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houseofaegon · 4 hours ago

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I feel like Bob would be so panicked to be a dad but also so excited. What do you think he’d be like when you’re giving birth? I feel like he’d feel like he was gonna pass out, but then yelena would snap him out of it and tell him he has to be there for you.

Yours pt. 2 ✩ Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!Reader

Warnings: labor scene, pregnancy (birth), found family, soft!bob, girl dad!bob, thunderbolts chaos, tribute to nat cause i miss my baby

Summary: You were exhausted, nine months pregnant, and completely over it. Bob was hovering, Bucky was baby-proofing the compound like it was a warzone, and the Thunderbolts were preparing for the arrival of “the heir” with all the grace of a SWAT team on caffeine. One labor joke sends the whole team into full-blown labor panic—until your water actually breaks.

Word Count: 3057

Author’s Note: this is part 2 of Yours. i got so so so so many requests from you guys screaming for more dad!bob content and to turn yours into a series. can’t say no to yall, also bc i am so obsessed with bob being a dad and the thunderbolts being the chaotic found family. i laughed so hard while writing this, i love girl dad!bob so much. me next me next put a baby on meeeeeeeeeeeee!!!! hope you all like this <3 love, bri.

You were thirty-nine weeks pregnant.

Your hips ached. Your ribs were being actively assaulted from the inside—tiny feet pressing like it was trying to escape out the side. You were hot all the fucking time, sweaty in places you didn’t know could sweat, swollen, hormonal, and deeply, profoundly miserable.

And Bob?

Your sweet, golden retriever of a boyfriend—who once whimpered just sucking on your tits—was now operating on a rotating diet of baby books, blind panic, and seventeen cups of coffee a day. He’d taken “nervous father-to-be” to Olympic levels of intensity. There were laminated checklists. Color-coded spreadsheets. He had a three-ring binder labeled “LITTLE PEANUT’S PREP PLAN.”

“Do you need anything, love? Snacks? A foot rub? A bubble bath? Prenatal yoga—maybe an orgasm?”

You blinked at him, dead-eyed. “I need to not be pregnant, Bob. I want this baby out.”

He flinched like you’d stabbed him, then immediately dropped into nursing mode, offering you a pillow, his water bottle, a heating pad, and his hand like it was a bouquet of peace offerings.

“Right, yes, okay—sorry, baby. Just—any day now, right?”

He smiled wide. Hopeful. Desperate.

“Yes,” you hissed, holding your lower back with both hands. “Which means today. Maybe. Hopefully. Dear god, please come out.”

It had been like this since the beginning—ever since you told him, standing in your bedroom, voice trembling, eyes wide as you whispered “I’m pregnant”—he had melted completely. Dropped to his knees. Sobbing and laughing, kissing your stomach like it was already carrying the entire universe. His entire universe.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he’d promised, crying against your skin. “Both of you. I promise, baby.”

And he had.

Oh god, he had.

To a completely unhinged degree.

He’d downloaded seven parenting apps within an hour. Subscribed to every newsletter. Turned on daily notifications that buzzed at 7 a.m. sharp with affirmations like “Today, little peanut is the size of a cantaloupe!”

You had no idea why he chose the nickname “little peanut”—but it stuck. So did the updates.

“She’s the size of a melon today,” he’d say with awe, hand splayed over your bump. “And apparently her fingernails are already fully developed. Isn’t that wild?”

You didn’t want to know the sex—not until the baby was born. It was the one decision you both agreed on instantly. Bob said he wanted “the moment.” The shock and awe. The magic of it. Even though he insisted on calling the baby her half the time anyway.

“What if it’s a boy?” you asked once, teasing.

“Then he’s my little peanut,” Bob had said. “But I still think she’s gonna be a girl.”

He said it with so much quiet certainty, like he already knew.

Bob wasn’t the only one who spiraled.

Bucky had been roped into “fortress duty” around month four. What started as helping you put together a rocking chair had turned into a compound-wide baby-proofing project that quickly escalated into paranoia-level security.

There were now corner guards on every sharp edge. Lock systems installed on all drawers. Bob and Bucky actually installed a childproof toilet lock. No one could open it without a manual.

Yelena nearly pissed herself trying to get it off.

“This baby isn’t even out yet and I’m already being terrorized,” she’d groaned.

Walker tripped over a stair-gate Bob installed in a hallway with no stairs. He took out three potted plants in one crash.

“OH FOR FUCKS SAKE! I don’t even think babies walk until a year in!” he groaned from the floor, rubbing his back.

“Little peanut could be gifted,” Bob muttered, sipping his thirteenth coffee. “You don’t know.”

Alexei was absolutely thrilled. The moment you hit six months, he declared himself “Thunderbolt Grandfather” and started wearing a homemade apron that read “World’s Greatest Dedushka” in glittery red Sharpie. He brought you beet soup every night, no matter how many times you politely asked him to stop.

He insisted on “grandfather bonding rituals,” most of which involved sitting next to your belly and singing softly in Russian while cradling your bump like it was a sacred egg. He often told the baby stories about “strength, pride, and the Russian winter.”

Walker had no idea what was going on 90% of the time. He once offered you a cappuccino at seven months and asked how your “tumor” was doing.

Bob tackled him to the ground. Ava took the coffee out of your hand without saying a word.

Speaking of Ava—she was your shadow. Quiet, ever-present, always there with a hand at your back, a cold cloth when you overheated, or tea before you even asked. She didn’t speak much, but her presence was steady. Like a heartbeat just outside your own.

And Yelena?

Yelena was your rock. Your unofficial bodyguard. Your midwife-in-training. Your best friend and your biggest pain in the ass.

She glared at doctors, snapped at anyone who stood too close to you, and once elbowed one of Valentina’s intern in the face just for looking at you wrong. She referred to herself as “the godmother,” and called your bump “the heir.”

She’d cried—punched the wall actually—when the first ultrasound showed a heartbeat.

“Oh my god. It’s the heir!,” Yelena whispered, eyes locked on the monitor. “That’s our little baby.”

The Thunderbolts didn’t just support your pregnancy.

They wrapped themselves around it like a shield.

You had never been more exhausted. More uncomfortable. Or more profoundly, heart-achingly loved.

You waddled into the common room like a pissed-off general in the final trimester of war. Blanket dragging behind you like a cape. Water bottle in one hand, belly leading the way like it had its own gravitational field. Like a planet. Your ankles hurt. Your tits hurt. Your soul hurt.

“Move,” you groaned.

Yelena didn’t even flinch. She just kicked her feet off the couch and waved you over like royalty. A teasing tone in her voice. “Your throne, my queen.”

You dropped onto the cushions with a dramatic grunt. “I swear to God if this baby doesn’t come out in the next twelve hours, I’m gonna leave Bob and fake my death. Start a new life. Maybe become a lighthouse keeper and grow potatoes.”

Across the room, Bob gasped audibly.

“No!” He dropped the book in his hands and rushed to your side like you’d just been shot. “No leaving me, no faking your death, and—you don’t even like dirt, baby. I can run a bath! Want me to play Mamma Mia? Your body responds really well to ABBA.”

You glared at him, unblinking.

“My body responds really well to satanic music, sweetheart.”

Bob’s eye twitched.

Yelena wheezed from the other side. “She’s entering her final form. It's her villain era, and I'm all here for it.”

Walker was hunched over in the corner with a baby bouncer in his lap, trying to decipher the instructions while holding them upside down. “This thing has like thirty screws. Babies don’t even sit yet. Why does it need hydraulics?”

“Because it’s an all-terrain bouncer,” Bob replied seriously.

“Where are we bouncing the baby to? Fucking space?”

Bucky sat on the arm of the couch next to you, watching the exchange like someone who had aged fifty years over the course of the last nine months. He was drinking his fourth cup of coffee and had installed five baby gates this week.

Alexei was in the corner holding up a onesie with “Future Thunderbolt” written across the chest in glitter paint. “Is small now, but malysh will grow into it. Like destiny!”

“The baby not even born yet,” Ava muttered, handing you your fifth bottle of water for the day. “Maybe let the baby take a breath before assigning them to the team roster.”

Bob was hovering over a checklist.

“Has anyone seen the birthing playlist?” he asked. “I made a few. One’s classical, one’s rock, and one’s just the Mamma Mia soundtrack on loop.”

Walker blinked. “Didn’t you also make one called ‘Panic But With Vibes’?”

Bob nodded gravely. “Yes. For emergencies.”

You sighed, rubbing your belly.

Yelena glanced at you. “You look like you’re about to pop.”

“That’s because I am,” you snapped. “She’s training for the World Cup in there.”

“You okay?” Bob asked. “Contraction? Back pain? Foot cramp? Do you need another magnesium chew?”

“I need all of you,” you said sweetly, eyes fluttering shut, “to shut the fuck up.”

They froze.

Yelena snorted. “Now that’s the nesting aggression. Beautiful.”

You cracked an eye open and saw Bob staring at your belly like it might speak.

And that’s when you had the brilliant, evil idea.

You gasped. Loud. Clutched your belly.

“Oh—oh my god,” you said, eyes wide. “Guys. I think my water just broke.”

Instant detonation.

Bob shot to his feet like a nuke had gone off. The binder fell. Papers flew. He was on his feet in an instant, eyes wild, hair standing on end like static had just punched him in the soul.

“Oh my god—okay, okay, it’s happening, everyone stay calm—baby, where’s your go-bag? WHERE IS THE GO-BAG?!”

Walker launched himself upright, chair crashing backward. “SHE’S IN LABOR? I THOUGHT WE HAD A PLAN! I’M NOT READY FOR THIS!”

He tripped over the diaper pail Bob had installed yesterday and hit the floor like a falling oak tree. “I’M DOWN. MEDIC!”

Yelena leapt onto the coffee table in full combat mode. “I’LL GET THE WHEELCHAIR!”

“WE DON’T HAVE A WHEELCHAIR,” Bucky deadpanned, already on his feet and adjusting his sleeves like he was about to deliver the baby himself.

Alexei raised a towel in the air like it was a sacred artifact. “THIS IS IT! TO THE MEDBAY!”

“WHY DO YOU HAVE A TOWEL?!” Bob screamed.

“THE MOVIES ALWAYS SAY TO BRING TOWELS!”

Bob was circling you now, voice high and strained. “Are you having contractions? How far apart? Do you need to sit down? Stand up? Squat?! Do I boil water? I can boil water! I HAVE A KETTLE!”

“NO TOWELS! NO WATER!” Bucky roared. “Jesus fucking Christ it’s not the 13th century. Get your shit together!”

You blinked.

And then burst into laughter. Like ugly wheezing laughter. Full-on, tears streaming, belly-shaking hysteria.

Everyone stopped mid-chaos. Even Alexei froze mid-kneel.

You gasped for breath. “Oh my god, you should’ve seen your faces—“

Yelena’s mouth dropped open. “You little bitch.”

“You’re joking?!” Bob gasped, grabbing his heart like you’d physically stabbed him.

Ava turned on her heel and walked away. “I need a sedative.”

“I hope your child is a menace,” Walker groaned standing up from the floor, his hand on his hip. “You deserve it.”

“I think I just had a stroke,” Bucky dropped to the couch.

Alexei put down his towel like he was attending a funeral.

“I was kidding!” you said between gasps, wiping your eyes. “Oh my god. That was so worth it.”

Bob looked like he aged five years in five seconds. “You can’t do that to me,” he whispered. “I felt my soul leave my body.”

You stood, still giggling. “Relax. I’m not going into labor today—”

Pop.

Warmth pooled between your legs.

You went still.

So did everyone else.

You looked down and then up again, locking eyes with Yelena, who already looked halfway to a warzone. Bob’s mouth dropped open like he just watched his favorite vinyl record shatter.

“Holy fuck.”

“OH MY GOD IT’S REAL THIS TIME!” Bob screamed.

“EVERYONE MOVE!” Yelena barked.

“TO THE MEDBAY!” Alexei shouted with pure glee, raising his arms like he was about to be beamed up into the mothership.

“No—wait—oh my god—” You doubled over, contractions hitting you like a freight train out of nowhere.

Ava was already at your side, sliding under your arm without a word. “Breathe in. Slowly. Lean on me. I’m right here, I’ve got you. We're moving slow, okay?"

Yelena was on your other side instantly, bracing your elbow. “You’re fine. You’re breathing. We've trained for this, remember? You’re the heir’s vessel.”

“Why are you like this?” you gasped.

Walker ran toward the door, tripped over the labor bag Bob had pre-packed for the fifteenth time, and slammed his whole body into the wall.

“I’M OKAY,” he shouted from the floor.

Bucky stepped over him without pause, steadying Bob, who was currently spinning in circles with his hands on his head.

“She’s in labor. She’s really in labor. I’m not ready. I don’t remember the affirmations—where’s my playlist?! I didn’t charge the speaker!”

“You have one job!” Yelena shouted. “Get to the medbay!”

Alexei was following you down the hallway like a personal cheerleader, waving a rattle in the air like it was a battle flag. “THE LITTLE THUNDERBOLT IS COMING!”

Bucky shoved the medbay doors open so hard they dented.

And Bob?

Bob paced the hallway outside like he was about to give birth himself.

“Okay okay okay—breathing—she’s breathing—I should be breathing—is this what a panic attack feels like? Where’s the playlist?! Yelena, where’s the fucking playlist?!”

Ava placed you softly on the medbay's bed. You were already covered in sweat and absolutely screaming as another contraction hit you like a truck.

“DON’T YOU DARE PASS OUT, BOB!” you snarled as Bob peeked in the doorway, white as a sheet. “IF YOU FAINT I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL RIP YOUR SOUL OUT THROUGH YOUR NOSE.”

Bob whimpered. “Yes ma’am.”

Yelena smacked him. Just once. Sharp and fast.

“Snap out of it, Robert Reynolds. She needs you. The baby needs you. Pull it together.”

He blinked, then nodded like he’d been activated.

He rushed to your side, and grabbed your hand. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes wide, breath shaking.

Ava’s voice was steady. She was the calmest of the three inside the room.

“Okay, sweetheart. This is gonna hurt. A lot. But I need you to breathe. It’s time.”

You were soaked in sweat, clutching Bob’s hand like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Your legs trembled. Your body screamed. Your vision blurred.

He kissed your temple, your cheek, your lips—soft and desperate. One hand caressed your forehead. The other braced your back when you screamed again.

“Okay,” Ava said from between your knees. “Push.”

And you pushed.

You pushed like your life depended on it.

Bob squeezed your hand, whispering affirmations, crying with you.

“You’re almost there. Just a little more, baby. I see her—I see our baby—”

Another contraction hit. You screamed. Ava’s voice rose gently over yours.

“One more. That’s it. I've got it.”

And then—

A cry.

Sharp. Loud. Beautiful.

Your world stopped.

Bob froze. His breath caught. His hand flew to his mouth, and he sank to his knees beside the bed, weeping so hard it shook his chest.

“She’s here, she's so beautiful.” Ava said gently, smiling as she swaddled the tiny pink bundle. “It’s a girl.”

Bob let out a sound you’d never heard before—pure joy, broken and sobbing.

“I’m a dad,” he whispered, laughing through his tears. “Oh my god, I’m a dad. She’s a girl—I’m a girl dad! I knew it!”

Ava placed her gently on your chest, smiling proudly at you.

She was tiny. Red. Wailing. Beautiful. You stared at her, heart pounding, breath gone.

Bob’s hands hovered like he was afraid to touch something so sacred.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered. “She’s so perfect.”

Yelena leaned in from your right, eyes wide, damp with tears she was pretending weren’t there.

“Well?” she whispered. “What’s her name?”

You smiled. Bob looked at you. Then at her. Then back to your daughter.

"Lena Natasha Reynolds"

Yelena froze. Her lips parted. Her hands trembled.

“You—what?” Yelena whispered, voice cracking in disbelief.

You looked at her, still smiling through the blur of tears. Bob’s hand found yours, squeezing tight. You nodded.

“Lena Natasha,” you said softly. “For you. And Nat.”

She dropped slowly to her knees beside the bed, gaze locked on your daughter as if she couldn’t believe she was real. Her hands trembled as she reached forward, and you gently helped place Lena in her arms.

“Hi, little one,” Yelena whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. “You don’t even know… You have no idea how much I love you already.”

She stroked Lena’s soft cheek, holding her so gently it made you cry harder. Her hands were trembling. And then she let out the softest, most ragged sob you’d ever heard.

"You're so loved, little peanut. You have no idea," she whispered.

Bob kissed your face over and over, breathless. “You did it. You fucking did it, baby. You’re everything. You’re—God, I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

He stood suddenly, kissed Lena’s tiny forehead, and bolted out of the medbay like a man on fire.

Bucky, Walker, and Alexei were seated outside like expectant sitcom dads. Legs bouncing. Eyes bloodshot. The moment they saw Bob burst through the doors, disheveled and red-eyed, they all stood.

Bob’s lips trembled.

"It's a girl."

Bucky’s eyes filled immediately. His shoulders dropped like he’d been holding tension for months. He stepped forward, grabbed Bob by the shoulders—and pulled him into a hug so tight it stole the air from the room.

“You did good,” Bucky whispered, voice rough. “She okay?”

Bob nodded into his shoulder. “She’s perfect. She’s so perfect.”

Walker burst into tears. Loud, hiccupping, ugly ones. “I knew it! I knew it was gonna be a girl! I felt it in my bones!”

Alexei screamed. Like, screamed.

“OUR LITTLE THUNDERBOLT HAS ARRIVED! I AM A GRANDFATHER!”

He immediately grabbed Bob and Bucky in a bone-crushing hug, shouting something in Russian. Walker joined, sobbing into Bob’s shoulder. Bucky just closed his eyes, hugging tighter.

And Bob—sandwiched between his brothers, laughed through it.

“She’s here,” he said, voice cracking. “She’s finally here.”

Back in the medbay, you cradled Lena to your chest, smiling through your tears as Yelena stroked her tiny head and whispered, “Your family’s insane. You’re gonna love them.”

"You were amazing," Ava whispered, brushing your hair back softly.

Bob returned minutes later, quiet now. He sat beside you, kissed your temple, and laid his head next to yours.

"Thank you," he whispered. “You gave me everything. She’s everything I ever wanted.”

And with Lena curled against your heart, Yelena beside you, Ava watching over, and Bob’s hand pressed to your cheek.

You believed him.

You were home.

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eclipixels · 2 months ago

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pls cure my depression and write me that one scene in 27 Dresses where the actress was trying on all the dresses and the guy she’s with is taking pics of her on it. THAT WITH SAE AND READER

27 Dresses

Sae Itoshi x Reader

Content: You’ve been a bridesmaid 27 times, never the bride, and somehow that’s become interesting enough for a feature article. But when the journalist friend who was supposed to interview you bails, they send Sae Itoshi.

[1,826 words]

The knock on your apartment door comes right on time, sharp and polite, but when you swing it open expecting a bespectacled journalist with a clipboard, your mouth actually falls open a little.

Standing there, looking like he just walked off a magazine cover (and you’d know, because he has), is Sae Itoshi.

Yes, that Sae Itoshi. Japan’s most infamous soccer prodigy. Deadpan expression. Perfect hair. Notorious for dodging interviews, not conducting them.

He stares at you like you’re the weird one here.

“Y/n L/n?” he asks, voice smooth but flat.

“Uh. Yes?”

He holds up a recorder and a crumpled paper. “I'm here for the interview.”

There’s a beat of silence as you process. “The article? About... me being a bridesmaid?”

He nods once. “Didn’t F/n tell you?”

You blink. “They mentioned not being able to make it but I didn’t think they’d send a world-famous soccer player in their place instead.”

He shrugs like it’s not weird at all. “I was free today.”

You step aside to let him in, trying not to gawk. He's wearing a dark hoodie, jeans, and sneakers that probably cost more than your monthly rent. He walks into your apartment like he doesn’t care about the shrine of pastel bridesmaid dresses hanging on your wall, but you catch his eyes flicking over them.

He doesn’t comment. Instead, he plops down on your couch and pulls out his phone.

“Alright,” he says, glancing at the notes app on his screen. “You’ve been a bridesmaid 27 times. Why?”

You raise an eyebrow, sitting opposite him. “Do you mean why haven’t I gotten married, or why do people keep asking me to do it?”

He blinks slowly. “Both?”

You sigh, a little amused despite yourself. “Because I’m nice, and I’m organized. I know how to wrangle a drunk aunt at a rehearsal dinner and sew a ripped hem in five minutes. I’m bridesmaid material, apparently.”

He nods. “You like it?”

You think about it. “I love parts of it. The dress fittings, the chaos, the dancing, seeing people in love. But yeah, sometimes it stings. Feels like I’m always part of someone else’s fairytale.”

He looks at you for a long moment, unreadable. “You ever thought about saying no?”

You chuckle. “What kind of monster says no to their best friend’s big day?”

Sae tilts his head. “Someone who wants their own big day, maybe.”

You’re stunned for a second, caught off guard by the quiet weight in his voice.

“You always this deep when doing interviews?” you ask, trying to shift the mood.

“I don’t usually do interviews,” he replies simply. “So… no.”

You go through more of the questions, but the recorder stays off most of the time. You talk about weddings, about pressure, about why people don’t see the girl in the bridesmaid dress. And somewhere in the middle of it all.

“F/n wanted me to ask you about the dresses,” Sae sighed, glancing at the neatly organized checklist in his notes app like it personally offended him.

You turned from where you were scrolling on your phone. “Oh my god,” you said, laughing as you got up. “They're making you ask? That’s hilarious.”

Sae looked tired already. “I’m not doing this for fun.”

“Mhm, whatever you say,” you teased, disappearing into your closet.

You slid open the door with a dramatic flair, revealing the rainbow nightmare inside. Tulle. Lace. Ribbons. A suspicious amount of mint green.

His brows twitched ever so slightly. “...Why do you have so many?”

“Because,” you said, already rifling through the hangers, “I am a loyal, dependable friend. And for another reason.”

“What’s the other reason?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly with curiosity.

You turned to look at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “That part’s a secret.”

The real reason? You were saving them for all your friends to wear on your wedding day. All twenty-seven of them.

You tossed a rainbow monstrosity onto your bed. “Here we go.”

He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe like this was a hostage situation. “You don’t have to try them on. I can just write ‘Yes, she still owns them’ and lie.”

“You ready?” You called out.

Sae didn’t look up. “No.”

You stepped out anyway.

His eyes flicked up. Paused. Brows raised a fraction of a millimeter—an Itoshi Sae equivalent of slack-jawed shock.

“This one’s… very yellow,” you said, spinning awkwardly. “Like a lemon drop. Or a highlighter with confidence issues.”

“You look like a cupcake,” he said, flatly.

You grinned. “A delicious cupcake?”

He didn’t respond.

You turned back to the mirror, posing dramatically. “I wore this to Emi’s wedding. It was a beach wedding and she wanted us to ‘match the sun.’”

“That’s dumb.”

“She got divorced after three months, so, you’re not wrong.”

You disappeared behind the curtain again. Sae leaned back in his seat and glanced down at his phone, only to lift it and casually snap a photo before you vanished. You didn’t notice.

The next dress was mint green and satin. You walked out, half-tripping on the hem.

“Okay, I call this one the seafoam regret.”

Sae sighed. Lifted his phone. Another picture. You paused mid-spin.

“Wait—are you taking pictures of me?”

He didn’t even try to deny it. “I’m documenting. F/n said to take pictures.”

You laughed, a bright, unfiltered sound that actually made him look up from his screen. You sounded so… beautiful?

“Okay, you’re gonna love the next one,” you said, disappearing again.

Sae didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered on the curtain longer this time.

You emerged in a fire-engine red mermaid dress with tulle flaring at your calves and rhinestones on the straps. You struck a pose with jazz hands.

“I was a bridesmaid and a flamenco dancer in this one.”

Sae’s lips twitched. Twitched.

“That’s not how flamenco works,” he said, voice drier than the Sahara.

“And how would you know that, Mr. Itoshi?” You raised a brow.

“Probably because I lived in Spain for my entire adolescence?”

“Oh. Right.” You coughed awkwardly, feeling embarrassed, your face an obvious shade of pink.

He raised his phone. Snap.

“Blackmail material,” he said.

“I’m honored,” you said, dramatically bowing.

By the time you're in dress number fourteen—a strapless emerald number with an asymmetrical ruffle you’re still convinced looks like a lettuce leaf—Sae’s leaning forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, watching you with a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“You know,” he says, “I thought this would be boring.”

You raise an eyebrow, placing your hands dramatically on your hips. “You thought I’d be boring, or the whole ‘bridesmaid of the year’ thing?”

“Both,” he admits. “But it’s not. You’re not.”

You blink. Sae Itoshi, not exactly known for compliments, just complimented you. You try to hide how your stomach flips.

“Well, I am wearing lettuce,” you say, grinning. “Hard not to be riveting in produce-inspired fashion.”

He huffs a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “No. I mean... you’re funny. And weirdly good at this.”

“This being…?”

He gestures vaguely. “Weddings. People. The whole making-it-look-easy thing.”

You tilt your head, watching him. “You know, you're kind of nice when you’re not brooding.”

“I’m always brooding.”

“But now you’re brooding with charm.”

He rolls his eyes, but his ears go a little pink. You file that away for later.

As you slip behind the screen to change again, you hear him sigh—not in annoyance, but something softer. Like he’s trying to figure something out.

And Sae, who usually only thinks in strategies and goalposts, suddenly finds his mind replaying the way you twirled in the lavender dress, laughing without worrying if anyone was watching.

He’s not sure when it happened, but something’s shifting. He came here as a favor to his friend for a filler article. Now, watching you emerge in yet another ridiculous dress and flash him that bright, unbothered smile, he realizes he doesn’t want it to end.

Dress after dress, you kept emerging, each one more ridiculous than the last, and he kept taking pictures, deadpan expressions hiding how amused he really was. Until the last one.

The final dress was a simple, elegant, dusty pink gown. No frills, no glitter. You stepped out quietly, smoothing the fabric.

“This one was for my sister’s wedding,” you said, softer. “The only one that didn’t make me feel like a party city costume.”

Sae stared at you. Not a word. Just… looked.

You shifted awkwardly under his gaze. “What? Is there something on my face?”

“No,” he said. Click. Another photo.

You blinked. “You’re gonna run out of storage.”

He didn’t respond. Just tucked his phone away and stood.

And then, very casually, he said, “You look good in that one.”

You froze.

“…What?”

“I said you look good.”

You weren’t expecting much of a reaction, but the look on his face makes your breath catch. He’s staring at you.No, looking at you, like he’s never seen anything quite like it before.

Your breath hitches. You don’t know why, but the way he says it like it’s just an undeniable fact makes your heart do something strange.

Sae stands up, walking toward you slowly. He doesn’t sit back down on the couch. Instead, he steps closer, and closer still, until there’s barely any space between you.

Sae’s gaze flicks to your lips, just for a heartbeat, and then back to your eyes. His hand, almost instinctively, moves toward your cheek, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear in the gentlest of gestures. It’s a gesture so simple, yet so intimate, that it takes you off guard. You breathe in sharply, barely aware of the way your body leans into his touch. His thumb gently traces your cheek, as though memorizing the feel of you.

“Do you have any more dresses, or is this the last one?” He murmurs.

“This is the last one. Dress twenty-seven”

Sae nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. The air feels thick, heavy with unspoken words, and your heart is racing in your chest. There's a warmth radiating from him, something comfortable, yet electrifying. He pauses for a moment, his thumb still grazing the soft skin of your cheek, his eyes searching yours as if considering something deeply.

"Well," he says softly, his voice a little quieter now, almost unsure. "I should probably get going... but if you ever feel like dressing up again... or, you know, just hanging out sometime, let me know."

The words hang in the air, and it's only when he steps back and turns toward the door that you feel your breath catch in your throat.

You stand frozen for a moment after he leaves, still feeling the warmth of his touch lingering on your skin. It’s only when you finally breathe again that it hits you. Oh my god. He just asked you out, didn’t he?

#sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae #sae itoshi #bllk sae #sae x reader #sae x you #sae x y/n #bllk #blue lock #Itoshi sae #sae itoshi x you #sae itoshi x y/n

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redroomreflections · 27 days ago

Text

Unfinished Epilogue

The Loud House Au

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Cara goes to college or a kind of unfinished epilogue.

Note: Life makes me sad. This family makes me happy. I wrote this weeks ago, but sadly, the vision I had for it kind of feels flat. So I am giving you what I have because I need the comfort too. Sorry if it sucks a little.

The house was a zoo, and that was generous. Somewhere in the kitchen, someone - possibly Paige, considering the pitch was yelling about finding their sock. James had disappeared to the other side of the house ten minutes ago to put Luke inside a cardboard box after he demanded to be pushed. Willow and Charlie were arguing in the hallway again about which movie they would be watching later that night.

"Do you want to stop it?" You asked, and Natasha hummed a no.

"They are having a healthy argument," she said, smiling, "and they'll remember we are here if they have a problem."

"If they don't kill each other first," you added, leaning back into her arms, letting the sound of her heartbeat calm you.

"Oh please, they love each other," Natasha chuckled. "Besides, they know if they start a physical fight, I will hand their asses to both of them."

You laughed at the truth behind her words and settled in closer. You were happy to be able to cuddle with Natasha in peace despite the noise. The birds chirped above you as stretched lazily across the lounge chair, warming your bare feet as you sipped from your coffee. The mess inside was muffled just enough by the patio door that it almost felt peaceful. Almost.

Natasha shifted slightly behind you, adjusting the blanket across both of your laps. She kissed your temple before murmuring, “We should probably start packing the car soon.”

You groaned softly. “Can’t we just pretend she’s not leaving?”

“We could. But she might catch on when we don’t drive her to college.”

You huffed. “She’s still my baby.”

Natasha rubbed her hand over your shoulder, her thumb brushing lightly over the skin of your neck.

"It's only ten hours away," Natasha said, trying to sound reassuring, "and she has a car."

"She's still my baby," you repeated, your voice thick. "ten hours is a lifetime away."

Natasha kissed the side of your head and rested her cheek there. "I know."

Natasha sighed. The last nine years had been a blur of joy and stress and laughter and tears, but they had gone by far too quickly. Cara's college move-in was tomorrow. She would be a new freshman double majoring in Political Science and Philosophy at the University of Pennsylvania on a sports scholarship.

You didn’t realize you were frowning until Natasha nudged your cheek with her nose.

“She’s not vanishing, you know,” she said softly. “We’ll still get her messy laundry over Thanksgiving.”

You snorted, wiping your eyes before anything could fall. “She does own a suitcase. I don’t know why she keeps stuffing it in a trash bag."

“She’s efficient. Like you.”

You smiled, but the ache in your chest didn’t ease. “I just... I keep thinking I should’ve held her more. Slowed down more.”

“She wouldn’t let you. She’s been running ahead since we've met her.” Natasha chuckled. “She didn’t even want help filling out her college apps.”

“She got mad when I tried to highlight her checklist.” You shrugged. "I was trying to be helpful."

Natasha laughed. Her eyes twinkled as she leaned back against the lounge chair and stretched out her legs. Her toes were bare, and her calves were strong as she lifted them towards the sun.

You looked away, trying not to blush.

Natasha was always gorgeous. Age had sharpened her jawline and cheekbones, adding a sense of maturity to her already striking features.

"You're so easy," She said with a smirk. "One flash of leg, and you're blushing?"

You rolled your eyes. "You and your ashy legs are too cocky."

"Cocky, huh?" She raised her brow, ignoring the jab, "Is that what we're calling it now?"

You snorted, shoving her shoulder. She was teasing, but you felt heat pool in your stomach at her words.

"Later," You said, leaning back into her.

"Why not now?" She suggested as she murmured into your ear.

You shivered. Her lips pressed lightly against your temple. "Because there are six kids and two elders in the house," You reminded her.

"That's never stopped us before," She reminded, her tongue poking between her teeth as she smirked.

"We are not doing anything in the yard, Tasha," you insisted, your cheeks warm. "The birds are watching."

Natasha grinned at your words and sat up. She kissed your neck, and you bit your lip as a thrill went through you.

"You're lucky you're cute," she told you.

You smiled, rolling your eyes. "And you're lucky I like you."

"Damn right I am," she said, kissing the side of your head.

The sound of sliding doors interrupted you. You both looked towards the house, spotting Cara at the door.

"What are you two doing?" she asked. "The car is supposed to be packed. Can you guys not be lovey-dovey for one second?" She huffed as she approached the two of you. Instead of responding, you set your mug on the table, reaching out to her and pulling her into your lap. She may be eighteen years old and a couple of inches taller, but she still fell into the motion easily, wrapping her arms around your neck and pressing her face against the side of your neck.

"Stop trying to steal the blanket," Natasha scolded her, tugging the blanket back.

"It's cold outside," she whined, curling further into you.

"So go put on a sweatshirt," Natasha mumbled. "It's hot out here anyway."

Cara pouted at her and curled closer to you. "Mom, tell your wife to stop being mean to me."

"I can't. She bought me a new car," you replied, smiling as Natasha groaned.

"It's a good thing we're getting rid of her," She teased, and Cara's jaw dropped.

"Mom!" she exclaimed, sitting up to glare at Natasha.

Natasha grinned back, her eyes gleaming mischievously. You rolled your eyes and pulled her closer.

"Don't pick on my baby," you teased. "She's leaving us."

Cara's scowl faded. Her smile wobbled as she looked back at you.

"Ten hours away, Mom, a plane is faster," she reminded you. "I'm not vanishing."

"I know," you said, trying not to frown. You were proud of her. She had worked hard and gotten into a fantastic college, but that didn't mean you wouldn't miss her.

Cara took a deep breath and sat up straighter, tugging her knees to her chest. “I met my roommate online. Her name’s Nina. She’s from Boston, and she plays lacrosse. We’ve already color-coded the mini fridge schedule.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “There’s a fridge schedule?”

“For snacks, yes,” Cara said proudly. “Also for cold brew and oat milk, and she agreed we both hate room-temperature yogurt, so we’re starting off strong.”

"She seems nice," You hummed.

“She is. We haven’t met in person yet, but I feel good. I made a shared Pinterest board.”

“Oh, then it’s serious,” Natasha deadpanned, and Cara poked at her shoulder without much force.

"Don't push me. I'm keeping all three of us up in this chair," Natasha chided gently.

You smiled, watching them. Cara tried to play it cool, but you could tell she was bracing herself, leaning into planning and routines because it gave her something to hold onto. So, like you.

“I also wrote out the family communication ground rules,” she said after a moment. “They’re in the group chat."

Natasha groaned. She hadn’t even noticed her phone buzz. You, however, had seen the messages come through.

"I read the rules. I will not ask to see your pictures every day." You assured her.

Cara nodded firmly. She turned to Natasha. "Did you read the rules?"

"I will," she promised.

“James, Charlie, and Willow agreed to Sunday evening calls,” Cara continued, ignoring her. “Charlie promised to write me letters via snail mail. Paige pinky swore she'd FaceTime whenever Luke does something cute, which is always.”

You blinked. “You... made a communication contract?”

“I’m not vanishing,” Cara said again, her voice just a little unsteady now. “And you guys are loud and annoying and ridiculous, but I—”

She broke off, biting her lip.

You reached for her hand and laced your fingers through hers. “We know, baby.”

“I’m just gonna miss you,” she whispered.

Your heart twisted.

You pulled her closer, and she tucked her face into your neck.

"I'm going to miss you too," You whispered back.

Natasha's hand settled on her back, and she hummed, rubbing soothing circles over her shirt.

"Me too," Natasha added, "Even though you've been driving me crazy lately."

"I'll call you every night," Cara said, sniffling.

"We'll answer, " you murmured," you told her, rubbing her back.

"Good," she whispered.

You squeezed her hand. "It'll be okay."

Cara sniffed. You wrapped your arms around her, pulling her closer and resting your head against hers.

"I know," she mumbled.

The sliding door opened again, and all three of you looked up. "The rest of the Brady bunch," you thought to yourself.

Luke led the pack with his siblings in tow. His hair was now long and curly. It bounced every time he took a step. He refused to let you cut it, and at four years old, you thought he was old enough to make the decision for himself.

Willow and Charlie were now done with their bickering and stood on either side of James. Paige was too busy scrolling through something on your iPad to truly engage with the rest of the conversation.

"Mama! Mama!" Luke exclaimed, "Come play with me!"

"We're almost done, sweetie," you promised, and Luke frowned, stomping his foot.

"But Mommy, we're gonna leave soon, and I need to play now," he argued.

You opened your mouth to argue with him when Cara offered.

"How about I play? Tag for old time's sake?"

"Yay!" Luke yelled, taking off across the lawn. Cara scrambled up, chasing after him.

Paige set the iPad down and looked at you. "Mom, can I have a juice box? They're in the pantry."

"Of course. Will you grab one for everyone?" You asked, and she nodded before standing and walking back inside.

"Now that Cara is leaving for real, can I get her room?" Charlie asked.

"No," you and Natasha said together.

Charlie groaned. "That's not fair. Cara's leaving. I deserve a huge room like hers."

"Yours is already big," Willow rolled her eyes. "Besides, she's not moving away forever."

"So?" Charlie argued. "She's leaving. That makes it free game."

"Can you guys stop arguing? My ears hurt." James mumbled, plopping down into Cara's spot and trying to take a sneak sip of your coffee. You snatched it from his hands and gave him a warning look.

"You're only seven. You can't have caffeine," You said.

"Mom," He groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Mom," You mocked. "Did you pull all of your shoes away instead of leaving them at my front door?"

"Yes, I don't forget things," James said, looking a little too smug.

"That's why I like you best," you told him.

He grinned and leaned into you.

"So when are we leaving?" Willow asked.

"Soon. Go finish packing," Natasha instructed.

As the kids dispersed, some grumbling, some dragging their feet—you glanced at Natasha, who hadn’t moved from her spot behind you. Her fingers curled around her coffee mug like she had nowhere else to be.

There was a time when she wouldn’t have sat this long. A time when her eyes would’ve flicked to every corner and when her hand would twitch like it missed the feel of a weapon. Even on the good days back then, she was always a little restless. Always waiting for the next emergency.

But now…

She was still. Soft in the way she smiled at the kids bickering. Relaxed in the way her thumb moved in idle circles over your arm. She had traded in late-night stakeouts for early-morning pancakes, which suited her more than you ever thought. She has grown even softer since retiring as an Avenger and becoming a full-time stay-at-home mom. More present.

It suited her. She still had a side gig as a self-defense instructor a couple of days a week to keep busy. Overall, she seemed lighter.

"How's it feel?" you asked, smiling.

Natasha sighed. Her fingers trailed down the length of your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

"How does what feel?" she asked.

"Being a soccer mom. Living the dream," You grinned, turning back to her.

"Don't call me a soccer mom," She snorted. "And it feels... nice. Really nice."

"We leave in an hour." You reminded her. "Think we can get everyone dressed in that time?"

Natasha rolled her eyes, nudging you. "You'd have to get off me first."

You hummed, not moving. "You don't sound like you're complaining."

Natasha leaned in, kissing the side of your head. "I'm not. It's nice to have you all to myself."

"It's nice having you too." You admitted, looking up at her.

*******

You hadn't realized how heartbreaking it would be to drop your semi-adult daughter off at college for the first time. In your mind, Cara was still the little girl you'd picked up from the school office nine years ago with a tiny backpack too big for her shoulders, holding onto your hand like she’d never let go.

Now she was unloading color-coded bins from the trunk of her car, all long limbs and quiet confidence, hair pulled into a messy bun that made her look like a grown woman. You weren’t ready for it. You weren’t sure you ever would be.

Your throat tightened.

"This is it," Natasha stepped back over to the car, leaning into your window. "We have her room key. Everyone out of the car."

The kids started to get out of the car. You couldn't bring yourself to do the same.

Natasha sighed and moved around the car, opening the door. She unbuckled you and pulled you out, wrapping her arms around you.

"It's okay," she promised.

"No, it's not," you whined, burying your face in her neck. "She's leaving. Forever."

"Not forever," Natasha promised, running her fingers soothingly over your back.

"I'm not going to sleep tonight," You huffed.

"I'll be there. So will the kids. We'll make a blanket fort, watch movies, eat snacks. It'll be fun," she tried.

"You're right," you sighed, stepping back and wiping your eyes. "You're always right." You walked over to take Luke's hand as he climbed out of his seat. Paige opted to stay close to Natasha and micromanage how Alexei unloaded the car. Charlie and Willow were helping Cara push a cart filled with bins to the building. This was fine. You could do this.

"Let's go, buddy," you said, and Luke looked up, smiling at you.

"Okay, Mommy," he replied, squeezing your hand as the two of you followed the rest of your family. "Is this Cara's school?" He asked, his adorable lisp and slight russian accent shining through all thanks to his grandparents.

"Yes. She'll be a student here," you said.

"What's a student?" he asked.

"It's someone who's learning a lot of new things." You tried to explain.

"Is it like school?" He questioned.

"Sort of. This school is for older people."

"Am I a student? Cause I learn lots," He added.

"You're not old enough, kiddo." You smiled. "But sometime this year you will be a student."

"Oh. Well, when will I be like Cara?"

"Probably in fourteen more years," You told him.

"But, Mommy, that's so far," he whined.

"I know, but it'll fly by," You told him, scooping him into your arms, as you followed the rest of the family up to the third floor. Cara's dorm was a mess, to put it plainly. While it was newly renovated and clean, you couldn't help but feel overwhelmed at the amount of stuff you needed to pack. You stepped around Willow, who was taking her job as Cara's vlogging videographer very seriously. You had tried to tell her it wasn't necessary, but she insisted.

"Are you excited?" Charlie asked, her face bright as she helped Cara open boxes and bins.

“Kind of,” Cara admitted, tugging open a box of hangers. “I can't wait to go to college parties and meet college boys.”

You froze mid-step, nearly tripping over one of Paige’s tiny Crocs.

Natasha didn’t even look up from where she was assembling a cheap wooden shelf. “You’re still in the red for potential teen pregnancy, just so you know.”

“Mom!” Cara groaned, half-laughing, half-horrified. “I’m eighteen!”

“Exactly,” you said, dropping Luke onto Cara’s unmade bed before helping Paige back down from where she was scaling the desk chair like a jungle gym. “Still counts. No babies. No surprises. No boys named Brayden.”

“Why would his name be Brayden?” Cara asked, tossing a throw pillow at you.

“I don’t know, it just sounds like trouble.”

“Don’t listen to your mother,” Natasha said, standing and stretching her back. “But also, do listen. You’ve got plans. Don’t let a boy with a backwards cap and bad grammar ruin that.”

Cara rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “I think I can handle it.”

“You say that now,” you muttered, opening another box labeled miscellaneous dorm crap in Cara’s handwriting. “Then you blink and you’ve got six kids and a cat who only loves one of them.”

“Liho doesn’t love anyone but himself,” Natasha said automatically.

“Exactly my point.”

Cara shook her head, laughing. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“And you,” Natasha said, walking over and cupping her cheek gently, “are about to do amazing things. Just maybe… skip the frat guys.”

“No frat guys,” you agreed. “Unless they do your homework.”

Natasha shot you a look, and you grinned.

"I can't say I didn't use pretty privilege to my advantage," You fluttered your lashes.

"I always knew you were a little straight," Natasha teased.

"I am as straight as a rainbow slinky."

Natasha laughed, "And how did you ever pass your sexuality classes?"

"Oh, I'm a natural," You smirked.

Natasha laughed, pulling you into her, her hand resting low on your back.

"Stop making goo-goo eyes at each other and help," Charlie complained, and you stepped away.

"You know we could always ship all of them off to boarding school," You poked Charlie. "Cara, where did you want this full length mirror?"

"By the door, so I can see how cute I look in my new outfits." She said, grinning.

"Cara, when is your roommate coming in?" Paige asked.

"In a couple of days," Cara replied, helping Willow unfold a large blanket and spread it over the bed. "She has a single dad and not much family, so I volunteered to help her move in."

"Wow, you're the best," Willow agreed.

"Thank you. Now come over here and help me decorate this corkboard," Cara told her.

Paige rushed over, and you watched with a smile. You were going to miss this. All of it. The bickering. The late-night snacks.

“We bring bear claws!” Alexei announced, booming like he was addressing a stadium and not a single dorm suite. James trailed behind him, carrying a massive paper bag from some sketchy bakery two towns over.

“Dad, it’s college, not a Soviet holiday,” Natasha said, but she was already smiling.

“No child should begin school hungry,” Melina said firmly, sweeping in behind him with a Tupperware full of borscht. “And I told you not to slam the door.”

“I did not slam it. I opened it with purpose,” Alexei grinned, then paused mid-step. “This dorm is smaller than our hallway.”

“It’s a single, Papa,” Cara said, already reaching for the bag in James’s hands. “And I’m not going to war. You didn’t need to bring an entire meal.”

"Well we have a lovely surprise for you," Melina pulled cara out into the living area of her dorm.

"You guys bought me a tv?" Cara asked, her eyes wide.

"We knew you didn't have one," Melina shrugged. "Also, your mother told us not to do the whole gun thing."

"We'd rather she not be expelled," Natasha said.

"Yeah, that would've been a pain," you agreed.

"We have a couple more hours to help unpack," Cara began. "There are a lot of us, so this should be fast. Luke and James, can you unpack all of my shoes and put them on this rack here?" She directed her brothers. "Willow is doing the corkboard. I have a shared bathroom, but I brought a few decorations. Charlie, can you help me with that?"

"Of course." Charlie agreed.

"Paige, Mom, can you guys work on putting my trunk under the bed. It'll probably be easier for us both," Cara told you.

"Sure, sweetheart," you smiled, kissing her cheek. "Let's get to work."

It took the better part of three hours for everything in Cara's dorm to be finished.It felt strange to be leaving your child in this place without you. You wouldn't see her every morning or night, but somehow it didn't feel like you were leaving her alone.

"Well, I think we've done a good job," You told Cara, taking in the sight of the finished room.

"Thanks, Mom," Cara said, stepping forward and hugging you.

You hugged her tightly, tears filling your eyes. You were so proud of her. Proud and sad. You couldn't believe how much she'd grown up.

"I'll miss you, Mom," she whispered, squeezing you tightly.

"Me too," You mumbled, squeezing her tighter. "You're my baby."

"Mom, I'm not a baby anymore," she protested.

"I know. Just let me enjoy it for a minute longer," you pleaded.

She laughed and rested her head on yours.

"Fine, Mom, but just a minute."

You closed your eyes, breathing her in.

"Time's up," She whispered.

"Just a few more seconds," you begged, and she laughed, nodding against you.

"We should get going," Natasha said after a moment.

"Yeah," You sighed, slowly releasing her. "Call me every night?"

"Of course," She agreed.

You hugged her once more and kissed her forehead.

"I love you," You whispered.

"Love you, too," She replied, and you took a deep breath, stepping back. You looked at Natasha. You could see she had a similar thought process, but wasn't as emotional about it.

"We love you," Natasha began as she pulled Cara into her arms. "Remember that."

"I know, Mama," She mumbled, hugging her. "I'll miss you."

"Miss you too, malyshka," Natasha whispered, kissing her forehead. Natasha stepped back to give the siblings their moment, wiping discreetly at her eyes.

Charlie hugged her, her eyes already red-rimmed.

"Don't cry, Charlie," Cara whispered, squeezing her sister's shoulder.

"I'll try not to," Charlie mumbled.

"I promise to call you every day," Cara promised.

"Really?" Charlie sniffed.

"Really."

Cara turned to Willow, who hugged her awkwardly, and James, who just shrugged and patted her arm.

"Luke, do you want to say goodbye?" You asked, looking down at him.

He nodded, moving forward.

"You're not going away forever," He told her, frowning. "Right?"

"Not forever," Cara assured him.

"But...you're not gonna visit either, are you?" He asked.

"Not until Thanksgiving," Cara informed the 4 year old.

Luke's frown deepened. "That's not fair."

"It's not," Cara agreed, crouching before him and smoothing down his hair. "But I'll make sure to FaceTime you, and you can see me whenever you want."

"Promise?" Luke demanded, and Cara smiled.

"Promise."

"Good," Luke decided. "I don't want you to go, though."

"I know," Cara said, hugging him. "I'll miss you too."

Luke wrapped his arms around her neck and hugged her back.

"Bye, Cara," he whispered, and you swallowed hard.

"Bye, guys," Cara said, her voice shaky. "Now, Paige?"

"I'm not ready," Paige shook her head, clinging to your side.

"Come here," Cara said, opening her arms.

Paige moved over, and Cara hugged her.

"Don't worry. We'll video chat," She promised.

"And you'll send me the pictures you take of your school?" Paige asked.

"Absolutely. You'll have a bunch," She agreed.

"Good," Paige mumbled, her eyes filled with tears.

"Bye, little girl," Cara whispered, kissing the top of her head.

"Bye," Paige replied, hugging her tighter.

You took a step forward and kissed the top of her head.

"Oh, make so room for Deda," Alexei's voice boomed. He moved in front of Cara, and hugged her, picking her up and swinging her around. "I'll miss you, little Cara," he said, and you could see the tears welling in his eyes.

"Oh no," You breathed, and Melina quickly hugged Cara and pulled Alexei away.

"Don't cry, Deda," she said, wrapping her arms around his waist. "It's okay. I'll be home for Thanksgiving."

"Yes, but what about Christmas? And birthdays?" Alexei argued.

"We can all Skype. Plus, I'll have ba reak. And I can always come home for a weekend." Cara reasoned.

"And what will we do if you get hurt?" Alexei demanded, and Cara smiled, patting his cheek.

"I'll call. Or if I can't, one of my parents will. Don't worry, Deda."

"How can I not worry?" He argued. "You're our little Cara. Our baby."

"Deda," Cara said firmly.

Alexei sniffed.

"You have a phone. Please text me. Call me. If you're hurt, scared, lonely, or bored, talk to me," she told him. "Promise."

"Okay," Alexei's face was frowning, and had hard lines. Like he couldn't believe this was truly happening.

Eventually, the family returned to their cars, everyone in their respective seats. Cara stood alone, with her lanyard, she waved and blew a kiss. She watched as both vehicles pulled off, her smile never fading.

"She'll be okay," Natasha reached across to squeeze your hand.

"I know," you sighed.

"She's tough," Natasha pointed out out.

"Yeah, she is," you agreed, leaning into the seat.

#natasha romanoff #black reader #natasha x reader #black widow x reader #black widow x female reader #natasha romanov #natasha x you #theloudhouseau

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educatedsimps · 1 year ago

Text

— inarizaki 4 x f!reader on her period (hcs)

≪ back to fics masterlist

ft. miya atsumu, miya osamu, kita shinsuke, suna rintarō x f!reader

a/n: only writing for these four (so far) 'cause i don't think i have a very good grasp of the other inarizaki characters but perhaps in the future! anyway this one's short and sweet but i hope you enjoy~~

cw: timeskip spoilers for osamu but that’s it

— MIYA ATSUMU

is a dumbass

this man would only know what to buy for a period care pack because kita got him a care pack when he was sick

“i picked up a few things from kita-san ya know, WHADDAYA TAKE ME FOR?!"

he gets anxious and worried that he'll forget stuff when he's at the store

like he had to ask kita to make him a checklist for when he gets supplies for u

would go on a day trip around the neighbourhood to find the store that has everything on that checklist

keeps that checklist pinned in his notes app (right below a little note where he writes down everything he loves about you - he's a simp)

he's always worried he missed something so he will not shut up

"are you sure the pads are in there? did i get the right ones? the big ones with the wings right? the extra absorbent kind? I SWEAR I TOOK THE RIGHT ONES BUT IF THEY'RE NOT IN THE BAG I'LL RUN BACK TO GET IT FOR YA RIGHT NOW" (he took the bus there btw)

"oh and they ran out of the usual snacks you like so i got three other brands for you to try, if you don't like any of 'em i'll get some more!"

asks osamu to make your fav onigiri too but he only asks nicely cuz it’s for you :)

— MIYA OSAMU

would make SO MUCH food for you like you’ll never go hungry if you’re with him

he also does not care if you bloat during your period he WILL keep you fed even if it's against your will

would also find a bunch of different recipes that will reduce your bloating

he's an onigiri guy but he'd go to his mom and ask her to teach him her healing soup recipes

he'll start making so much soup you'll just be drinking soup the whole day (with onigiris and anything else you'd like, of course)

would NOT let you within a 10 foot radius of a cold drink when you're on your period

like you'd go to the fridge in the middle of a hot day to grab some chocolate and you'll just hear "STEP AWAY FROM THE FRIDGE WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR"

you turn around and he’s pointing at you with his spatula in hand

he knows how warm you might feel on your period though so he'll make the kind of hot soup that cools the body (he learnt it from his mom)

— KITA SHINSUKE

kita is kita

kita is the best one out of everybody

he KNOWS what he’s doing like i don’t even need to explain

but yes you can trust that he’s got everything you need and has everything before you even know you need it

fav snacks, fav drinks, heating pad, painkillers, a gallon of water, hot soup, fresh food, weighted blanket if you like those, your fav movie or show already set up for you and a shit ton of cuddles and naps throughout the day

also he’d write in or call your boss to tell him or her that you’re staying home

“kita, i NEED to go to work today-“ “no. you need to rest.” “but-“ “i already called your boss.” BRO IT’S 6AM

will physically force you back in bed if you try to get up or out

also asks osamu to make ur fav onigiri

of course, his grandma loves u SO much that every month she’ll ask kita if you’re on your period and she'll make herbal or like the healing kind of soup and packs it so nicely for kita to bring it to you

sometimes she adds a little note in the carrier and your heart melts every single time

— SUNA RINTARŌ

king of cuddling and doomscrolling tiktok in bed

he knows you don’t really like lying down in bed and all during your period, especially if it’s really heavy so he’ll lay out extra towels and stuff in case anything happens

also would 100% clean up for you if your period gets too heavy and leaks onto the bed or something

“go get yourself cleaned up in the washroom and wait here for me once you’re done. don’t touch anything, i’ll take care of the sheets.”

keeps painkillers and water on his nightstand and a ton of heating pads in his drawer

ENDLESS CUDDLES like he gets so clingy it’s almost embarrassing but he’s cute so-

uses tiktoks to distract you from your period

“my period hurts-“ “babe look look look it’s a cat” “AWWWWW ITS SO FLUFFY”

tbh i don’t think you’d even use heating pads much if you were with him cuz you cannot look at suna and tell me that he’s not a heater in human form

his warm hands on your lower belly is the BEST feeling when you’re on your period

*places hands on tummy* “does it still hurt?” “no i think it’s going away…” “it better be. or i’m dragging your cramps to the depths of hell myself.”

— EXTRAS

osamu probably makes extra batches of onigiri every week just to give it out to his brother’s and friends’ girlfriends and honestly God bless him for that

would give atsumu’s girlfriend atsumu’s share of onigiri tho

the first time you got your period after you got together with kita, he probably asked you a whole list of questions he prepared and noted down all your answers like your fav stuff and the types of pads or tampons you use etc. it was honestly pretty shocking but sweet nonetheless

suna def has the period tracker app on his phone but he remembers your cycle so he uses the app to remind you

atsumu also has the app but he sets it to send him reminders and notifications when your period is coming up

a/n: THANK YOU FOR READINGG hoped u enjoyed it ~~ stay tuned for more original and requested works coming soon!! -lyssa

#educated.simps #haikyuu x reader #lyssa.writes #simps.write #haikyuu!!#haikyuu fluff #atsumu x reader #osamu x reader #kita x reader #suna x reader #miya atsumu #miya osamu #kita shinsuke #suna rintaro #atsumu fluff #osamu fluff #kita fluff #suna fluff

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fakeagatha · 1 month ago

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Mrs Fletcher | Prof!Eve Fletcher x Fem!Reader | Chapter Eight: Packing

Summary: The day before your trip, you find yourself preparing your luggage, when Eve pays you a visit.

Warnings: None Word Count: 1224 Genre: Fluff, Romance Date: 28/4/2025

A couple months went by since the ordeal with Miss Evanora. In the beginning, it was difficult. Everyone in the hallway seemed to stare at you, and you heard whispers when you walked past. You knew that hardly any students liked her, so they probably weren't saying anything bad about you, you hoped anyway, but it still bothered you. Eve had been an absolute sweetheart, as she would check in on you every day, even when you told her that you were fine now, and that you've let it go.

Time really goes by quickly because now, the afternoon before your flight, you were rummaging through your room for what you might need for a week abroad. You made a checklist on the notes app on your phone, but you were still worried that you would forget something important and not realize until it was too late. Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

You got up from your knees and opened the door, smiling when you saw Steve.

"Hey. I keep worrying that I'm forgetting stuff." You sighed, and he peered over to your suitcase.

"Do you have your passport? Your charger? A change of clothes?" He asked, and you nodded along.

"Yeah, all of that..." You bit your lip, "My wash bag, my money, oh! My iPad. You never know if I may need it!" You grinned, taking the device and putting it into the rucksack you were using for carry-on luggage. "Are you already packed then?"

"Yeah, I don't think I need to take much, just the essentials." Steve replied, sitting down on your bed, "I'm excited to visit the War Museum they were telling us about, it sounds cool."

"It does. I can't wait for the old prison!" You exclaimed, and he quickly agreed.

"That too! This trip is gonna be awesome Y/N, I'm telling you." He sighed, "I haven't been on a field trip since Highschool, that time we went to Oklahoma."

You laughed at the memory, "Remember when we lost Mrs Dickson at that natural park?"

Steve laughed along with you, nodding, "I can't believe she was left responsible for us."

He then cleared his throat and stood up, "I'm going to see how Logan is getting on, he always leaves everything to the last minute."

"I remember," You chuckled, "See you later!"

Steve closed the door behind him, and you sighed. You were looking forward to explore Malta, and learn about its history, but you were also excited about the different shops and restaurants you could check out in your free time there. The thought made you smile to yourself, the reality setting in that you'd be travelling tomorrow!

You bit your lip, your smile widening as you remember that you'll be spending the next week with your crush too. It was a bonus really, you get to travel, and you get to do that with someone very special to you.

Sighing, you took another look through your suitcase, and another knock on the door startled you. You rolled your eyes, standing up and swinging the door open, expecting to see Steve again, but your heart dropped when you saw Eve's smiling face on the other side.

"Hello Y/N! I'm just going round making sure everyone is getting ready! We missed our flight one year because someone who hadn't packed made us late..." She sighed, the memory bringing her annoyance mixed with disappointment.

"Hey Mrs Fletcher!" You exclaimed, "Would you like to come in?"

"I will, but I won't stick around for too long." She replied back, stepping into your room, "So, are you excited?"

"Yeah, really excited!" You grinned, Eve's expression matching yours. "But you know what I just realized? Since miss Evanora got fired, who's coming instead?"

Eve chuckled, shaking her head, "I think a lot of students forgot that she was coming with us in the first place. Mrs Olney has taken her ticket. It was a last minute decision really, we only came to the conclusion a few days ago because no one else wanted to accompany your group..." She shrugged.

"... Who's that?" You asked sheepishly.

"Oh right, she works part time in the university library. Normally only professors would come along, but it was either her or we'd end up short staffed."

"I might have seen her round a couple times. She seems nice enough!" You smiled at her, and Eve nodded enthusiastically.

"She is! She's been a wonderful friend to me and I'm glad she's coming along. Anyway Y/N, I need to go and check on everyone else! I don't want a repeat of 2016."

You chuckled, "See you tomorrow!" You replied, closing the door behind her. Clearly, she was anxious of missing her flight, or maybe it was excitement that made her want to see what everyone was up to.

You turned back to your suitcase, staring at it. You moved back to your dresser, rummaging through your makeup drawer and jewelry. You didn't want to overload your luggage, since you had done that on the field trip you went on in Highschool. Thankfully, they let you off without charge, but the airport staff isn't always that nice.

You opened up your earring case where you had lots of different plastic designs. Fun ones, such as different fruit or animals. You chose a different pair to wear for each day of your trip, which included rubber ducks, fried eggs, gummy bears, watermelons, grapes, limes, and cats. They weren't very big, so you were able to stuff them into a small jewelry box.

You took a makeup bag and added a few brushes, lipsticks, eyeliners and eyeshadow. You didn't normally wear too much makeup, typically just eyeliner and maybe mascara, but maybe during the trip you wanted to look fancier.

You sighed, nodding in approval as you managed to neatly sort your suitcase. It wasn't overflowing, and there was still plenty of room to bring back souvenirs and shopping.

Sitting back down on your bed, you decided to open up your diary which you hadn't updated in quite a while.

May 11th, 2019

Dear Diary,

I've just finished packing my luggage, because tomorrow we're flying to Malta! I'm super excited about it. Eve stopped by my room to see how I was getting on, which honestly reminded me how great this is going to be. They told us that when we land, we will be taken straight to the hotel so we can leave our luggage. The issue is, while the rooms have been booked, they haven't been sorted between us, which is honestly just disorganized and I don't know why they are leaving it until we are at the actual hotel. I haven't really thought about who I would want to share with, I'm not really the closest with my classmates, and we aren't allowed to stay with the opposite gender, meaning I couldn't stay with Steve. I'm convinced everything will work though, so I'm not worried about it. Anyway, I should get to sleep now, as our flight is at nine in the morning and they want us at the airport much earlier.

You closed the book and set it down on your nightstand. You took a pair of your pajamas that were way too small since your best pairs were in the suitcase, and changed into them. Taking a last look out the window at the campus below, you switched off the lights, and laid down with a sigh, and conveniently, sleep overtook you quickly.

#fics #agatha all along #agatha harkness #kathryn hahn #mrs fletcher #eve fletcher #eve fletcher x reader #agatha harkness x reader #kathryn hahn x reader

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luckyroll3 · 8 months ago

Text

Chef's Kiss: Part 1

Masterlist and Summary

Story inspired by this TikTok.

The Job

Your phone buzzes, a jarring vibration against the calm of your sunlit office. You glance at the caller ID—Marcus Williams. One of your richest, but most demanding clients. You straighten in your chair, already tensing at his potential request.

"Good morning, Marcus," you answer with a practiced calm.

"Morning," he replies curtly. "I need you to organize a dinner event. It's crucial. Sixty high-profile guests. Can I count on you?"

His voice is all clipped edges and impatience. You open your notebook app on your ipad, scribbling details as he rattles them off—a date less than a month out, a list of VIPs, his expectations clear and, as usual, excessive.

"Is that all? I thought you’d want me to host your next event on the moon this time,” you say cheekily, hoping to soften him a bit.

“Ha! Maybe for the next one,” he says with a chuckle. “Your sense of humor is only one of the reasons I rehire you. But it’s mostly your ability to pull off miracles. Can you take care of this one for me?”

“Absolutely. I'm on it," you assure him. He hangs up without a goodbye; the typical Marcus efficiency that you have learned to accept. “Bye to you too,” you say to the dead line.

You exhale, then hit the speed dial for Natalie. She answers on the second ring, her voice bright and expectant.

"Nat, we've got a big one," you say, leaning back into the comforting embrace of your leather chair.

"Spill it," she urges, eagerness threading through her words.

"Marcus just tasked us with a high-stakes dinner event." You feel the weight of responsibility settle on your shoulders.

"Oof, when's the event?" Natalie's question is a soft tap on the drum of your anxiety.

"In about a month," you reply, eyeing the calendar. The days look too few, the timeframe mocking you.

"Yikes. But hey, we've got this," she says, confidence buoying her tone.

"Right." You smile despite yourself. "You know how Marcus is. We'll need to be meticulous. No room for error."

"Story of our lives," she chuckles. "I'll start prepping a timeline. We can tackle it first thing tomorrow."

"Thanks, Nat," you say, grateful for her unfailing support. "You're a lifesaver."

"Anytime," she replies, and you can almost hear her grin.

"Okay, let's circle back in an hour and set our game plan," you suggest.

"Will do, boss lady," Natalie sings out before hanging up.

You drop your phone on the desk and stare at the notes on the tablet. You take a deep breath, readying your nerves to turn chaos into a masterpiece once again.

You fire off an email to Daniella at Saffron & Thyme, fingers flying over the keys. Your mind thinks back to her restaurant's capabilities, the way they've never let you down. The cursor blinks back at you as you hit send.

"Done," you murmur, leaning back. "Dani should be getting back to us soon."

"Great! Their wild mushroom risotto is to die for," Natalie chimes in from across the desk, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Think it'll make the cut for the menu?"

"Let's hope." you grin, imagining the savory flavors, the impeccable plating.

The ping of your inbox pulls you back. A swift reply from Dani; she's always on the ball. You schedule a call with her for later in the day.

"Phone meeting's set," you announce, catching Natalie's gaze.

"Sweet," she replies, popping a bubblegum bubble. "We're on track."

Hours slip by, a blur of preparation and checklists, until the appointed time arrives. You press the speaker button, and Natalie leans in, pen poised.

"Hey, Dani," you greet as her voice fills the room, all business and warmth.

"Good to hear from you two," Daniella responds, her tone laced with a smile. "Let's talk about this dinner event of yours."

Natalie and you exchange a glance – it's go-time. You dive into the details, outlining Marcus' vision, the high-profile guest list, the atmosphere he’s aiming for.

"Got it," Dani interrupts, brisk yet excited. "I'm thinking something seasonal, maybe add a twist of elegance to each dish?"

"Exactly," you affirm, relief flooding through you. Dani gets it, like always.

"Count us in," she declares. "I'll clear the date. Chef Jax will be thrilled to brainstorm some ideas with you."

"Perfect," you say, and your pulse steadies. One major task checked off the list.

"Can't wait to work with you again, ladies," Dani adds, and you can almost see her managerial nod through the phone.

"Likewise," Natalie pipes up. "This one's going to be epic."

"Definitely." you echo, and after a few more confirmations and well-wishes, you end the call.

You flip open your laptop. Natalie perches on the edge of the glass desk, her fingers drumming a staccato rhythm.

"Timeline," you say, your voice slicing through the silence. "We need precision."

"Got it." She leans in, her curls bouncing with each nod. "Let's break it down, hour by hour."

You dive into the heart of logistics, crafting a timeline that reads like a symphony score—every note, every beat mapped out to the second. Your fingers dance over the keyboard as we assign tasks and set deadlines, our words weaving together until a coherent plan emerges from the chaos.

"Florist," you mutter, scanning the list. "Linens, A/V setup..."

"Who do you want for florals? The usual?" Natalie asks, chewing on her pen.

"Rosa's Garden. They've never let us down."

"True. Their orchids are art." Her eyes glint with approval.

You pick up the phone, dialing the familiar number. Rosa answers with her husky, laughter-lined voice, and you pitch our vision—a cascade of white blooms, elegance in every petal.

"Darling, for you, anything," Rosa purrs after a brief haggle over price. "I'll make sure it’s all there, fresh and fragrant."

Relief washes over you. "This is shaping up."

"Like we'd let it do anything else." Natalie grins.

You both sit back, your gazes meeting in quiet triumph. The foundation is laid, the groundwork solid. It's a waiting game now, the calm before the storm of execution.

You move on, the guest list sprawling before you like a challenge. Names, titles, companies – they blur together, a sea of significance.

"Adams needs to be near the bar," you say, remembering his penchant for networking with a drink in hand.

"Far from Johnson though." Natalie taps her lip. "Their last merger talk didn't go well."

"Right." you circle their names, drawing a line between them. It feels like defusing a bomb, a delicate operation where one wrong move could spell disaster.

"Helena will want a view of the stage." you envisage Helena's keen eyes, missing nothing.” Natalie nods, scribbling away. "And check dietary restrictions again," you remind her. "Last thing we need is an allergic reaction."

"Already on it." She grins, confidence a bright spark in her gaze.

"Good." Your shoulders ease a fraction. The details matter. They always do.

"Think he'll be happy?" she asks, a lilt of mischief in her voice.

"Marcus? He doesn't do happy," you smirk. "But satisfied? Maybe."

"Then we're golden." Natalie winks.

You see an email come through from Dani. She’s arranged a date and time for you and Chef Jax to meet and you add it to the calendar.

"We’re the best damn event planners in the city. We’re always golden." Your confidence surges as you send the confirmation reply. You shut down the computers, the screens' glow fading into darkness. “Let’s call it a night.”

The Meeting

The crisp air of the early evening bites at your skin as you approach Saffron & Thyme, the five-star restaurant nestled in the heart of the city. Leaves rustle underfoot, a whispering prelude to the bustle inside. You're here to discuss Marcus’ event.

A sudden rush of wind signals an intrusion into your thoughts. A man on a bike, all athletic build and tousled hair under a baseball cap, clips your shoulder as he whizzes by. "Sorry, mate!" he calls out, his voice tinged with an Australian accent that curls around the words like smoke. He swings back around and heads towards you.

“You okay?” His warm brown eyes meet yours, before performing a silent appraisal of your body. “I underestimated the distance between us. But you’re good, yeah?”

“I’m good,” you respond. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay!” He grins broadly, two dimples appearing. It’s one of the most gorgeous smiles you’ve ever seen. “Sorry again.” He winks, then starts pedaling and disappears down the alley. Your heart skips a beat, but you brush it off. Time is ticking.

Inside, the familiar scent of herbs and freshly baked bread welcomes you. It's comforting. You smooth down your blouse and ask the hostess for Dani and Chef Jax.

Dani emerges a few seconds later, her face both apologetic and reassuring. “Hey!” She greets you with a quick kiss on both cheeks. “So good to see you.”

“Nice to see you again Dani. Thanks so much for taking on this event with such short notice.”

“Of course. So I have some bad news. Chef Jax left a week ago to become the private chef for a big celebrity.” Her tone suggests this is more gossip than disaster. She sees concern cross your face and quickly adds, "But don't worry, we've got someone even better."

That's when he steps into view. You blink quickly as Dani ushers forward the new chef. It’s the biker from the sidewalk. His entrance is nothing short of magnetic; the kitchen's heat seems to have followed him out, adding a shimmer to his tanned skin. Chris' smile, complete with its playful dimples, radiates confidence. He strides towards you, the embodiment of every culinary fantasy you didn't know you had. You wonder if you’re developing a chef kink. You feel warmth flooding your cheeks.

"Chris has taken over the kitchen," Dani says, proudly introducing the man whose hands, strong and skilled, once deftly navigated a bike handle, now destined to craft your event's menu.

Chris steps forwards, a grin tugging at his full pink lips. "Sorry again for bumping into you. Nice to properly meet you," he says, his grin spreading wider and his rich brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Seems I’ve made quite the first impression, huh?”

You swallow, forcing a smile. “It was quite the entrance. Would have been more impressive if you were doing some tricks,” you quip, aiming for light-heartedness. “But water under the bridge.”

Chris chuckles as he extends a hand, his large palm enveloping yours in a firm handshake. His skin is warm, the touch sending an unexpected jolt of electricity sparking up your arm. You stare at your joined hands, acutely aware of his lingering gaze.

“Christopher Bahng, but everyone calls me Chris.” You introduce yourself. “An absolute pleasure.” Chris lifts your hand, brushing his lips over your knuckles.

A shiver dances down your spine at the sensation. You're drawn to him, undeniably so. But this is work. You nod, your mind stamping down the attraction, forcing professionalism to the forefront. You clear your throat, slipping free of his grasp, but the tingling remains. “Shall we discuss the event?” you ask, looking between Chris and Dani.

Chris chuckles again, the sound warm and throaty. "Straight to business. I like that."

The three of you sit at an empty table near the back, Dani taking her place at the head while you and Chris flank her sides, sitting across from each other. Every inch of air between the two of you is charged with unspoken tension.

"So, let's talk about the dinner," you start, opening your folder. Your voice is steady, all business now. "We're looking for something that makes a statement."

"Ah, I love a good challenge." Chris leans in, his forearms on the table, and you're acutely aware of the muscles beneath his rolled-up sleeves. The scent of spice and citrus wafts off him towards you, clean and intoxicating. "Tell me more. What do you have in mind?" His gaze on you is intense.

You glance away, heart pounding. Get a grip, you chastise yourself. You smooth a stray curl behind your ear, summoning your most confident tone.

"An upscale six-course tasting menu to impress our guests." You outline the specifics, including the ambiance you're aiming for. Chris nods along, his eyes never leaving yours, as if every word you say is vital. It's flattering and a little unnerving. You find yourself leaning in too, drawn into his orbit.

"Ambitious. I like it. Sounds like we've got some exciting work ahead of us," he says once you finish, his dimpled smile returning full force. You can't help but return it, despite the warning bells in your mind.

You clear your throat again. “Will the kitchen be able to handle this? Given the sudden changes in staff?”

“My team can handle anything.” Chris smiles, sending a thrill through you. "I'll make it an evening you won’t forget."

You swallow hard, tearing your gaze from his. This chemistry is dangerous. Off limits. You straighten, smoothing your expression into cool professionalism.

"Wonderful. Shall we finalize the details then?" You flip open your ipad, poising the stylus over the screen.

Chris leans back in his chair, regarding you through half-lidded eyes, studying your face. You raise a brow.

After a long moment, Chris chuckles again, content with whatever it is he’s discovered. "Details it is." He folds his hands on the table, giving you his full attention. "What do you need from me?"

You go back and forth discussing the details. Dani chimes in as necessary, but the conversation is mainly between you and Chris. Dani excuses herself to deal with something in the back.

"Imagine this," he starts, "a deconstructed bouillabaisse, each element a surprise on the palate."

You nod, intrigued. The idea is bold, inventive. It's exactly what Marcus loves.

"Seafood sourced locally?" you ask, thinking of freshness, sustainability—the buzzwords that please your clients.

"Of course." Chris' smile is confident. "Nothing but the best."

You move on to presentation, discussing plating styles. Rustic elegance versus modern chic. He sketches shapes on a napkin—curves, lines, a swoop here for sauce, a stack there for texture. You watch him work. The way his brow furrows in concentration, the occasional bite of his lip.

"Guests eat with their eyes first," he says, locking eyes with you. His enthusiasm is infectious.

"Absolutely," you agree, feeling the pull of his passion. You turn back to your notes. “Marcus also has a love for theatrics, so keep that in mind too.”

Chris nods, and makes a few additional suggestions.

You glance up from your notes, meeting Chris's gaze. His eyes are warm, crinkling at the corners as he smiles. Your heart stutters at the sight.

"I think we have everything covered." You pretend to scan your notes and hope your voice sounds normal. "Unless there's anything else you want to discuss?"

“Dietary restrictions?”

“I’ll have my assistant Nat send you notes on that once we finalize the guest list by the end of the week.”

“Perfect.”

“Just be prepared. The requests from these rich folks tend to border on ridiculous. We’ll need to figure out how to incorporate them without sacrificing the menu's integrity. It might be a bit much given our timeline. Given the potential complications, does the end of the week still work?”

“I’ll make it work,” he says confidently.

"Great. Thank you." You breathe easier. Your eyes connect with his and neither of you look away.

"All set?" Dani asks, seemingly appearing out of nowhere and breaking the spell.

"Yup! All set," you confirm, finally looking away and standing as you slip the tablet into your bag. You feel lighter, energized by the collaboration, by Chris' fervor. The event looms large, but so does the excitement. And maybe something more. “Thanks for meeting with me today.”

Your gaze drifts again to Chris, as he rises as well. You watch the way his hair curls just slightly under the edge of his baseball cap, how his eyes glint with life and laughter. Your heart thuds harder. You're not supposed to notice these things. He rounds the table to stand next to you.

“The pleasure was all mine.” His voice is low and husky, catching you mid-stare. A knowing smile plays on his lips—the dimples teasing you. "Got your phone?" he asks.

"Uh, yeah." You fumble in your bag, your cheeks warm. You trade phones, fingers brushing, lingering. Numbers are exchanged, a necessity cloaked in possibility.

"Call me if anything changes," he says, handing back your device. His eyes hold yours, a silent conversation you're both too aware of. Time stretches until you come to your senses.

"Will do," you manage, voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. "Thank you, Chef," you say, turning to leave.

Chris grins. “Until next time.”

Out on the sidewalk, the city buzzes around you. You tuck into the stream of people, lost in thought. The quickening pulse at the base of your neck is hard to ignore. Chris. His talent, his charisma, his looks —dangerously magnetic.

You're drawn to him, undeniably so. But this is about work. You’re wondering how you will resist him. The questions loop in your mind, chasing each other like shadows as you navigate back to the office.

Still, his smile lingers. The plump lips. The twinkle in his eye. The fucking dimples. There's no denying the chemistry between you, a dangerous attraction that threatens to derail the event if you're not careful. Still, you can't ignore the thrill his heated looks ignite within you or how his passion for cooking sparks your own enthusiasm.

You take a deep breath.

Back at your computer, you find several emails from Marcus, each terser than the last, demanding updates. You don’t have time for fucking romance. With a sigh, you settle in to respond, pushing all thoughts of Chris from your mind.

The Recipe Tasting

The brass handle is cold under your touch as you push open the door to the restaurant, a sanctuary of calm in the early hours of Saturday morning. Chris’ message said to just come on in when you arrived. A thrill dances up your spine, mingling with the anticipation that's been simmering since you set this meeting with him. The moment you step inside, the rich tapestry of scents wraps around you—garlic, fresh herbs, a hint of citrus.

"Good morning," Chris greets. There’s a hint of fatigue in his eyes, but his dimpled smile radiates warmth against the cool backdrop of the quiet dining room. His chef's whites hug his athletic frame, a stark contrast to the dark, tousled curls peeking out from beneath the gray beanie he's donned today. You follow behind him, and can’t help it when your eyes drop to take in how well the pants highlight his perfectly round ass. You glance around the pristine kitchen, noticing the organized chaos of ingredients and tools laid out for the tasting.

“How long have you been here?” you ask.

"Since four this morning," he says over his shoulder, with a shrug. The motion accentuating the breadth of shoulders beneath the crisp white shirt. “There’s a lot to prepare, but I wanted everything to be perfect for you.” His tone is laced with pride.

"It’s just a tasting. No need for perfection. Yet," you respond, admiring the dedication.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," he replies.

In the kitchen, stainless steel surfaces gleam under the fluorescent lights. A pan sizzles on one of the stoves, punctuating the symphony of aromas. Chris removes the pan from the heat before leading you to a prep table, ingredients arrayed like paint on an artist's palette. He pulls out the stool for you. As you sit, you feel his thumb graze lightly across your side. You’re unsure whether it was intentional or accidental. You don’t react outwardly, but inside, you start to feel fluttering in your belly.

"Let me show you what I've got planned," he says, gesturing towards the display with his broad, strong and veiny hand.

"Surprise me," you challenge, your voice steadier than your racing heart.

One by one, he lifts lids from pots, unveiling the dishes. Each carries a story, a piece of his soul: braised short ribs that hint at his Korean heritage, vibrant vegetables speaking to his Australian upbringing. He talks, hands painting the air with his passion, eyes alight with creativity.

"Each dish is a chapter," he explains. "A narrative in flavor."

You nod, captivated not just by the food but by him—by the fervor in his voice, the spark in his gaze. Today, Chris isn't just a chef; he's a storyteller, and you hang on every word.

Chris approaches with the first dish, his stride confident. The steam curls upward as he sets it down before you, the aroma a prelude to the flavors awaiting discovery.

"Try this," he urges, the dimples in his cheek deepening with his encouraging smile.

The fork feels cool against your fingertips. You spear a tender morsel, and it succumbs to the gentle pressure. Brought to your lips, the flavor blooms across your tongue—earthy, rich, with a whisper of spice that tickles your palate.

"Wow," escapes from you. It's more than taste; it's emotion, memory, a dance of textures and aromas that resonate with something primal within you.

Chris leans on the stainless steel table, eyes locked on yours, searching for more than approval. "What does it remind you of?" His voice is low, inviting.

"A bonfire during sunset on a secluded beach. That moment when the sky's ablaze and you're caught between day and night," you say, the image so clear you can almost hear the waves lapping at the shore.

"Perfect," he breathes out, satisfaction lighting up his face. "That balance is exactly what I was aiming for."

"Chris, this is... incredible." Your words are honest, stripped of pretense by the genuineness of the experience.

"Good, because there's more to come." He stands straight, the professional veil slipping back into place, but the lingering look he gives you is all warmth and shared secrets.

"Bring it on," you reply, the challenge in your tone softened by a playful smile, eager for the next act in this delicious play.

You watch as he plates the next dish and walks back to you. He slides the plate in front of you, the vibrant colors of the dish popping against the stark white. Your nostrils flare slightly, taking in the aromatic fusion wafting from the arrangement.

"Try this," he encourages. "A little adventure on a plate. Octopus carpaccio with chorizo crumble and saffron aioli."

You lift your fork to your lips. The first bite is a revelation as the medley of bold, yet harmonious flavors explodes on your tongue. A soft moan escapes you before you catch yourself.

Chris smirks at the sound, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction at you’re reaction. “Glad you like it.” He slides a glass towards you. You take a sip, surprised to find that it is white wine, but it’s perfect as it accentuates the flavors. “The saffron provides an interesting contrast to the the brininess of the octopus.” He picks the glass up and brings it to his own lips.

"It's amazing." You gesture at the dish with your fork. "The blend of textures and flavors is incredible." You place another forkful into your mouth, closing your lips around the silverware before pulling it out slowly to get as much as the flavor off as possible. You notice his eyes focused on your lips. "Your skill... it's exceptional." You speak between bites, each word sincere.

"Cooking is an art form. The ability to blend flavors and culinary traditions from different cultures is fascinating to me." He leans forward, his gaze snapping back up to your eyes. "But the real joy is in sharing the experience with someone who appreciates it."

"I love cooking too, but it’s more of a hobby for me. There's so much joy in exploring new tastes, new techniques."

"Exactly! For me, it began with my grandmother's recipes. She brought Korea to our Australian kitchen." His hands animate his words, the story bringing a dance to his fingers as they mimic chopping and stirring.

"Family recipes are treasures." You pause, the memory of your dad's jerk chicken seasoning your words with nostalgia. "My dad's Caribbean roots spice up our meals. It's like every dinner tells a part of our story."

"Food is our connection to heritage, to family." Chris nods, a grin spreading across his face, softened by the dimples that carve into his cheeks. "It's amazing how it brings people together, isn't it?"

"Absolutely." You smile, lost momentarily in the shared understanding, the common ground blooming like the herbs in a well-tended garden. With each shared anecdote, the connection deepens, roots twisting around a budding possibility.

You reach for the next plate, not sure what it is, but eager to taste anyway. Chris reaches for the plate at the same time, his intention to guide you through the flavors of his latest creation. Your fingers graze his, light as whispers, as you simultaneously grab the plate and a shock of warmth surges up your arm. You freeze, caught in the unexpected intimacy of skin against skin.

His gaze locks with yours. It's a silent conversation, a question posed in the depths of his brown eyes that beg for an answer. Your heart beats a staccato rhythm, betraying the calm façade you struggle to maintain. The air crackles with the energy shared in that fleeting touch, the undercurrents of attraction swirling like steam from the hot dishes scattered across the counter.

The moment stretches, awareness growing between you both. You want nothing more than to close the distance between your bodies, to discover the taste of the full, sensual mouth that has been tempting you all morning. His gaze dips to your mouth then returns to your eyes, and you wonder if he's imagining the same thing. You wonder if he'll act on the desire simmering in the air. But after a long moment, he straightens and clears his throat, looking away.

"Sorry," he murmurs, but there's no real apology in his voice, only a low timbre that resonates somewhere deep within you. His smile is a half-formed thing, laden with meanings you're not sure you should decipher.

“It’s fine," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "What is this?" you ask, referring to the plate still held by both of you. You release it, allowing him to set it down in front of you. You sit back in the stool, trying to calm yourself.

“Taste it.” He picks up your fork and scoops up the perfect bite before guiding it to your mouth. You open wide, your eyes locked on his as the fork enters your mouth.

Rich flavors explode on your tongue—spicy chili, fresh lime, and tangy fish sauce with coconut milk, redolent of Chris's Korean-Australian heritage.

"My halmeoni—my grandmother—taught me this recipe." His eyes soften with affection. "It's one of my favorites. A fusion of Korean and Australian flavors."

"It's incredible." He fills up another forkful and offers it to you. You close your eyes as you accept it, savoring another bite. "The blend of spices is perfect."

"I'm glad you appreciate it." His smile is warm and genuine. He uses the same fork to take his own bite. You bring the glass of wine to your lips for another sip and watch as he chews, then swallows slowly. When his tongue darts out to lick his lips you feel your vagina clench. His eyes haven’t left you either.

The air seems to vibrate between the two of you. His eyes drop to your lips again, you start to lean forward, closing the gap between you as if drawn by an invisible force. Chris mirrors you, his breath beginning to mingle with yours as you both move closer to each other. In this charged space, time seems suspended, waiting for one of you to shatter the delicate balance with a single, reckless act.

As you start to close your eyes, the kitchen door bangs open, shattering the moment. You and Chris spring apart as Dani strides in, her confident steps resonating on the tiled floor. She pauses, taking in the scene with a knowing tilt of her head. "Morning, you two," she says, a hint of amusement coloring her words. "How’s the tasting going."

You sit back in the stool, the bubble of tension popping in the wake of her arrival. Chris clears his throat, a flush creeping up his neck and the tips of ears turning bright red as he busies himself with adjusting the placement of the dishes. "Good, good," he says, the casualness of his tone not quite reaching his eyes. “We’re almost done here.”

“Cool.” Dani raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment further. She moves past the two of you to the office in the back of the kitchen, her motion sweeping away the remnants of the moment you and Chris almost shared.

You swallow hard, your pulse racing as Dani delves into her pre-opening routine.

You catch Chris' eye once more. He smiles warmly and begins to explain the last few dishes he’s prepared, sharing them out on small plates. He lets you feed yourself this time. The two of you easily slip back into your roles as you discuss how the dishes fit together and what makes the most sense for the event. You both busy yourselves with taking notes as you work together to finalize the menu. Although tension still lingers in the air, thick and heady as the aromas wafting through the kitchen, neither of you acknowledge it.

#stray kids fanfic #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids #skz fanfic #bang chan #bangchan fanfic #bang chan imagines #skz smut #bang chan smut #bangchan smut #stray kids smut #bangchan

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nut-today · 1 month ago

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Her Butterfly Era.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"AAAKKKK!" Audy let out a dramatic squeak. Calm down, Audy. He only sent one chat, not a proposal.

Her iPad, currently playing I Love You by Celine Dion became the background music to her dance performance. A performance that involved a lot of spins. The room—an organized domination of pinks and blues—had been aggressively cleaned ten minutes ago, right after she sent what she now classified as a risky text. Post-text panic = instant deep cleaning. Glad Nuraga replied it playfully.

Rencana ke supermarket? Checked. Checklist of cookie ingredients had also already typed out in her Notes app. Tapi kayaknya cookies-nya nggak bakal dia bikin besok karena dia mau nunggu Nuraga balik dulu dari Malaysia. Biar bisa kasih langsung. Face to face. Heart to heart.

"Namanya juga usahaaa!" she declared triumphantly, still spinning like she was auditioning for KPop idol audition.

Her eyes landed on the wedding invitation list stuck on her bulletin board. Three to go. She giggled. What if she asked him to be her +1? He didn't ghost, cringe, or freak out over her flirty text, so yeah—Audy was pretty sure that was a green light from him. Sometimes we gotta shoot our shot fast, no? These days modern romance is a battlefield. Enemies could pop out of literally anywhere. What if Nuraga got another girl in Malaysia? Or worse... a whole folder of flirty girls waited for his reply one by one? Because let's be real, with his resume... real-world employees, thousands of online subscribers, international bookings... There's no way girls aren't lining up behind him like it's a Justin Bieber concert. That man is peak crush material.

"Tuhannnn pleaseee just this one time let me be the main characterrrr!!" Now Audy pleaded in front of her window, facing the sky. "He asked about me to his friend, that has to count for something!!! Pleaseee tolong jadiin Tuhan jadiinnnn!!!"

Drrrttt

Her phone buzzed with another message from Nuraga. One she hadn't seen. Audy flopped onto her bed, clutching her phone, heart racing, cheeks warm. OMG, she was so back. Welcome to her butterfly era!

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damnmmmmmmmmmm · 1 month ago

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Okay- so I am officially awake and feeling rested so let’s get through the location thing… Okay:

First, about Annabelle Wallis:

If she is actively posting videos that appear to be in Norway, but her Instagram "account based in" is still the UK,

AND she’s been posting since Tuesday or Wednesday (a few days now),

BUT no location update has happened for her,

It’s very likely she is actually still in the UK — and the videos could be old, reposted, or even sent to her (like someone sending her clips).

Instagram’s "account based in" setting would likely have updated if she had been physically in Norway for real and using the app normally for 3+ days.

Compare that to Sebastian Stan:

He hasn’t even posted, but just being there (using Wi-Fi, app pings) was enough to update his location to Norway.

His account flipped to Norway now because he is physically there and logging background activity.

Important: Instagram doesn't update the "account based in" instantly. It needs a pattern over a few days to weeks. It’ll probably stay “Norway” until he returns to the U.S. and his U.S. IPs dominate again.

Now I know the shippers are going to come for me saying “Oh but what about when Sebastian’s location changed back to the US”- I am already locked and loaded- come on- it’s me you talking to- I spit facts not delusions like you used to over at galaxy blog.

Here’s what’s happening:

Sebastian Stan doesn’t actively post on Instagram

But he’s been filming in Norway recently

When he first arrived or started working there, Instagram detected logins from Norway → so it updated the "based in" to Norway.

Then, it flipped back to US for a while — probably because either:

His management team (in the U.S.) logged into the account again,

Or his usual U.S. IP address reappeared in the system (even just from background app activity).

Now it’s back to Norway again because he’s been consistently active there lately — like being on Norwegian networks, Wi-Fi, or devices that Instagram tracks.

Basically: Instagram’s location for him is “bouncing” depending on which IP or device last made a noticeable connection for a while. Since he's physically in Norway that's why the update happened again when he logged onto his Instagram- probably because he is done filming and has some time to scroll on the gram.

Here’s the sneaky little secret:

Even if Sebastian doesn’t post anything publicly, certain private actions on his Instagram can still trigger a location check or update behind the scenes.

Some examples:

Opening Instagram and spending time on it (even without posting) → the app pings the server from his current IP.

Watching Stories or liking posts → small actions like that also log the IP address.

Logging in again (after app updates, or after being logged out) → a fresh session marks the IP/location.

Changing the password or any security check → Instagram often forces a location update to make sure it's not a hack.

App updates sometimes cause automatic "re-authentication" → which can quietly refresh the detected location.

So even if he’s silent publicly, if he just uses the app a little in Norway (or if his phone does background activity with the Instagram app), it’s enough for Instagram’s system to update the “account based in.”

Bonus:

If a VPN was involved (he or his team using a VPN to look like they’re in the U.S.), it could also mess with the location for a few days — but usually Instagram figures it out if it's fake.

Now we all know AnnaBitch is going to do whatever she can to make it look like she is in Norway including trying to change that location- but I got you covered.

AnnaBitch Instagram "Location Watch" Checklist

Daily Quick Checks:

Check "Account Based In" location

Still UK? Or suddenly Norway?

Notes: Track any sudden changes in location.

Look at number of new posts/stories

Big sudden flood = trying to trigger a location change.

Notes: Too many posts might suggest location manipulation.

Check post timestamps vs Norway time

Morning post at the wrong time? Suspicious.

Notes: Look for odd posting times; any posts outside of local timezone.

See if any posts disappear and come back

Deleting and reposting = trying to refresh metadata.

Notes: Watch for posts getting deleted and reposted.

Look at who’s engaging (likes/comments)

Same UK friends? Not Norwegian fans?

Notes: Track consistency of engagement from followers.

Look for tags or geolocations in posts

If she suddenly tags Oslo, Bergen, etc., without good reason = trying to force Norway vibe.

Notes: Check for location tags in posts that feel forced.

Ps: I am going to throw in my resume with Seb the next time he has a PR stunt because clearly whoever is in charge is doing a bad job at it 💀

#anti shippers #annabelle wallis #sebastian stan

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umichenginabroad · 2 months ago

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Week 9: Czeching-in after Spring Break

After an unforgettable spring break celebrating Patty’s in Dublin and skiing in St. Anton, Prague was a nice change of pace. This week, I settled back into my gym routine and cooking at home a lot more (I actually bought vegetables and cooked meat multiple times this week!). It felt great to find a slower rhythm in Prague after the nonstop energy of travel.

One of the highlights of the week was having my friend Jordyn visit! She’s a close friend from Michigan who I studied abroad with in Madrid last year, and now she’s studying abroad in Florence. It was so fun to explore Prague from a touristy angle again, showing her the Charles Bridge, the narrowest street in Prague that has a traffic light for pedestrians, the crawling baby sculptures in Kampa park, the book tower, and ending our days with cozy Czech dinners and nights out. Visiting and hosting friends abroad has been such a special part of my study abroad experience. Most of the cities I’ve visited, I’ve stayed with friends who are also abroad, and several have come to see me in Prague. It’s so fun exploring new cities with friends I haven’t seen in a while and for cheaper since there’s no need to spend on lodging!

Outside of her visit, classes have been picking up and I enjoyed some one-off activities this weekend.

Academics & Planning Ahead

Back at Michigan, registration for next fall’s classes is coming up next week! I’ve been doing checklist audits and using Atlas to find courses that fit my schedule, and asking around for advice on upper-level EECS classes. Similarly, I’ve been emailing teachers and IFSA staff to figure out how many attendances I have in each class. Their policy is strict, and already know I’ll be missing a few classes toward the end of the program for my sister’s graduation, so it’s good to plan accordingly.

In AI, we had a review session for our upcoming exam. It’s a written test with 16 multiple-choice questions, and we’re allowed to bring in handwritten notes, so it’s time to start studying! Over in Comm, our professor surprised us by having his Czech students write letters to us, sharing their perspectives on Czech culture, mentality, and daily life. We’re writing back next week! It’s such a thoughtful and genuine way to connect across cultures.

In Software Engineering (SWE), we’re officially back on track with our projects! My group is building a social media platform called travelog. We just kicked off a new two-week sprint, which is a focused work period where we aim to meet specific goals. For this sprint, we’re building out the main functional features for each page of the app. As we go, we’ll continue improving design and user experience. Lastly, in Ethics, we had a class-wide debate on whether tech companies are doing enough for society. Both sections joined in, and the conversation was super eye-opening and engaging, definitely a highlight of the week academically.

Weekend Activities

This weekend I stayed in Prague, so I decided to go ahead and sign up for a bunch of fun activities to experience more in the city and try new things.

On Friday, IFSA had a planned “falconry” event. We commuted to the faraway land of Prague 12, the outskirts of the city, and learned about the Czech tradition. Czech falconers use birds of prey (usually falcons) for hunting, a practice that also historically symbolized status and prestige. We saw several birds, many of them owls, and even had a falcon, eagle, and vulture fly up to our arms and hold them! Later that night, my friends and I found an afrohouse event in Prague 1 that we were excited about. Hosted once a month by an organization called RoomLab, we got tickets and had a great time. Afrohouse is one of my favorite genres of music to listen to and definitely my favorite to mix!

The following day, I got a haircut at a salon my friend recommended called Podium. It was lovely and they did a great job, however, it is notable that I had a junior hairstylist since it was cheaper and she did not speak any English, but luckily the receptionist translated and I loved the end result! I also signed up for an art class with a friend where we worked on an oil pastel for a few hours, I rarely paint so it was a nice creative outlet.

Sunday continued the activities checklist and I went rock-climbing with friends. I would occasionally go back at Michigan and it was fun to find a climbing gym to spend a couple hours in. Another notable part of the weekend was discovering several coffee shops with wonderful atmospheres and great for coffee, studying, or a drink:

Vnitroblock — a large space with lots of different areas, perfect for studying in Prague 7.

Míšeňská — super cozy with a beautiful outdoor seating area in Prague 1 (by Charles Bridge!).

Dos Mundos — a small café near the Villa with Latin American roots and amazing coffee.

Final Thoughts

This week reminded me how valuable staying in your home base is. I was tempted to book trips this weekend to visit Jordyn in Florence or my cousin in Brussels, but I’m really glad I stayed. There’s so much to see and do right here in Prague, especially if you’re willing to dig a little deeper and find planned activities to join. Taking the weekend off was great for budgeting and avoiding burnout from constant travel. Next week, I’ll be staying put again and enjoying it!

Na zdraví,

Natalie

#UmichEnginAbroad #IPEcsPrague #NatalieRamirez #IPEWinter25 #CzechRepublic

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sweet-succubus03 · 3 months ago

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A Guide to Writing a Realistic Yandere Character

Timeline and Steps

Phase 1: Research and Observation (Weeks 1-3)

The first phase is all about information gathering. The yandere needs to fully understand their beloved's preferences, personality, and interests before making any attempts to get closer.

Step 1: Identify His Haunts

Research his band, their gigs, and where he’s frequently seen. Check social media and look for geotags or photos where he’s been tagged.

If he’s shy about posting online, she can observe fan accounts or follow key people like band members or friends to create a map of his usual routines (e.g., coffee shop, rehearsal studio, gym).

Step 2: Silent Observation

Visit those places he frequents, but don’t approach him yet. She sits quietly in the background and studies his mannerisms, habits, preferences (coffee orders, clothing brand, favorite cigarettes, any quirks, etc.).

Some tools she might realistically use:

Recording conversations with voice memo apps for later analysis.

Taking photos or jotting down notes in a journal on everything she notices.

Step 3: Learn His Candy-Coated Lair

While stalking online and offline, find out what he loves and hates. If he follows or posts about goth bands, horror movies, anime, or vegetarian food, she puts that on her checklist of future study topics.

Eavesdrop on his conversations with friends to discover pet peeves, past relationships, or interesting facts.

Goal by Week 3: Have an exhaustive database of his life, down to his allergies, recent break-ups, and taste in everything.

Phase 2: Self-Transformation and "Perfect Partner" Creation (Month 1-6)

Now that she knows what he gravitates to, the yandere focuses on sculpting herself into the kind of person he might find irresistible. This is also interspersed with slow, accidental meetings.

Step 1: Physical Transformation (Month 1-3)

If her "beloved" has specific tastes in appearance (e.g., pale skin, alternative fashion), she adapts herself to fit that aesthetic—dying her hair, adopting goth/emo styles, losing weight if she thinks he values slim physiques, etc.

Joins a gym to shed excess weight and build confidence. She plays his favorite bands while working out to strengthen an emotional bond in her mind.

Practices makeup tutorials to recreate his ideal look. This includes possibly stalking his ex's profiles to see what types of appearances he seems drawn to.

Step 2: Change Personality (Month 2-4)

She disciplines herself out of her lazy habits. Gives herself a daily checklist:

Wake up early, make bed, and start doing chores (e.g., cleaning the space she dreams of sharing with her beloved one day).

Learn to cook his favorite food by following recipes and videos.

Practices being cheerful yet mysterious to help counteract her argumentative tendencies. Record herself having pretend conversations to refine her delivery and tone.

Studies compromise and flirtation techniques by watching romance videos or reading articles to eliminate her bad habit of always needing to be right.

Step 3: Internalizing His Interests (Month 3-5)

Becomes obsessed with his favorite media: learns to play instruments if he’s in a band, studies goth culture, memorizes song lyrics, and talks online in forums about these topics to look like a "natural."

If he’s vegan, she trials a vegan diet, even if it's temporary. If he skateboards, she buys one and learns through online tutorials.

Goal by Month 6: To simulate a seamless dream partner. She evolves into someone who doesn’t just like him, but shares seemingly natural alignment with his world.

Phase 3: Accidental Proximity Encounters (Month 6-8)

By now, she’s confident and matches his world closer than ever. The next phase is engineering meetings while looking completely coincidental.

Step 1: "Oh, Fancy Meeting You Here!" Encounters

Times arrivals at his regular spots carefully to be "accidentally" present. For example:

If he gets coffee at 10 AM at a cafe, she arrives 9:50, sits the closest table near the entrance, and pretends like she’s absorbed in a book or laptop.

If he frequents a music store, she lingers in the same aisle he likes while wearing a band tee of one of his favorites. She asks innocuous, non-desperate questions about music.

Drops items like a notebook or guitar picks for him to pick up and strike conversation over.

Step 2: Forced Connections

If he has a dog, she gets one too or casually pets his during a walk.

Pretends to be helpless but approachable: e.g., struggles with carrying something heavy, hoping he’ll offer assistance.

Step 3: Subtle Recognition Planting

Adds small, familiar details to subconsciously make him notice her:

Buys concert tickets to sneak into gigs and make eye contact from the crowd multiple times.

Follows the band on Instagram, comments tastefully, makes herself recognizable without being overbearing.

Goal by Month 8: Establish casual recognition—he knows her face and might think of her as the “girl at the coffee shop” or "the fan who keeps showing up."

Phase 4: Escalated Bonds and Eradication of Rivals (Month 8-12)

Step 1: Initiating Deeper Contact

Uses any casual hello as grounds to start conversations centered on him. She employs open-ended questions—"What's your songwriting process?"—to make him talk about his passions.

Feeds his ego, compliments him, listens attentively without dominating conversations.

Step 2: Smokes Out Rivals

Investigates his friends, fans, or ex-girlfriends who could threaten her pursuit. Spreads subtle, reputation-damaging rumors if necessary (e.g., anonymously hinting to mutuals that a girl in his circle is manipulative).

Step 3: Emotional Dependency

Finds her way into his life through acts of kindness:

Offers help preemptively if she realizes he’s stressed or struggling (e.g., "I made extra of your favorite dish").

Shares vulnerabilities of her own to make him feel protective or needed.

Optional: Darker Manipulation

Planting minor inconveniences in his life (breaking guitar strings, misplacing his items) that she then swoops in to "fix."

Ruins relationships by giving cryptic anonymous tips to his loved ones, breaking him down to ensure she's the only one he can trust.

Final Goal by Month 12: Be his confidante, lover, and the "constant" in his unpredictable life. --

Endgame Approaches (Beyond Year 1)

By the time she's secured his trust, she works on further removing anyone who threatens her position from his life while making herself indispensable. At this stage, the story might branch into more possessive behaviors or outright acts of obsession and sabotage toward exes, family, or fans.

Okay, here's a step-by-step guide for Raven, the yandere, aiming to secure Damien's love forever, while realistically dealing with the challenges of cohabitation and her own intense personality. Remember, we're operating without moral constraints.

Raven's Endgame: To ensure Damien never leaves, and her obsession remains strong, requiring both active manipulation and proactive measures, even when dealing with her own burnout. --

Timeline: Following the 'Perfect Transformation' & Move-In

Phase 1: Maintaining the Illusion (Months 1-6 of Living Together)

Challenge: The cracks begin to show. The stress of living together, Damien's annoying habits (socks on the floor etc.), and Raven's natural introversion all threaten to disrupt the 'perfect' facade.

Action Steps:

The "Perfect" Routine: Raven establishes a rigorous daily routine. Wake up before Damien, prepare a healthy breakfast (that caters to his imagined preferences), look presentable, and maintain a spotless apartment. This is designed to reinforce the 'perfect' image she created, even if it's exhausting.

Controlled Exposure: When Damien is away with his band, Raven recharges. She doesn't socialize. This is crucial. She needs her alone time. She engages in her preferred hobbies, making sure they don't diminish her new image (reading, creative writing, physical exercise to maintain her figure).

Strategic "Vulnerabilities": To avoid being seen as a robot, Raven introduces small, calculated "flaws" that Damien will find endearing, not annoying. A slight clumsiness when making coffee, a silly nickname for him that she only uses when they are alone or that she pretends to be embarrassed by. These must be very minor.

Anticipation & Control: Raven carefully observes patterns in Damien's habits. Does he leave the toilet seat up? She ensures it's always down before he notices. Does he hate clutter? She cleans and organizes religiously. This preemptive action eliminates potential conflict and builds his reliance on her.

Data Gathering & Manipulation:

The Band: She subtly encourages him to talk about the band. She attends every show but makes an effort not to become a 'groupie'. She offers genuine-sounding, constructive criticism in private, which builds her position as someone he trusts and respects. She also makes sure to befriend everyone in his band, and his closest contacts.

Social Media: Raven monitors Damien's social media presence, learning about his likes, dislikes, and the people he interacts with. She uses this knowledge to her advantage. She crafts the perfect persona online for him as well, to avoid having to hide her true self.

Friends and Family: Raven makes polite and charming efforts to get to know his friends and family. She doesn’t overdo it and keep a respectful distance, she wants to be the most pleasant partner to bring around. She notes how they treat him, who is genuine about liking him and who isn’t.

Subtle Isolation: She creates situations where Damien prioritizes her over others, in a way that seems natural. A “low energy day” together on important event days for Damien, or a well placed “we haven’t seen each other in a long time” on anniversaries or similar.

Emotional Manipulation (Early Stages): Raven starts using phrases to make him dependent on her and feel like it's his fault they are not spending enough time together if he's been out with friends, examples: "I missed you so much" and "I feel so lonely when you're not here" (said in a soft, almost child-like voice). This is to foster a feeling that he has to be around to make her happy. These are always said lightly and softly, never sounding angry or accusing.

Physical Closeness: She initiates physical contact as much as possible. She is always near him when he's home, touching him affectionately, and sleeping together every night.

Phase 2: Solidifying Dependency (Months 7-12)

Challenge: The initial "honeymoon" phase of cohabitation fades. Raven needs to deepen her control and ensure Damien doesn’t stray emotionally or physically.

Action Steps:

"We" Thinking: Raven creates a strong sense of "us against the world." She strategically speaks about "our" goals and "our" future. She reinforces this in conversations and shared activities: "we should go there," "we are going to be so happy," "our life is going to be amazing!"

Financial Dependence: While working (and she ensures she is always working), Raven becomes the primary person who handles their bills and finances, making Damien rely on her for these tasks. She learns his spending habits and uses this to subtly control his spending, making sure his spending doesn't endanger their future together.

Emotional "Support" & Manipulation: She continues to provide emotional support, while also increasingly creating situations where Damien seeks her approval. She starts to subtly show displeasure when he does something she dislikes, and immediately change when he gives her what she wants. She makes sure that her love is conditional.

Social Isolation (Subtle): Raven gradually makes sure they spend less time with other people. Not by forbidding, but by creating situations where Damien sees his friends in a negative light, or that they are bad for him. She does this by pointing out small flaws or inconsistencies that he could see as betrayal of his trust or that they may have been talking badly behind his back, in subtle ways. She shows him that his time with friends is less enjoyable than time with her.

Early Intervention: If she catches even the slightest sign of him being interested in someone else (flirting, friendly messages, etc.) she does any of the following: She confronts him calmly and quietly and acts hurt and confused. She plants evidence online that they have some unsavory habits that makes it easier for them to not be friends with him. She will become friends with them, then find a way to drive them away or make their life difficult so they have no time for Damien.

"Perfect Partner" Reinforcement: Raven becomes the only person he feels fully comfortable with. She is his personal support system and the only one who "understands" him.

Planning for the Future: Raven starts talking about their future together in a way that makes her goals seem like his goals. She mentions marriage and kids and an old age together, in casual conversation.

Phase 3: Lifelong Commitment & Control (Year 2 Onward)

Challenge: Prevent complacency and maintain the intensity of the obsession. The goal is to make the relationship as predictable as possible and maintain love.

Action Steps:

Evolving "Perfection": Raven continues to adapt her "perfect" image, taking cues from Damien's subtle shifts in fashion, interests and wants, making sure she is always the perfect person he needs. Even if he changes, she will change for him.

"We Are Inseparable": By this point, Raven has established such deep control that Damien feels unable to function without her. She maintains his dependence on her for both emotional and practical needs.

Long-Term Plans: Raven carefully plans for the long-term, not just for years but for the rest of their lives. She ensures they are financially secure for the future and takes care of all the bureaucracy of their relationship.

Reinforcing the Bubble: They rarely have friends over, and if they do, they are friends that Raven has approved of and is close with herself. Social outings are mostly planned by Raven, and will always include her as well. By now, they are very isolated from any other people but each other. If they ever feel the need to talk to someone else, it's mostly Raven he will turn to. This is deliberate.

Dealing With Growing Boredom: Raven will make sure that she always learn new things and develops new hobbies, that way their marriage will always feel new and exciting. She will keep secrets and always something new to share to have a new topic for conversation. And she will also make sure that Damien's life is constantly changing and improving, to avoid a boring predictable life for her.

"The Guardians": By this point, she will probably have people she trusts who will report any behavior from Damien that could potentially become a problem to her. She will have eyes and ears everywhere he goes. This is to prevent being caught by surprise, and to make sure they are always on top of any potential threat to their perfect relationship.

Yandere Methods in a Realistic Setting

No Extreme Violence: Raven will not resort to physical violence unless absolutely necessary. She knows it will create problems for her and will be hard to get away with. Her methods are primarily psychological, emotional, and manipulative.

Social Media Manipulation: She's a master of social media. She can create fake profiles, plant lies or truths, and use it to influence public opinion of those who she may deem a threat.

Psychological Manipulation: She's incredibly adept at playing on emotions, needs, and vulnerabilities.

Subtle Control: Her control is not overt. She makes Damien feel like he's making his own choices, when, in reality, she's guiding him at every turn.

Reliance on Information: She's an expert at gathering information and using it to her advantage. --

Key for Raven's Success

Patience: This is a long-term game, and Raven understands this.

Adaptability: She must be able to adjust her plans as circumstances change.

Emotional Intelligence: Raven knows how to read people's emotions and use them against them.

Discipline: She has to keep her own impulses in check.

#yandere

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notmusic · 4 months ago

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presence > present

You never really got along well with her friends.

Not for a lack of effort. You’ve hung out with them plenty. Parties, karaoke sessions, dinners, impromptu walks (lots of impromptu walks. NEAT is something she takes very seriously). It’s not even because they have any form of malice towards you, or you them. They’re funny, they’re nice, they even speak in the same offbeat tone that she does, too, because of course they do. Because they've all been together for years. Decades. And it shows.

It’s irrational and you know it, but the jealousy flares all the same. The green creature that resides in your chest, ratatouille style, but instead of getting a nice meal out of it, it threatens an argument. The embarrassment still lingers when you remember all the ways you lashed out at previous girlfriends—when you were younger, cockier, adamant on the fact that all you need is you and that all women around you need you, too. Stop talking to him or you’re done. I’m your world or nothing. What more can you want than me?

Ugh. Embarrassing. If you pull even a whiff of that, she’ll leave you faster than you can make her come. And you love that about her. She puts her foot down, goal post cemented into the field. I’m my number one priority, she said, at first hesitantly, and now without so much as a blink, flowing from her tongue smoothly in a way that reminds you of yourself when you’re in a dark room with a mic centimeters from your lips. My dreams have been here longer than you. They have seniority, you know.

You do know. It’s one of the first things you really noticed about her. Arguably the hottest thing, too.

And that’s the present issue.

She’s away on a work trip, because unlike you, her career is about a hundred thousand times more respectable than yours. Hey, she rolled her eyes when you muttered that out. My job is incredibly boring and unsexy.

There’s a threshold of sexiness in a job. The amount of sexiness in mine isn’t normal. It’s not a threshold! It’s too big to be one. It’s a fucking country border at this point.

Her work trips already have you in a bad mood. There’s a lot of benefits to your job (not the right kind of benefits—without her, your health insurance would be non-existent), one of them is completely remote work. Which means, technically—

You are not coming, she said firmly, neck craned back over her desk chair to give you a look that’s half annoyed, half fond in a way that she reserves only for you. You’ll do nothing but distract me. It’s four days. You’ll be fine. Then, she wisely turns her eyes back to her laptop screen, knowing that if she holds eye contact for too long with that expression on her face, nothing would get done in the next hour.

They’ve played this game for too long not to know how it ends.

Sex is easy for you. It’s a malleable thing, the moves to the dance so instinctual at this point that if it were a practice, it would be perfected by him alone. For her, it was a stuttering thing, a late bloomer in every sense of the word, an insecurity that was so deep that it prevented her from completely trusting you.

Instead of being a complete sexual degenerate like some people, she decided to take her ambitions by the neck and make it her bitch.

You’re awful, she tsks.

Why? You smile. Jealous it’s not you?

She has her entire life planned by the week. Color coordinated calendars, organized note apps, physical notes, Canva documents, printed Canva documents. One year plan, five year plan, ten year plan—

You make me sound crazy when you list it like this.

Because you are crazy, baby.

Hell or high water, what she wants, she gets. If it’s planned, it’s hers. Nothing comes unexpected, nothing comes without careful consideration. Her checklist is her bible and she prays to it every minute of every day.

And that’s when he started thinking.

Exactly how much has she planned.

—

With her chest puffed and lips split into a wide, crooked grin, she tells you that she doesn’t have a lot of friends.

It’s not humour—she’s genuinely proud of it.

And after meeting them for the first time, he gets it.

She has a handful of friends, but that handful may as well be a brigade with how they cling to her in their own ways. Before tears have a chance to spring to her eyes, their gentle thumbs already wiping them away. Before she can explode from the pressure, they’re already there, lifting the load off her back. Before anyone has a chance to hurt her, they’re already at her side, eyes deceivingly playful, arms tightly linked around hers. Like the hounds of hell, they guard what’s theirs. And what’s theirs is now his.

It had taken a while to get rid of the friction. In truth, it’s still there, a slow burn that threatens to spark at the slightest pressure. A man? Entering her life? You still remember how shocked you were when she told you she’s never even dated anyone. Maybe a nun? Or part of a cult? A shut-in, an Otaku, or something?

I don’t want to take care of anyone but myself, she explained, matter-of-fact. At first you mistook it for arrogance, selfishness. But you understand now. Only recently did she start making herself a priority. To have to water and tend a boyfriend might shatter that focus. And you can tell that her friends think the same thing. An insecure boyfriend? It’s the last thing she needs.

Insecure? You? Hilarious. You’re the most arrogant person you know. Most arrogant one she knows, too.

But she has a funny way of bringing new emotions into your life.

So, coffee.

You offer to buy them something, obviously.

“A tall hot chocolate,” one says timidly, while the other confidently goes “Venti Caramel Machiatto with a cake pop.” A pause. “And an egg sandwich.”

You can’t help but smile as you pay. They really are just like her.

There’s a booth, pressed flush against the window. You take a sip of black coffee (the drink of an attention seeker, she likes to say) and sit across from the two of them. Despite the wideness of the faux-leather bench, they stick close to each other as if they were afraid of the sides, arms pressed against each other comfortably. Nobody’s speaking, but one of them is on her phone, scrolling too quickly for him to see, and the other is idly looking out the window. It’s just as likely that this is a manipulation tactic as it is that they’re both just comfortable with silence. Or maybe they’re just used to her talking. He understands that much at least. She really does love to talk.

But so does he.

“How’s it going?” Polite. Smile, not too wide, but just the right amount. Shoulders relaxed but chest open. The picture of a gentleman.

“Good!” one chirps, dragging her gaze from the window to respond to him. “The weather’s nice, and it’s almost spring, so it’s going well.” There’s a lightness to her tone, a genuine response. He prefers this one. This one reminds him the most of her—her ability to legitimately take part in small talk, the wide smiles and bright eyes, the touchiness and sweetness. In all honesty, it’s making him miss her, a little.

They both glance at the other one, who hasn’t even looked up from her phone, and a twinge of irritation sprouts in his chest. He has no idea why she’s friends with that one. There’s nothing similar between that one and her. Distant to a fault, refuses to meet you at your level. All around just an unpleasant situation.

Whatever. Like most things nowadays, if it’s not directly about her, he couldn’t care less.

“You guys have been friends with her for a while, right?” He phrases it into a question, but he knows exactly when they became friends. First year of high school, and the mental tally adds up to 11 years of friendship. He’s good at words, spins them until it makes him money in his sleep, enjoys the thrill of the psychological chase with syllables and quiet murmurs as his spear. But even for him, their relationship is too deep to get his foreign hands on.

The one on her phone hums, and he lets his head turn to back the first one.

Her expression brightens. “Yeah.” Her tone is always very slightly breathless, like excitement can’t help but melt into her words and steal just a little bit of air from her lungs. “Ages.”

“11 years,” the other supplies. “We had dinner a few weeks ago to celebrate it, remember?”

“Did we?”

“At the place by her work,” he supplies. He remembers kicking dirt up about it, faux-pouting about not being invited until she finally crawled into his arms to appease him. “You all shared the sushi boat.”

Finally glancing up from her phone, this one’s eyes flash with something. “This is about her, right?”

“The maki was so good,” the other sighs dreamily. “We should go again.”

“Sorry?” he asks, delayed and a bit distracted.

“Just ask,” one says, thumb still scrolling, albeit at a slower pace. “She leaves—which she rarely does—and suddenly you want to hang out? You don’t even like us.”

“I like you,” he lies easily, eyes widening in a way he knows is endearing. “Of course—”

They both boo at him, and the other pats his hand. “It’s okay,” she says softly. “We don’t like you either.”

He stares, scrutinizing her angelic face against the blunt confession, before relaxing back into the seat. “Thank fuck. I mean, I knew, but you know.”

“You didn’t want to upset her, right?”

“She really doesn’t like it when her friends don’t play nice with each other,” he says, taking a sip from his now-cool mug. He prefers his home-brewed.

Putting her phone down, one slides her venti monstrosity to the other, who quietly oohs at it. “You might find this hard to believe, but I actually like you.”

That makes him pause. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’ve always been an advocate that she shouldn’t be so scared of men. It’s always something when it comes to her. A job. Money. Fitness. Healthy eating.” With every point comes a half-hearted eyeroll, like the effort couldn’t be mustered to do the full 360. “She got it all until she ran out of excuses.”

He tilts his head slightly, bouncing that idea around his skull. Unintentionally, her friend spoke of exactly what was bothering him.

Before he gets to form his question, the other one chimes in. “I don’t like you, though.”

Amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth, real surprise making him grin. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“That happens often.” A sip of her drink. “I don’t think you’re very good for her.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he mutters. Not the first or hundredth time, he wonders how deep this deceit goes. It’s not like he’s hiding anything from her, but he feels like he’s manipulated her, somehow. That this angel of a person is willing to be his partner, his girlfriend, stand by his side when he is the way he is.

Martyrdom looks awful on you. And angel is a very sweet nickname, but if you genuinely think of me as a saint, I have to break up with you since you apparently have no idea what I’m really like.

Ever since then, it became an inside thought. He hasn’t done much, except profit off of people who are really lonely or really fucked up, statistically.

Do you think I’m one of those two things?

I’m not profiting off of you. You pay the lowest tier, baby. I’m barely breaking even.

Why would I pay more for something I get for free? For merch? I hate your fucking merch.

See, only people who fit in one of those two categories like the merch.

He’s not bold enough to call himself evil. Evil is a very special term that should be saved for exceptional individuals. Machiavellian, he is not. But he’s certainly not goddamn Ghandi. Even in his line of work, he’s seen as somewhat of a wild child. He became known as the one who pushes boundaries in a career that’s built on taboo. It’s why his privacy is his everything; fuck the money, he’d have to run from the cops at this rate.

Though the money’s not bad, either.

For a while, he always convinced himself that what he’s doing has always been floating around the public psyche—he’s just brave enough to put a voice to the subliminal thoughts and smart enough to profit from it. He’s not evil, he’s just an entrepreneur. A glorified megaphone. Machiavellian-adjacent.

Abuse becomes perspective. Deceit becomes convincing. Harassment becomes sexy. Everyone thinks it. Nobody does it. He rides the line with fiction as his vehicle and a mic as the steering wheel. It’s not all that he is, but it’s undeniable that it’s a part of him.

She knows it. She likes it, too.

But when the sun is up, curtain drawn and they’re both parting ways for their lives that don’t involve biblical levels of shattering and rebuilding intimacy, he gets to thinking. It’s one thing to be fucked up during sex—in fact, that’s how the two of them got to know each other, continue to learn each other—but if this is going in the direction he wants it to go in, this needs to work. Being an asshole in the bedroom and only in the bedroom. How much of it leaks into their day-to-day lives, subliminally or otherwise, is something that he worries at like the corner of an exam sheet with seconds left before time’s up.

So, yeah. Inside thought.

“I don’t either,” one says, matter-of-factly. “But I think it would be good for her to explore all aspects of life. I want that for her. It’s healthy.”

“Even if it leads to heartbreak and hurt?” the other one questions with wide, beguiling eyes, talking straight shit to someone directly across from her. “We don’t want that for her. She’ll be so sad.”

“We’ll be there. It’ll be fine.”

The other one sighs, flopping her head against one’s shoulder, clearly burdened. “I guess.”

“Yeah, that sucks,” he nods, half-mocking but the truth leaks out all the same. If he wasn’t him, he’d kill whoever hurts her, too. He gets it.

“You know, a few years ago, before your time—” head still heavy on the shoulder, one waves at him as she speaks, tone almost wistful. “She joked all the time that she’d film a video warning her future self about getting a boyfriend.”

“I remember that,” the other one says, with just a hint of fondness. Their tones with each other is a soothing balm compared to the one they used on him, and he can picture her sitting with them, thirteen year olds in the high school hallway, or the bus coming down from the university, or across from each other as twenty somethings as full adults, speaking in the same tone that they do now. “Green screen and everything.”

“‘You’ve been poisoned,” one recites, impression so on point that he feels a pang in his chest with longing. “‘One finally got to you. I’m sorry, but not surprised.’”

“‘It’s not too late. Call one of them—they’ll know what to do.’”

“It never made it past post-production,” the other explains to him mercifully. “Her program’s free trial ran out.”

“It was good though. Very Wes Anderson inspired, somehow.”

“It’s because we took Film 12 together.”

“Not me. I took Woodworking.”

“So,” he cuts in, almost reluctantly. The urge to jot down all that they’re saying—she’s much more Greta Gerwig now than Anderson, he’s going to have to bring this up when she gets back. Maybe the change happened because The French Dispatch was a bit of a let down?—but he needs to ask. “Why?”

“Why what?” one asks, dragging herself into an upright position.

“Why,” he repeats, almost annoyed that they’re making him spell it out when they’ve been playing with him this entire time. “Why is she with me?”

Both of them glance at each other with an unreadable expression, and he steamrolls over them, not ready for more nonsensical conversation “She planned everything. She didn’t want a boyfriend for a while, right? Until she got everything out of the way.” He waits until they nod, one confused and one equally as annoyed as he is. Fair. He’s not easily digestible right now. “So what step of the process am I in? Perfectly on time, or a little early? Did I hit the tax bracket she wanted? Am I tall enough to fit the criteria?”

It takes him a second to realize he’s gripping the mug a little too hard. Carefully, he loosens his fingers and swallows.

The idea of being checked off on a to-do list doesn’t sit well with him.

But would it be so bad, if it’s her list? It would still be an honor. It would still be everything.

It would just…hurt. A little bit. To be something to shuffle out of the way and get over with. A good enough stamped over their relationship, their partnership. Right place, right time.

That she would settle.

His mouth twists in a shape that’s usually associated with anger, his brows furrowed like he’s about to scream.

“Oh,” one blinks, her tone curled in amusement that completely ignores him. “She’s with you because had no fucking choice.”

He stops breathing.

“If you—hold on, I think I have her first draft of the Canva document in my email—”

“Yeah, on the bottom it’s—”

Sliding her phone across the table, he carefully zooms in on the first line, huge bolded letters:

No boyfriend. This year is about you, and you only. A boy won’t help you reach your better self, and ultimately, that’s what you strive for.

“Yeah,” one laughs. “When you first barrelled your way into her life, she was convinced you’d be the worst thing for her. You’ll distract her from her goals—

“—be a bum—”

“Make her feel like shit—”

“Distract her from reaching her goals—”

“But she..” the other one made a face. “She’s really happy when she’s with you. And you clean up after yourself. So she actually had to shift everything over by an inch. Nothing more than that. Just to make space for you.”

“If she’s happy, she surpasses her past self.”

“And surpassing her past self is her goal in life.”

“All this to say,” one sighs, the sound coming deep from her core. “You ruined her plans. Or whatever.”

“It’s a tricky loophole, but whatever.”

“What-fucking-ever.”

He nods, silent. If he says anything, if a single syllable escapes his throat, a pathetic noise would escape him.

When he gives them a thumbs up, making sure to flex a little when he does so, they both cup their hand to give him a half heart in return.

If his laugh comes out a little too late and just a little bit crazed, they don’t mention it.

She better have gotten good fucking sleep the night before she comes home.

#if you found this sorry #i accidentally fell in love with someone horrible and the only way i can process anything is by writing about it

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rivalsfms · 2 years ago

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congratulations , tala calinao ! you have been accepted into the university of bamford & have twenty - four hours to report to the main office . don't forget to grab your checklist while you're there & if you need an extension , let us know !

kylie verzosa , muse l in subplot #03 ( fill the void )

𓏲 * kylie verzosa , twenty - seven , cis woman , she / her ⸻ this letter has been delivered to TALA CALINAO in the form of an acceptance into the university of bamford as a GRAD STUDENT . we look forward to having someone with such promise roaming our halls . from what we gathered from your application , it seems you are GREGARIOUS & PATIENT , but will need to work on your tendency to be ALOOF & HAUGHTY . either way , pack up your description of your character's signature outfit , say your goodbyes , & get ready for the best years of your life ⸻ slut by taylor swift + stony clover patches on a letterman jacket , barbiecore , & living that sorority life .

NOTE : when you can , please send in the signature outfit portion of your app since you seem to have accidentally forgotten it , thank you .

#accepted

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nightrestrp · 2 years ago

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welcome to nightrest, deniz aksoy! don’t forget to look over the checklist and send your account in the next 24 hours. rabia soytürk is now taken. we’re so happy to have you!

[ rabia soyturk, cis woman, she/her ] - was that DENIZ AKSOY i saw by the lighthouse today? i heard that the TWENTY-SIX year old who has been in nightrest for HER WHOLE LIFE and works as a PODCAST HOST has a reputation of being CURIOUS, but also FINICKY. they reside in LOW POINT & people in town usually associate them with THREE AM WRITING AND RESEARCH, NOTES APP OVERFLOWN FROM IDEAS, SHARING STORIES UNDER THE EVENING SKY. let’s hope the killer doesn’t go after them next. [ tis i, moon ]

#appless rp #oc rp #town rp #slasher rp #mumu rp #accepted

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formulaforza · 2 years ago

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miss americana & the heartbreak prince

—03. i think i fell in love today —word count: 7.5k —warnings: despicable tooth rotting clawing my eyes out eating the stuffing in my pillows fluff. truly its horrendous. lets talk about it. —love, mackie... i'm sleeping hopefully. right now I am hammocking. the ice cream truck just drove past. I love June.

After Paris, Chris was a bit apprehensive when it came to her ability to navigate the airport in Abu Dhabi with any sort of efficiency. Especially not now, where she needs to go through customs and register for a visitor’s visa and find her luggage and get her money exchanged. Pleasantly, though, she’s surprised at the ease she works through her notes app checklist. It’s within the hour that she’s climbing into the backseat of a taxi and heading to the hotel.

She spends the entirety of the twenty-something minute drive doing a deep dive on Joris’ Instagram. He’s going to be waiting for you, Charles had told her the night they’d worked it all out. How he knew his friend would be free is beyond Chris, but that's not even the bigger issue at hand. The issue is, of course, that she’s had no more than a momentary interaction with Joris in the background of a FaceTime call two weeks ago. The thought of breezing past him in the hotel lobby is a mortifying one.

It’s quarter after seven by the time she gets there, and when she catches a glance of herself in a mirror on the wall and almost bursts into laughter. Someone could tell her that she fell down the stairs in Austin and hit her head and is in a coma and it would feel more believable than her life right now. This just… this doesn’t happen to her; five star hotels in foreign countries and heavy accents and guys who call her beautiful from the other side of the globe.

She spots Joris in an armchair on his phone at the other end of the lobby. She approaches nervously, and he stirs from his phone at her sudden proximity. “Hi,” Chris greets, sounds almost apologetic for interrupting him. “Joris, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” he nods, dragging out the vowel sounds when he glances back down at his screen. Chris wonders if he knows he’s waiting for her.

She smiles. “I’m Chris.”

“Right!” He snaps his fingers, shoves his phone into his pocket. “Chris.” He stands and opens his arms to hug her like they’re old friends. It’s a move straight from her book, one that she’s pulled on dozens of people before. It’s not one that she’s met with often. Chris thinks they’ll get on well, her and Joris. That’s a good thing, right? Friendly friends.

Chris’ mom had told her more than once that the quickest way to know someone’s character is through their friends. Only a maniac is rude to animals and elderly and children, she’d said a million times over, it’s the character of the people they choose to spend time with that matters. Joris has no idea Chris is silently observing his every action, picking them apart on a human level.

On the elevator ride up, Joris fills Chris in on everything that’s happened during the free practices that day, tells her that it’s been a relatively clean couple of sessions. You do know of the risk this weekend, yes? P2 or P3, he asks and answers his own question. Chris nods. If she didn’t know, she does now. The room is on the fifth floor, she notes, staring at the glowing five button as she picks at her cuticles. It hits her like a ton of bricks, her anxiety skyrocketing as the elevator ascends, her stomach left behind on the ground level.

This whole thing is crazy, and not the quirky, silly story you tell your friends about over a vodka cran crazy. Just plain crazy. Insane. Off the wall absurd. Why, why are they sharing a room? Why is she even here? What is it about her that can’t be found somewhere, anywhere, else? And the most prudent question, the one ringing in her ears louder with each passing moment; what is it about him?

Chris has never considered herself to be logical, not in the slightest, but she does like to maintain the idea that she’s well grounded. She might not always act in a way that makes the most sense, but she always makes those choices within the bounds of her reality.

And, because her nerves permeate off her like a thirteen-year-old’s B.O, Joris takes a stab at cooling her down. “How was your planes?”

“Good. Smooth.” she nods, forces a smile. Her weight shifts from heel to heel, thumbs looped through her backpack straps. The floor is a shiny black marble with white and gold veins, one that commands your attention. Chris pulls her eyes from it to look at him anyway. Nervous and insane or not, she wants to make a good impression. “I could do without navigating the airport in Paris ever again, though.”

“Oh,” he laughs. “It never gets easier.”

“Does any of it?” She offers up a laugh, but it’s as genuine as the smile her face held before.

He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off with the ding of the doors opening. There, in the hallway with more marble floors and a wallpaper that walks the line between elegant and gaudy, a couple stands on a white carpet runner. The man has on a Mercedes cap. Chris wonders if they know a Formula One driver is staying on their floor.

The four of them sidestep awkwardly around each other with polite smiles to the floor, and before she knows it Joris is holding a keycard over the lock on a heavy door and handing the piece of plastic to her.

It’s not a room. It’s a suite. There’s a living room and a kitchenette and a whole separate bedroom to this place. It’s expensive, wildly so, she’s sure.

She wheels her suitcase into the bedroom, leaves it in the corner by an armchair with her backpack. At the bottom of the bag is her purse, which she digs out while Joris is using the bathroom, moving things around from one bag to the other.

The drive to the circuit is twenty minutes, at least, and Joris talks the whole time, mostly about how nervous he is and how hard he’s trying to make sure Charles doesn’t notice. Chris doesn’t tell him that Charles is also beyond nervous about the whole thing–or that he knows good and well everyone around him is losing their minds. It doesn’t seem like the type of thing that would make Joris feel any better.

“Pascale and Enzo, you know them, yes? Charles’ Mum and brother?” Joris questions.

“Nope,” Chris shakes her head. “Not yet.”

Oh, he doesn’t say. “You’ll like them if you like Charles,” he laughs. “You do like Charles?”

Chris bites down on a smile, a laugh leaving her nose in an exhale. “I do.”

“Good, good.” He nods. “Anyway, they are not here tonight, they already have gone back to the hotel. Arthur is there, still. Do you know him?”

“I think it’s going to be easier for both of us if you just assume I don’t know anyone.”

“Ah, okay. Will do.”

Chris wonders what Charles has said about her to Joris, to Arthur, to anyone. All of the stories he has or hasn’t told them about. She has almost exclusively not talked about him back home. Not because she doesn’t want to, she just can’t figure out how to say anything without sounding like a reality television star. Maybe he’s the same way. There’s a real chance that nobody in his family even knows that she’s coming, and maybe that’s the way she’d like it to be.

Her reunion with Charles couldn’t be more different than their first meeting. The paddock is empty with exception of team crews and straggling media members. There isn’t a Bud Light in sight and the pass hanging around her neck has a picture of her on the back. He must’ve pulled it from her Instagram, the one that he keeps talking about wanting to follow back. A picture of her and CHRISTYN ELLIOTT - FULL WEEKEND written in bold letters.

“He’s probably at the briefing,” Joris explains, checking his watch and walking one stride for every two of Chris’. She tries her hardest to keep up with him as he expertly navigates the paddock, all while trying to memorize his moves so she doesn’t end up stranded sometime this weekend.

A whistle gets their attention, cutting sharply through the hot desert air. Her and Joris both snap their heads around to find the perpetrator of the summons. Charles pats Pierre’s shoulder and jogs ahead of the group of drivers, all already engaged in their own conversations and heading off into different directions.

He has such a carefree smile on his face, jogging over with happy eyes and wiggling brows and a stupid little wink that puts a smile on her face. “Hello, Christyn,” he quips, greets her with open arms. And then, once his arms are pulling her to him so tight she can’t take a full breath, when he has so much energy to give her he can’t help but rock on the sides of his feet, he whispers just for her, “Hi,” a soft kiss on the crown of her head, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

All she can think about is how warm he is. Warm, and smells so nice. She doesn’t know how she’s going to ever go home. Not when he’s so warm.

“How was the planes?” He asks, an arm comfortable slotting around her as they resume their walk to wherever it is she’s being led.

“Uh, I’m tired, but.” She smiles. At him. Right there where she can touch him. Where he is touching her. “I’m here, so. I’m happy.”

On the walk back to hospitality, she asks him how his day’s gone. He’s sure she already knows, that Joris talked her ear off the entire drive over or that she’d checked the media reports of the practice sessions, but it’s nice to pretend she doesn’t know. He tries to summarize everything as concise as he can, because even though he loves talking to her, he’d much rather listen. He can listen to her talk until the sun burns out.

He’s not surprised to notice that Joris has peeled off from them, especially not because he didn’t even realize he wasn’t trailing behind him and Chris until he held open the door to his driver’s room and Joris was nowhere to be found.

He can’t count the amount of texts he’s had to have sent Chris from his driver’s room. How badly he wanted to just be talking with her, and now she’s here. She’s here, she’s here, she’s here with him.

He moves around the room, cleaning and reorganizing his things for a fresh start in the morning. Casually, he mentions that he has a sponsorship obligation tonight, last race and all, and that Arthur and Joris are coming along. He doesn’t speak it so offhandedly because he’d forgotten, but because he didn’t want her to get freaked out by the idea of it. He explains that she’s welcome to tag along, or, if she’d feel more comfortable, she can stay here while Andrea packs up his things.

She’s leaning against the wall just next to the doorway, watching him. Without hesitation, she replies, “I’ll come with you.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, looking to her. “You don’t have to.”

She nods, looks at the ground or the couch or something that isn’t him, folds her hand to look at her nails and lets out an almost silent laugh. His stomach drops. “You sound like you don’t want me to go.”

“No, no.” He corrects, and she still doesn’t look at him. He waves for her attention, cocks his head to the side when he gets it, “No. That’s not. I just want you to do what you want to do.”

“I want to go.”

“Okay,” he smiles.

She crosses her arms over her chest, looks like she’s trying so hard not to smile at him. “You’re being weird, you know?”

He shrugs, because she’s right. “I told you I would be.”

“Well,” Chris sighs, moves across the room to the small couch in the corner, “why are you being weird?”

“Because.” I want to kiss you, he stops himself from saying. I’ve wanted to kiss you since I saw you twenty minutes ago, since you decided to come, since I met you, maybe.

“Because, why?” She laughs, and he’s suddenly struck with the thought of what her laughter might taste like. Sweet, surely, just like it sounds. Like a popsicle on a summer day.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he tries his absolute hardest to wipe that thought from his brain before texting his brother back. “Je veux t'embrasser tout le temps,” I want to kiss you all the time, he mumbles, isn’t even sure it actually leaves his lips or if he keeps it locked in the vault. He continues to send his reply to Arthur.

“You know I don’t understand what you just said,” Chris reminds him. That’s why it came out in French, he thinks. Not everything is meant to be said.

“I said,” he pauses, sends the text, looks back at her. God. “I said I want to kiss you.”

She crosses one leg over the other, looks down at her pants like there is something in her lap to fix. He can see the blush on the tips of her ears, even though she’s trying to hide her cheeks. When she does look up, face still flushed, she tucks her bangs behind her ears and replies softly, “you’re allowed to kiss me, Charles.”

He can’t believe he hasn’t yet. That he’d hugged the life out of her, kissed her hair and told her how happy he is she’s there, that he’d thought about kissing her for weeks, that he didn’t fucking kiss the girl yet. They’re sharing a bedroom tonight, and he still hasn’t kissed her. He thought about it, he did. But they’d promised to keep things as quiet as they could. Now, he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t have stopped him from throwing all those conversations out the window.

If there wasn’t something weird in the air before, there certainly is now. A new weird. A good weird. An implication of something in the air, weird. It’s out there now, ust hanging above them. I want to kiss you. You can kiss me. Now all that’s left is for one of them to make the move.

It’s the least he can do–make the first move. She flew across the globe, he can fucking kiss her. He wants to fucking kiss her. He feels like a little kid, the giddy smile that pulls on the corners of his lips when he walks over to her. He does little to conceal his intent.

“What?” She asks with a smile on her face. A tease, she has to know.

He holds out his hands, palms forward to her and she follows his lead, reaches up to lace their fingers together. “I like you, you know?” He asks, leans his weight against her hands. Some hands are just meant to be held.

She giggles like a child, pure and innocent and like nothing bad has ever happened to her. Like the childhood dog and all four grandparents are still kicking. “I can’t hold you up.”

“What?” He quirks a brow, leans more weight onto her hands and she laughs harder, her arms shaking below him.

“Charles!”

“I said I like you, Chris!”

Through weak arms and uncontrollable belly laughs, she manages to choke out in gulps for air, “I like you, too.” In a swift movement, he recenters his weight on his own feet, pulling Chris up from the couch. The force of his pull almost knocks her from her feet, both of them still laughing, fingers dancing with the others on either side of their frames. The laughter is light and airy and barely there, but it’s laughter nonetheless. When their hands do fall apart, their pinkies stay looped together without force, without any pull at all, just comfortably slotted against the other. “I really like you,” she adds, and her voice sounds like smiles look.

She blushes under her own words, over the entirety of their private moment, eyes darting from eyes to lips and back to eyes. “Yeah?” He asks quietly, like he’s scared asking might change her answer. She nods, biting down on the smile that paints her bottom lip, and it’s more than enough for him. She’s so good. She’s too good not to kiss.

He moves a hand to her jaw, thumbs her cheek with fingers slotted behind her ear, dancing along her hairline like a whisper of what’s to come. Like a promise. In the absence of his hand, hers finds his chest, just his thin Ferrari shirt separating her palm from the butterflies stirring wildly in his chest. “Me, too,” he says softly. Softer than she did, more to her lips—soft and pretty and his favorite shade of pink—than to her eyes. And then, either so softly only the atoms hear it, or maybe in his head entirely, “very much.”

And then he kisses her.

She tastes like mint chapstick and biscoff cookies and coffee. Her lips are soft, softer than they looked, softer than her voice. It’s like a boost of energy, kissing her. Like an immediate and complete charge.

She tightens her grip on his other pinky. Tightens it, loosens it, re-intertwines the whole hand somewhere off in the distance, far, far away from where he wishes to stay forever. This alone is worth a flight anywhere. Altitude sickness and limbs falling asleep and jet lag and headaches from screaming babies are all poor inhibitors when this would be waiting for him on the other side.

He pulls his hand from hers because it's just not close enough. Nothing is going to be close enough, but he’ll try his damndest to cup her jaw and pull her deeper into the kiss. Their noses bump awkwardly and they pull apart in a breathless laugh. Nothing more than a quick, shared smile and he’s kissing it off her face, tugging on her bottom lip with his teeth and letting her hum mumbles into his mouth. Teeth clacking and more laughing, so breathless it’s practically silent.

“Chris Elliott,” he says all sing-songy, just because he knows it’ll make her laugh. A quick peck, because he can. “You are something.”

“Charles Leclerc,” she mimics, wide eyes and raised brows and a beaming smile. A quick peck, because he’s never going to stop her. “Something good?”

He hums. “Something great.”

“You’re silly,” she says, and he laughs.

“Silly?” She nods. “You’re cute.” Chris rolls her eyes, but still has that child’s smile on her face and a pink flush to her cheeks. He kisses her again, quick, because he has a month to make up for.

“I know,” she retorts, deadpan. He laughs louder than any sane man should.

Joris, Arthur, and Andrea file into the room a few minutes later. Chris is leaning against the wall again, scrolling through her phone. She clicks it off when they walk in, shoves it deep into her purse pocket.

Andrea’s eyes bounce from Chris to Charles, and then back to Chris, holding out a hand for her to shake. “Andrea,” he greets, formal and cool.

“Chris,” she smiles, shakes the outstretched hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” she nods. “You too.”

First bad impression. She doesn’t know what it is she did, but with the simple half-minute observation of his interactions with her versus the rest of the people in the room, it’s obvious he’s already soured on her.

Arthur, though, Arthur is almost off putting in his resemblance to Charles. Same voice, same face, certainly same bloodline. She thinks she could recognize him anywhere, probably. He, however, on his phone, doesn’t even notice Chris’ presence in the room until Joris elbows him on the sofa.

“Quoi?!” He exclaims in a defensive tone that transcends language barriers. The kind that only brothers know how to use.

“Hi,” Chris says, and Arthur’s head shoots from Joris to her in the doorway. He almost laughs, he’s so surprised by her presence. “I’m Chris,” she adds, holding out a hand only because he's sitting and she’s standing and a hug doesn’t feel logistically sound.

“Ah, Chris,” Arthur nods, shakes her hand. “Charles does not answer my phone calls because of you.”

“Oh,” she offers a weak smile. “I’m sorry about that.”

“No, no. I do not want to hear from him.”

Chris laughs. From the other side of the room, Charles chimes in, “then why are you calling me?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Maman say, ‘do you call Charles’ and I say ‘yes he does not answer me.’”

- - -

They run into Carlos and co. on the way to the sponsorship event. Chris tries to hang back towards the end of the group, back with Joris and Arthur and away from Charles, purely out of self preservation. They’d agreed in passing that everything would be much easier, hundreds of times simpler, if nobody knew Chris was there this weekend, if everything was kept under the radar. Charles, however, seems to have forgotten that agreement because, no matter how engaged he gets into a conversation, he is constantly looking for her in the group, reaching his hand out to her if she’s within distance to do so, keeping her as close to him as he can.

She keeps falling back though, falling into ranks. She doesn’t want to look like a girlfriend, because she isn’t.

Chris has no idea how to be a public… girl? A fling or a girlfriend or anything in between. She’s at home at a race track, yes, and during Chase’s championship winning season, she got stopped three times to take pictures with fans, but, really. Nobody has ever cared about what she’s doing or who she’s doing it with.

Walking in behind Carlos and Charles is like walking in behind celebrities. Everyone wants to shake their hands, to pat them on the shoulders and tell them this thing or another. There’s lots of languages being thrown around that she doesn’t recognize, accents she struggles to understand.

“This is crazy,” she says quietly, just to herself.

Arthur nudges her with his elbow to steal her attention, furrows his brows for a moment and holds up a quizzical thumbs up. Chris nods, smiles gratefully.

Charles promised that it was going to be nothing more than a quick stop at the event, and he meant it. They aren’t even there long enough to sit down. Instead they hang out in the back of the tent near the bar, watching Charles and Carlos talk on stage with several different people about how important this brand is for us.

They decide to go out to dinner after, despite Chris’ burning desire to go to sleep for a couple years. They get sat at a booth that’s probably made to hold no more than four people; Andrea and Joris on one side, Charles sandwiched between Chris and Arthur on either side. He finds her hand under the table, his thumb tracing along the lines of her fingers. Chris, against all urges to rest her head on his shoulder, rests it instead on the wooden divider between their booth and the neighboring one.

Arthur is the only one who struggles to speak English rather than his mother tongue, and while Charles corrects him each time, Chris doesn’t dare. She’d rather die than imply someone speaking in a second language needs to improve the way they speak it.

“Are you going to be with us all weekend?” Arthur asks around Charles’ frame.

“I’m actually going to be in the grandstands,” she smiles. Charles rolls his eyes.

“Oh?” Arthur asks, looks to his brother, but Joris beats him to the punch.

“You couldn’t get her a pass for the whole weekend?” Joris chirps. Andrea laughs and Charles reaches for the pass hung around her neck. She didn’t even realize she was the only person still wearing it until now. Charles flips the pass over, points out the FULL WEEKEND on the back.

“Her choice, not mine.”

She reaches to take the pass out of his hand, to pull it off over her head and put it into her purse. “I’m hoping for a drama-free weekend,” she says, and the boys laugh. Charles’ hand finds her thigh, gives it a little pat and a comfortable squeeze.

Her hands are meant to be held, they really are. He could hold her hand until the moment she leaves, fingers locked together as they walk through the hotel corridor, empty and echoey with their voices and the sound of their feet on the carpet runner.

Once in the room, face to face together with the single bed, they both burst into laughter. He’s glad he cleaned things up before she got here, because the room was starting to look a little like his driver’s room–clothes strewn about messily, plastic water bottles on the end table, a television remote he lost the night he got here and hadn’t found until this morning. In the corner, Chris’ luggage sits beside the armchair, backpack neatly stacked with a single suitcase.

“Did you bring your whole wardrobe?” He jokes, and maybe it’s because he’s never been great at conveying jokes in English, or maybe it’s that they’re both absolutely exhausted, but the joke doesn't land. She’s immediately apologizing, spewing out a jumbled apology about I didn’t know what I was supposed to wear, and then– “I’m messing with you,” he says, and hates that she thinks he’d be that worked up over a suitcase, especially when he’d brought at least double what she had. She could have shown up with twenty suitcases and he still wouldn’t have thought it was too much because, well, she’s here. Right in front of him.

“Oh,” she pouts, and he kisses the look off her face. He’s wanted to do that since he saw it for the first time. “Oh. I like when you do that.” Good, he thinks. Get used to it.

They both make plans to shower; her before him. He’s on the couch in the living area of the suite when she re-emerges from the bathroom, the TV rolling and absentmindedly scrolling through his phone. When the sliding door to the bathroom opens, he looks up to watch her.

Her hair long down her back, carefully combed out so that the soaking ends turn the fabric of her sun-worn blue t-shirt a darker shade. It’s big on her–the shirt–hangs almost long enough that you wouldn’t be able to spot the flannel shorts underneath. He can still hear the sink running in the bathroom and she’s got a toothbrush in her mouth.

He whistles when she walks back from the bedroom towards the bathroom again, and she stops in the doorway, laughs around the toothbrush and does a sweet spin. “Bellissimo,” he says, gestures a chef’s kiss and she bows dramatically.

After his shower, he finds her in the bedroom, comfortably perched against the headboard, tucked under the crisp white duvet. The only light in the place is coming from her end table lamp, casting a soft shadow on her face, her knees pulled up close while she turns the pages of a book. He hovers around his suitcase watching her, completely in her own world, the only hint of her presence on this plane being the subtle lean into the light to better illuminate the pages she turns.

It’s not the first time he’s found himself looking at her like this. She’s easy to get lost in and almost never notices him staring. She just gets so focused on the task at hand–grading papers, cooking a meal, painting her nails, watching a television show, or like tonight, reading her current library rental.

“Do you want a water?” He asks. Her eyes don’t leave the page, a subtle shake of the head before she finally mumbles a no, thank you. He navigates the dark suite to the kitchenette, finds himself a plastic water bottle in the mini-fridge, and then he’s pulling back the comforter to climb into bed with her. “So, I was thinking tomorrow–” he starts, but she cuts him off with a singular finger held in the air. He can’t help but laugh, stupid smile on his face while he watches her eyes hurriedly finish the page, dog ear the tiniest fold onto the corner.

“Sorry,” she unapologetically offers, setting the book down on the end table. “What were you saying?”

“Uh, I don’t remember,” he says, because he lost it while he tried to guess what she was reading based on the little microexpressions that crossed her face. His eyes fall to the gold chain around her neck, to the small cross that lays over the blue fabric of her shirt. He’s noticed it dozens of times, it’s constant presence in every picture, every video, every call and outfit and event. He doesn’t even think when he reaches for it, examines it with gentle fingers. “Is this a, uh…” he struggles to find the word, “how do you say, family tradition?”

“Heirloom?”

He nods, drops the piece of jewelry back to its rightful spot. “Heirloom.”

“No, it was a birthday gift,” she explains, fingers the chain of it, “from my brother when I turned eighteen.”

He nods, points out the other necklace she’s wearing, a flower with a pearl in the center. “And this?”

She laughs, “it’s silly,” she says. “It goes with these earrings I have, they’re from my parents when I graduated college.” He learns the flower is a chrysanthemum, that her dad has always called her Mum, that her mom has a particular affinity for pearls that she’s passed onto Chris, that all of these things have combined into this piece of jewelry hanging around her neck and that she cried and cried when they gifted it to her.

Because the sun is still burning, he doesn’t stop asking about the different pieces she wears until he’s run out of ones to point to. He learns the story of a ruby ring–her birthstone–that she found in a thrift store for seventy-five cents when she was fifteen, how it used to fit on her pointer finger but now it fits her ring finger, how sometimes she makes up elaborate stories of how it ended up in the bargain bin of a Goodwill in North Georgia.

She tells him about three friendship bracelets. The first and second are made by students, her favorite gifts. The third, blue and yellow–NAPA colors, her brother’s racing colors–made by her nephew. “He’s four, and he is everything annoying about my brother and everything good about my best friend, and I think I would kill someone for him.” Charles is sure that tomorrow he’ll be telling someone they wouldn’t believe the way she lights up when she talks about this kid.

When he’s run out of things to question, she’s examining the red string tied around his wrist. “What about you?” She asks, “what’s up with this guy?”

“My mate, Pierre. He learns about it from our other friend Yuki,” He explains. “They always know the strangest things, Pierre and Yuki,” he chuckles, continues to explain the traditional symbol of good luck. “I don’t know how well it works, though,” he laughs, and she kisses him. It surprises him, but he’s in no place to complain. Perhaps the bracelet works quite well, he thinks when she moves closer, snuggles under his arm while he continues.

Three metal bracelets. One red, one silver, one stainless steel. Morse code: Amour, Bonheur, Smile. A ring that matches the bracelet. Two hex rings that track his heart rate and his sleep and a million other things.

He spins the rings while he talks, pulls them off and hands one to her without missing a beat in his sentence. She toys with it while she listens, hands it back to him with a quiet yawn. When he kisses her hair, it’s still damp and smells like the shampoo she used, something he can’t place, something he hopes eventually to memorize. “You’re cute when you’re sleepy.”

“You told me that last week.”

“I know,” another kiss against the unfamiliar scent. “I meant it.”

Charles wants to order room service for breakfast. Chris shuts that idea down the minute it comes out of his mouth, furrowing her brows and making him attempt to rationalize waiting half an hour for food that’s five minutes away. He can’t, so they head to the lobby.

Chris is wearing the same shirt, pulls a pair of sweatpants over her flannel shorts and ties her hair into a messy, tangled ponytail. She’d keep it down, but her hair dried while she slept and it’s pointing in directions that defy gravity. A ponytail was the only option. Charles doesn’t change, keeps the t-shirt and shorts he slept in on.

They find Andrea in the lobby, eating at a table for two by himself. Charles pulls a chair over from a nearby table and they sit down with him. By the time Joris appears, the table is officially too full of food to comfortably function.

She hears his phone vibrate against the hard plastic of his chair, and he casually mentions that the rest of his family is on their way down.

Chris doesn’t react, not externally, anyways. She finishes what’s left in her mug, bee-lines it over to the coffee bar to make another. Absent-mindedly, she tears the foil from the creamer cups, rips open the sugar packets and stirs it all together. His mom. His mom. His mom. It’s all she can think about. His mother. The woman who gave him life. Chris knew she’d be meeting his mom this weekend, but she figured she’d have more preparation than a couple minutes warning, assumed she’d be dressed, hair styled, makeup done. That she’d be presenting herself as someone you’d be happy to have your son spend time with, not like a 7/11 customer in Dahlonega at one in the morning. Maybe Charles was right and room service was a good idea.

Even once she’s back at the table, every elevator ding makes her jump, shoots her head in the direction of the opening doors just terrified the people walking out are going to be his family.

“Are you good?” Charles asks after she flinches at the third elevator bell.

“Yup,” she lies, slaps a big, phony smile on her face and takes a sip of her coffee. His hand finds her leg, gives it a little you’ll be fine squeeze.

The next elevator is carrying his family. She instinctively straightens in her seat, moves things around the crowded table so her food looks neat and managed. Joris looks at her with concern, Charles laughs when she refolds a napkin. “Don’t laugh at me,” she whispers.

Out of earshot, Arthur says something through a stretch and a yawn. His mom rolls her eyes, pushes him in the direction of the coffee bar, mutters something to his other brother that makes him chuckle. When his mom spots Chris, she makes a bee-line for her with open arms. Chris practically trips over the leg of her chair trying to stand up before the hug reaches her.

“Come here, chérie,” she smiles. It’s warm, just like her boy’s. “I have heard so much about you.” Oh? Chris smiles, suddenly aware that she’s apparently horribly unprepared for this entire introduction. He’s telling his mother about her?

She hugs Pascale back and looks over her shoulder to Charles with wide eyes. She’s met with a matching expression, Charles shrugging and shaking his head as if to adamantly tell her he has no idea what his mom is talking about. “And what have you heard, Maman?” He asks with a laugh.

“Don’t start with me,” she says, wagging a finger at her boy, and then to Chris, “Ignore him.” She holds her at arm's length, hands on either shoulder and looks her up and down. Chris laughs, nervous but still noticeably genuine. “You are just beautiful, aren’t you?”

Well. Beautiful isn’t a word Chris would use to describe herself at this moment. Ratty, perhaps. Disheveled. Off-putting. But sure, beautiful is a word she might sometimes describe herself as. “Me?” She shakes her head, “ma’am, look at yourself.”

“Oh, please,” his mom scoffs. “Pascale.”

“Pascale.” Chris smiles, goes in for another hug.

Whether it’s because he’s a brother and not a mother, or because meeting said mother is done and over with, Chris is significantly less anxious when it comes to her introduction with Lorenzo.

Chris attempts to insist Pascale take her seat, but is out-insisted to finish her breakfast. Charles finds her hand under the table, winks at her when she interlocks her fingers with his.

– – –

Outside of their shared breakfast, Saturday is a long day apart for Chris and Charles. A quick kiss goodbye in their hotel room when Charles finishes getting ready, a quicker “good luck,” from Chris called after him on his way out the door, and a thumbs up over his head as a response summarizes their interactions for the rest of the day.

Chris works on next week’s lesson plans for a few hours, nothing better to do while she waits to leave for the track.

She watches the third practice session and quali from the grandstand across from the pitlane, and while neither are his greatest showing, Chris can feel it in her bones that everything is going to fall into place for him tomorrow. A third place start is more than good enough to beat out Perez at Red Bull. She knows it like she knows her own name, and nobody is going to tell her otherwise.

She goes back to the hotel after quali, doesn’t bother to attempt sneaking into the paddock to try and find him. It just doesn’t feel worth it–navigating a place she doesn’t know, avoiding the cameras and the reporters and the chaos–not when he’ll be coming back to the hotel, back to her.

She falls asleep moments after sitting down on the couch, and isn’t woken up until she doesn’t even know when. It’s the middle of the night, Charles tells her, guides her to bed and tucks her in like a child, complete with a kiss on the forehead.

- - -

The first words out of her mouth on Sunday morning are an apology.

When Charles tries to cut her off with a laugh and a kiss, she stops him just short of her lips, claiming morning breath. “Wow,” he feigns shock. “First you fall asleep on me, now you will not kiss me?”

She rolls her eyes, grabs the back of his neck and pulls him down to kiss her. “Happy?”

He nods and kisses her again. He keeps waiting for it to not feel so exciting, so much like a stupid movie, so young, and it’s yet to reach that point. It’s not even coming close. “Yes, thank you.”

From the other side of the bathroom wall she dares to ask him if he’s nervous, if the pressure is finally manifesting itself into stress. He’s quiet for a while.

“No,” he eventually calls back.

“No?”

He peels around the doorway, messing with the collar on his team shirt. “Yes,” he admits with a scale-breaking sigh. She wishes he was as sure as himself as she is, that he could feel in his bones it is all going to work out perfectly.

“Well, I’ll be here when you’re done, and we can either celebrate Charles Leclerc, Vice World Champion,” he turns away at the title, the side profile of a smile turning the corner back into the bathroom. “Or, we can celebrate the end of an exhausting season. Either way, we’re celebrating.” He stays quiet. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he finally speaks, tone lackluster, unconfident. It’s hard to hear him like this, to hear the distinct shards of doubt that rattle in his chest. “We’re celebrating.”

We’re celebrating. Tonight is a celebration. The positives with the negatives, the good always outweighs the bad. She reminds herself like it’s a mantra. Tonight is a celebration.

- - -

Alone in the grandstands with an air of certainty about her, Chris’ bar for friendship has never been lower. She finds a group of girlfriends who appear to be sort-of, almost, kind-of, maybe in the same age demographic as she is. They speak English and don’t ignore her when she talks, and that’s enough for her to latch onto for the evening.

We like McLaren, they tell her, But those Ferrari boys–they’re cute. You can’t help but feel for them. Chris just smiles and nods, offers up a laugh and pretends she won’t be falling asleep next to one of those cute boys later tonight.

The girls–flew in from London on Friday just for this-fill her in on everything she already knows. They tell her about Charles and his fight for P2, about the strategic pitfalls of Ferrari and the fact that on paper, it was Charles’ year to win it all.

They’re more nervous during the race than Chris is, not to say that her leg isn’t bouncing watching the times constantly changing, that she isn’t whispering mumbles prayers into the air between here and there, just that she knows. She knows.

If it was possible to stare through a helmet, Chris would’ve done it during his pitstop, burning the confidence right into his frontal lobe. Her eyes are glued to his car, his helmet, distant and small and buzzing with energy. He’s got it under control, like a perfectly wrapped gift sat in his lap, like a row of monkey bars and hands hardened by months of blisters, like a first kiss and a second kiss and a third kiss. He’s got it under control.

He does, because after what feels simultaneously like the longest and shortest fifty-eight laps of her life, Chris practically has a front row seat to Charles doing donuts. She’s so happy that she thinks she might cry, not that it takes much of anything to pull a tear from her when she’s this exhausted. The girls she’d befriended jump and celebrate and cheer louder than the fireworks.

Chris tries to live the moment. To feel it all, the energy and the roar and the joy, which only makes it that much harder not to cry.

Suddenly, momentarily, irrationally emotionally, while she watches him celebrate with his family and his team in front of the whole world she wishes she was down there with him. Screw the world watching, she wants to hug him until her arms are numb and kiss him until she passes out.

There’s no telling when–or even if–she’s going to ever live through a moment like this again. It’s not one she wants to forget. In the chaos of it all, her hand finds her chest, the hard metal of her cross necklace through the fabric of her top, the pulsing of her heartbeat, loud and racing.

It’s hours before he’s back to the hotel, but it doesn’t feel late at all. He’s still running on adrenaline, just as ready to celebrate as he was when he jumped into his team’s arms. Over the mechanical shifting of the door lock, he can hear Chris’ feet echoing on the floor just on the other side and before he can even make it through the doorway she’s crashing into him. The pure energy that she is knocks him back a few steps, but then he’s hugging her back just as hard, maybe harder.

He can feel her tears soak through his shirt, and with a laugh asks if she’s crying.

“Shut up,” she says, and it only makes him laugh harder, hug tighter. God, the show he would have put on if he could’ve found her right after the race. The trouble he would make. “Oh, my god!” She sniffles, pulls her head off his chest and wipes away her tears. “Kiss me, already!”

And so he does. He kisses the shit out of her.

She pulls away with a smile, arms slinked around his neck like it belongs to her. “So, how does it feel?” She asks, “Vice World Champion, Charles Leclerc.”

He gives her a quick kiss, nothing more than a peck, shrugs, and repeats the action. “Too busy kissing the girl.”

“You’re such an idiot,” she laughs, drops her head so it’s against his chest and vibrates his entire being. It’s a laugh that lights stars, dances around the room like a windchime in the warm August air. The kind so distinct you could hear it across a room ten years later and still know it was her. “A walking cheeseball.”

“A cheeseball?” He humors.

“I said what I said.”

His satisfied hum says more than words ever could, fingers comfortable dancing along the bone of her hip. “We gotta get ready,” he says.

“For what?”

“The celebration.”

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