugh. “what? the way you were just looking at me when you licked your fingers, you know if i was in full health right now i would be fucking you so good.” you smile pecking his slips. “one week.” you said simply. “that’s how long dr. hill said.” you explain. he looks at you, “you think it’s possible to sleep for a week?” you pinch his nose with your fingers. “yea you were sleep for three. no more sleeping for you sir.” he giggles.

“let’s shower.” you say patting his cheek. “oh definitely, you just made me cum in my pants.” he starts to move but you stop him.

“i’m sorry.” you say for the millionth time. “for what?” he questions. “for not believing in you when you said you'd figure it you. i should’ve,” you say simply. you hold back the tears that are making your throat close up.

“look, i know things were difficult, but i knew that night when you stayed, you weren’t giving up on me. on us,” he corrects. “ you stayed by my side for three weeks. you brushed my hair, you talked to me, you gave me a sponge bath. you always believed in me. this accident was not your fault, i need to understand that.” you pout your eyes threatening to spill.

“nuh-uh, no more tears. it’s only up from here, my love.” you hold his close. his thumb wipes away your tears that fall. “now let’s get in the shower.” he pats your butt before moving and standing up quickly. he groans leaning back onto the bed. “woah, take it easy, baby.” he huffs. “i’m not used to be this slow.” he chuckles.

“in all due time. trust me next week you’ll feel much better,” you explain. he nods as you help him stand. “i got you, babe.” he groans standing. you walk into the bathroom and he leans against the sink. you help him take off his shirt as his shoulder is in pain. “you’d look so hot in scrubs.” he says admiring you as you help him.

“oh hush.” you giggle. you help him take of his pants, his semi hard cock spring out. you look up at him. “what?” he whines. “you’re still hard?” you tease. “yes! i just thought about how you look naked.” he spoke. you laugh. you lift your shirt off and undo your bra and your tits bounce out.

“see? and you expect me not to be hard right now?” you giggle turning around and turning the shower on. “okay you first.” he steps in letting the hot water hit his skin. “hurry up.” he rushes you. “have some patience,” you say raising your brown jokingly. you slip off your shorts and step in. your back faces jungkook as you reach for your shampoo, and suddenly a slap hits your ass. you stand quickly. “jungkook.” you warn.

“what? come on. your ass was on full display, it was the urges inside me.” you chuckle. “that wasn’t me, i didn’t want to slap your ass, but the parasites in me wanted to slap your ass.” you laugh loudly. “shut up!” you chide jokingly.

you apply soap onto a washcloth, and start washing his chest. “i wanna get married tomorrow.” he says suddenly. “what?!” you almost yell. you look at him in disbelief. “i don’t even have a dress.” you explain. “then let’s go thrift one. i realized that life is too short, and in this lifetime i need you to be my wife.” you smile, but you don’t say anything. “what if… we get married tomorrow, and we still have a wedding. we can still do it big, when we actually get married it’s just us. me and you like i will be forever.” you suggest. you smile at him. “okay.” you say. “okay like you're just doing it for me or you love the idea?” you chuckle as you realize his small panic. “i love the idea. just me and you.” you say.

“forever,” he adds.

“and ever, until the end of time.” you grin, finally everything feels good. you stand in front of your soon-to-be husband, excited for what the future holds.

——-—-—-—-✫-—--—-—-——

[milfsloverblog]

Secret Benefits (part 8)

sugar mommy!Larissa Weems x Fem!reader

A/N: Apologies for the two months radio silence, I had to go for a little grippy sock vacation. I really enjoyed writing this chapter, the angst, the comfort and FINALLY…. Nah, I can’t spoil you. You’ll have to read it. Enjoy, and don’t forget to reblog if you do! <3

After Larissa’s admission, the silence stretched between you, heavy and fragile, like the air itself might crack under the weight of it. You hadn’t spoken for what felt like hours, though the ticking clock told you it had only been minutes. Larissa sat beside you, her posture impeccable as always, but her fingers betrayed her composure—they fidgeted ever so slightly, twisting the hem of her sleeve in a way you’d never seen before.

You were still clutching the blanket she’d given you, your knuckles white around the edges. The warmth it provided didn’t quite reach your chest, where a strange hollowness had taken root.

“Thank you,” you finally said, your voice quieter than you intended. The words felt insufficient, but they were all you had.

Larissa turned her head toward you, her silver hair catching the dim light. There was something guarded in her eyes, something she wasn’t ready to say. “You don’t need to thank me,” she replied softly. “I just… needed to be here.”

The honesty in her words startled you. She’d been nothing but composed since the moment you met her, a fortress of calm and control. But tonight, cracks were starting to show. The revelation of her secret had thrown you both into uncharted territory, and you weren’t sure either of you knew the way forward.

“I still can’t believe it,” you admitted, shaking your head as if that might somehow make it all make sense. “The shifting, the man—you—”

“Me,” Larissa said, her lips quirking into a wry, almost self-deprecating smile. “All of it, I’m afraid.”

Your chest tightened at the sound of her voice, that same warm lilt you’d come to recognize, but now layered with vulnerability. It was like hearing a familiar song played in a minor key—comforting and disarming all at once.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Larissa hesitated. Her gaze dropped to her hands, now folded neatly in her lap. “Because I didn’t want you to look at me differently,” she said, her voice steady but low. “I didn’t want to risk…” She trailed off, the unspoken words hanging between you like a fog.

“Risk what?”

“Risk losing whatever fragile connection we’d managed to build. I wasn’t supposed to get so attached. We weren’t supposed, remember?” she said remembering your initial agreement, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ve spent so long hiding who I am—what I am—that the idea of showing you felt… impossible.”

Her confession hit you like a wave, the weight of it sinking into your skin. For all her strength, all her poise, Larissa carried a fear you recognized all too well: the fear of being truly seen and rejected for it.

“I don’t think of you any differently,” you said before you could stop yourself. The words spilled out, shaky but honest.

Larissa looked up, her blue eyes searching yours. “You don’t?”

You shook your head. “I mean, it’s a lot to process, obviously. But you’re still… you. And you saved me, Larissa. Twice, now. I can’t ignore that.”

Her shoulders relaxed, just slightly, and you saw a glimmer of relief in her expression. “I’ve had to make difficult choices to keep my secret,” she said. “I don’t expect you to understand all of it, but I want you to know—I’ve only ever tried to protect the people I care about.”

“Is that what I am?” you asked before you could think better of it.

Larissa blinked, caught off guard by the question. Her lips parted, and for a moment, you thought she might deflect. But then she nodded, a small, deliberate motion. “Yes,” she said simply. “You are.”

The words settled over you like a blanket, warm and heavy. It was the first time in a long time that someone had claimed you as theirs, even in such a quiet way. You weren’t sure what to do with it.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admitted, your voice shaking slightly.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Larissa replied. “Just… stay.”

You looked at her, really looked at her, and for the first time, you saw the weight she carried—not just the secret of her ability, but the responsibility she felt for everyone around her. It was etched into the lines of her face, the faint tension in her jaw, the way her hands never quite stilled.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly, and the words felt truer than anything you’d said in a long time.

Larissa’s expression softened, and for a moment, the distance between you seemed to shrink. The air in the room felt lighter, less charged, as though some unspoken barrier had finally been breached.

“Good,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

The quiet that followed was different now—less heavy, more companionable. The silence between you felt alive, not oppressive as it had moments before. Larissa's gaze lingered on you, and you found yourself unable to look away. It was disarming, the way her eyes seemed to hold entire galaxies of emotions—uncertainty, hope, and something warmer, more tender, that you couldn’t quite name.

You set the blanket aside, letting the warmth of the moment pull you forward, closer to her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” she said, her voice steady, though you noticed the faintest tremor in her hand as she smoothed her skirt.

“Why did you stay here tonight?” you asked, your heart thundering in your chest. “Was it really just to check on me?”

Her lips parted as though to answer immediately, but she hesitated. For the first time, she didn’t seem to know the right thing to say. “I… I needed to make sure you were safe,” she said carefully, but her gaze betrayed her. There was more.

“And?” you pressed, your voice soft but insistent.

“And,” she continued, her words catching slightly, “because I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you alone after what happened. I knew you’d push me away if I asked to stay, so I didn’t ask. I just… stayed.”

Your chest ached at the raw vulnerability in her voice. Larissa, the ever-composed, ever-controlled woman you thought you knew, was letting you see her without the walls she usually kept so firmly in place.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said softly, though a part of you was grateful she had.

“I did,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because I care about you, more than I can explain. And after last night…” She shook her head, as if trying to push the memory of it away. “I needed to make sure you knew that.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and electric, as if the entire room was waiting for you to respond. But no words came. Instead, you leaned forward, the impulse almost unconscious, and placed a hand over hers.

“Thank you,” you murmured, though the words felt so small compared to everything she’d done.

Her hand trembled beneath yours, but she didn’t pull away. Her gaze flicked down to where your fingers rested over hers, then back to your face. The way she looked at you was almost unbearable—like she was afraid this moment might shatter if she breathed too deeply.

“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted, her voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Then don’t say anything,” you replied, your voice just as soft.

You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was you, or maybe it was her. But suddenly, the space between you was gone. Her lips brushed against yours, tentative and feather-light, as though testing the waters.

The kiss was brief, but it sent a jolt through your entire body. Your heart pounded in your chest, your breath catching in your throat. When she pulled back, her eyes searched yours, wide and unsure.

“Was that okay?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned in again, pressing your lips to hers with more certainty this time. She responded immediately, her hand moving to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing against your skin with a gentleness that made your heart ache.

The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, as if the two of you had all the time in the world. Her other hand found its way to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

When you finally broke apart, your foreheads rested together, both of you breathing heavily. Her fingers lingered on your face, tracing soft patterns against your skin as though committing the moment to memory.

“I’ve wanted to do that for longer than I care to admit,” Larissa said softly, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“So have I,” you admitted, your cheeks warming under her gaze.

The vulnerability between you now was almost overwhelming, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like something to fear. It felt like a bridge—a connection neither of you had expected but both of you desperately needed.

Larissa pulled you into her arms, holding you close, her chin resting lightly on the top of your head. You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of her embrace. The steady rise and fall of her breathing was a balm to your racing thoughts, grounding you in a way nothing else could.

“I don’t want to rush you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “If this is too much, too soon—”

“It’s not,” you interrupted, pulling back just enough to look at her. “It’s not too much. I just… I need to figure out what this means.”

Her lips curved into a soft smile, and she nodded. “We’ll figure it out together,” she said, her voice steady but warm.

You believed her.

————————————————————————

Taglist: @raspburrythief @weemssapphic @readingtheentrails @principal-weems09 @kimiinou @winterfireblond @im-a-carnivorous-plant @geekyarmorel @h-doodles @witchesmortuary @m1lflov3rrr @dumbasslesbi @crow-raven-crow @fridays-coven @lilfartbox1 @shawncantwrite @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @gwens0girl @aemilia19 @the-bagel24 @lvinhs @thefutureisus2020 @gela123 @a-queen-and-her-throne @rando-mango @wheresmyboo @my-silver-spring @hillary-nicks @ablsk @natasha29romanoff @tallvampirelady12 @canyoufeelmyheartsayinghi i @i-love-nerdy-stuff @jasperobsidian-blog @i-write-sometimes-maybe @brienne-the-brave @slytherinthepms @non-binary-frogking @wife-of-gwendolinechristie @anjo-iludidoefudido @imnotafruitt @opheliauniverse

[eveninggstar]

bedtime blues ⊹ ࣪ ˖

max verstappen x gf!reader

27.07.24

୨ৎ back one page ୨ৎ back two pages

୨ৎSince Max's (minor) outburst on the radio, the team issued a 'bedtime' for him to say he can’t stream so late. However if given these demands himself he would not heed them. So they send in you, his girlfriend, and he cant deny your wishes.

The night was calm, the glow from Max’s many monitors setup the only illumination in the room. Max Verstappen, reigning F1 champion, was engrossed in his sim racing with the Redline team. His focus was razor-sharp, the virtual world of high-speed cars his escape from the pressures of real-life racing.

Meanwhile, in the living room, you lounged comfortably on the couch, scrolling through your phone when a notification caught your eye. It was a message relayed to you from Helmut Marko. The terse text made your heart sink:

"Max needs to cut off his streaming by 10 PM. His performance is suffering. Make sure it happens."

You sighed, already dreading the conversation. Max was always so passionate about his sim racing, and asking him to stop was never easy. You glanced at the clock; it was already 10:15 PM. With a determined breath, you got up and made your way to Max's gaming room, knowing this wouldn’t be an easy task.

The familiar environment of Max's racing room, with its soft blue lights and neatly organized racing paraphernalia, greeted you. Pushing the door open slightly, you saw Max, fully immersed, his hands dancing over the controls with practiced ease.

The chat was lively, comments flowing faster than you could read. As you stepped into view of the camera, the chat exploded:

"OMG, she's here!" "Max’s girlfriend is a stunner!" "No way, she's real!"

Luke, also known as Crane, noticed the commotion and began reading out the comments. "Chat’s going crazy. 'Max’s girlfriend is a 10/10,' 'She’s way out of his league.' Guys, Max doesn't have a girlfriend, he has me."

You couldn't hear anything being said, but you heard your boyfriends delayed response of, "Yes, Darling."

You walked over to Max, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and leaning in to kiss his cheek. He glanced at you, momentarily distracted, but then refocused on the screen whilst taking his headphones off one ear and muting himself to the stream.

"Hey, Schatje," he greeted, eyes still glued to the race. "What’s up?"

"Hey, love," you replied, keeping your voice low. "It’s past 10. Time to come off."

Max frowned, his concentration still on the race. "But I’m in the middle of a session. Just a little longer?"

Knowing this might take some persuasion, you reached over to his desk, accidentally-on-purpose unmuting his microphone. The stream caught Max's whiny protest, and the chat erupted with laughter.

"But I don’t want to go to bed yet," Max moaned, sounding for all the world like a child resisting bedtime.

"Max, I was personally asked to make sure you’re off by 10," you said, playing along with the ‘mum’ role the chat had assigned you. "I would leave it if I wasn't asked." He was quiet and pouting, "Come on, don't give me that face. You know I believe you can do both." Since the team didn't want to believe it was their own wrongdoings, so they put the pressure onto Max. Regardless of his previous achievements.

The Redline team members, caught between racing and laughing, chimed in. "Listen to your mum, Max," Enzo teased.

"You don’t want to get in trouble," Josh added, barely containing his laughter.

Max sighed, realizing he was outnumbered and outmaneuvered. "Alright, alright," he conceded, sounding defeated.

"Good boy," you teased, ruffling his hair affectionately.

Max rolled his eyes but smiled, sighed with exaggerated reluctance. "Fine, I’m off. Happy now?"

The chat was a flurry of laughing emojis and comments, loving every second of the exchange.

"Night, guys," Max said to his team, who were still chuckling. "Guess I have to go to bed now."

"Goodnight, Max," Crane said, still snickering. "Sweet dreams. Don't forget the teddy and glass of milk."

Enzo added, "Yeah, sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite."

As he logged off, you kissed his cheek again. "Thanks for listening."

Max turned to you with a playful grin. "I better get a reward for this," he whispered, wrapping his arms around your waist.

You laughed, nodding. "We’ll see. Now, let’s get you to bed, Mr. Verstappen."

Max gave you a sideways glance, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "You sure you weren't just looking for an excuse to drag me to bed?"

You rolled your eyes playfully. "As if I need an excuse. Come on, let's get you some rest."

Once in the bedroom, Max flopped onto the bed dramatically. "Fine, I'm in bed. Happy?"

You shook your head with a laugh, joining him on the bed and pulling the covers over both of you. "Very. Now, get some sleep. Big day tomorrow."

Max's arm wrapped around you, pulling you close. "Yeah, yeah. But just so you know, I'm not giving up my sim racing that easily."

You pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I wouldn't expect you to. But maybe we can find a better balance, hmm?"

He nodded sleepily, already beginning to relax. "Yeah, I suppose. Thanks for looking out for me."

You snuggled closer, feeling his warmth and steady breathing. "Always, Max."

As the room grew quiet, you listened to the rhythmic sound of Max's breathing, feeling content. It wasn't always easy being the partner of a top-tier athlete, but moments like these made it all worth it.

Please don’t steal my work, much love ᡣ𐭩

Tag list: @rayaskoalaland

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 eveninggstar

[shadowbriar]

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter — Skeletons

Pairing : Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x (she/her) Reader Word Count : 2.4k Warning : Language. Domestic violence. This might be triggering so please proceed with caution. If you feel uncomfortable in any part of this fic, please just skip it entirely. Synopsis : Dex's paranoia lead him to lose his temper after she's been out of touch the whole day. Notes : I feel the need to remind that this is purely a piece of fiction. If you, or anyone else you know, is experiencing similar or any kind of abuse, please talk to someone about it. You matter. If you like this story and would like to support me, please visit my kofi page and perhaps get me a coffee?☕

To say Dex was worried would be such a poor judement. He’s made one too many mistakes at work, perhaps provoked the beast that is Wilson Fisk a little too constantly, to ignite that silent wrath the powerful man often unleashes upon those who’d wronged him. A little spark in his heart hoped that he was just being paranoid, that he’s seen far too much violence in his job that it clouded his mind, but as the clock strikes midnight and her absence was still loud in their shared apartment, Dex knew that such possibility might have already become the bitter tragic reality.

His lips were starting to bleed from how much he chewed on them, fingers busy punching her name and redialling her number every time his calls went to voicemail. Any minute now, he was sure his heart would give in from the stress. Beads of sweat have started to drip from the back of his neck. Dex was worried and scared, but above all, he was angry.

He was angry at everyone at work for always throwing him under the bus. For giving him the most impractical tasks without any means of support and stomping on him whenever things went south. He was angry at Fisk for making him do his bidding. He was angry at her for giving him the silent treatment. Ultimately, he was angry at himself for letting things go so out of control.

Dex considered grabbing his jacket and just combed through the city to find her, but that little hope in his heart plants his feet to the ground, wishful that she would come through the front door any minute now. That, or he simply couldn’t bear the chance of facing the consequences of his mistakes.

His bubble of thought bursts as the sound of keys jingle from the other side of the apartment. He sprinted to the living room, waited with wide eyes as she opened the door, silently watching her from the corner of the room like a predator waiting for its prey to fall into their trap. He was too quiet for her to notice his presence as she hung her coat and scarf, kicking her shoes carelessly in the hallway.

“Where have you been?” he demanded, his voice firm and cold.

“God, I thought you’re asleep, already,” she exclaims, clutching on her heart from the surprise “I had to stay for work. The system in my office was down the whole day, I could only start my tasks after 4pm, and I needed to finish them today.”

“And you couldn’t have called or texted?” he pressed, the veins on his forehead were becoming more visible “I’ve been worried sick, wondering where in the fucking hell you could be the whole time, do you know that?!”

She lets out a tired sigh, walking past him, “My phone died, and I didn’t bring a charger. Everyone else was already off at 5.”

“You said the system crashed, how are you the only one staying overtime for work?”

“Because, Dex, not everyone has the same deadline,” she seethes, clearly on the verge of her patience with all his pestering “Look, I’m sorry I made you worry, okay? I didn’t mean to. Now, can you please stop with the yelling and let me be? I’m exhausted, and I’m desperate for a bath.”

“No, we’re not done talking,” Dex persists as he follows her to their bedroom “You could’ve tried something, anything! Send me an email, for all I care! You don’t just go radio silent the whole day and not expect me to get angry about it!”

“Well, I’ve told you, I’m sorry, alright! I didn’t mean to get you worried and angry, I’m sorry!” she spat back, matching the rise of his voice now “And can you just shut up for a second, my head is already pounding as it is.”

“You don’t get to tell me to shut up, I have the right to be angry at you right now!”

“Fuck’s sake, Dex, what do you want from me?!” she yelled, facing him this time “I’ve told you, I’m sorry. What else do you want me to say?!”

Dex went quiet, watching her with his chest heaving. His temper was rising. The alarm in his ears was loud and he was seeing red. Turmoil was boiling in his veins and the voices in his head were begging him to grab the recordings and calm himself down, but as if he was paralysed, Dex couldn’t find it in him to move a muscle and could only let the other side of him, the worst and most shameful side of him, slowly taking the light.

“Just let this go, Dex, please,” she continues, running a hand through her hair as she walks to the bathroom “This is such bullshit.”

And that’s when it tipped him. The last words she muttered that weren't even supposed to reach his ears had become the final nail to his coffin. He grabbed her by the shoulders, twisting her so violently to the wall, hard enough to knock the pictures to the floor.

“I thought you were dead!” Dex yelled angrily, screaming to her face “I thought Fisk has gotten into you!”

She watches him with terror filled eyes. The sound of the frames breaking still rings, like gunshots to her ears, but even those didn’t match the loudness of Dex’s voice. He was angry, it was plain to see, and she knew that she’s jabbed on the monster he’s tried so hard to keep her away from. The man standing in front of her now was not her lover. No, he was entirely someone else. Someone that shouldn’t have been brought to life, in the first place.

The silence stretched forever. The only sound heard now was his loud panting and the small hissing of her lips as the tiny cracks of glass stab her bare feet. She was afraid, in pain, and above all, confused as to how their argument escalated this way.

“Dex,” she called with a voice barely above a whisper “Come back to me.”

And as if he’s been slapped across the face, the man slowly regained his composure. He blinks, taking a step back and retrieving his grip that would surely leave some bruise on her shoulders. His breathing hitch as he looks at the mess he’s made. There was a small pool of blood on the floor from her wounded feet, his own knuckles sore and bleeding from the impact to the wall, and when he looked up to see her face, that one lovely face that he worshiped so much of, now filled with horror and uncertainty, Dex knew that he’s came to a point of no return.

“I-I— I just— I’m sorry,” he breathed, swiftly taking her off of her feet and carrying her to the bed “I don’t know what came into me, I’m so sorry.”

She watches in silence as Dex hurriedly tends to her wounds. His body is still emitting rage, movement almost robotic as he kneels to clean the shards of glass. The muscles on his shoulders were still tense. One wrong movement and she fears she might unleash the beast once again.

She knew that Dex wrestled with his demons more nights than not. That the recordings with Dr. Mercer, though he still listens to every now and then, has had no effect to tame the fury in his head. The only thing he said to have brought him any sense of peace these days was her, but given the event that just happened, how there’s new dents the size of his knuckles and her head on the wall now, she wasn’t sure if she would still have such charm upon him.

“I’m sorry,” Dex says, this time with a firmer tone as if he was demanding her forgiveness “You have to forgive me.”

Still in silence, she waited for his next words.

“You— I mean, I wouldn’t have lashed out like this if you would just tell me where you were,” Dex reasoned, standing up and pacing a little further from her. He wipes his face with his palm, resting his hand on his jaw as he tries to recollect himself but such effort proved to be futile “You could’ve called me with your office phone. It wouldn’t even take ten seconds just to tell me you’ll be home late. Why didn’t you?!”

“Dex—,”

“I just— I thought you were hurt! I thought my job has finally bitten me back on the ass and got to you,” he pulls on his hair, still yelling in despair “I fucking love you, alright! You’re very special to me, don’t you see? I can’t lose you.”

Her gaze softened. The real Dex was coming back through the cracks of his voice.

“I just can’t lose you,” he finally cries.

Only mere moments ago, she was so afraid of the beast Dex has become, but now, standing a few feet away from her, choking in his own tears with both their wounds still bleeding, she couldn’t help but to feel sorry for him.

She opens her arms and Dex needs no words to run into it. He immediately succumbs to her embrace, burying his tear streaked face to the crook of her neck. She knew that the fear of her leaving came from a different sentiment than what a typical love would be. The fright plaguing his mind harboured from the slim chance of him finding anyone else that he could pin as his north star if she were to leave. No one understands his condition, no one bothers to listen and sit with him about it. Losing her would only make him drown in uncertainty once again.

“I love you, I’m sorry,” he repeats “Don’t leave me.”

“You’re right, I should’ve called, I’m sorry,” she whispers back, brushing the strands of his blond hair “I’m sorry, Dex.”

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he begs, pulling his face away so she could see the determination in his eyes “I’ll do whatever you want, just say it and it’ll be done. I’d kill for you, you know that, don’t you? Just never leave me, please.”

“Hey, listen to me, you don’t have to do anything, okay? I’m not going anywhere,” she soothes, wiping the tears off of his cheeks “Let’s not talk about it anymore, yeah? Let’s just call it a night and sleep, hm? What do you think?”

“But you said you wanted to take a bath.”

“I’m too tired for it,” she lies through her teeth “Could you get me fresh clothes, instead? I know how you hate outside clothes to touch our bed.”

Nodding like a child, Dex reaches into their closet and pulls out her pyjamas. He watches as she changes out of her dirty clothes, eyes locked on her as if he’s scared she’s bolt out of the door. Even with her gentle voice and that sweet smile plastered on her face, Dex was still on high alert.

“Come to bed, Dex,” she calls once she’s done changing “You must be tired, too.”

There was hesitation in his movement, but Dex climbed up the bed eventually. They were facing each other now, laying on their side but not particularly touching each other. This was the first fight they’ve ever had that actually brought his skeletons out and neither of them knew if the storm had truly passed. None of them dared to ask the question either as it felt like the topic was still too tender to touch.

So they only stared at each other. She studies the wrinkles on his face that slowly disappears. The way the muscles around his jaws were starting to relax, and how his breathing has come to a steady. The bloodshot anger in his eyes have dissipated too, replaced with daze and emptiness. It was as if his brain was trying its best to hit reset.

Slowly, her fingers find their way to caress his face. Dex fell into her touch in an instant. Sighing as if he’s awaited the gesture for so long. He closes his eyes, this time really trying to reach into that sense of solace that he usually was able to obtain much easier than now.

“Is this helping?” she asks softly.

“Yes,” he answers without opening his eyes “Plenty.”

“Okay,” she nods in acknowledgement “Go to sleep, baby.”

“No,” Dex shot his eyes open, fear once again filling them “You’re going to leave me.”

“I would never,” she reassures, inching closer to him “We’re in this together, aren’t we? Forever? You and me?”

He nods hesitantly.

“Then close your eyes and sleep, Dex,” she coaxes “I won’t go anywhere.”

Dex wanted to argue. He wanted to place his arms around her and pin her in place, trapping her just in case she decided to leave when he’s finally drifted to slumber, but he’s crossed too many lines tonight. He’s broken too many walls, burned too many bridges, to risk doing anything but what she asked for, so he forces himself to close those eyes and fall back into her touch. He tries to let her soothing gesture fill his senses, giving her the full control of his body.

“There we go, baby, just close those eyes,” she continues to coo, placing a chaste kiss to the tip of his nose “Rest those muscles, Dex, I know you’re tired.”

“I love you,” he whispers, begging “I just love you.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

Tears were starting to leak out of his eyes. Dex was frightened beyond words, but he promised to close his eyes, and so he did. He hates her for making him feel this way. For making him feel this helpless, full of anger yet has no power to release it, but he couldn’t find any better replacement. He couldn’t find anyone else that would keep him in line. Noone and nothing else that would guide him through the darkness of his wild ire.

Gently, she places his hand around her waist. The gesture made him let out a shaky breath, understanding that she’s giving him a chance to prove his words, “You won’t hurt me, will you?”

Dex shakes his head, “No, I promise.”

“Okay, I believe you,” she replies, her hands now brushing through his hair “Get some rest, baby.”

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

“I think you’ll wake up first than I do, actually.”

Dex lets out a nervous chuckle, easing himself down to her banter.

“I love you, Dex. You know that, don’t you?”

He nods, not saying a word.

With one last kiss to his lips, she closes her eyes. The road to land of Nod would be long and difficult tonight, but perhaps this too shall pass.

[aluciahaz]

Uhhhh could you possibly write an Alastor x Male! Reader? I uh got options because I didn't know if it was okay or not

Fluff- it could be like a date night yknow, Alastor and the reader are dancing together? (The others surprised about it but yknow, go Al?)

Smut- sub Alastor IF YOU WANT! It could have something to do with his ears being sensitive or they could be doing something while doing the radio show OR BOTH-

Whatever you are comfortable with doing idm idm. I just wanted to give ideas yknow

all of these are such good ideas!!! i went with the ears one but i might snatch some of these for latter pieces ❤️ tysm for requesting!

little bambi

—alastor x m!reader ( but it’s not that specific other than the use of the word cock like once sorry 😭)

—includes : sensitive ears, crying,

alastor was never one to like being touched.

of course, he enjoyed invading other people’s personal space, parading his presence of control and eerieness to people in his life, but he hated it when others did the same.

it showed that he wasn’t the one in power. that people were so unafraid of him that they’d just lay a hand on him without a second thought. that privilege was only reserved for special people.

so, of course, it took ages for you to be able to touch him in any sort of way.

and is the reason why, just now, after years into your relationship, you discover an incredibly interesting thing about alastor.

“ngh…mm,” his eyes shut in bliss without realizing, sighing in peace as your fingers scratch the back of his ears, running beneath the tufts of hair at where they started.

the static in the bedroom significantly got louder.

the two of you sit in nearly perfect silence, if not for the crescendo of humming electricity reverberating.

“…can i keep going?” you ask, noticing his stiff disposition and frozen smile. he didn’t like being caught off guard. hated it, in fact.

but you were special.

“yes… you may,” alastor hesitantly says, as though still testing the waters on whether he liked it or not. his ears worked on their own, unfortunately being one of the things he couldn’t manipulate all the time.

they showed his true emotions, just like how his eyes were a window into his dead heart. when you saw them pin back to his head, twitching in anticipation, you don’t wait to comply to his unconscious needs, petting the top of his head slowly.

his static almost sounds like a purr, and he tilts his head forward, now embracing this moment. you chuckle before gently tugging his ears back to make him look at you, only to get a very different reaction from what you expected.

“AH—!” a guttural moan ran away from his once-closed-mouth smile, his mouth agape for a brief second before digging his teeth into his bottom lip, trying to silence his unbecoming noises.

however, even with his attempts to seem less affected by your touch, it didn’t take any time at all to have him beneath you, as he was quite responsive to you with your hands on his ears. alastor just couldn’t get enough. how was he supposed to resist such an incredible feeling?

usually, he was a bit more chatty, biting at you with sharp words and sarcasm. but now, all he could do was squirm and lay his head down, trying to hide his noises behind the back of his hand. which, of course, you pull away, shaking your head in disapproval. “your voice is your pride and joy, is it not? why hide it?”

his ears go flush back onto his head as listens to you, setting his arms aside as you run your fingers down the base of his ears, and soon, time passes with haste.

it seems like it’s only been seconds when alastor lets out a weak wail from the feeling of being slowly filled with your cock, yet by looking at the analog clock on the wall, you can tell it’s almost been 30 minutes. at this point, you’d expect a snide comment from your talkative lover, yet all he could do was cry out in pleasure, his claws ripping the bed below him.

“f-faster, come on—ah!” he gasps as a particularly sharp thrust catches him off guard, cutting his demands short as he tumbles into a rush of moans as you comply with his request.

you could practically hear the moment he lets his dignity shut off, the static suddenly disappearing with no warning as you pet his ears once more, feeling them twitch underneath your fingers.

his mind seemed to be spinning, looping like a channel on repeat. you could tell by how his eyes seemed to fall into this blissful rapture, glazed over and unfocused. by how his words seemed to jumble together like a poorly written script, his usually composed voice sounding more like an amateur on air.

“you’re so beautiful,” you murmur, lifting one of your hands off his ear to brush the mess of hair out of his face, meeting his lovely crimson eyes which seemed to shine like diamonds underneath the dim lamplight.

they only seem to glisten more as you say so, a small whimper slipping off his tongue before he shuts them, a tear rolling down his rosy cheek as he cries out for you without words, but you understand his unbridled desire, picking up your pace to be gifted a loud sob of satisfaction in return.

“i—think, think i’m close,” he breathes out harshly in contrast to his usually smooth voice, his whole body trembling underneath yours. “keep—keep doing th—ah! ffu—,” he’s demanding, yet so sweet. you can’t help but listen.

and with a somewhat distorted moan, he’s sent over the edge as you dig your fingers roughly into the bottom of his ears, making him shudder and tense up with a broken cry.

you look down at the beautiful mess below you, proud of your work. the tears that had dried on his face shined like polish, and the static that usually crackled in the air was gone. it was just the two of you, and as you go and kiss him, he finds that your lips make him feel a bit more sane, grounding him in the moment.

one he’ll never forget.

tags: @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @mvskedxrtist @drlucichen @luciferspetduck

[imsojules]

After the tide turns – Part 1

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: Outbreak violence so, blood, death, swearing, military control, inspired by the last of us, established relationship, english is not my first language!

a/n: Here we go!! 🚨

Comments always make my day! 🖤

word count: 2.8k

masterlist | prequel | next |

The apartment is quiet.

The clock on the microwave blinks 1:42 AM in ghostly blue digits. It’s the only light in the room besides the soft flicker of the streetlamp filtering through the blinds. The apartment smells faintly like the candle you lit earlier, cheap vanilla, burnt halfway down and the leftover takeout JJ promised to throw away when he got back.

Somewhere outside, waves slap against the docks. A fan spins in the ceiling above you, clicking on every third turn like a broken clock. The TV’s gone dark, stuck on the menu screen of some half-watched show. You’re curled up sideways on the couch, one arm underneath your cheek, the other still loosely holding your phone.

It’s late. JJ should’ve been home hours ago. Always running into something dumb that turns into a story later. Something feels off all week, ever since the weird news starts leaking in from the mainland—food recalls, strange medical emergencies, radio silence from certain cities. Rumors on social media about tainted crops. You haven’t paid much attention, honestly.

But you must doze off waiting, because when your eyes snap open again, it’s not to JJ’s voice or the sound of the door.

Your phone comes to life with a faint buzz. A name flashes across the screen, it’s your mom.

You swipe to answer, breath catching.

“Mom? Hello?”

But there’s only static.

You press the phone harder to your ear, like that’ll force a connection through the storm of crackles.

“Mom, I can’t hear you—”

A faint breath. Maybe a syllable. Then nothing. The line drops. The screen reads Call Failed. You stare at it like maybe the phone will change its mind.

It doesn’t. You try calling back, but the screen blinks No Service. One bar flickers and vanishes.

You reach for the remote with a shaking hand. The screen comes alive with a quiet click, casting pale light across the room. You flip through the channels until one freezes— news. Not some talking head in New York or DC. This is close. Too close.

The anchorwoman sits stiffly at her desk, hair slightly out of place, makeup cracked under sweat. Her hands grip the table just out of frame, knuckles white. The studio behind her is dimmer than usual, and there's a buzzing hum in the background, like something’s malfunctioning. Her voice wavers, but she keeps reading.

“...the number of confirmed deaths has surpassed two hundred tonight. The Governor has declared a state of emergency across Dare, Hyde, and surrounding counties…”

She glances to the side—someone off-camera is clearly waving her along—but her voice catches in her throat.

The screen jolts, flickers once, then cuts to a shaky phone video. Someone’s filming from the sidewalk, and everything’s chaos. Emergency lights blur across the frame. A building burns behind the man speaking, his face sweaty, frantic, splashed with ash.

“They didn’t warn us,” he shouts into the lens. “There were hundreds. I swear to God hundreds of bodies just lying there. Like trash. Lined up on the sidewalks. Some of them were still moving. They just left them there.”

It cuts back to the anchor. She’s visibly shaken now, no longer trying to hide it. She swallows hard, eyes flicking to the teleprompter, voice barely above a whisper.

“North Carolina is the next state placed under federal martial law. All residents are required to report to their designated quarantine zones...”

She stops mid sentence. A crash echoes from offscreen. Something metallic falling. Then shouting.

Her head jerks toward the sound.

The studio lights flicker violently. The broadcast stutters, audio warping, and the screen cuts to black.

No more voices. Just dead air.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You start to move fast.

You throw on the hoodie JJ left on the counter, rip open the drawer for your charger, then yank open another and grab the biggest kitchen knife you own. You don’t stop to think, just stuff it into your backpack beside a water bottle and a flashlight.

The doorknob feels ice cold in your hand as you twist it.

— 

Outside, the island feels wrong.

The air is too still, too heavy, no wind through the trees. Not a single cicada hums.

Only silence.

Then far off a siren wails, long and piercing. Another joins it. Somewhere to the east, a car alarm hiccups into life, screeching until it cuts off like it was silenced. A few blocks down, tires screech. You hear something crash. Then a scream. Sharp, raw, human. The kind that cuts through bone.

The streetlights flicker above your head, stuttering like a dying heartbeat.

You step out slowly, kitchen knife clenched in your fist, your pulse thudding in your ears.

A shadow breaks across the end of the street.

“HEY!”

You spin, heart in your throat.

JJ barrels toward you at a dead sprint. Sweat beads down his temple, his blond curls stuck to his forehead, his chest heaving like he hasn’t stopped running in blocks. His T-shirt is ripped, shoulder bloodied, and there’s a bat strapped to his back.

"You're okay?" you ask loudly.

“Shit, Y/N,” he breathes, skidding to a stop in front of you. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“My mom called,” you say, breath catching. “They said they’re locking everything down—“

“I know. I know,” he says, already grabbing your arm, scanning the street behind you like something might crawl out of it. “They’re saying it’s a pandemic, but it’s way worse than that.”

“Worse how?”

“I don’t know. People are... sick. And violent. I saw one of the yacht guys bit someone at the marina. Didn’t stop.”

You stare at him.

“Bit them?”

“Yeah,” he says, low. “Didn’t stop until someone cracked his skull open.”

You try to process it, but it doesn’t stick. It doesn’t feel real.

“John B’s got a truck running—don’t ask. We’re getting off this island before they shut it down.”

You’re still frozen, knife in hand, mind racing to catch up. You feel sick.

JJ sees it in your face, the fear, the stall. He steps in close, cups your face in both hands like it’s the only thing that matters. “Hey. Look at me.”

His voice remains steady, but there's a fire beneath it, a sharp edge.

“We need to move. Now.” He laces his fingers with yours and pulls you forward. “It’s down by the marina,” JJ says under his breath, eyes cutting side to side. “John B said he ditched it behind the bait shack.”

The two of you move fast and low, ducking between hedges and shadows. The island feels like it’s holding its breath. You pass a front yard where someone’s porch light is still on, swinging gently in the breeze. The door’s wide open. Inside, it’s too quiet.

You keep going.

You’re half a block from the marina when you hear it. A wet, gurgling moan.

JJ freezes. Holds a hand out to stop you.

“Shhh...”

You strain to listen. Then you see it, stumbling into the middle of the road.

It used to be someone’s dad. He’s wearing cargo shorts, a fishing shirt, and one sandal. His face is slack, twitching. Mouth twitching like he’s trying to form words but only guttural clicks spill out. His neck is twisted too far to one side.

“What the hell...” you whisper.

“No fucking way” JJ mutters.

The man jerks his head at the sound. And then he runs.

Not stumbles… runs. Straight at you.

JJ reacts first.

“Back!”

He shoves you behind him and rips the bat off his back. The monster slams into him full force, and they crash onto the pavement. JJ rolls with him, shoving the handle of the bat between them as the man snaps his teeth inches from JJ’s face.

You don’t think. Instinct takes the wheel.

You surge forward, knife gripped so tight it carves into your palm. The blade sinks into the infected man's side, deep and fast but he doesn’t even blink. No scream. No hesitation. Just a low, sickening grunt as he whips around toward you, jaw unhinged.

“The head!” JJ yells, voice cracked with urgency.

Your hands shake as you yank the blade free. You aim higher.

You shove the knife straight into his throat and feel it grind against something solid. He gurgles, still moving. You rip it out and slam it forward again, this time just under his chin, until the resistance gives and he drops like a sack of wet meat.

It’s over.

But the silence afterward is louder than the fight.

Your chest heaves. Your arms are trembling, coated in blood, some of it yours, most of it not. The knife clatters to the pavement, slick and red.

JJ pushes himself up from the ground, sweat pouring off him, chest rising and falling like he just ran a marathon. His shirt’s soaked, splattered with dark streaks.

“You okay?” he asks, voice raw, eyes locked on yours.

“Are you?”

JJ drags in a breath, shoulders tight, jaw clenched like he’s holding back everything at once.

“Yeah,” he says, but his voice cracks around it. “I’m fine. Fucking hell...”

He grabs your hand, not waiting for you to find your balance. He hooks his arm behind your head and buries your face into his neck, the sound he makes is like a half-groan, half-sigh, torn from something deeper than relief.

“Don’t stop now.” he mutters.

And you run again, blood on your hands, shadows at your heels. JJ doesn’t let go of your hand as you cut through backyards and over fences, dodging overturned trash bins and shattered glass.

You spot the truck before you see them. The engine growls low as it idles by the curb, headlights off. A shape leans out the passenger side window and waves both arms.

“There!” JJ yells, tugging you forward.

You sprint the last block, lungs on fire, your shoes slamming the pavement with each step. Pope jumps out and yanks the door open before you even reach them.

“Where the hell have you been?” he shouts. “We heard screaming, I thought you were dead!”

“We almost were,” JJ snaps, climbing in behind you. “One of those things came at us.”

John B leans forward over the steering wheel, face grim under the red dashboard lights. “We’re out of time. They’re shutting everything down. Bridge is already crawling with military trucks.”

You slam the door just as the engine revs.

The tires screech. John B jerks the wheel, pulling away from the curb so hard you feel your body lurch sideways. He doesn’t slow down. The street blurs past—yards, fences, blown-out porch lights. You see fires in the distance, smoke bleeding into the sky.

“Is it true?” Pope asks from the front seat. “That it’s everywhere?”

“Yeah,” JJ says. “It’s not just the island. They’ve got martial law orders all over. We have to make it off before they barricade everything.”

John B kept the truck low and fast, weaving between abandoned cars, fences, and bodies. Real ones. Not just the infected.

“Where’s that quarantine zone?” Pope finally asked, breaking the silence. His voice cracked. “The emergency one they’re setting up. It’s even real?”

JJ answered before John B could.

“It’s real. I heard guys at the marina talking about it. FEMA and FEDRA are setting up temporary holding zones like processing centers before they move people to the inland.”

“Where?” you asked.

JJ glanced at you, eyes dark in the dim light. “Mainland. By the old ferry terminal.”

You sat back, feeling the hum of the tires beneath you. Processing centers. Like livestock.

When you arrive at the bridge, it’s loomed ahead lined with military vehicles, barricades, men with rifles and stiff jaws.

John B slowed as he pulled onto the shoulder behind a row of silent, idle cars. A single checkpoint light flickered weakly in the dark, casting shadows against chain-link fences. A soldier stepped out. He raised one hand.

“Stop the vehicle! Keep your hands visible!”

John B’s fingers tightened around the wheel. “Everybody, don’t move.”

Another soldier moved along the side of the truck, rifle aimed low but ready.

“What’s your status?” the man barked.

JJ muttered under his breath, “What the hell does that even mean?”

Pope answered fast, “We’re healthy. No bites. We’re just trying to get out.”

The soldier’s light cut across JJ’s face. “ID?”

“We’re local,” John B said, and that clearly wasn’t the right answer. The soldier turned his head, muttering something into a radio clipped to his vest.

JJ shifted. You reached across and grabbed his wrist under the bat.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

“Step out of the vehicle. One at a time. Hands up.”

You all moved, slowly, carefully. JJ was the last to exit. The four of you stood in the orange glow of floodlights as the soldier swept a scanner over each of your arms. A cold beep followed each one.

“Looks clear” the man muttered.

But he didn’t lower his weapon. A second soldier approached with a clipboard. “Group of four, unregistered. No assigned housing, no prior QZ status. They go into temporary hold.”

“Where?” Pope asked.

The man didn’t answer. He just motioned toward a fenced-off zone across the bridge. You could see other groups there huddled, cold, some with children, others coughing into their sleeves. Canvas tents stood crooked under floodlights. Men in hazmat suits moved like ghosts between them.

JJ stared, jaw clenched. “You said this was just a checkpoint.”

“This is the checkpoint,” the soldier replied. “That’s where you wait.”

He shoved open the gate.

— 

The temporary quarantine zone smells like sweat, bleach, and dirt. It’s sterile, metallic. Like biting a battery.

Canvas walls flap weakly in the wind, barely held by aluminum rods hammered into cracked pavement. The floodlights above burn too bright, bleaching everything in cold white. The kind of light that makes shadows too sharp and the air too thin.

A steady line of people winds toward a folding table where two soldiers stand beside a man in scrubs holding a clipboard. The stench of antiseptic clings to everything. You feel exposed. Like the light’s stripping you down, inch by inch, peeling the skin off everyone. Every breath feels too loud. Too desperate.

The line crawls forward. The murmurs around you are like a low hum, a desperate need to be anywhere but here. Sniffling kids, a father hissing at his son to sit still, a woman rocking back and forth, whispering prayers to no one. Someone coughs behind you, a wet, raw sound that causes everyone to stiffen, but no one dares to turn around.

You don’t remember when your legs started shaking. It’s like your body knew before your brain did.

This place isn’t for keeping people safe. It’s for sorting them. And you’re not sure what category you belong to.

The hum of the floodlights burrows into your skull. It’s not just a sound anymore, it’s a thought like a high-pitched idea that echoes through your teeth.

Obey. Obey. Obey.

The line shifts again, and Pope is gone. No time for goodbyes, just a sharp glance, a silent command “stay sane” but it’s hard to imagine that’s even possible. Then John B follows.

And then it’s just you and JJ. The silence between you two feels heavier, thicker. Like the air’s curdled around you, pressing down.

JJ’s breathing is too fast. You feel it before you hear it—the twitch of his hand at his side, the nervous tapping of his foot against the cracked pavement, like a countdown to something he dreads but can't stop. He glances around like he wants to bolt, but doesn’t know where to run or how to start. He looks at you, his mouth a tight line, and you feel the weight of the moment hanging in the air while he fidgets, his hand jerking toward his pocket before he stops himself.

The soldiers close in. The one who steps toward you is nothing but cold eyes and rubber gloves, moving with a precision that feels practiced. The soldier who points to you might as well be death itself.

Her voice is soft. Too soft. “You. Next.”

JJ’s hand shoots out before you even realize it, gripping your arm like he’s already losing you. His voice raw and desperate. “Just a second—”

They move toward him, and it’s like the world shifts. His grip tightens around your arm, but it’s not enough to keep you grounded. His face is strained, his eyes wild with something you can’t name, but the words die in his throat before he can say anything more.

And then they drag him away.

You don’t have time to say anything. There’s no chance to reach for him, to stop them. They take him, just like that, like it’s nothing more than routine and all that’s left is the cold light and the echo of his name still hanging in the air.

You feel like you can't move. The soldier’s eyes are cold, uninterested. She’s already moving you forward.

You can still feel JJ’s grip. Like a phantom pulse in your skin.

[oliversrarebooks]

Rare Bookseller CYOA Part 1

Masterlist > Next

tw: mind control, blood drinking, kidnapping, human auction

October 1999

Drew was awoken, as he often was these days, by the clock radio blaring the Bee Gees, courtesy of MOON 105.1's Friday Night 70s Jams. His boyfriend insisted on disco, and Drew generally didn't mind it when it wasn't playing as soon as he woke up. He rolled over and smacked the clock radio, noticing that Gregory was not in bed.

Damn it, he must've been working all day again.

Drew yawned, stretched, and walked out of the bedroom of their tiny shared apartment. Sure enough, Gregory was slumped over the computer, head resting uncomfortably on the keyboard. Hopefully he hadn't ruined the keyboard by drooling on it.

"Hey, Greg, wake up," said Drew, shaking him gently.

Greg startled awake, shaking the desk enough to disable the screensaver. The monitor displayed a half-finished flyer.

"I thought you said you were going to come to bed," said Drew.

"I am coming to bed. What time is it?"

"Eight pm."

"Oh."

Drew wrapped his arms around his boyfriend. "You got hardly any sleep, did you?"

Greg sighed. "No, and I know what you're thinking. It's just that this client is important. If I can impress her, it could open the door to a lot more work for me."

"I know."

"We could get a much nicer apartment, you could buy name brand food for a change…"

"Eh, Sergeant Cola is almost as good as Coke anyway."

"I'm serious." Greg nuzzled his face against Drew's chest. "I dragged you out here to the city. I owe you a better life than this."

"Life really isn't so bad," said Drew, allowing Greg to drape himself all over him. "Besides, you didn't drag me here. I was more eager than you to get out of that shithole. I'd rather live in any crappy apartment here than be rich there."

Genuinely, meeting Greg was the best thing that happened to him. What started as a simply transactional relationship -- blood in exchange for a place to crash -- had quickly turned into something more. Drew had known about vampires enough to know to stay away from them, but Greg was different. He didn't hypnotize Drew into submission, keeping him confined and subservient. He wanted an equal partner. And Drew, who'd been betrayed by just about everyone in his life, had finally learned to trust him and his bizarrely irrepressible optimism.

Of course, just because Drew was a boyfriend and not a thrall didn't mean he never supplied Greg with blood. His boyfriend was resting his head on Drew's shoulder now, kissing his neck with increasing ferocity.

"Hungry?" Drew teased.

"Huh?" Greg pulled back and looked genuinely surprised. "How did you know?"

"You're practically gnawing on my neck. Did you not notice?"

"Well, I mean…" He actually looked embarrassed, and Drew couldn't help but find that adorable. "Yeah, I guess I am a little hungry."

"It's been a couple days, you're sleep deprived, and I can just tell you've been marinating in self-loathing. You need to feed."

"I have not been marinating. And it would be irresponsible for me to feed from you right before you go to work."

"I can pour beer and shots with half my brain, and that's all anyone ever orders," said Drew, pulling back his collar. "Have a snack."

"Just a little, then?" Greg's resolve seemed to be crumbling.

"Yeah, just a little. More later."

Greg nodded, burying his face in Drew's neck once more, kissing deeply. "You know, someday you won't have to work at that shitty dive bar, either. You'll be at some fancy Michelin star restaurant, making cocktails with top-shelf booze and gold leaf, that kind of thing."

"I don't need that."

"You deserve it, though," said Greg. "Now would you please let me feed?" His voice changed as he said it, growing deeper, richer. Compelling. It was his enthrallment, which made humans want to do anything he asked as long as he asked nicely. He was careful to only ever use it on Drew to make sure there was no pain from his bite.

Drew nodded, now eager to comply. He gasped and arched his back involuntarily as the fangs sank in. Every time he was surprised all over again at how right it felt, how deliciously blissful it was to let his boyfriend feed. That was the enthrallment and the aura and the venom, but he liked to think there was something more there, a connection. Giving a bit of his life to Greg was proof that he was alive. He hadn't always felt alive.

Greg always made a point to drink slowly, as if he were savoring Drew's blood, giving Drew time to sink into their shared emotions. He could feel Greg's love for him and hope for the future, and that always helped to keep him going, even on rough days. His mind was clouded with Greg's dreams, the two of them rolling around a lavish bed in a mansion somewhere…

"Drew? Sorry, but you have to wake up."

And he was back in the shitty apartment.

Greg was flushed, his eyes bright and his smile brighter. "I didn't take too much, did I? I know you still have to get to work."

"I'm fine. It was fine," said Drew, trying to put his mind back together. They didn't live in the mansion of Greg's dreams, but he still did wish that they could just spend longer in bed together. Unfortunately, bills needed to be paid. "I'm going to wash up and pull on some clothes, then get going."

"I should walk you to work," said Greg, following him into the bedroom.

"No, you should get some sleep. I can walk myself to work. I've done it plenty of times."

"I know, but…" Greg was squirming. That was one problem with a vampire boyfriend, the inherent overprotectiveness. Greg tried to keep it reined in, but it still leaked around the edges, especially when he was tired and stressed. "I just worry."

Drew kissed his forehead. "I'll take a silver knife and watch the shadows. I'll be okay. Get some sleep."

"I still have to finish my work," said Greg, rubbing at his eyes. "Maybe just a quick nap."

Greg was sprawled across the bed, out cold, by the time Drew got ready and left for work. Another shift slinging beer at a hole in the wall bar. It was better than his job back home, though, if only because no one he knew was likely to show up. The smell of cigarettes filled the air as walked down the sidewalk past other bars and clubs. Nobody even glanced his way here, all caught up in their own personal dramas.

Drew liked the anonymity of the city at night. It was the sort of place where he could just disappear if he wanted -- and there had been many times he'd wanted to disappear, before Greg. It was the sort of place where you could be whoever you wanted to be, wear what you wanted to wear, and everyone else would mind their own business. It was also one of the places where the supernatural tended to gather, disappearing into their own secret clubs, and that was the main reason Drew needed to be wary.

Obnoxiously bright headlights blinded him, and Drew stopped in his tracks, trying to blink it away. The lights didn't go away, though, and Drew realized they weren't headlights. They were something else. The lights receded from his vision and split into many, dancing and sparkling.

What… what were they?

Drew's eyes followed the pretty sparkling lights, trying to figure out what they were. He knew there was somewhere he was supposed to be, but that idea seemed distant. It couldn't be as important as watching the lights. Nothing was as important as watching the lights.

"Good boy." A hand rested on his shoulder. "Just keep watching the pretty lights."

His eyes widened. Something was wrong. But he was frozen in place now, unable to do anything but stare slack-jawed at the twinkling light show. He willed his mind to think, pushing past the sludge that had accumulated in his head. This was enthrallment. A vampire. He was being kidnapped by a vampire.

"Relax. Everything is okay," said the voice. "There's no need to fight."

He had enough willpower to figure out what happened, but not enough to break himself free. He might not have long before he succumbed. All he could do was send out an SOS over the tenuous psychic link he shared with Greg, the one he almost never used.

"Such a good boy. You'll be obedient for me, won't you."

Drew shook his head, but he was already deep in a hypnotized stupor, his head starting to nod and his limbs weak and heavy. Stupid, he was so stupid. He should've just let Greg walk him to the bar. Assuming he got out of this, he'd have a hell of a time convincing Greg to ever let him leave his sight again.

"Sleep. Just sleep."

The sparkling lights dimmed as his eyes slipped shut. He was caught by strong arms as he slumped over, trying to keep himself at least awake enough to see where he was going. But that was his last lucid thought before he was off to dreamland.

----

The sparkles turned to flickers to blinding fluorescent lights. Drew opened them fully and found that he was in a medical clinic of sorts, seated in an examination chair. A professionally-dressed woman in an 80s-style floral-print power suit, complete with enormous shoulder pads, was sitting across from him, looking down at papers on a clipboard. He went to rub at his eyes, only to find that his wrist was strapped down tightly. His ankles were strapped down too, and there was another thick strap around his chest. A few experimental tugs made it clear he was immobilized.

Shit. Fuck! He'd let himself be hypnotized and captured. Greg was going to flip his shit. How the hell would he get out of this?

"Oh, you're awake. Good evening," said the woman. "I'm sure you're wondering where you are."

"You're a vampire," he said bluntly. "You kidnapped me off the street to make me your thrall."

"Close!" she said, amused. "I wasn't the one that kidnapped you, and you won't be my thrall, either. This is an auction house, a place where we turn raw material like you into excellent, obedient little servants."

His blood ran cold. He'd heard about these sorts of places from Greg, terrifying places where ancient, aristocratic vampires bent people's minds into servitude, laughing and socializing as they bought and sold human beings for astronomical sums of money.

"I do know that you have a vampire friend, and that you've been fed on before. That'll unfortunately reduce your price, but some vampires don't mind. Your blood smells delightful, and you seem like an easy will to break. Plenty of our clients will consider you a real bargain."