#to know more... i know... i feel like she would love it...

[geminiwritten]

picture you ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you met bob back at the academy and fell for him fast—but you never dared risk the friendship... now you're both stationed at north island and for once the timing might be right, until you overhear him say some things that cut deep and make you question everything you thought you knew

notes: okay i'm a little nervous about this one, like i hope it's good??? i hope you like it! the start is a little slow, i struggled there, but it picks up! i promise! again, i had no self-control with the word count, and as always, please let me know what you think!!!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, bit of angst, miscommunication (kinda), italics, bob makes a joke about a stutter, some cheesy moments, reader wears a skimpy dress (but detail is vague and there is no detail about body-type), angry bob, dancing with a guy that isn't bob, very horny, a bit of boob commentary, and SMUT (male masturbation, semi-public sex, unprotected p in v, and a lil titty worship bob floyd) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 21530

your callsign is lucky

You’ve known Bob Floyd since your second day at the academy. 

You were running late to a classroom session on naval aviation history when you ran into him—tall, sweet, with dark blue eyes and the prettiest smile you’d ever seen. As it turned out, you were both late for the same class, and got chewed out in front of twenty or so of your brand-new flight school classmates. At the time, it was mortifying, but now it’s one of your favourite stories—because that was the moment that bonded you for life. 

You’ve been in love with Bob Floyd ever since he drunkenly told you at flight school graduation—the boy’s a serious lightweight—that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. 

Well, okay. Maybe you were already halfway there, but that was the moment that really sealed the deal. He was so flushed and pretty, stumbling over his words, looking at you like you were the sole reason for his existence on planet Earth. How could you not fall in love with that? 

But he was really drunk, and he didn’t remember a thing the next morning. So you decided not to bring it up. After all, you would soon be deployed to opposite sides of the world. It never would’ve worked. 

Still, over the years and across continents, you managed to stay close. Through separate assignments, long stretches of radio silence, and deployments that kept you off-grid, you never lost touch. You saw each other when you could—once or twice a year, if you were lucky—and every time, it felt like no time had passed at all. 

You tried dating—at least as much as anyone in the Navy can—but no one ever stuck. Not the way Bob Floyd did. 

Then, as fate would have it, Bob got tapped for a special detachment on North Island—your base. And suddenly, years of loving him from afar turned into months of loving him from a now suffocatingly close distance. Because after that detachment, Bob’s new squad—the Dagger Squad—was commissioned as a full-time elite unit under Maverick’s command. 

So here he is, on North Island. And here you are too. Practically living in each other’s pockets, even if you’re not flying on the same team. So what could possibly be stopping you from telling him how you feel? 

Oh, right. Just the tiny, humiliating fact that you’re still way too chickenshit to risk the friendship for something more. 

“Lieutenant,” Maverick says, stepping up beside you and catching you off guard. 

You blink, dragging your eyes away from the squad—his squad—training just outside the hangar up ahead. 

“Captain,” you reply, nodding. 

He smirks. “Thinking of trading in those shiny fifth-gens for something with a little more grit? Or are you just here to watch Hondo torture my pilots?” 

You huff a laugh, adjusting the helmet tucked under your arm. “The Super Hornet’s got plenty of grit, but let’s be honest—she’s no Lightning.” 

Maverick chuckles, nodding slowly. 

“Actually, I was looking for you,” you say. “Cyclone wants me to offer a brief training program on the F-35’s latest software package—maybe even get your team some sim time.” 

His eyebrows lift. “A training program from the Navy’s golden test pilot? Let me guess—does Simpson know how chummy you are with my squad, or was this more of a personal initiative?” 

“It might be a little personal,” you say with s sheepish grin. “But I’ve seen the way you look at my jet. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t kill for a flight.” 

“A joyride?” he asks. “I thought you said simulator time.” 

“For them, yeah.” You nod toward the squad. “But if a decorated captain, such as yourself, wanted to take her for a spin... well, who am I to stand in the way?” 

He laughs again, looking past you at the aircraft you’d just landed. 

“She quick?” he asks. 

“Today? About six hundred knots. But that was a low-level test profile.” You pause, eyes glinting. “Push her right, she’ll break Mach 1 easy. Mach 2 if you’re feeling brave. And willing to eat the paperwork.” 

“Tempting,” he says with a sigh. “But I think I’ve racked up enough disciplinary notes for one career.” 

You smile. “Then fly her like a gentleman.” 

Maverick’s gaze flicks back to the squad as Hondo shouts for twenty more burpees. Then he narrows his eyes at you. “Who put you up to this?” 

You blink. “Sorry?” 

“Phoenix asked me just last week if they’d ever fly anything other than Hornets. Yesterday, Hangman starts asking about Lockheed sim protocols. And now you show up, conveniently volunteering?” 

You press your lips together, wondering how long you might be able to stall—but really, what’s the point? It’s Maverick. He’ll figure it out sooner or later. 

“Okay, fine,” you admit. “They’ve been on my ass about it for weeks. I knew I could get Cyclone on board—and yeah, they said the only way you’d bite was if I offered you stick time.” You smile, just a little. “But to be fair, the F-35’s part of the Navy inventory now. Could be relevant training. And... I wouldn’t mind a few weeks of hanging out with my friends at work. Or their legendary captain, for that matter.” 

Maverick exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s like raising teenagers.” 

“So,” you say, lifting a brow, “that’s a yes?” 

He rolls his eyes, but there’s still a playful spark behind them. “Yeah, fine.” 

You grin. “Excellent. We’ll start Monday. Can’t wait to teach alongside you, Captain.” 

“Don’t make me regret this,” he mutters. 

“Oh, please,” you say. “I know you’re at least a little excited about flying my jet.” 

His gaze flicks back to the F-35 on the flight line, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I better go break the news to the squad.” 

You laugh. “Good luck with that. Fanboy said he’d kiss you if you said yes.” 

Maverick pauses, grimacing. “Fantastic.” 

Then he flashes you that signature smirk, gives a quick nod, and walks off across the tarmac. You watch for a few minutes as he approaches his squad, stepping up beside Hondo first and—quietly—telling the CWO what he just agreed to. Hondo nods before calling the squad in with a bark, and you stay put, watching with amusement as Maverick delivers the news. 

The reaction is immediate—grins, high-fives, celebratory shouting. You see Natasha step forward to ask a question, and when Maverick gestures in your direction, Mickey turns and yells, “I fucking love you, Lucky!” 

You laugh softly, giving them a lazy salute before turning toward your own building. You’re looking forward to it too—not just the flying, or the teaching, or the excuse to hang out with your friends. But the chance to spend a few weeks working a little closer to Bob. 

And maybe—just maybe—you can figure out what the hell you’re going to do about him. 

- 

“I still can’t believe you got Cyclone and Mav to sign off on the training,” Reuben says, shaking his head despite the smile tugging at his lips. 

You lift your beer, shrugging as you sip. “They don’t call me Lucky for nothing.” 

Mickey squints, tilting his head. “Wait, do you have a history of charming your superiors?” 

Natasha snorts into her drink. “No. That’s not how she got her callsign.” 

Your eyes snap to her, brows raised. “Wait—Bob told you?” 

She presses her lips together, rocking her head side to side. “Not exactly. I saw your contact name in his phone and kind of... figured it out.” 

Your cheeks flush instantly. “Oh my God.” 

“Hold on,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “Bob gave you your callsign?” 

You nod. “Yeah. And I gave him his.” 

That’s all it takes for the three of them to dissolve into laughter. 

“Oh, so you’re the creative genius behind Bob,” Mickey teases, leaning back. “Do tell. How long did that brainstorming session take?” 

You roll your eyes and jab an elbow into his ribs. “You’re such an ass.” 

“No, but seriously,” Reuben says, still grinning. “Why is it just... Bob?” 

You shrug, rolling your beer bottle between your palms. “Because he didn’t like any of the others. There were a bunch of nicknames being thrown around—some dumb, some mean. He told me one day he wished people would just call him Bob. So I made sure they did.” 

“Oh,” Mickey mutters. “That’s kind of boring.” 

Natasha shoots him a look across the table. “I think it’s sweet.” 

Reuben gestures toward you. “Okay, fine. Then how’d he come up with Lucky?” 

You hesitate, trying not to squirm under the weight of their attention. “Because I’m his lucky charm.” 

Reuben blinks. “Seriously? It’s that personal?” 

You nod. “Yeah. Back at the FRS, every time we were paired up—sims, training hops, even written exams—he’d ace it. Said he never did that well without me.” You shrug a little, smiling. “Eventually he started joking that I was his lucky charm. Then it got shortened to Lucky, and everyone assumed it was about good fortune or gambling or whatever. But it was always just… him.” 

Natasha huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s fucking adorable.” 

Mickey leans forward, brows drawing together. “Wait… have you guys ever—” 

“Evening, misfits,” Jake drawls, cutting in with impeccable timing. “Lucky, did I hear you landed yourself a job bossing us around?” 

Bradley, Javy, and Bob fall in behind him, all wearing the same mildly pained expression—no doubt from enduring a ten-minute car ride with Weekend Jake. That’s what the squad have started—affectionately—calling him when he’s at his worst, all smug smiles, cocky one-liners, and shameless flirting. Which, of course, tends to happen every weekend. 

“Just part-time,” you say, matching his smirk. “Try to contain your excitement.” 

Jake’s gaze drops, then climbs back up—slow and deliberate. “Oh, I’m containin’ a lot right now. But you in a flight suit, telling me what to do? That might push me over the edge.” 

Mickey and Reuben chuckle while Natasha groans. 

“I need a drink,” Bradley mutters, turning toward the bar. 

You shake your head, trying not to laugh. “Keep talking, Seresin, and I’ll have you running laps around the tarmac.” 

Jake slides into the booth across from you, still grinning. “And I bet you’d love the view.” 

You roll your eyes and glance at Bob, still standing beside Javy. His eyes are locked on Jake—not quite angry, but definitely not amused. 

“Hey, Floyd,” you say, “wanna sit?” 

Bob’s lips twitch as he slides into the booth beside you, dark blue eyes catching yours. “Think you’re ready to be an instructor?” 

“Oh yeah,” you say, ignoring the flutter in your chest as his thigh brushes yours. “I was born for this.” 

He chuckles under his breath. “Born bossy, maybe.” 

“Hey,” you say, bumping your shoulder against his. “Don't be rude.” 

He turns to face you—really looking at you—and for a moment, the noise of the bar fades just a little. 

“You already telling me what to do?” he asks, voice low, playful. 

You narrow your eyes. “What if I am, Lieutenant? You going to listen?” 

Something flickers at the corner of his mouth—teasing, but quiet. “If I don’t?” 

“Jesus Christ, you two,” Jake cuts in, loud and obnoxious. “Save it for the bedroom.” 

Bob startles slightly, the colour in his cheeks deepening as he tears his eyes away from yours. 

“Fuck off, Seresin,” you mutter, shooting him a glare. “You’re just jealous.” 

Jake leans back, smug. “Jealous of what, sweetheart?” 

“That I don’t flirt with you the way I flirt with—” You stop short, the rest of the sentence stuck in your throat, but it doesn’t matter—the implication is obvious enough. 

Jake’s eyes sparkle like he’s just won the goddamn lottery, and everyone else around the table fights to contain their laughter. 

“Go on,” Jake says, far too pleased with himself. “What were you saying?” 

You shoot him a deadly look. “Fuck you is what I was saying.” 

He tips his head back and chuckles, hand over his chest, and that’s all it takes for the rest of the squad to join in. All but Bob, who’s now focused on picking at the corner of a cardboard coaster, cheeks pink and lips curved into the softest smile. 

It isn’t long before Bradley returns with two beers in one hand and a beer and a coke in the other. He sets the drinks down—coke for Bob—and nods at you to scoot over. You shuffle further into the booth, closer to Mickey, and Bob does the same—closer to you. His arm slides closer, brushing yours, and his knee presses deliberately into your leg, inch by inch stealing your space. The scent of him—sharp, familiar, intoxicating—floods your senses, and your pulse spikes before you can stop it. 

God. You think you’d be used to it after all these years. 

“So,” Bradley says, leaning forward, oblivious to the earlier conversation, “we start Monday?” 

You nod. “Yep. Think you’ll be able to handle a big boy jet?” 

Bradley scoffs. “Please. I’m one of the best pilots in the world.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“God, I can’t wait,” Mickey says from your other side. 

“Why are you excited?” Natasha asks, brow furrowed. “There’s no backseat in the F-35, and you’re definitely not flying it.” 

“Well, not the actual jet, but I still get sim time,” Mickey says, turning his big brown eyes on you. “Right?” 

You shrug. “That’s up to Mav.” 

He groans, dropping his head on the table with a thunk. “Being a WSO sucks.” 

“Your career choice, dude,” Reuben chuckles. 

You spend the next hour or so talking about work—because it’s hard not to when you all work together—but eventually Javy wanders off to chat with a woman who hit on him at the bar, and Natasha challenges Bradley to pool. Jake jumps up too, announcing that he’ll play the winner, leaving you and Bob behind with Mickey and Reuben, who are deep in an argument about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher this morning. 

You turn to Bob, brows raised. “Think I’m going to need another drink.” 

He nods, laughing softly as he slides out of the booth. You follow and start heading toward the bar, glancing over your shoulder only when he mumbles something about going to the bathroom. You just nod, then turn back and step up to the bar, flashing Penny a wide grin. 

“The usual?” she asks. 

You nod. “I’ll get a round for the whole squad.” 

She nods once and moves to grab the drinks while you fish in your back pocket for the cash you shoved there before leaving your apartment. You’re just about to drop it on the bar when someone slides up beside you and slaps down a credit card instead. 

“It’s on me,” the man says, his smile too confident to be genuine, “if you’ll tell me your name.” 

You blink, brow furrowing as you wonder where the hell men like this get their audacity. 

“And if I don’t?” you ask, sliding his card back toward him. “You still covering eight drinks?” 

His eyes widen just slightly, his fingers hovering over the card. “Eight? Damn. You must be thirsty.” 

You think about saying something snarky, or telling him simply to piss off—but you don’t. You bite your tongue, turning back to Penny with a quiet thanks as she sets the drinks on a tray and you hand her the cash. 

“You Navy?” the guy asks, undeterred. 

“Does it matter?” 

He shrugs. “Just lets me know what I’m in for.” 

You take a deep breath, choosing not to respond as you reach for the tray of drinks. 

“I got it,” Bob says, appearing beside you, his hands brushing yours as he takes the tray from the bar. 

You turn to him with a cheesy grin—not hard to fake when you’re looking at someone like Bob. “Thanks, babe.” 

He pauses, eyes flicking between you and the stranger. 

“I was starting to worry,” you say, sliding an arm around his waist. “You were gone so long.” 

Thankfully, Bob’s not an idiot—and this isn’t your first time pulling this move. 

“Sorry,” he says, falling into it with ease. “There was a line.” He glances at the guy. “Hey, I’m—uh—her boyfriend. Bob.” His cheeks flush lightly. “And you are?” 

The guy hesitates, his eyes darting between the two of you. Then he steps back. “Got it. No worries. Have a good night.” 

As soon as he’s gone, you drop your arm and step away, breath catching—not from the strange guy, but from the heat still lingering between you and Bob. The weight of his body beside yours. The feel of your fingers pressed into his waist. The clean scent of him, warm skin and sharp cologne. It’s dizzying. And familiar. And still somehow too much. 

“Thanks,” you murmur as you fall into step beside him, following him toward the others crowded around the pool table. 

“No worries,” he mutters, eyes focused on the drinks. 

Once you reach the group, everyone takes their drinks and gets back to their conversations—which mostly consists of trash-talking between Bradley and Jake. You and Bob find two stools nearby to occupy while watching the game play out. 

“Why do you do that?” he asks suddenly, turning to you with a slight frown. 

You glance at him. “Do what?” 

“Shut guys down all the time,” he says. “Tell them I’m your boyfriend.” 

“Oh.” You lean back a little, trying—and failing—to read his expression. “I guess I’m just not interested. And it’s easier to say I’ve got a boyfriend than deal with rejecting them outright. Safer, too. You never know what someone might say or do if they feel slighted. Especially after a few drinks. So... I use you. Does it bother you?” 

He shakes his head. “No. Just curious.” 

You nod, then glance back toward the pool table. “Okay.” 

There’s a short pause before he adds, “But why don’t you give any of them a shot?” 

You frown. “What, like... why don’t I date?” 

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I know you’ve dated before, but I don’t think I’ve seen you go on a single date since I got to North Island.” 

Wow. Shocking insight. Maybe he’s not as observant as you thought. 

You snort softly. “Are you saying I should date more?” 

“I don’t see why not,” he says, eyes dropping to the floor. “You get hit on all the time.” 

You roll your eyes. “I do not get hit on all the—” 

“Yes,” he cuts in, meeting your gaze again. “You do. All the time. You should hear what half these idiots say about you when you’re not around.” 

A smirk tugs at your lips. “All flattering, I hope?” 

He groans and rubs the bridge of his nose, right where his glasses sit. “You really don’t want to know.” 

You laugh into your drink, taking a long swig before glancing over at him. “Alright, Floyd. Since you’re so concerned—who should I date, then?” 

You know he won’t say it. But you want him to. You want him to say me. Right here in the middle of The Hard Deck, with Natasha eavesdropping and Mickey still ranting about how his flight suit is too tight around the biceps. It wouldn’t be romantic, or particularly special—but you don’t care. You’ve waited long enough. You just want to hear him say he’s tired of guys hitting on you. Tired of Jake’s locker room bullshit. That he wants you to date him. That he wants you. 

“I don’t know,” he mutters, cheeks flushing as he looks back toward the pool table. “Rooster, maybe. He seems like your type.” 

Your heart drops, frustration crawling up under your skin. “My type?” 

“Yeah,” he says. ���Tall, pretty, a little cocky.” 

You narrow your eyes, watching the side of his face. “You think I go for cocky?” 

He doesn’t answer—just shrugs, eyes locked on the game. 

“You’ve known me this long, and that’s what you think?” 

He cuts you a sidelong glance, brows raised just slightly. “You dated a bunch of assholes at the FRS.” 

You stare at him. “A bunch? What, like... two?” 

He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. “Maybe it just felt like more. Every second day someone was asking me for your number.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, right.” 

“No, really,” he says, deadpan. “It was ridiculous.” 

You narrow your eyes, fighting a smile. “I don’t believe you, but whatever.” 

Your gaze drifts back to the pool game, watching as Jake leans in for a shot, easily sinking two balls and earning a hard eye-roll from Bradley. 

“Anyway,” you say, glancing back at Bob. “I haven’t exactly seen you dating since you got here.” 

Not that you really want to see him dating. Not unless it’s you. 

He shrugs again. “Wasn’t talking about me. Was talking about you.” 

You roll your eyes. “Okay, fine. You want me to date? I’ll find someone to date.” 

Then you tip back your beer, draining the rest of it in two burning gulps. Bob blinks, the colour in his cheeks deepening as you smack the empty bottle down on a nearby table. You give him a tight smile before turning toward the pool table, stepping up beside Jake and curling your hand around his bicep. 

“Mind if I play next?” 

Jake’s green eyes sparkle as he looks down at you, his gaze devouring every inch of your face now so close to his. 

“Keep touchin’ me like that, darlin’, and I’ll say yes to anything.” 

The rest of the weekend passes in typical fashion. You spend half of it cleaning your apartment and stocking up on groceries for the week, and the other half watching movies with Bob and Natasha. 

Bob doesn’t bring up the whole dating thing again—you’re starting to think he never wanted to bring it up in the first place—and he definitely doesn’t mention how you flirted with Jake for most of Friday night. He does, however, roll his eyes when you laugh at something dumb Jake sends to the group chat. 

By Monday morning, you’re more than ready—and honestly, kind of excited—to start training the squad on F-35s. You even get up extra early, take a little more time with your hair, and spritz on a few extra sprays of perfume. Not for anyone in particular. Definitely not for Bob. 

You’re the first to arrive in the briefing room—of course you are, you’re nearly an hour early—so you start setting up, keeping your hands busy in an attempt to burn off nervous energy. 

Eventually, Maverick and Hondo stroll in, both looking smug with obnoxiously oversized travel mugs full of coffee. 

“Mornin’, Lucky,” Hondo says, dropping into a seat in the front row. 

“Hondo,” you say with a smile. “Mav.” 

“Ready to wrangle a room full of overconfident aviators?” Maverick asks, settling into the chair beside him. 

You take a deep breath and face the room, hands on your hips. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Got any tips?” 

He grins. “Try not to sweat—they can smell fear. Don’t be afraid to pull rank, either. You are technically their superior—Lieutenant Commander.” He pauses, waiting for your reluctant nod, because you do tend to forget that you outrank them. “And don’t look Floyd in the eye, or you’ll get flustered.” 

Your mouth drops open. 

Hondo chuckles. “And that’s not a general rule. That one’s just for you.” 

Your eyes flick to him, heat creeping into your cheeks. 

Maverick laughs. “Uh oh. Maybe we shouldn’t have flustered her right before the children arrive.” 

“Who are you calling children?” Bradley asks, stepping through the doorway with a suspicious frown. 

Maverick and Hondo giggle like schoolkids, clearly thrilled to spend the next few weeks not running the show. 

“Why’s Lucky all red?” Mickey asks, trailing in behind Bradley. 

Reuben’s next, followed by Javy and Jake a few seconds later. 

You shake your head and clear your throat, pretending to shuffle through papers like it’ll somehow erase the mortification of Captain Pete fucking Mitchell knowing about your very inconvenient crush on one of his lieutenants. 

It isn’t long before Natasha and Bob walk through the door, sliding into two front-row seats and making your heartrate ratchet up. But it’s fine. It’s cool. You can easily look past the front row. Just focus on Jake’s stupidly smug face in the second. 

“Alright,” you say as the digital display flickers to life, revealing a clean model of the F-35. “Welcome to your crash course in fifth-gens.” 

Mickey whoops quietly while the others grin and settle in with wide, eager eyes. 

“The F-35s are in the Navy’s rotation now,” you say, gesturing to the display. “And as an elite unit, you never know when you’ll be called to fly one.” You tap your tablet, watching the display zoom into a detailed cockpit layout. “One seat, all teeth, glass cockpit, full stealth. No one’s holding your hand up here—not even your WSO.” 

“Good,” Reuben grins. “Mine’s bossy.” 

Mickey gasps, spinning toward him in mock betrayal. 

“Yours is unemployed,” you reply, laughing under your breath. “These are single-seat jets.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, pouting like a three-year-old who just got told no. 

Your eyes flick instinctively to Bob—to the other WSO in the room who might have cause to be annoyed—but he’s not. He looks... entranced. Calm and focused. Brows pinched slightly, lips parted, eyes locked. Like he’s hanging on your every word. 

You clear your throat and turn back to the screen. “You already know how to fly. I’m just here to make sure you don’t fly this like you fly your Rhinos. The rules are different. The feel is different. And the margin for error is a hell of a lot thinner.” 

You swipe on your tablet and the diagram shifts to a wireframe helmet interface. 

“Helmet display system, full 360º situational awareness. You don’t need to flip switches anymore—you think, and it’s there. Feels like a video game... until it doesn’t. You screw up in here, and the jet doesn’t just let you know—it makes sure you remember.” 

You glance up—and have to fight the smile rising at how focused they all are. Every one of them watching you like you’re briefing them for an op. 

“We’ll run through some ground school and system orientation,” you say, “then you’ll hit the sim. I’ll be in the control room, and Mav will be breathing down my neck.” 

Maverick chuckles. “Only if you mess up.” 

“So I’ll be fine,” you reply smoothly, not even sparing him a glance. 

Laughter bubbles from the squad—oohs and chuckles layered over each other. But it’s Bob’s expression that makes your breath hitch. Wide-eyed. Pink-cheeked. Watching you like he’s trying to commit every second—every last detail—to memory. 

You blink, heat flaring in your neck, and glance toward the back of the room. “Questions? Comments? Unsolicited opinions?” 

“Yeah,” Jake pipes up. “You free after this?” 

Hondo snorts. “Sure. Right after she drops her standards by about ten thousand feet.” 

The room breaks into laughter as Jake rolls his eyes and flips Hondo the bird, sinking back in his seat. 

“Alright,” you say, laughter still lacing your voice as you reset the display. “Let’s start with a systems brief.” 

The squad moves in a slow wave, rising from their seats and shoulder-bumping their way to the tablets at the front of the room. But Bob hesitates, his gaze lingering on you a beat too long—warm, steady, and unblinking. It settles on your skin like a gentle pressure, like a whispered touch. You feel your cheeks flush and the hairs on the back of your neck rise. 

All from a look. 

God. Maybe you should listen to Maverick’s advice a little better. 

By the end of the day, your voice is hoarse and your cheeks are aching from smiling so hard. You shouldn’t be surprised, but they were easier to teach than you expected. Of course they were—they’re not idiots. They’re highly trained, elite naval aviators. And just because they’re your friends doesn’t mean they’d dare give you a hard time. At least, not in front of their CO. 

After Maverick asks a few questions—mostly about your training plan—he claps you on the back and dismisses the room. The squad filters out, calling their thanks as they go and muttering to each other about everything you just showed them. 

Bob stays behind, still planted in his seat, brows furrowed as he scrolls through something on his phone. It’s not unusual—he used to wait for you after class almost every day at the academy and during the FRS—but still, your heart kicks up just a little. 

“How’d I do?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder as you collect your papers. 

He looks up, a soft smile on his lips. “Amazing, actually.” 

You turn toward him, tilting your head. “You sound surprised.” 

“I am,” he admits. “You made all that tech-speak sound so... easy. No one would ever guess you used to stutter on t’s and p’s giving presentations back at the academy.” 

Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you let out a soft gasp—half scandalised, half amused. “Robert Floyd. How dare you bring that up.” 

He chuckles quietly, ducking his head. “Sorry. It was too easy.” Then he glances up again, dark blue eyes wide and sincere. “But really, you did great. I’m really p-p-proud of you.” 

“Dude!” you exclaim, staring at him in disbelief as he laughs a little harder. 

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face—especially not with the way Bob is laughing, shoulders curled, cheeks pink, and his smile lighting up his whole face with something stupidly charming. 

“I can’t believe you,” you say, hugging your notebook to your chest. “You’re going to blow my cover as a super cool, incredibly sexy fighter pilot.” 

He shrugs. “You can still be super cool and incredibly sexy with a stutter.” 

Your cheeks burn even hotter, and you quickly turn back to the desk looking for an excuse not to look at him—picking up a pen you’re pretty sure isn't yours. 

“Want to grab dinner?” he asks. 

When you turn back around, he’s standing—tall and adorable in the most infuriatingly delicious way. The kind of way that shouldn’t make your chest ache and your thighs clench... and yet, here you are. 

“Sounds good,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “What’re you thinking?” 

“Pizza?” 

You nod and move toward the door, stepping into the corridor ahead of him and starting down the hall. A brief stretch of quiet follows, broken only by the soft clunk of your boots against the vinyl floor—not awkward, just a little... tense. Or maybe that’s just you. Because for some reason, Bob smells especially good today. He looks especially good too—hair slightly tousled, cheeks pink, and brows drawn as he clearly gets caught up in whatever’s on his mind. 

Then he glances at you. “The other night—Friday night—at the bar...” 

You raise an eyebrow. “What about it?” 

“Did—” He pauses, breath hitching as he looks away. “Did you go home with him?” 

You stop walking. “With who?” 

He hesitates, stopping one step ahead before turning back to face you. “Hangman.” 

Your eyes go wide. “What the fuck? No.” 

“Oh,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just... Phoenix said—” 

“Phoenix is messing with you,” you cut in, brow furrowed. “Why the hell would I go home with Hangman?” 

He shrugs. “You two looked pretty friendly. I thought maybe—” 

“Okay, give me some credit,” you say flatly. “I do still value my dignity. And for the record—cocky isn’t really my type.” 

He glances at you, eyes curious beneath a gentle frown. “Then... what is your type?” 

You open your mouth, but hesitate. You know what you want to say—that it’s him. It’s always been him. But you can’t. Because you’re too damn chickenshit, even after all these years. Even with him looking at you like that.  

“I—I don’t know,” you mutter, starting to walk again. “But whatever it is, it isn’t Hangman.” 

There’s a short pause—only brief—before he mumbles, “Okay... good.” 

Good? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? 

The word bounces around in your head all evening. When you’re not talking to Bob about pizza toppings, tomorrow’s lesson plan, or whatever bizarre National Geographic doc he’s just watched, you’re thinking about that damn word. 

Good. 

It’s so maddeningly vague it practically echoes off your apartment walls the second you slam the door shut behind you. 

Good? 

Who does he think he is, trying to validate your taste in men? You don’t need his opinion. You don’t need his approval. You don’t need Bob Floyd acting like he gets a say in who you do or don’t go home with. 

Good. 

Seriously? The fucking audacity. Every time you think maybe—just maybe—Bob isn’t like other men, he says something infuriating like that. 

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing yourself face-first onto your bed. “Fucking good.” 

A minute later, your phone pings. You grope blindly across the duvet until your fingers close around it, then roll your head to the side, squinting at two notifications from Bob. 

BOB FLOYD 

📎 [Image attachment] 

‘Look what I found at the bottom of my drawer… those ridiculous Canada moose boxers.’ 

And there he fucking is. 

Standing in front of his bedroom mirror. Shirtless. Hair still damp from the shower. Wearing nothing but a sweet smile and those goddamn novelty boxers you bought him as a joke two Christmases ago—bright red, with tiny maple leaves and cartoon moose that say eh? across the waistband. 

Holy fuck. 

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain short-circuits. You can’t do anything but stare. Not even breathe. 

His body is glorious—which is something you’ve known, but never been intimate with. And holy shit, if you’re not about to get intimate with this fucking photo. 

He looks like some Greek god carved from alabaster. All smooth muscle and obvious strength, like he moonlights as a Michelangelo sculpture. 

It’s obscene. This photo is ridiculous. He has to know what he’s doing. Surely he’s not that naïve. 

And what the fuck are you supposed to reply with? 

You scramble upright, breathing hard, holding your phone so close to your face the screen fogs up and— 

Oh my God. You’ve got your fucking read receipts on. 

You need to do something. Say something—anything—before he realises what a complete creep you’re being just sitting here, staring at this photo. 

With trembling hands, you type the first thing that comes to mind: ‘Aw! Cute!’ 

“…Cute?” you repeat out loud, staring at your phone. 

A little notification pops up beneath your message. 

Read. Immediately. 

“Cute?!” you say again, more outraged now. “What’s fucking cute about that, you idiot?” 

You scroll up and tap the photo again—the one that is anything but cute. 

Your face is burning. Your brain is mush. You need help. Professional help. 

But first… 

You need an hour alone with your vibrator, eyes squeezed shut, and that image burned into the backs of your eyelids. 

- 

Bob doesn’t send you another photo of his moose boxers. 

The next morning, he just texts to ask if you want him to pick you up a coffee on his way into work—and you say yes. You don’t talk about the photo. Or the boxers. At all. 

But you can’t stop thinking about it. 

You can’t even look at him without picturing those ridiculous boxers and that even more ridiculous bulge—which only gets more obvious the more times you go back to check the photo. You’re honestly thinking about just saving it to your camera roll. Because what if you accidentally double-tap and react to it? You should’ve just done that at the start—but no. No, you said ‘Aw! Cute!’ like some proud mother seeing her son in his soccer jersey for the first time. 

And of course, you and Bob talk every day, so the thread just keeps moving on—but you’re not. You have to scroll all the way back up every time. Then he sends something else and it jumps to the bottom, which means you have to start all over again. 

Honestly, it’s getting a bit ridiculous. You were staring at it the other day in the middle of the goddamn mess hall, like some depraved freak. 

Or maybe you’re just deprived. Maybe you just need to get laid so you can stop ogling your best friend like he’s the finest cut of perfectly cooked steak and you haven’t eaten in a week. 

“Lucky?” Hondo says, interrupting your spiralling thoughts with a quirked brow. “You good?” 

You shake your head, blinking until the data feeds in front of you snap back into focus. 

“Shit, sorry,” you mutter, clearing your throat. 

You hit a few buttons and flip the comms switch. 

“Rooster,” you say, eyes on the external visuals of Bradley’s current sim mission. “Radar contacts at three and seven o’clock. Engage with BVR missiles on my mark. Weapons hot?” 

“Weapons hot, Lucky,” he responds. “AIM-120 locked on three o’clock target.” 

Your gaze flicks to the instrument panel and HUD feed—seeing what he’s seeing. 

“And try not to light up the whole sky this time,” Mav cuts in dryly—his professionalism fading as the day drags on. “Last sim, you nearly cooked Hondo’s coffee with that missile launch.” 

Hondo chuckles. “That was a precision strike. Coffee was inferior.” 

“Copy that, Mav,” Rooster replies, grin audible. “Engaging now. Fox-three.” 

Your eyes bounce between the radar, sensor data, and pilot input feedback, tracking his procedure. Then the simulated missile launch sound fills your headset. 

“Target’s going down,” you say. “Good shot, Rooster. Keep it tight—bandits are manoeuvring fast. Radar lock at five o’clock. High-G turn recommended.” 

“Got it. Pulling seven Gs. Lining up for a guns pass.” 

“Hope you’re smoother than your last attempt,” Mav says. “Remember, trigger discipline.” 

Bradley chuckles. “Roger that. I’m a professional… mostly.” 

Maverick laughs too, lounging back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying not being the one in charge. You roll your eyes and refocus on the data feeds, watching as Bradley successfully finishes the sim. 

“All targets neutralised. Nice run, Rooster.” 

“What was my time?” he asks eagerly. 

“You’ll find out in Monday’s debrief,” you reply. 

“Did I beat Hangman?” 

You roll your eyes. “Sim complete. Control out.” 

You cut the comms and turn to Maverick. “Want to call it a day?” 

He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It is Friday. We could give them a choice.” 

You arch a brow, silently asking him to elaborate. 

“Go home or let the back-seaters have a go in the hot seat.” 

Your lips curl into a smirk. “Oh, I think I know what the answer is going to be.” 

Ten minutes later, after Hondo retrieves the rest of the squad from the debrief room, Mickey is seated in the pilot’s seat and the others are crammed into the control booth behind you. The excitement is palpable—everyone watching the data feeds with a mix of curiosity and anticipation. 

“Alright, Fanboy,” you say through the control mic, flipping a few switches on your console. “You’re up.” 

“What’s the scenario?” he asks, adjusting the straps like they might protect him from what’s coming. 

“Nothing fancy,” you reply. “Just a soft sim. Basic intercept, two bogeys, no weapons fire. You’re just flying the pattern.” 

“So… a baby sim?” 

“Basically. You’ll be fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

“Which one is go?” he asks, pointing vaguely at the throttle quadrant. 

You slap your forehead. “You’re joking, right?” 

“I’m not a pilot,” he says, almost offended. “My job is to press the red button and whisper sweet nothings to the radar.” 

“That explains so much,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “It’s the throttle. Left side. The big one.” 

“Oh. Sure. Of course. Totally knew that.” 

He moves it gingerly, like it might explode—and the sim lurches forward, making him let out a sound that’s way too close to a yelp. 

From behind you, Reuben cackles. “Dude’s gonna crash before he clears the runway.” 

“Shut up!” Fanboy shouts from inside the cockpit. “I am a majestic flying machine.” 

You snort. “You are a danger to national security.” 

“Luckyyy,” he whines, tipping his head back against the seat. “Help me. I’m in a metal coffin and I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

You sigh—loudly—and get up, grabbing your headset as you move out of the control booth. 

“I’m coming in,” you mutter. 

You swing the cockpit open and climb inside like you’ve done a thousand times before, stepping up beside him. 

“Okay,” you say, leaning forward. “Feet off the pedals. Hands off everything. Just look at what I’m doing.” 

“Yes, sir,” he says with a little salute. “Watching and learning.” 

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “You’re lucky I like you.” 

“I know,” he says, grinning now. 

You flip the right switches, get him levelled, and the sim steadies out. 

He exhales. “Okay. Okay. I’m flying. Right?” 

“You’re flying,” you say. “Barely. But still.” 

He glances up at you. “Am I your worst student ever?” 

“Top three,” you say sweetly. “But I have faith. Now throttle up. We’ve got some baby bogeys to chase.” 

Mickey grips the controls for dear life, knuckles turning white. The sim jerks forward awkwardly as he pushes the throttle, and you can practically hear the panic rising in his voice. “Uh… okay. I think I’m moving? Maybe?” 

You step closer, trying not to crack a smile. “Just keep it steady. You’re flying a jet, not trying to take off in a rocket.” 

He leans forward, squinting at the instruments. “Which one’s the afterburner? The big red button?” 

“Don’t touch the big red button,” you snap, slapping his hand away. “Just keep the nose up. Remember your basic turns—left, right, not a nosedive.” 

The sim bucks suddenly. 

“Oh no! No, no, no!” he exclaims, eyes wide and face pale. 

You bite back a grin, keeping your voice steady. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Just… don’t crash.” 

But it’s too late. 

The simulated alarms start blaring and the screen flashes red: Warning! Critical altitude! 

“Fuck! Uh, do I pull up? Or…” 

“You eject,” you say dryly. 

“Eject?!” Mickey’s voice cracks as he looks frantically across the controls. “How do I do that?” 

You point at the eject handle. “That thing right there. Pull it now before you break the simulator.” 

With a loud mechanical whoosh, the sim jolts violently as Mickey’s ‘ejection’ sequence initiates. 

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Well, that was impressive. The quickest crash I’ve ever seen. But hey—points for dramatic exit.” 

Mickey groans, covering his face with his hands. “Can we try again? But with less dying?” 

You pat his shoulder. “Maybe next week. I think you need a little more ground school.” 

He sighs and stands up, hanging his head as he exits the cockpit. You can only imagine the scene waiting for him in the control booth, a small part of you actually feeling a little sorry for him. Because if these pilots are anything, it’s cocky—and the last thing they need is someone, especially a squadmate, proving that what they do is kind of legendary. 

“Alright, Floyd,” you say into your headset, feeling heat curl behind your ribs. “You’re up.” 

A few minutes later, Bob climbs into the cockpit, adjusting his headset as he awkwardly manoeuvres into the pilot’s seat.  

“Do you want me in or out?” you ask, trying not to sound like you want to stay in the cramped space with him. 

His eyes are wide as they scan the control panel. “Uh, in. Please. If that’s okay.” 

You nod, biting your bottom lip to hide a stupid grin. “Of course.” 

He settles in, straps up, and lets his hands hover hesitantly over the controls. 

“Mav,” you say, “is the sim reset?” 

“Confirming sim reset. You’re good to go,” he replies. 

“Okay, Bobby.” You lean in beside him, ignoring how his warmth wraps around you—his scent filling your nose and making your head spin. “You ready?” 

He nods, jaw tight, eyes locked on the instruments in front of him. 

“Alright, relax. You’ve got this,” you mutter, shifting just a little bit closer. “Feet on the pedals. Throttle up slowly.” 

He moves cautiously, brows drawn, and the sim lurches forward—but not violently—before steadying under his grip. 

“See,” you say with a soft smile. “Already doing better than Fanboy.” 

He chuckles quietly, almost breathless. 

“Now keep her steady.” 

“Trying,” he mutters, eyes flicking between the HUD and display screens like he’s done this a hundred times—except for the white-knuckled grip giving him away. “This is a lot harder in practice.” 

You laugh softly. “This is the fun part.” 

He exhales hard through his nose, adjusting his grip. “Are they supposed to be this sensitive?” 

“They’re not sensitive. You’re just heavy-handed,” you say, nudging his wrist lightly. “Small movements. Gentle.” 

He hums like he’s not sure he believes you, but follows the instruction anyway. 

You lean a little closer, pointing to a flashing radar contact. “You’ve got one on your left—easy turn, then line up a missile lock.” 

Bob squints at the data, then at you. “Define easy.” 

“You know, not what Fanboy did.” 

He huffs another quiet laugh, fingers moving more confidently now as he banks slightly left and steadies his line. 

“There we go,” you say. “See? Not so bad.” 

His eyes flick toward you, only for a second. “Only ‘cause you’re here.” 

You glance at him—but his focus is already back on the screens, tongue caught between his lips in concentration. Your heart thuds a little harder, breath catching as the cockpit suddenly feels a whole lot smaller. 

You’re crouched beside him—arm pressed against his, knee nudging his thigh—and all you can think about is that goddamn image of him in those stupid little boxers and everything it did to your insides. 

If it weren’t for the cameras, live feeds, and multi-million-dollar equipment in here, you might be seriously considering jumping his bones right now. 

“Uh, Lucky,” Bob says, clearing his throat. “Noise.” 

You shake your head, refocusing. “Alright, you’ve got tone. Fire.” 

“Fox three,” he says, flicking the switch—and the target explodes a beat later. 

You grin. “Nice shot.” 

He looks over at you again, eyes wide and shining, cheeks pink, and chest rising a little too quickly. “What’s next?” 

“Bring her around. Evasive manoeuvre. You’ve got a bogey on your six.” 

He shifts quickly, throttle pulling back. 

“Flaps down. Come into a right bank,” you instruct, watching him move a little smoother this time. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says under his breath, completely focused. 

It shouldn’t make your pulse spike. Or have you shifting your weight, pressing your thighs together, suddenly too aware of your own skin. It shouldn’t mean a damn thing. 

Yet those few words, coming out of his mouth, tighten that knot behind your hipbones until it aches. 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter. 

“What?” he snaps, panic lacing his tone. 

“No—Nothing. Just pull up five degrees, you’re drifting.” 

He does so without hesitation. 

Your eyes flick across the data feeds, checking everything like it’s second nature—because for you, it is. It’s as easy as breathing. 

“I’m impressed, Floyd,” you say, offering a small smile. “With a little more practice, you could probably swap seats with Phoenix.” 

Natasha’s voice crackles in your headset a second later: “No way he’d be flying this well without his lucky charm. So unless you’re planning to ride on his lap, I think I’ll stay on the stick.” 

Bob’s eyes go wide, and the sim shudders as he struggles to maintain control. An alarm blares, but you’re already moving, one hand wrapping around his to keep the sim steady—and avoid another Mickey-style disaster. 

“You told them?” he asks, not angry—just flustered. 

You glance sideways at him, still holding steady, a sheepish smile pulling at your lips. “Phoenix saw my name in your phone. She guessed.” 

He shuts his eyes with a sigh, cheeks flushing. 

“Hey!” you nudge him with your knee. “Pilots don’t get to fly with their eyes closed. Focus.” 

He huffs a breath, straightening in his seat, brow furrowed again. “Right. Sorry. I got it.” 

“You sure?” 

He nods, firm, and you slowly let go, easing back into position beside him. 

The sim levels out, alarms silenced, radar clear—and Bob exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time. 

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s bring her in. Easy descent. Keep your nose up just a touch—perfect. Throttle back.” 

He moves with steady hands now, more confident than when he started, guiding the simulated jet toward the landing zone with practiced care. The wheels touch down on virtual tarmac, and the whole simulator gives a soft jolt before going still. 

The screen flashes: MISSION COMPLETE. 

You blink, a little stunned. “Holy shit.” 

Bob whips off the headset, hair mussed, cheeks flushed. “Did I actually—?” 

“That was amazing,” you say, grinning at him. “You nailed that.” 

He scrambles out of the seat, turning toward you, half-tripping over a strap—and— 

He falls forward. 

You try to dodge, but it’s no use. He crashes down on top of you, sending you flat onto your back on the simulator floor, your head knocking against something on the way down. 

“I—sorry—oh, God—” he stammers, eyes wide. 

He braces a hand on either side of your head, face hovering just inches above yours. 

“Are you okay? Your head—” 

Your giggles cut him off, laughter spilling out as you lay beneath him, one hand rubbing your head and the other caught somewhere on his waist. 

“I—I’m okay,” you manage, breathless and blushing, if slightly concussed. “Guess I’m a good luck charm and a crash mat.” 

He lets out a quiet, unsteady laugh, chest pressed flush to yours, breath ghosting over your cheek. 

“Phoenix is right, you know?” he says, voice soft. “I couldn’t have done it without you here.” 

Your laughter fades, breath catching. 

There’s a beat—just one long, tight heartbeat where he leans in, eyes darting between yours and your lips like he might actually do it. Like he’s about to close that distance. 

And then— 

The sim door yanks open with a loud clang. 

“BOBBY!” Mickey exclaims, his grin upside down from where you’re lying. “Oh, shit, are you two making out?” 

Bob scrambles to his feet, very awkwardly given the severe lack of space. “No! I wasn’t—I didn’t—” 

“Technically, he tackled me,” you say, sitting up and holding out a hand for Bob to help you. 

Once you’re both upright, you climb out of the sim and into the chaos of the squad, all cheering and clapping like he just landed an actual carrier op. 

“Hell yeah, Floyd!” Javy says, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. 

Reuben chuckles. “I thought you were gonna puke, but that was clean as hell!” 

Natasha smirks, arms folded as she steps up. “Guess that lucky charm really works.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool—but your skin is still humming, your heart still racing. And Bob? 

Bob won’t stop glancing your way. Because the mission might be over, but whatever just happened between you two is still very much mid-flight. 

After everything calms down, Maverick congratulates Bob on not crashing—giving Mickey a very pointed look—and dismisses the squad. They gather their things from the briefing room and file out slowly, leaving you to finish filing the post-sim report. 

“We’ll meet you outside?” Natasha asks, hesitating at the door. 

You nod. “Yep. Won’t be long.” 

“Good. We’re going to the bar to celebrate Bob’s success and Mickey’s disaster.” 

You snort softly, eyes dropping back to the tablet in your hand. “Sounds good.” 

Her footsteps fade down the hall, and you type through the report with quick, practiced fingers. 

Your heart still feels like it’s in your throat, beating too fast and too hard. Your cheeks are hot, your lungs are tight, and you swear you can still feel every inch of where Bob’s body had been pressed against yours. And God—it was a lot. 

If you’re honest, you don’t really want to go to the bar. Not just because you’re there too often already—but because you’d rather go home and get off to that stupid picture of Bob in his moose boxers while thinking about his body on top of yours. 

You shake your head, exhale hard, and tap ‘submit’ on the report. Then you tuck the tablet into your bag, throw it over your shoulder, and flick the lights off on your way out. 

The corridor is dim, lit only by the glow of late-evening sun spilling through the high windows, washing the vinyl floor in hazy orange. You can hear chatter up ahead—probably the squad, waiting—and you pick up your pace. 

But then you hear your name. Not your callsign—your name. 

“As in Lucky?” a voice says, incredulous. “She flies F-35s now?” 

“Yeah,” Bob replies, his voice unmistakable. “She’s really good. A great teacher, too. She—” 

“She’s fucking hot,” the other guy interrupts. 

You frown, slowing your steps as you edge closer to the wall. The voice is familiar—but you just can’t place it. 

“I was always jealous of you, man,” the guy says. “Back in flight school you and her were close. And at the FRS. Don’t tell me nothing ever happened.” 

“No,” Bob says quickly. “We’re just friends.” 

“Shame. Still hot though, right?” 

“Um... I guess.” Bob’s voice tightens—strained and uncomfortable. 

“C’mon, man, relax. She’s a smoke show.” 

There’s a brief pause. Then Bob clears his throat. 

“I don’t really like talking about people that way. Especially not her.” 

“What, you’re not into her?” 

“She’s my friend,” Bob says, like that answers everything. 

“Not what I asked,” the guy chuckles. “You into her or not? Because I’m not stepping on your toes, but if she’s fair game—” 

Your heart thuds, heavy and fast, caught high in your throat. 

“No,” Bob says. “I’m not into her. She’s a friend. I wouldn’t go there.” 

That stings—but what comes next carves the breath right out of your lungs. 

“She’s too intense,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice. “She’s reckless, and she can be selfish. She—She's not worth the trouble. There’s too much baggage.” 

Your stomach drops. Hard. 

Each word hits you square in the chest, knocking you breathless. Your head swims. Your vision blurs—not just from tears, but from that unmoored, disoriented rush that hits when the floor drops out from under you. 

“Who cares about baggage?” the guy asks with a low laugh. “As long as she’s not selfish in bed—” 

You turn fast, bracing a hand against the wall to steady yourself. You can’t listen anymore. 

Tears fall freely now, and you don’t even care. You walk—back the other way, toward the far door, away from the voices. Away from him. You’ll take the long way around base if you have to. It doesn’t matter. You just need to get home. 

Your ears ring. Your skin prickles. The sting in your eyes sharpens into something meaner, hotter—like your tears are trying to scald their way out. 

His voice replays in your head, cold and clinical, like you’re a job hazard or some inconvenient mess he has to manage. Not worth the trouble? Too intense? Baggage? 

Fuck. That. 

Your hands are fists before you even realise it, nails biting your palms, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. He doesn’t get to talk about you like that. Not after everything. Not like you’re just some reckless, selfish… thing. 

Not when he knows you. Not when he was just hovering over you, whispering soft words, looking at you like maybe you meant something. 

The heat builds behind your ribs, under your skin, in the back of your throat. You want to yell. To throw something. To go back and make him say it to your face. But you don’t. 

You wipe your cheeks with the heel of your hand, set your shoulders, and walk faster—like you’re chasing down a storm, or maybe just trying to outrun it. 

- 

That night, your phone doesn’t stop. Messages pour in from the squad—asking where you are, if you’re okay, when you’re coming to the bar. Bob even calls. Four times. But you don’t answer. Instead, you send a single text to the group chat saying you felt sick and had to go home. Technically, not a lie. 

You barely sleep. You toss and turn for hours, drafting messages you’ll never send and crying into your pillow until you’re too exhausted to cry anymore. By four a.m., you give up. You pull on your gym clothes, lace up your sneakers, and run to the beach like you’re trying to outrun years of friendship. 

You spend the whole weekend in self-imposed exile, licking your wounds like a cornered animal. No music. No TV. No calls. You just want to sit in it—the heartbreak, the fury, the raw, awful ache of it all—because for once, you don’t want to get over it. 

Because it was Bob. 

Bob Floyd, who’s been sweet and steady and quietly wonderful since the day you first met him—always looking at you like you’re the only thing that really matters. He knows you, sometimes even better than you know yourself. 

Or at least, you thought he did. And maybe that’s what hurts the most. 

Because you’ve loved him, in one way or another, for a long time. And now he’s the one who broke your heart. 

Sweet, considerate, doe-eyed Bob Floyd. 

Fuck that guy. 

By Monday morning, you’re feeling a lot less dramatic and a lot more focused on work. You just want to get this little program done, get the squad up to date with fifth-gens, and then you can go about avoiding Bob Floyd until one of you inevitably gets restationed. But until then, you have to at least be civil. You don’t have a choice. 

The squad is already half-settled when you walk into the briefing room, just a couple of minutes late—intentionally. If you arrived any earlier, someone might’ve tried to talk to you. Joke around. Ask where you’ve been. And you’re not really in the mood for chit-chat. 

So you walk in with a neutral expression, eyes trained forward, coffee in one hand and tablet in the other. 

From the corner of your eye, you can see Bob sitting in his usual spot at the front, hands folded tight in his lap. He glances up the second the door opens—and breathes. It’s so visible it’s almost a shudder, like he’s been holding it in all weekend. 

“Oh, she’s alive,” Jake says, elbowing Javy beside him. 

You don’t answer. You just keep walking until you reach the desk, setting your coffee down before turning to face the room. 

“Let’s talk about Friday,” you say, tapping your tablet to wake it up. “Three out of five of you got tagged within the first five minutes of simulated contact. That’s a problem.” 

There’s a long beat of silence. A few glances are exchanged, but no one calls attention to the fact that you’re clearly skipping over the usual ‘good morning’ or any of the soft lead-ins you normally give. No one dares. 

Bob’s eyes stay locked on you, his brow drawn in quiet worry. He doesn’t look away all morning. Not once. 

And you don’t look at him at all. 

After going through BVR refresh and radar discipline, you give Maverick a nod and he calls lunch. You keep your head down, eyes on your tablet, fussing with it as the soft shuffle of feet out the door fills the room. 

Maverick walks up to you, says something about a meeting he’s being forced to attend this afternoon, and you give him a nod. Then he walks out and the room goes quiet. Until— 

“Hey,” Bob mutters, still sitting in his seat. 

You turn your back on him, placing your tablet on the desk and picking up your phone. “Hi.” 

“That thing work?” he asks. 

“What thing?” 

“Your phone.” 

“Oh,” you say flatly. “Funny.” 

Silence stretches between you—thick and heavy—full of words left unsaid, and a few that never should’ve been heard. 

“So,” he finally says, pushing to stand, “you feeling okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mutter, opening your email like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Just an upset stomach. I’m fine now.” 

“Really?” he presses, stepping closer. 

You sigh heavily and look up—not at him, just at the back of the room. “Really, Bob. I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t answer your calls, I felt like shit. Just wanted to sleep and watch movies.” 

“What’d you watch?” 

“Back to the Future,” you say—too quickly, without thinking. 

And shit. Why would you admit to spending the whole weekend watching one of his favourite movies? 

“Without me?” he asks, full of mock-offense. 

Your lips twitch, and you hate that they do. So you take a deep, steadying breath and turn to face him—eyes locking with his, your expression dangerously neutral. 

“Do you need something?” 

He frowns. “What do you—” 

“Like do you have a question about what we just debriefed or...?” 

“Oh.” He blinks. “Um, no.” 

You nod. “Okay, good. Then you should go to lunch.” 

He stares at you for a moment, eyes darting across your face, trying to decode what you’re very carefully hiding. But he can’t, because you’ve been perfecting this cool, practiced nonchalance for the past forty-eight hours and you know you have it down pat. 

“Okay,” he mutters. “Lunch. Are—Are you coming too?” 

You shake your head and turn back to the desk. “No, sorry. I’m going to be selfish and spend my break reviewing the sim footage I didn’t get to over the weekend.” 

“That’s not—” he hesitates, clearly confused. “That’s not selfish.” 

You whip back around, brows raised. “Isn’t it?” 

There’s another beat—just a brief pause where he looks at you like you’re suddenly some complete stranger. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice soft. 

You nod once. “Yep.” 

Then you turn around, step behind the desk, and drop into the chair, opening your tablet. He stands there for a moment longer, watching you with a furrowed brow, eyes narrowed. But you don’t look at him. You just start pulling up the footage and flipping open your notebook. 

Eventually, he leaves, but not without casting one last glance over his shoulder—looking like a damn kicked puppy. 

You sit in the briefing room trying to focus on sim footage until ten minutes before the end of lunch. Then you sigh, stretch out your limbs, and start packing up your things for the afternoon’s training. You’re halfway to the sim building when your phone buzzes with a text from Maverick: 

‘Hondo got pulled into this meeting. Use the WSOs in the booth.’ 

Great. More time with Bob. And this time, the room’s even smaller. 

With another heavy sigh, you continue making your way toward the building—dragging your feet through hallways and up the stairs until you reach the tech staff for the usual system readiness checks. Once everything’s good to go, you sign on as controller and head into the prep room where the squad is waiting. 

“No time to waste,” you say, skipping any kind of greeting. “Hangman, you’re up first. Bob, Fanboy—you’re in the booth with me. Let’s move. 

Then you turn and walk out, the only sign they’re following you the quiet shuffle of boots behind you. 

You get Jake set up in the sim, then slip into the control booth, taking the farthest seat and pulling your headset on without a word. Mickey settles hesitantly beside you, and Bob takes the last seat—now one person too far away to read whatever expression is on your face. 

“I’ll handle comms,” you say without looking up. “Monitor the readouts, call out any anomalies. Stay focused, watch what I do, and you can run one of the later sessions.” 

“Copy,” Mickey replies. 

“Copy,” Bob mutters. 

You can feel his eyes on you, boring into the side of your face. He’s leaning forward—very unsubtly—watching you with a creased brow as Mickey pretends not to notice the suffocating tension in the booth. 

“Hangman, you ready?” 

“When you are, boss.” 

You tap the screen, starting the sequence. “Simulation beginning. Weapons hot in thirty seconds.” 

Your eyes stay locked on the data feeds, one hand adjusting the sim’s tracking overlay, the other scribbling notes into your tablet. Everything is running clean—Jake’s flying sharp, you’re locked in, and for a moment, it almost feels easy. Peaceful. 

But still, you feel Bob’s gaze. Heavy. Relentless. You don’t look at him, but you know he’s watching—trying to read between your words, between your silences, between the way you didn’t so much as glance in his direction when you walked in. 

“Hangman, confirm radar lock,” you say, fingers flying over the controls with practiced ease. 

“Confirmed. Two-band lock at forty-five miles. Tracking steady.” 

“Maintain altitude for another thirty seconds, then begin a slow descent to angels eighteen. Push to intercept on bandit two.” 

“Copy that. Repositioning.” 

A beat later, Mickey pipes up, “Hey, I’m seeing a drift on the right bank—check pitch trim, two percent off.” 

“Good catch,” you say, glancing at the readout to confirm. “Hangman, adjust pitch trim two percent to port. You’re drifting wide.” 

“On it. Thanks, Fanboy.” 

You glance over at Mickey, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Nice eyes.” 

He throws you a cheeky wink before turning back to the screen. You try not to look at Bob—but you can’t help it. His cheeks are redder now, his eyes wider, and he looks… indignant. 

After Jake, Javy jumps in the sim, then Bradley, then Reuben—and for him, you have Mickey run the comms. They work well together, and you only have to jump in once or twice to adjust an instruction. 

Then finally, it’s Natasha’s turn. 

“Bob, comms are yours,” you say. “Mickey, stay on readouts.” 

Bob hesitates just a fraction too long before replying, “Copy.” 

Once Natasha is strapped in and the system’s reloaded, you settle back in your chair beside Mickey. Bob shifts awkwardly two seats down, headset on, posture a little too tight to be comfortable. 

“Pilot ready?” you ask. 

He glances at his monitor. “Ready.” 

You nod. “Run it.” 

The sim lights up again, and Natasha’s voice crackles through the speakers—calm and clipped as she begins her sequence. 

You fold your arms across your chest, eyes on the screen—eyes on Bob. He’s steady at first, brow furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between his lips as he tries to remember the training. But you can feel it—the edge in him. Every call he makes lands a half-second late. Every glance your way lingers too long. 

He’s nervous. And you almost feel bad. Almost. 

But then those words ring through your head—and if he’s going to call you intense like it’s a bad thing, then fine. You’ll stare at him—intensely—until he either screws up or helps Natasha fly this sim clean. 

Your gaze flicks to a warning light, brow furrowing as you sit up straighter. 

“She’s pulling too hard,” Bob says. “She should dump speed before—” 

“That’s not going to cut it in the F-35,” you cut in. “You’ve got to lead the roll differently. Weight’s distributed rearward—she floats differently.” Then you glance at him, eyes narrowed. “You know… all that baggage.” 

There’s a beat of silence. Bob shifts. His eyes flick between you and the screen, nerves creeping higher. 

“We’ll adjust the parameters,” you say, turning back to the screen. 

Your hands move across the controls as you focus on Natasha, reassuring her that she’s flying fine. Bob tries to refocus too—to keep his eyes on the feed and talk her through the next manoeuvre. 

But he can’t. His gaze keeps drifting—toward you, confusion drawn tight across his brow. 

You can see the frustration rising. He doesn’t get it. 

But he knows something’s wrong. 

- Bob - 

After Natasha’s successful sim, you give the squad a quick debrief before mumbling something about catching Maverick before he heads home. Bob wants to stop you—to say something, anything, just to get you to talk to him—but you don’t give him the chance. You slip out while he’s stuck in conversation with Reuben and Mickey, too polite to cut them off. 

Eventually, everyone leaves the debrief room and starts walking across base—to their cars, the barracks, or in Javy’s case, the pharmacy, because he’s now convinced he got mono from the girl he hooked up with over the weekend. 

“Coyote, if you go to medical one more time this month, they’re going to assign you your own parking spot,” Natasha says, watching him split away from the group. 

“My lymph nodes are, like, throbbing, dude,” Javy replies. “It’s definitely mono.” 

Jake snorts. “Or maybe it’s rabies and you’re on the countdown clock. We’ve got—what—forty-eight hours till you start foaming at the mouth?” 

“My bet’s on mono,” Reuben says. “That girl was way too hot to have rabies.” 

“Exactly!” Javy calls, now walking backwards. “And I’m exhausted. It’s definitely mono.” 

“You’re always exhausted,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes. 

“That’s ‘cause his standards are low and his stamina’s even lower,” Natasha mutters with a smirk. 

“What was that, Phoenix?” Javy asks, already halfway down the path. 

“Nothing!” she calls back. “Good luck! Maybe you’ll finally get that cute receptionist’s number!” 

The group laughs, because everyone knows Javy has been trying—and failing—for months to get her number. 

“Doubt it,” Jake says, veering off toward the parking lot. “Dude’s got no game.” 

One by one, they all drop off—until it’s just Bob and Natasha. The two of them walk in silence for a few minutes. An easy, companionable kind of quiet while Bob loses himself in his own gnawing thoughts. 

“Okay,” Natasha says, stopping suddenly. “What’s wrong? You look like someone just cancelled Christmas.” 

Bob glances up. “Hm?” 

“Don’t hm me,” she says, propping a hand on her hip. “You’ve been weird all day. What’s going on?” 

“I don’t know, I just—” 

“Is this about Lucky?” 

His stomach drops, nausea creeping up his throat until he’s pretty sure he can taste what he ate for lunch. He hesitates, meeting Natasha’s stare—keen eyes narrowed, brows raised. She’s not letting up anytime soon, so he might as well spill. 

He sighs. “Yeah. Don’t you think she’s acting… off?” 

Nat shrugs. “Maybe. A little. But everyone’s allowed to have a bad day. What makes you think it’s personal?” 

“She ignored me all weekend, and she hasn’t smiled at me once today.” 

Natasha rolls her eyes. “So? She doesn’t owe you a smile every day, Floyd. And she said she was sick. Maybe something happened that you don’t know about.” 

“But she tells me everything,” he mutters. 

“Oh my God,” Natasha groans. “You sound so entitled right now. Just because you’ve been friends forever doesn’t mean she owes you constant access. If she’s having a hard time, maybe stop thinking about yourself and just give her some space.” 

Bob knows she’s right—at least partly. But he also knows you, and whatever this is, it isn’t just a bad day. 

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Space. Got it.” 

“Good.” She nods. “And then when things go back to normal, you two can go back to pretending you’re not stupidly in love with each other.” 

Bob’s breath hitches. His heart kicks in his chest, stuttering into an uneven rhythm as he looks at her, eyes wide. 

She meets his gaze, unflinching—smug and all too knowing. 

“Please,” she says with a laugh. “It’s so obvious. Don’t even try to deny it.” 

He doesn’t. He can’t. His thoughts are spiralling too fast to land anywhere solid. 

He’s not stupid—he knows he’s in love with you. But the idea of you being in love with him? That feels impossible. 

You’re so passionate, so driven—maybe a little intense, but that’s what makes people follow you. It’s why he trusts you with his life. And, sure, you’re reckless sometimes, but never thoughtless. You lead with your whole heart, and Bob wouldn’t be who he is today without you. 

He knows you—your stories, your scars. He’s kept your secrets, walked with you through fire. Everything you carry—all the history, the experience, the baggage—you’ve never carried it alone. 

He’s been carrying it too. Willingly. 

Because you’ve always been the brightest thing in his life. And that’s exactly why he can’t imagine a world where someone like you could ever love someone like him. 

“Have you stopped breathing?” Natasha asks, brows drawn. 

Bob clears his throat, blinking until his vision refocuses. “Yeah—um, no. I’m okay.” 

She narrows her eyes. “You sure? You look pale.” 

“I am pale,” he says dryly, eyes dropping to his boots. 

She snorts softly as they keep walking, heading in the general direction of the base’s front offices. 

“You coming this weekend?” she asks after a beat. 

Bob frowns. “Where?” 

“Hangman’s birthday.” 

Right. Jake’s birthday party. At a club. Not exactly Bob’s scene. 

“I don’t know, it—” 

“You can’t bail just because you hate clubbing,” she cuts in. “It’s not just another weekend—it’s his birthday. You don’t have to drink, just show up for a couple hours.” 

Bob sighs, still watching his boots move with each step. He knows he’s going. He hates it, but he’ll go. He’s too polite, too well-raised—and Jake is his friend. 

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll come for a bit.” 

“Great,” Nat grins. “Then at least I’ll have you, if Lucky’s still in her mood.” She pauses, tipping her head thoughtfully. “That’s if she even comes.” 

After swinging by base office to pick up the squad mail—since Maverick was too busy today—Natasha drives Bob home. The car ride is quieter than usual, and Nat knows Bob is still trapped in his own head, but she doesn’t press. 

Once home, Bob goes through the usual motions. He strips off his uniform, showers, changes into sweats, and starts making himself dinner. The only step missing is the one where he usually gets off with your name on his lips. 

God, he knows it’s depraved, but he can’t help it. Especially now that you’re stationed on the same damn base. 

Well, except today. Today he can help it, because the guilt weighs heavier than usual. He knows something’s wrong—and he has a sinking feeling it’s something he did. He just can’t figure out what. 

His first thought was that stupid photo he sent—the one with him in moose boxers. He wishes he could say he had no clue what he was thinking, but God, he did. He was thinking that maybe you wouldn’t realise he was sending a damn thirst trap if it carried some other meaning. Some nostalgic, almost innocent meaning. Maybe you’d see it as a joke but still catch the way he was tensing—so fucking hard—in the mirror. Maybe there’d be a moment where he wasn’t just your best friend, but someone you could want for something more. 

“Fuck,” Bob mutters, pressing his forehead against the cold fridge door. “What is wrong with me?” 

Embarrassed doesn’t even begin to cover it. That photo was a lapse in judgment—a desperate Hangman move to get you to look at him differently. And God, did it backfire. 

Cute? You called him cute. 

He shakes his head. Sure, the boxers weren’t exactly sexy, but cute?! 

He wishes he could rewind and stop himself before he became that much of an idiot. But that’s just what you do to him. You make him stupid. That’s been the story since the day he first met you. 

Back at the academy, he was smitten—instantly, though shy at first, a little guarded. Until you wore him down. It didn’t take long before he was snorting at your stupid jokes, grinning like an idiot every time you caught his eye, and spending countless nights in the study hall with you and your secret snacks, sharing headphones. 

Then came flight school. Different tracks—him training as an NFO, you training to be a pilot—meant less time together. But still, you stayed close. You found ways to sneak off, to steal moments, naïvely planning futures that felt just within reach. 

Almost everyone assumed you were a thing, but whenever Bob corrected them, it turned into a whole different game. 

He got so sick of being asked for your number that he started making up ridiculous excuses. 

‘Sorry, she doesn’t have a phone.’ 

‘I would, but it’s encrypted.’ 

‘She only uses Morse code.’ 

‘Do you have any carrier pigeons?’ 

When you both deployed after the FRS, he felt almost relieved. Almost. Until he realised that with him halfway across the world, there was nothing but the relentless demands of military life standing between you and finding a boyfriend—or worse, a husband. 

But as fate would have it—or perhaps dumb luck—you both ended up stationed on North Island together. Single. Very single, as you’d told Jake before shutting him down completely. 

And God, Bob wants nothing more than to make you very un-single, very fucking attached to him. But he just can’t find the guts to do it—not when it might blow up in his face and ruin years of friendship, a bond so precious he’d do anything to protect it. 

If there’s even a bond left to protect. Because right now, Bob Floyd is pretty damn sure you hate him. For something he can’t even remember doing. 

The chime of the oven timer startles him out of his thoughts. He spins around, turns off the heat, grabs a dish towel, and carefully pulls the tray of lasagna out. He lets it cool while cueing up the next Nat Geo doc he’s been wanting to watch, making a little nest of pillows on the couch before settling in with the lasagna in his lap. 

He eats quickly, eyes flicking between the screen, his dinner, and his phone buzzing incessantly on the coffee table. He can tell it’s the group chat, but the messages are popping up too fast to follow. From what he can gather, you’re all talking about Jake’s birthday party. 

When he’s finished eating, he takes his plate to the kitchen, rinses it half-heartedly, and returns to the lounge. He grabs his phone off the table and flops forward onto the cushions, sprawled across the couch, propped up on his elbows as he scrolls through the chat. 

It’s mostly Jake and Javy arguing about their big birthday plans, broken up by Mickey and Reuben’s commentary, Natasha’s sharp little quips, and Bradley just reacting to every second message like he’s not even reading. 

And then... there’s you. 

It started when Nat made some snarky remark about Jake wearing a sparkly suit so no one forgets it’s his birthday. You replied with an innocent comment about not knowing what to wear, and Natasha—naturally—told you to send options. 

So you did. 

The first photo is a mirror selfie in a deep red satin slip dress that barely hits mid-thigh. The fabric clings to your hips and gapes at the chest—like it was designed to slip off a shoulder. One hand holds your phone, the other casually throwing up a peace sign, as if you’re not standing there wrapped in something that could pass for a napkin. 

Bob’s mouth goes dry. His eyes go wide. And he stares for just a little too long. 

The second photo isn’t a selfie—it’s been taken by someone else. Probably on the night you last wore the glittery silver dress. The flash is on and the image is a little blurry, catching you from behind, turning with a smile thrown over your shoulder. There’s a glimpse of thigh, the bare slope of your back, and a glint in your eye that knocks the air out of him. 

He exhales so hard it turns into a groan. With a slight wince, he shifts and adjusts his sweatpants, already regretting every choice that’s led him to this moment. 

The next one is back in the mirror. You’re leaning against your dresser—just out of frame, but Bob knows exactly what your room looks like. The dress is little, black, and absolutely criminal. It fits like sin and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. 

If Bob were standing, he’d need to sit down. But he’s already on the couch, lying down with his now painfully hard dick pressed into the cushions. How the hell do you do this to him with just a few photos? 

The last one is a close-up selfie in your bathroom mirror. The flash is on and you’re standing close, angling the camera low to catch the way the fabric dips between your breasts and hugs your waist like a secret. There’s hardly any of your face in frame—just the hint of a smirk. 

“God,” Bob growls, dropping his head—and his phone—as his hips begin to grind into the cushions. 

This is insane. You are dangerous. Surely you know what you’re doing. You can’t be that naïve. 

He almost hates that the whole squad is watching too—seeing you like this, picturing you in the ways Bob has been picturing you for years. 

With another low groan, he shifts onto his back and stares at the ceiling. After a moment, he shuts his eyes—and instead of pushing them away, he lets every perverted thought he’s ever had of you wash over him. 

Your body draped in that silky red dress. Your lips curled into that sinful little smirk. Your legs, on full display in those ridiculously short skirts. 

He pictures you as he slips his hand beneath his sweats, fingers wrapping around his painfully hard, leaking length—stroking once, then twice. His breath stutters. His free hand grips the cushion beside him, trying to ground himself as his hips lift ever so slightly, chasing more friction. 

He imagines you climbing into his lap, all warm skin and wicked intent, whispering some teasing little comment that sends blood rushing so hard through his body he thinks he might actually lose it. 

His cheeks burn and his heart races, desire and need building in his chest until it’s almost too hard to breathe. 

His breath catches when he pictures you arching into him—skin slick with sweat, hands tangled in his hair, whispering his name like a prayer. 

He ruts up into his hand again, faster this time, lips parted and eyes still shut tight. 

His movements grow faster. Rougher. Desperate. 

God, he knows he shouldn’t—he knows even now—but he can’t stop. 

He pictures your body beneath his—soft gasps filling the air, lips parted, eyes fluttering closed. His hands on your tits, your hips, your ass—anywhere he can reach. Everywhere. Branding you like you’re his to keep. And— 

His body seizes, muscles going tight as pleasure crashes over him in hot, dizzying waves. He spills into his sweats, hips still moving, rutting up and down, chasing the fading heat until all that’s left is a breathless ache. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, collapsing onto the cushions, skin flushed, heart hammering. 

He lies there for a few minutes—sticky and spent—as guilt creeps in... but so does a sharp, undeniable hunger for more. 

Eventually, the insistent buzzing of his phone cuts through the post-orgasm haze, and he reaches for it with his free hand, grabbing it from where it fell beside him on the couch. 

The group chat is still alive with a flood of inappropriate comments and ridiculous emojis from Mickey—all thanks to your photos. Everyone’s got an opinion on which dress you should wear, most leaning toward the last one with the low neckline. 

Then, at the bottom of the thread, Natasha’s name pops up again: ‘Bob, your opinion?’ 

Bob huffs a small, humourless laugh. 

Yeah. His opinion is painted on the inside of his fucking sweatpants. 

- You - 

You only agreed to go to Jake’s birthday because you were pretty sure Bob wouldn’t. 

Okay, that’s not the only reason—Jake’s your friend, and you’re not about to bail on his birthday just because you’re emotionally fragile. But knowing Bob probably wouldn’t show? Yeah, that made it a lot easier to say yes. 

Bob’s never enjoyed clubbing—not that you can blame him—but on top of that, it’s been a weird week. You’ve softened a little, but not much. You stopped shooting him scathing looks or cutting him off mid-sentence, but you’ve still been avoiding him 

You remembered how to laugh with the others—how to joke around—because the squad didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t deserve to suffer just because Bob said the wrong thing and you’re too hurt to deal with it. 

But Bob? You refuse to be left alone with him. You don’t speak to him unless you absolutely have to. You don’t ask him questions. You don’t meet his gaze—no matter how many times he tries to catch yours. 

Not that he’s trying all that hard anymore. If anything, he seems… quiet. Sad. Distant in a way that twists something sharp in your chest. Like he’s pulling back. Giving you space. Like he’s trying not to upset you. 

And maybe that should make you feel better. Or worse. You’re not sure. 

Either way, you know it’s childish. The guilt’s been gnawing at you all week. But every time you start to feel too bad, you remember what he said. How he really sees you. The way he talked about you like you were a problem. Like you were too much. And then the guilt dies out. 

Because why should you feel bad when he’s the one who decided you were too intense? Too reckless? Just… baggage? 

He doesn’t care about you—not the way you care about him. He doesn’t even like you. Not really. 

You’re not even sure why he’s sulking so much. If he never really liked you, why does it matter? 

“Holy shit, Lucky,” Jake drawls the second you step out of the cab. “All this for me?” 

The dress you settled on isn’t tight, but it moves like liquid when you walk—clinging here, skimming there, draping in all the right places. It’s black, sleek, and cut low at the front, dipping between your breasts just enough to make anyone looking forget what they were saying. 

The fabric is soft and slinky, catching the light in subtle waves as it shifts around your body. The hem flirts with the tops of your thighs—high enough to turn heads, low enough to play innocent if you really wanted to. There’s a slit up one side, just enough to show off a teasing flash of leg when you walk—or more, if you’re not careful. Paired with your favourite boots and a gold choker around your neck, the whole look whispers danger and dares someone to ask what you’re doing later. 

“Not just for you, Seresin,” you smirk. “But since it’s your birthday, I’ll let you look all you want.” 

You step up and give him a hug, mumbling ‘Happy Birthday’ against his chest as his hand drops just a little lower than it should. 

“You look fucking hot,” Nat says when you turn to her. 

“All for you, baby.” 

She grins. “I knew you’d be mine tonight. Wanna get out of here?” 

“Show me the way.” 

You both start giggling, linking hands as you make your way down the little footpath toward the club’s front entrance. 

“Wait, nobody move,” Mickey calls from behind. “If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.” 

There’s a soft thump, followed by a little whine—probably Reuben or Bradley smacking him over the head. 

“We couldn’t all fit in the cab,” Nat says. “So Bob’s picking up Coyote. Might be a little late, though.” 

Your heart stutters. “Bob—Bob’s coming?” 

She nods, brow furrowing. “Of course. It’s Hangman's birthday.” 

“Oh.” You swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin—which is a lot—on display. “Cool. Cool. That’s cool.” 

“Is it?” she asks, laughter creeping into her voice. 

You give her a tight smile and nod a little too quickly—not at all panicked. 

“Oh, boy,” she sighs, slowing to a stop in front of the club doors. “This is going to be a fun night.” 

The club is busy, but not overcrowded. There are two bars and two dancefloors, one on either side of an open-roof courtyard scattered with tall bar tables and several large booths along the back wall. Out here, the music isn’t too loud—which must be the point. 

Javy has managed to reserve one of the booths for the squad, while the rest of Jake’s friends—who make up most of the bar crowd—hover around the high tables, some already drifting onto the dancefloors. It’s not early, but it’s not quite late either. The DJs—one for each floor—haven’t started dropping bangers yet, but from the vibe so far, it’s clear this place gets wild. 

“My first birthday request,” Jake says as you all settle into the booth, “is a round of shots. No pussies.” 

There’s a round of laughter, a groan from Natasha, and a cheer from Mickey. You, meanwhile, are more than happy to get some liquid courage into your system as soon as possible. Ideally, you’ll be halfway to shit-faced by the time Bob shows up—just enough to shut your goddamn nerves up. 

A few minutes later, Jake returns with a tray of tiny glasses, each filled with that golden liquid you know is going to burn. Jake Seresin and his fucking Fireball. 

“To Bagman,” Natasha says, raising her shot. 

Everyone follows. “To Bagman!” 

You wince as the cinnamon heat scorches down your throat, hitting your empty stomach like a lick of flame. Jake slams his glass down with a grin, Mickey gags, Reuben grimaces, and Bradley and Natasha sink their liquor with concerningly straight faces. 

Bradley disappears then to get the first round of proper drinks while Jake launches into a story about his wild thirtieth—offering more detail than anyone asked for, and definitely more than anyone needed. 

You laugh along with the others, chiming in here and there, but your eyes keep drifting to the door. Every time it swings open, your heart gives a stupid little jolt—only to sink again when it’s not him. 

You try not to let it show. Try stay present, sipping your drink and throwing in the occasional sarcastic comment, but your thoughts keep circling. 

Is he still coming? Did he change his mind because of you? What’s he going to think of this ridiculous little dress? 

You shake off the spiralling questions, turning your attention back to the table just as Mickey launches into a story about his own latest birthday—which involved more tequila, less pants, and at least one stolen golf cart. 

After finishing your first drink, you excuse yourself to the bathroom—partly because you sculled a litre of water before coming, and partly because you want to check yourself before Bob arrives. It’s dumb, but you don’t care. You might be mad at him, but you still want to make his jaw drop. 

And if this dress does anything right, it’s making jaws hit the floor. 

You walk down the short hall, passing one of the dancefloors. There are two large doors marked as accessible toilets, then the men’s, and finally the women’s. You slip inside, duck into a stall, pee quickly, and wash your hands. 

The mirrors in the women’s room, though, are annoyingly small and set far too high. You can barely see below your collarbones—even when you jump, which is definitely not recommended in this dress. With a frustrated huff, you step back out and slip into one of the accessible toilets—surely that’ll have a mirror a little lower? 

The accessible bathroom is spacious and way nicer than the regular stalls. There’s a black marble vanity bathed in soft, glowing light, plenty of grab rails lining the walls, and—best of all—a full-length mirror stretching from floor to ceiling, perfect for a proper once-over. 

You check your dress, adjusting how it sits on your shoulders and hips, then give a little twirl. You push your boobs up just a touch, swipe beneath your eye for any smudged mascara, and slip back out into the club. 

You weave your way through the crowd, the bass humming beneath your feet. There are more people now—hovering near the bars, drifting between dancefloors. You try to ignore the looks you’re getting, but a little shiver still rattles down your spine. You feel seen. Too seen. 

Maybe this dress wasn’t the best idea. 

You step into the courtyard and glance up, spotting the booth where your friends are and— 

Bob. 

He’s standing just in front of it, half-turned away, arms folded as he talks to someone inside the booth. And thank God for the distraction, because holy shit—you can’t stop staring. 

He looks... different. You’ve seen him in civilian clothes plenty of times before, but tonight? Tonight, those dark blue jeans cling just right to his long legs and criminally good ass. And that black long-sleeve button-up—jet black, just like your dress—looks like it’s seconds from bursting at the seams across his shoulders and arms. It’s sharp, clean, and a devastating contrast to the flight suit you’re so used to seeing him in. 

And then there are those dorky cowboy boots. Always the boots. Somehow they just make it worse. Make him more him. And that makes your thighs clench. 

Then, slowly, he turns. It’s casual at first… until he sees you. 

His jaw drops. Literally. His eyes go wide. 

He looks like a deer in headlights. No—worse. He looks like someone just hit him in the chest with a defibrillator. You’re not even sure he’s breathing. 

It takes everything in you to keep your pace steady, your expression neutral—to walk across the courtyard like your knees aren’t about to give out. 

Not that he’s looking at your face. Not until you’re standing right in front of him. 

“Bob,” you say, voice tight, before turning sharply toward Javy. “Coyote!” 

Javy’s eyes go wide as he takes you in—then flick toward poor, frozen, shell-shocked Bob—before his mouth splits into a hesitant grin. 

“Lucky,” he says, wrapping an arm around you. “You look—I mean, that dress—” 

“Save it, big fella,” you laugh. “I’m sure Hangman will make up for it with a dozen inappropriate comments once he’s had a few more drinks.” 

Javy chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m sure he will.” 

You slip into the booth and settle beside Natasha, taking a sip from the straw of the drink she slides your way. 

Bob is still standing there. He hasn’t said a word. You’re still not sure he’s breathing. He’s just staring—eyes wide, dark, and so full of something you can practically feel them dragging over your skin. 

Okay—maybe this dress was a good idea. 

After another round of drinks—and another of shots—everyone���s feeling a lot looser. Except Bob. 

He’s nursing his coke with a tight jaw, his eyes flicking between you and whoever’s currently taking their turn staring at your boobs. It’s usually Jake. 

And as much as you’d love to enjoy making him suffer, you’re not entirely sure what’s going on with him. You can’t tell if he’s pissed that you’ve been cold all week or feeling—undeservingly—protective because you’re wearing more birthday suit than dress. Either way, the way he’s looking at you is… unnerving. Almost feral. 

His attention makes your skin prickle, your pulse jump. Because behind his eyes is something dark. Something dangerous. Something you’re not used to seeing in Bob. 

So, like any emotionally well-adjusted person, you do the obvious thing and suggest another round of shots. 

You’ve just swallowed your third nip of Fireball when you hear a frighteningly familiar voice rise over the thrum of music. 

“Hangman!” he exclaims. “Happy birthday, bro!” 

Your stomach drops. It’s him. The guy Bob was talking to that night. 

Your eyes snap up, wide, landing on a familiar face you’ve known since flight school. 

Bob’s eyes are wide too—but not with surprise. No, his are flat, dark, brimming with something else entirely. Something heavy. Tense. Possessive. 

Something that doesn’t look like Bob at all. 

“Harvard!” Jake grins, standing and leaning across the table to shake the guy’s hand. 

They greet each other with loud enthusiasm before Brigham turns to the rest of the group—saying hello, smiling, working his way around. 

He saves you for last. And you’re not nearly naïve enough to pretend you don’t know why. 

“Lucky,” he says, drawing out the last syllable as his gaze drops straight to your chest. “Lookin’ good, darlin’.” 

“Thanks,” you reply, plastering on your sweetest smile. “Wanna sit?” 

Brigham has the choice of sitting beside either you or Bob, and with the way Bob’s trying to telepathically murder him—and the way your tits are sitting—it’s no surprise he chooses you. 

“You know,” he says as he settles in, “I was just talking to Bobby about you the other day.” 

Your heart lurches, but you keep your expression steady. 

“Really?” you ask, voice thick with faux shock. “Bobby didn’t tell me that.” 

Brigham chuckles. “Yeah, I bet. I think Bob’s been tryin’ to keep you all to himself.” 

Bob’s scowl falters, a flicker of something—maybe worry—flashing across his face. Your heart stutters again. But then those words echo in your head, and with a sly smile, you shift a little closer to Brigham. 

Okay, sure, you’re not attracted to the man—like, at all. In fact, you’re not attracted to anyone whose name doesn’t start with Robert, end in Floyd, and come with a pair of wide, dark blue eyes in the middle. But if it’s going to get under Bob’s skin? A little flirting can’t hurt. 

After all, he’s the one who called you reckless. 

“Well, Harvard,” you say, leaning in. “Fortunately for you, I don’t belong to anyone. And if you’re feelin’ lucky… maybe later I’ll let you feel real lucky.” 

Javy, sitting across from you, chokes on his drink—coughing and spluttering into his hand as everyone turns toward him with confused eyes. 

Except Bob. Bob’s stare doesn’t move from where your hand rests on Brigham’s arm. 

You spend the next hour pressed against Brigham, nodding along as he talks about his latest deployment. Apparently, he’s just returned to North Island. After the special detachment—the one with the Dagger Squad—he was sent back to his original squadron, then reassigned here and there before finally landing back in San Diego. 

You couldn’t repeat a single detail if your life depended on it. Because all you’ve been able to focus on is Bob. 

The way he keeps glancing over, the way his posture shifts every time Brigham leans closer, the sharp tick in his jaw. His knuckles are white around a lukewarm bottle of coke, and he hasn’t said more than a few words since Brigham sat down. 

The more you drink, the bolder you feel. You start meeting Bob’s gaze when you catch it—at least, when it’s not locked on Brigham—and every time you do, your pulse jumps. And with each slow, alcohol-fuelled beat, the urge to confront him grows. To finally ask what the hell he meant that night. To find out if your friendship actually means anything to him—if it ever meant anything at all. 

But just as you part your lips to speak, Jake jumps up and declares it’s time to hit the dancefloor. 

You cling to that interruption like a lifeline. 

Because as you slide out of the booth and watch Bob disappear into the crowd—heading toward the bathrooms, not the dancefloor—you realise confronting him now, like this, is only going to end badly. 

The music shifts as you step onto the dancefloor—heavier bass, deeper tempo, something slow enough to roll your hips to and fast enough to forget why you’re here. Lights flicker overhead, casting streaks of colour as you melt into the crowd. Brigham finds you in the haze, hands landing low on your hips like it’s second nature, and you don’t bother correcting him. Even if it feels… wrong. 

You sway with the rhythm, arms draped loosely around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the hair at his nape. You laugh at something he says—not that you heard it—but the sound slips easily enough from your lips. 

For a moment, it’s easy to pretend—until you see him. 

Bob. 

He’s leaning against the far wall just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, half-turned toward Bradley like he’s part of the conversation—but he’s not. His posture’s easy, arms folded, one boot crossed over the other. But even from across the room, he doesn’t quite fit. 

Sweet, awkward Bob. All long limbs and stormy eyes in a neon-drenched club that makes no sense around him. His body’s turned toward his friend, but his eyes? 

They’re on you. Locked. Unmoving. 

There’s something electric in his stare. Not soft, not sweet—hungry. It holds you there, stills your breath, makes the air around you feel thicker. He’s not blinking. He’s not smiling. He’s just watching, like you’re the only thing in the room. 

And you feel it. 

The heat rising up your neck. The low, tight pull in your belly. That wild, reckless urge that’s been coiled in your chest since he walked in. 

So you play it up. You let your head tip back, let your body roll with the bass, just a little slower, a little deeper. You lean closer to Brigham, letting your fingers trail down the front of his chest like you’re having fun—like you’re not thinking about Bob at all. 

But you can still feel that stare. Like it’s touching you. Burning through you. 

When your eyes find his again, he still hasn’t moved. 

The beat throbs under your heels. Brigham’s hands stay loose on your hips. The lights flash, the alcohol hums in your blood—but none of it matters. One song blends into the next. Bob never looks away. 

You try not to keep looking. But you do. Because the longer you stay on that dancefloor with a man you don’t care about, the longer Bob stares. 

Still against the wall. Still pretending to talk. Still watching you. 

So—after three boring songs—you smile, tilt your head, and let your hand trail down Brigham’s chest again, moving slower, closer. 

You catch a flicker of movement in your periphery. And when you glance over again, Bob is gone. Your heart skips, but before you can even fully turn, fingers wrap around your wrist—warm, firm, unrelenting. 

Then he’s there. Beside you. 

He moves quickly, taking you with him as he strides across the dancefloor with dark eyes and a clenched jaw, weaving through the crowd like it isn’t there. He looks out of place—so out of place—but he doesn’t care. Not now. Not with purpose in every step and his hand on you like he’s never letting go. 

He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls. 

Past dancing strangers, through the heavy heat of the club, and into the dim hallway outside the bathrooms—where the music dulls just enough, the air shifts, and suddenly there’s only the two of you. 

He lets go of your wrist like it burns him. “What the hell are you doing?” 

You blink. “Excuse me?” 

Bob’s chest rises and falls, his eyes wild. “What—What are you doing?” 

“What’s your problem?” you bite back. 

“My—? My problem?!” His voice pitches up as he drags a hand through his hair. He laughs once—dry and disbelieving. “I—I don’t know. I wish I knew. But you’ve iced me out all week, and now you’re doing this?” 

“Doing what?” you demand. 

“This! This isn’t you! This is—it’s—I don’t know, it’s—” 

“Reckless?” you cut in. “Intense? Oh—sorry. Is my baggage showing?” 

He flinches. You see it—clear as day. Like the words punched him in the gut. 

You’ve never seen Bob like this—so worked up, so flustered, like he’s been holding something back for too long and it’s finally starting to slip. His jaw is tight, his cheeks are flushed, and there’s a fire in his eyes that doesn’t quite fit the Bob you know. 

He looks tense. Frustrated. On edge. Not at all like someone who doesn’t care. 

And that’s the most confusing part.  

“Why would you say that?” he asks, voice dropping, shoulders sagging. 

“I didn’t,” you reply. “You did. Last week.” 

He takes a deep breath and tips his head back, realisation settling heavy and hard. “God. Lucky,” he sighs. “I didn’t—” 

“Save it, Floyd,” you cut in, voice rising over the music. “I don’t want excuses. Or lies. If that’s how you really felt about me, you should have just said so. I wouldn’t have burdened you with my friendship all these years.” 

He shakes his head. “No. That’s not how I really feel. I—I didn’t mean those things, I just—” 

“Then why would you say it?” 

He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you tell me you overheard?” 

You huff, disbelieving, throwing your hands up. “Seriously? What would you have done if you heard me talking shit about you?” 

“I—” His breath catches, his eyes dropping to your chest, just for a second, before snapping back to your face. “I don’t know. But you should have said something. God. Lucky, you don’t understand.” 

You fold your arms—very aware of what that does to your breasts. “Understand what?” 

“That I’m in love with you,” he blurts out, each word sharp and undeniable. “I’ve been in love with you for years. Since the first day I met you. And I said those things because—because that’s what I do. I keep you to myself. I tell guys you don’t have a phone. Or that you’re gay. Or—or that you only communicate with fucking carrier pigeons.” 

Your breath catches sharp in your throat. Emotion rises in your chest, wild and fierce. The world feels unsteady, like you’re caught in a dream—sounds blur, lights twist and shimmer at the edges of your vision—and Bob fucking Floyd just told you he loves you.  

“I’m sorry I said those things,” he says, stepping forward, voice lower now. “But I’m also sorry I’ve lied to you for years. Because I love you more than you know. And—and I’ve cockblocked you more times than you know too.” 

His lips twitch into a nervous, watery smile—half proud, half terrified. His eyes are still wide, still a little dark, but now so full of hesitation it makes your heart ache. 

He’s never told you because he doesn’t think you love him back. Even now, he’s bracing for the blow. Waiting for the laugh, or the ‘let’s just be friends’ speech. 

God. He looks so sweet. So nervous. So heartbreakingly Bob Floyd—even in the middle of this stupid club with its stupid lights and its stupid music. 

Without a word, you grab his wrist and shove open the door to one of the accessible bathrooms. You step inside, drag him in after you, and let the door fall shut—sliding the lock into place with a sharp click that echoes like a gunshot. 

“What are you doing?” Bob asks, voice low, unsteady. 

He’s backed up near the vanity, caught in the soft overhead light. It sharpens the lines of his jaw, glints off his glasses, and makes his eyes look lighter—more exposed. He looks completely out of place here. Nervous. Overwhelmed. Already unravelling. 

“Making sure you can hear me,” you say, your voice softer now as you take a slow step forward. 

The room doesn’t feel nearly as spacious as it did earlier. The air is thick—charged and humming with everything unspoken, everything the two of you have been holding in. 

Bob nods. Barely. His hands twitch at his sides, his eyes glued to the floor—like he’s bracing for impact, waiting for the moment you let him down gently, tell him he’s just your friend and nothing more. 

You close the distance, lift a hand to his jaw, and tilt his face up—until he has no choice but to look at you. 

“I want you to hear me when I tell you that I’m in love with you too, Bob Floyd.” 

His eyes go wide. A breath escapes him in a soft, stunned gasp, his cheeks flushing even deeper. “You what?” 

“I love you,” you say, steadier now, lips curving into a soft, slow smile. “I always have. I don’t know how we both got so stupid, but God… I was wrecked when I heard you say those things. I love you so much I was ready to ask for reassignment just to get away. I love you so much I haven’t even thought about loving anyone else since the day I met you.” 

He blinks hard. His chest rises and falls like he’s forgotten how to breathe. 

“You love me?” 

“Yes, you idiot,” you say, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. “Now fucking kiss me.” 

You pull him down—and he doesn’t hesitate. 

One hand grabs your waist, the other tangles in your hair as he crashes into you, mouth on yours like he’s been holding back for years. It’s not gentle. Not careful. It’s messy and breathless and full of all the things he never said. His lips are hot, desperate, a little clumsy at first—but God, he learns fast. 

You gasp against him, and he takes it like a reward, deepening the kiss as he walks you backward until your tailbone bumps the edge of the vanity. Then he’s lifting you—strong hands beneath your thighs, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish—until you’re perched on the counter, legs parting to pull him in. 

The marble is cold beneath your bare skin, but his body is warm between your thighs. 

He kisses like he means it. Like he’s starved. Like he’s been on fire from the moment he saw you in that dress and now he’s finally letting himself burn. His hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, your jaw. His mouth barely leaves yours, just enough to breathe before he’s right there again, hungrier this time. 

You twist your fingers in his hair and pull, and he groans—deep and low, like the sound was dragged straight from his chest. His glasses slip crookedly down his nose, but he doesn’t bother fixing them. You catch the way his eyes darken even further behind the askew lenses, wild and hungry. 

“This stupid dress,” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want. 

His hands roam possessively beneath the fabric, fingers digging into your waist as he grinds his cock against you with a needy roll of his hips. You feel the thick, hard press of him right where you need it, and the heat between you sharpens—filthy, hungry, and impossible to ignore. 

“God, Lucky...” he rasps, voice rough as gravel, lips nipping at your neck. 

Your fingers find the collar of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons as his wet mouth trails along your collarbone. When he finally looks up, his glasses catch the light—glinting at a wild, crooked angle. 

“You look ridiculous,” you tease with a smirk. 

He flushes, just the slightest hint of insecurity flickering through his fierce gaze. 

“Ridiculously fucking sexy,” you whisper, leaning in, lips brushing his jaw. 

His hands explore with increasing urgency, and you arch into him, breathless and burning. 

“Lucky...” he growls, voice low and ragged. “I need you.” 

You pull him closer, heart pounding. “Then take me.” 

That’s all it takes. His hands are moving instantly, pushing your dress down over your shoulders in one fluid motion. Your bra follows—tugged down and discarded with zero ceremony—because he’s not wasting a second. 

Then he’s on you. Everywhere. 

His mouth is hot and open against your skin, dragging across your chest in feverish, reverent kisses. He palms your breasts like he’s dreamt about this—like he’s memorised them in his sleep—and he’s not shy about it either. His thumbs roll over your nipples, teasing until they’re tight and aching, and when you gasp, he hums like he’s pleased with himself. 

He nips your collarbone, teeth just shy of cruel, then licks away the sting as he trails lower—lips, tongue, breath—until he closes his mouth over your left nipple. 

Your hips jerk. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it. Desperation coils hot and deep in your core, tightening with every flick of his tongue. 

His hand finds your other breast again, rougher now, pinching lightly at your nipple as he sucks, and you can feel his smirk even as his mouth stays latched to your skin 

“Bob—fuck,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “Your mouth—” 

He pulls back just enough to blow cool air over your wet nipple, and your back arches, involuntary, like he’s got a string tied to your spine. 

“What was that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “You wanna fuck my mouth?” 

You groan again—louder, needier—as he shifts to your right breast and sucks hard, deep, slow, like he’s trying to ruin you one perfect kiss at a time. Your thighs clamp tight around his hips, grounding yourself against the pressure of his body, the friction of his jeans against your bare legs, the delicious hardness pressing between them. 

He moans into your skin, and the sound vibrates straight through you. 

“Bob—” you gasp, voice thin, shaky. “N-Need you. Now.” 

He finishes with a soft bite to your nipple that makes you jolt, then drags his mouth back up to yours—kissing you hard, deep, claiming. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, rougher than you mean to. He groans again, like he likes the sting. 

Then he grinds against you. 

His hips roll forward, dragging the full, thick length of him right against your soaked core, and you gasp into his mouth. There’s too much friction, too much heat, not nearly enough relief. Your thighs twitch around him, clenching on instinct. 

“Bob,” you say again—this time low, warning, wrecked. 

“‘S okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “I got you.” 

His hands slide down your body, slow and possessive, until they find your hips. He squeezes, hard—fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor himself—and then pushes your dress up, bunching the soft fabric around your waist. And now there’s almost nothing between you. 

His breath catches. He pulls back just enough to look—and groans, deep and guttural. 

“You’re perfect,” he says, reverent and hungry all at once. Then his mouth is back on yours, more desperate this time, like he’s seconds from losing control. 

Your hands fumble at his shirt, yanking buttons through holes until you reach his belt. Your fingers work quickly, sliding the leather free, popping the button, lowering the zip. His hips buck forward when your hand brushes against him, thick and hot beneath his boxers. 

“Are you sure?” he rasps, voice barely holding together. 

You nod, breathless. “I’m sure.” 

His lips crash back to yours, and then his hands leave you for just a second—long enough to shove his jeans and briefs down past his hips—before they’re back, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the vanity. 

His thumbs dig into your skin, like he needs to feel you everywhere. And God, the bruises are going to kill you tomorrow—but you want every single one. 

You reach between your bodies, sliding your hand into the space between his low-slung jeans and your bare thighs. He jerks at the first touch—his breath catching, hips stuttering forward. 

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice ragged. His forehead drops to yours, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. 

You wrap your fingers around him—hard, hot, thick—and stroke once, slow and firm. 

He groans, deep and broken. “Jesus, Lucky—don’t… don’t tease.” 

You bite back a grin, stroking again just to feel him twitch in your hand. “Then hurry up and fuck me.” 

That shatters whatever was left of his restraint. His hand finds the thin scrap of fabric between your legs and pushes it aside, fingers grazing through the wetness there. His breath hitches again. 

“You’re already—” He swallows hard. “God, you’re so wet.” 

He grips your hip, braces his other hand behind you on the counter, and meets your eyes—searching, asking—before he thrusts forward. 

Slow at first. Deliberate. Like he wants to feel every second of you stretching around him. 

You gasp, spine arching, mouth falling open. He’s thick, the stretch almost too much, but your body gives way like it’s been waiting for this. For him. 

“Holy shit,” he groans, jaw slack as he sinks into you. “You feel—fuck. So good. So good.” 

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, and he starts to move—deep, rolling thrusts that drag moans from your throat before you can stop them. His glasses are still askew, fogging with heat, and you’re obsessed with how he looks like this—wrecked, gorgeous, utterly undone. 

His hands find your waist again, yanking you flush as he grinds into you with a frantic, desperate rhythm that makes your knees tremble. One hand drags up your side, fingertips blazing a slow path over your ribs before curling over the swell of your breast. 

He palms it—rough, reverent—thumb circling your nipple, making your back arch and pulling a gasp from your throat that turns into a whimper. 

“I love you,” he growls, voice low and wrecked, like the words are being dragged out of him. “So fucking much.” 

Your chest clenches, aching with it, echoing the coil twisting tighter and tighter low in your belly. 

“I love you,” you breathe, broken and shaky. 

He groans deep in his chest and starts moving faster, hips snapping into yours with relentless force. Each thrust drags a ragged moan from your lips, each one pulling you closer to the edge. The air is thick with sweat and sex and everything you’ve both kept buried for years. 

His glasses slip lower down his nose, his hair damp with sweat, his face flushed and wild—completely wrecked. He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s never going to let you go. 

You tilt your head back and moan—loud, shameless—the sound echoing through the bathroom with the obscene slap of skin on skin. Then your eyes lock again, and it’s too much—too hot, too filthy, too intimate. You're cock-drunk and completely gone for him, mouth parted, breath hitching as you fall apart in real time. 

He crashes his mouth to yours again, slower now—deeper—like he wants to kiss you into the fucking walls. One hand still works your breast, kneading, tugging, pinching, while the other dips low, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, messy circles that have you shuddering. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, choking on the word. “Bob—I’m gonna—” 

“Yeah?” he pants, voice ragged. “You—you gonna cum? I’ve got you.” 

His thrusts grow harder, deeper, rougher—like he’s pounding the words into you, like he wants you to feel them everywhere. You’re soaked and stretched and it’s so good you almost sob. 

The noises are filthy—wet and desperate, breathless moans and frantic grunts—and neither of you care. Not here. Not now. Not when this is everything you’ve both been craving for years. 

“Oh God,” he groans, breath hot against your throat. “You feel so fucking good. You’re gonna ruin me.” 

You’re both panting, chasing the edge, clinging to each other like you’ll fall apart without it. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and that look—wrecked, awe-struck, completely fucking gone—undoes you. 

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through your spine, your vision going white, your legs locking around him as your whole body shakes. 

Bob’s right behind you—one, two more thrusts—and then he’s groaning low, spilling inside you as he buries his face in your neck, thrusting through it, riding the high with you. You're both shaking, bodies slick, hearts pounding, still grinding, still desperate, still needing to be closer. 

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You just breathe—ragged, uneven, hot against each other’s skin. 

His arms are locked around you, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go. You’re wrapped around him just as tight, hands curled into the back of his shirt, legs still trembling around his waist. The air is thick with sweat and heat and the fading pulse of music beyond the walls. 

He lifts his head just enough to press his forehead to yours, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed. You brush damp hair from his face and lean in to kiss him—slow this time, warm and open and sweet. He kisses you back like it’s all he’s ever known. 

“I love you,” you whisper again, holding him like you mean it. Because you do. God, you do. 

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw. Slower now. Softer. Like he’s memorising you. 

Eventually, you both start to move—reluctantly, lazily—helping each other straighten up, clean up. His hands are gentle as he eases your dress back down over your hips, as he finds your bra and helps you put it back on. You button his shirt for him, laughing quietly at the wrinkled fabric and the way his belt is still half-undone. 

It’s domestic. Intimate. Something about it makes your chest ache. 

You smooth your palms over his chest. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. And even though you’re dressed again, neither of you can stop touching—little brushes, lingering hands, kisses that start slow and deepen fast. 

You’re trying to leave when his back hits the bathroom door with a soft thud, and you lean into him, mouth pressed to his. It’s messy again—smiling, hungry, all teeth and tongue and breathless sounds you wouldn’t dare make for anyone else. 

He laughs into your mouth. “If we don’t leave now,” he murmurs, “we’re never leaving.” 

You kiss the corner of his smile. “Fine by me.” 

But then—he stills. Just slightly. And he looks at you like he’s falling all over again. 

His chest rises against yours, breathless still, and then— 

“Marry me,” he says. Low. Unfiltered. Like he couldn’t hold it in if he tried. 

Your heart stumbles. Your breath catches. 

You pull back just far enough to look at him—really look at him. He doesn’t look nervous this time. Just… open. Sure. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to ask. 

“Bob…” 

“I’m serious,” he says, cupping your jaw. “Marry me.” 

You blink, the world slowly tilting off-axis. 

“I want you—no, fuck that,” he leans closer, voice rough with feeling, “I need you. Forever. And if we can’t have forever, then just give me this lifetime. I want to marry you. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and I’m yours.” 

He’s so honest, so sure, that for a second you forget how to breathe. You’ve never felt this much love in your life. You didn’t even know this much love existed. And the craziest part is... it doesn’t even feel that crazy. You’ve known Bob for so long that the only missing piece of the puzzle was this. Now you’re whole. You’re perfect—together. It's always been Bob, and it always will be. 

So what’s the point in waiting? What’s the point in dragging it out? You already know him. You need him. You… want to marry him too. 

You step in closer, holding his face between your hands. “I am yours, Bob Floyd. In this lifetime and every lifetime.” 

He swallows, hard. “Is—is that—?” 

“That’s a yes,” you say, grinning, before pushing up onto your toes and crashing your mouth against his. 

He kisses you back with wild, joyful fervour, his arms locking around your waist as he lifts you clean off the ground, making you yelp into his mouth. If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up. Not ever. Because in this moment, you have everything—everything—you’ve ever wanted. Everything you’ll ever need. 

When he finally sets you down, you pull back just enough to catch your breath—both of you panting, grinning like idiots, completely wrecked and radiant. 

“Can’t believe you just proposed to me in a club bathroom,” you say, smirking. 

Bob rolls his eyes, bashful smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t believe you just said yes.” 

You’re just about to kiss him again when— 

Bang, bang, bang. 

“Bob!” Jake’s voice cuts through the door. “Lucky! Are you two in there?” 

Bob freezes. His smile drops. His cheeks flush a deep, immediate red. “Oh no.” 

“We heard… noises,” Javy adds, barely holding back a laugh. “Are you okay?” 

Your eyes go wide, mortified and gleeful all at once, your hand already moving to the lock. 

“What are you doing?” Bob hisses, catching your wrist. 

You glance at him, lips twitching. “What are we supposed to do? Live in here now?” 

“Yes?” he says, eyes wide. “Or wait at least twenty more minutes?” 

You snort, then gently pry his hand from yours and lace your fingers through his. “Relax, Bob,” you murmur. “At least now they’ll know what a woman sounds like when she’s getting properly fucked.” 

Bob makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp, his face flushing bright crimson. And with that, you unlock the door and swing it open to reveal the entire squad loitering just outside, trying very badly to look casual and not like they’ve been eavesdropping at all. 

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes sparkling. “Well, damn. Guess that answers that.” 

Bradley whistles low, laughter threading through it. Phoenix raises a single eyebrow. Javy coughs awkwardly into his hand. Mickey and Reuben just stare, jaws practically on the floor. 

Bob inches behind you, as if hiding could protect him from the coming torrent of teasing. 

You just smile sweetly and squeeze his fingers. “Hey, pervs. Get a good show?” 

Jake chuckles. “Only caught the second act, unfortunately. But damn, Bobby, didn’t know you had it in you to make a woman moan like that.” 

Bob closes his eyes, breathing deep as his free hand squeezes your waist. 

“What was all that murmuring before you opened the door?” Javy asks, brow furrowed. “We couldn’t make it out.” 

You lift a brow. “Oh, you didn’t have a cup pressed to the door?” 

Mickey chuckles sheepishly, holding up an empty glass. 

“God,” you gasp, laughing softly. “Do any of you know the meaning of boundaries?” 

“Lucky, you just fucked Floyd in a club bathroom,” Reuben says, smirking. “And you’re going to lecture us about boundaries?” 

Your cheeks flush, heart pounding hard against your throat. “Actually, I just got engaged to Floyd in a club bathroom. And it was very romantic. Including the sex. So, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to go home and let this man properly ruin me until I can’t remember how to fly a goddamn jet.” 

You hear Bob choke behind you—on nothing but air—and you don’t even have to look to know his whole face is flaming red. 

But it works. The squad goes quiet, all of them staring—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, somewhere between stunned and delighted. 

You give them one last cheeky grin before pulling Bob away. 

“But it’s my birthday!” Jake calls after you, smirk audible in his voice. “I was supposed to get fucked in the bathroom!” 

[eicsferrari]

premiere - cs55 smau

summary: yn is paul mescal's sister. her and carlos meet at a premiere

faceclaim: madison cline

a/n: i had this in the drafts for too long

masterlist

જ ♡ જ

ynmescal my twin brother is in a movie or whatever

tagged: bigbreadpedlar

♡liked by yourbestfriend and others

view all comments

yourbestfriend my wife💍

user14 she mugged him so bad

user9 he's so hot i need him😩

જ ♡ જ

ynmescal posted a story

→last night i met the most GORGEOUS and funny man we talked for a while but I don't know his name!! someone pls help me find him

→this is him if you know him ask him to slide into those dms thank you

replies

↪ yourbestfriend ON MAIN that's crazy

↪ yourbestfriend also that's f1 driver carlos sainz

ynmescal thanks babe

ynmescal brb searching his ig

જ ♡ જ

ynmescal don't mind me, just casually posting more pictures from last night

♡liked by gracieabrams and others

view all comments

ynmescal and now we wait ...

user3 mother i love you

user2 the last slide kskdkd

user11 posting this after sharing his picture on stories and following him iconic behavior

user17 tbh i too would do this if i had a chance with a f1 driver

carlossainz55 hola again 👋🏼

ynmescal hola😊

user7 it CANT be that simple

user18 ig it is when you are pretty😔

જ ♡ જ

ynmescal posted a story

→guess who has a date tonight

replies

↪ yourbestfriend NOW you use close friends

ynmescal it worked, didn't it?

ynmescal posted a story

જ ♡ જ

sainzupdates carlos leaving the paddock today

view all comments

user8 who is she?

user81 i think ynmescal, she was at the paddock with her brother paul. carlos commented her picture about a month ago

user35 this is such a pr relationship🙄🙄

જ ♡ જ

carlossainz55 good company today

♡liked by charlesleclerc and others

view all comments

user89 paul, carlos and charles together this is a big day for annoying people (me)

user55 tag her! we know who the good company is, you are not smooth

user52 the casual post oh to be young, rich and in love ...

જ ♡ જ

ynmescal this f1 thing is fun

♡liked by lando and others

view all comments

user29 pretty girl

yourbestfriend i bet it is🙄

yn ☺️

user37 is by any chance your boyfriend single?

ynmescal luckily no!

user37 and your brother? i'm not picky!

જ ♡ જ

ynmescal only bought this dress so you could take it off

bigbreadpedlar is this post necessary?

yn at least I don't have one night stands and run away from them at the park👊

gracieabrams IJBOL

carlossainz55 what's ijbol?

yn i just burst out laughing

bigbreadpedlar i'm too old for this shit

carlossainz55 same

gracieabrams look, millennials everyone point and laugh🫵

user19 are they really selling as a love story how she took a photo of him without permission and posted it?? stalker behavior she was so desperate to be a wag

user61 get a life

જ ♡ જ

carlossainz55 haters can choke

tagged: ynmescal

user he never posts his girlfriends omg this is serious

lando pic credits?

carlossainz55 no

ynmescal ❤️

જ ♡ જ

ynmescal quality time with my favorite people

tagged: gracieabrams, carlossainz55, bigbreadpedlar

user82 i love everything about this crossover

user68 carlos and paul are so boyfriend coded

yn i swear sometimes it feels like they are the ones dating, they have bike dates every day

gracieabrams ily

ynmescal i love you moreeee

carlossainz55 if only they knew why we were so tired in the last pic...

ynmescal CARLOS

bigbreadpedlar THAT'S MY SISTER

carlossainz55 i meant cycling!

ynmescal no u didn't

carlossainz55 no i didn't🤭

જ ♡ જ

Taglist: @justaf1girl @anamiad00msday @formoola1fan @2bormaybenot @searecs @rana030 @multifantasic70 @yourmommyagone22 @primadonaprincess55 @hoeforlifee @literallysza @nichmeddar @in-the-marina-trench @ahgase99 @gigigreens @danielricroll @harrysdimple05

[divadepreshawn]

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆

Aaron Hotchner × fem!reader

Summary: You spent a large part of your life taking care of people. Between a test to grade, a phone call to calm Spencer down, and the problems of everyday life, there was never any time left. And honestly? You never cared about investing in your own love life. Love (in the intimate sense, between two people) was something for other people. But it seems that destiny had other plans. Warnings: I don't think I have any important notice, just sweet. This is part two, you can check out part one here. Ok if you guys could take a look at this post and tell me what you prefer it would be a great help, WC: 2 900 I usually use specific playlists for writing (more focused on the feeling than the reader itself) but I created a specific one for this one. For those who may be interested, you can find it here.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

You had just arrived home – and you were exhausted. People often think that dealing with children is difficult. Nonsense. The hard part is dealing with adults. They complain, interrupt the class all the time to make impertinent comments and still think they have the right to question your knowledge. You were taking off your coat when the doorbell rang.

“Who could it be at this hour?” You mumbled, leaving your bag on the table before heading to the door.

“Oh… Hello,” you greeted with a frown, alternating your gaze between Jack, Aaron and the bouquet.

You glanced at Jack, who was holding a delicate bouquet of red and white roses in both hands, the simple bow around the stem slightly crooked. Then you slowly looked up at Aaron, his expression as discreet as you remembered, despite the softer look in his eyes.

“Hi,” Jack said with a shy smile as he held the bouquet out to you. “I wanted to give you a yellow flower, but Dad said roses were better because they’re a lot of people’s favorites. And they also have less pollen… whatever that means. Do you like roses?”

Your heart sank at the gesture—the smile so wide it could split your lips spread before you could stop it—as you bent down to Jack’s level. You picked up the bouquet with care, as if it were made of crystal.

“Roses are my favorite,” you assured him, bringing the flowers to your nose, squeezing them lightly so he knew you meant it. “And these are, without a doubt, the most beautiful ones I’ve ever gotten.” Jack smiled, looking down at the flowers again.

“It was his idea,” Aaron explained, glancing at his son before looking back at you. “He insisted we bring you flowers to thank you for the cookies. They were really good. But I didn’t know if you had any allergies and, well… we didn’t want to kill you with a gift.”

"It's okay. I loved it, thank you," you smiled, opening the door a little wider so they could see the room. "And as you can see, I'm immune."

Aaron and Jack tilted their heads slightly to the side, from where they were standing they had a view of a small corner of the room: potted plants scattered on the floor, on the bookshelf, on the coffee table and hanging near the windows – mostly large and small green leaves and just a few small colorful flowers.

Aaron nodded slowly, looking relieved that he hadn't triggered an allergic reaction. "Well… we'll be right there. Welcome to the building."

"Thanks again. You were very kind."

"It was nothing," he replied, placing his hand on Jack's back to guide him down the hallway. "If you need anything… we're right there."

Jack nodded quickly. "My dad can fix anything."

You laughed at his enthusiasm, nodding in affirmation. "I'll keep that in mind, thanks."

–

Aaron sighed, putting the last folder inside his leather bag. “Thank you for coming so early. This meeting wasn’t scheduled, I still don’t know why it’s so urgent.”

Jessica shook her head, waving her hand away as she sat down on the kitchen chair. “It’s okay, I was already awake anyway.”

Her eyes wandered over the kitchen counter until they landed on the new glass jar on the counter — still holding some of the cookies you’d left out days ago. A smile slowly crept up as an idea formed.

“Did you see someone moved into the apartment across the way?”

Aaron paused for a second, frowning slightly as he checked his watch. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I heard.”

“She’s a woman. Very polite, seemed nice…” Jessica commented casually, watching, waiting for a reaction. A barely audible grunt was all she got. “And very pretty too,” she added with a smile.

Aaron looked up from his bag, staring at the bookshelf. His expression was as impassive as ever — though the slight blush that rose to his ears betrayed him. “Really? I didn’t notice.”

Aaron was lying, of course. He had noticed, too much for his own well-being. The image of you — eyes slightly wide, breathing heavily, and the embarrassed expression when you realized you were rambling — was still clear in his mind.

Jessica arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms slowly.

“You didn’t notice?” she repeated, her tone skeptical—just because he remained expressionless and the lie slid like butter didn’t mean it sounded convincing. “Aaron, you would notice if someone had replaced the entrance rug with one two shades darker.”

“I’m observant, yes, it’s part of the job,” he said, defending himself. “But I’m not constantly analyzing everyone’s behavior.”

Jessica leaned over the table, her eyes shining with amusement. “Okay, but there’s no way I couldn’t have noticed the perfume.”

He hesitated for a second—longer than he would have liked. “Yes.”

“I knew it.”

Aaron took a deep breath, closing the bag with a soft snap. “There’s nothing in there.”

“Not yet.” She shrugged, standing up. “But look… it’s been three years, there’s nothing wrong. You’re a widower, not a monk.”

Aaron stared at the floor for a moment, before glancing briefly at the glass jar of cookies on the counter.

“Okay…” Jessica didn’t insist. “Come on, honey.” Jack was already at your side, rubbing his eyes.

“Wait, I’ll walk you guys.”

–

You had arranged with Spencer that you would accompany him for breakfast at a coffee shop-bookstore he had discovered, not far from where he lived. It was a good idea, to spend some quality time with Spencer – who you hadn’t seen in a week – before work, with a great excuse to binge on caffeine and chocolate before nine in the morning. It turned out that you were five minutes late – and you hate being late.

The apartment that was so tidy it could have welcomed Vogue for a tour now looked like a war zone. You got ready in record time. Despite tripping over the hem of your pants when you were running down the hall after your missing shoe. Refusing to sit down to put on your boots, which resulted in a romantic encounter between your hip and the corner of the table – that would turn into a bruise later for sure. Let’s not forget that you almost sprayed perfume on your mouth while trying to read the message on your phone.

A great way to start the day.

As soon as you opened the door, you heard the doorknob turn from the other side of the hall. Jack came out first, shuffling his feet across the floor, rubbing his eyes. Oh, kids are adorable.

“Good morning,” he murmured, smiling as soon as he saw you, his voice a little hoarse from sleep.

You smiled back, adjusting your bag. “Good morning, darling. How are you?” You turned to lock the door, giving Jessica and Aaron a small smile, a silent greeting.

“I’m fine. Are you leaving early today?” Jack asked, looking at you curiously.

“Jack,” Aaron warned, giving you an apologetic look.

“It’s okay,” you said, waving your hand away. “Yeah, I’m leaving early because I have to see my brother before work.”

Jack tilted his head thoughtfully. “Is your brother small? Can I play with him?”

You laughed, balancing your bag and backpack on the same shoulder. “No, honey… he’s already grown up. But I’m sure he’d love to play with you.”

Jack looked thoughtful at your explanation. “So he’s old?”

“Jack…” Aaron caught your attention again.

You laughed at his conclusion. “He’s old, yes. A little taller than me,” you explained, grimacing in disapproval. “And I don’t like that at all.”

Jack laughed. “So he plays basketball? Dad said only tall people can play.”

“Oh no, he has two left feet,” you pressed the button, turning to Jack as you waited for the elevator to reach your floor. “But he has a really cool job… And it’s secret,” you whispered the last part.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jessica said, moving closer to you and inhaling slowly, “but you need to tell me your secret. You smell like… heaven.”

You laughed, a little surprised by the compliment. “Well, thanks… I think that’s where I spray the perfume, you know? I also like to mix it with a little body lotion. It stays on better that way.”

Before she could respond, the elevator doors opened with a soft hiss. Aaron, who had been quiet until then, slowly approached, holding the door for you. He tried to convince himself that it was a polite gesture – politeness, chivalry. But deep down he knew. You knew it was a terrible excuse to smell your perfume.

And God, yes. You smelled like heaven.

“Mix it with moisturizer…” she repeated, as if mentally reinforcing the tip. “I never thought of putting it on like that, but I’ll definitely try it tomorrow. Because honestly, the way you smell today… it’s almost criminal.”

You just smiled at her in a friendly way, not sure how to respond to the compliment. Jack turned to you, his eyes shining with curiosity.

“My dad’s job is secret too,” he said, puffing out his chest slightly—speaking of his father with pride. Oh, totally adorable. “You have a secret job too?”

“Oh no, my job is completely public, I’m a teacher.”

Jack’s eyes widened, placing his hand on his chest. “Can you teach me?”

“I’m sorry, dear, I only teach grown-ups.”

Aaron turned, watching you curiously. “College professor?”

“Exactly,” you confirmed with a small smile before sighing dramatically. “As hard as a secret job, I’d say.”

“What do you teach?” Jessica asked, genuinely curious.

“Psychology, more specifically anatomical organization, nervous system functioning, basic psychological processes. Things like that.”

“Interesting,” she muttered, casting a quick, amused glance toward the man standing near the door, before sliding her eyes to your left hand. “Very interesting.”

“Can I ask you something more personal?”

“Sure.”

“Are you married?”

Aaron had a complicated relationship with religion, a problem that had been going on for years that Jessica had solved in a second. Because at that moment he was silently praying to any higher power that could hear him. Praying that the ground would open up and swallow him whole, sparing him the embarrassment.

You blinked in surprise – more shocked by the question than offended. You glanced briefly at your hand – full of delicate rings of different sizes – before turning your gaze back to her.

“Oh… No. I just like rings and I’m a bit of an exaggerator.”

Jessica smiled so brightly that for a second you were sure she would start jumping for joy right there. “Me too, but I can’t wear more than two without remembering my punk phase as a teenager.”

You laughed. “I went through that phase too, I used to buy mine at the newsstand. Now at least I can buy one that doesn’t stain my finger green.”

The elevator stopped on the ground floor, the small noise it made as it opened the doors reminded you that you were late.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, the smile still on your lips, giving them one last goodbye look.

“I’m late… see you later.”

-

You entered, the soft sound of a bell announcing your entrance. The atmosphere was exactly the kind of place you imagined Spencer would love: walls lined with books to the ceiling, rustic wooden tables, cozy yellow light.

Spencer was sitting at one of the corner tables, leafing through a book that was too thick – it would take him about twenty minutes to finish reading at most. He was so focused that he didn’t even notice you approaching.

“If it was a snake, you’d be dead.”

“There are around 140 species of snakes registered in the US. Among this group are the venomous and non-venomous ones. They are divided by leading biologists into two main families: Elapidae and Viperidae,” he continued reading the book while you sat down. “And despite the variety in their natural habitat, considering that we��re in the middle of the city, the probability of having a snake in here is zero.”

“Thanks, genius boy,” you teased him, picking up the menu to choose a dish. “How was your week?”

Spencer closed the book, placing it next to you on the bench. “It was good, mom called me.”

You smiled, putting the menu down to pay attention to the conversation. “And how is she?”

“Fine. I mean, as good as possible. It was a quiet conversation this time. She talked about the new nurses, one in particular has an annoying laugh, but at least he knows how to make decent tea.”

You laughed softly. “That’s progress.”

“She scolded me,” he said, sounding genuinely offended. “She said I needed to get by now, because I’m an adult, and that I shouldn’t burden you. Oh, and she told you to mind your own business.”

“Oh, how lovely,” you murmured sarcastically, looking out the window.

“You know what she meant,” he gave a small smile, adding an amount of sugar that would give you type two diabetes to the coffee.

For a moment, silence fell. And then, almost without realizing it, a sad smile appeared on the corner of your lips. Because you knew. You knew exactly what she meant by that.

It was a request, disguised as a scolding. A reminder: focus on your life now.

“What about you? Have you done anything this week? You seem… different.”

“Different how?”

Spencer pressed his lips together in a straight line, tilting his head slightly. “You seem more relaxed. Less stressed than usual, especially on a Friday.” He raised his eyebrows. “Who did you kill?”

“I haven’t killed anyone… Yet.” You gave a short laugh, biting the inside of your cheek, considering whether you should tell him. “… I got flowers yesterday.”

Spencer blinked in surprise. “Really?”

You nodded, thanking her with a smile as the clerk placed your coffee cup on the table. “Jack gave it to me. A bouquet with some roses.”

“Jack?”

“He’s my neighbor’s son,” you explained.

“Jack… how old is he?”

“About five, maybe six. He’s cute. Very polite. He handed me the bouquet all embarrassed and asked me if I liked roses because, according to his father, they have less pollen and they didn’t want to kill me.”

Spencer smiled at the image. “Less pollen. Smart. Considering the rate of seasonal allergies has been rising in recent years, that makes sense,” he said, before frowning. “But does that mean your neighbor bought you flowers?”

You watched him for a second — the way he tried to look merely curious when he was clearly worried. Spencer was never good at faking it.

“It was Jack’s idea. But… yeah. He came along. Apparently it was a token of appreciation for the cookies I left for them on the second day.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “… cookies?”

“Jack liked cookies and I needed to apologize for the noise and for almost knocking his dad over in the hallway,” you shrugged. “I’m good with kids, Spencer.”

“You don’t even make cookies for me.”

“You’re not even five. And you’ve never bought me flowers.” You nudged your hand across the table.

“Spencer, are you jealous? I can bake you cookies.”

“Too late,” he pouted, crossing his arms, before giving up and starting to laugh. “But… is he divorced?”

“Who?”

“Your neighbor.”

“I think so. How do you know?”

“You mentioned the son, but not the mother. You would have mentioned her if she was on your doorstep. And I know you well enough to know that you wouldn’t accept that kind of attention from someone who’s already married.”

You blinked, impressed. “Have you ever thought about becoming an FBI agent?”

“I have. The fitness part turned me off.”

You laughed, remembering Spencer’s phone calls. It was one o’clock, with him just complaining about his sore legs, cursing someone named Derek, and saying how unfair life was.

“I don’t know much about his romantic past, I just know that he lives alone with his son and is single. He keeps to himself.”

Spencer stared at you for a few seconds, the gears of his mind turning silently behind his clear eyes. Then he looked down at his coffee, twirling the cup between his fingers.

“Private?” he repeated, returning his gaze to the croissant. “Private can mean a lot of things. Private because he’s shy? Private because he has a complicated past? Or private because he killed someone in another state and kidnapped a child to have a good cover.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Are you profiling my neighbor or writing a script for a 2000s TV show?”

“I’m talking to my sister,” he replied quickly, explaining his point before he could receive any accusations of intrusion. “Who, for the first time in months, is smiling before nine in the morning — without having had three cups of coffee. She’s not planning any murders and hasn’t mentioned or alluded to suicide.”

Have you mentioned how much it sucks to have a profiler brother? Because, well. It sucks. “Okay, he probably doesn’t see it that way, let’s change the subject.”

“Oh please,” he scoffed, stealing a piece of his pie. “Have you seen the price of flowers these days? And would anyone who doesn’t care be careful to choose a flower that won’t cause an allergic reaction?”

“Spencer.”

“I’m already changing the subject.”

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

Tag: @presidentdangdang @dramioneforevertilltheend @esposadomd @hederahelix12 @cultish-corner @iyskgd @newavenger

[reblog-house]

Character analysis of Jax and Ragatha based on episode 5 in-coming. It gets long. And perhaps a bit incoherent. I'm losing my mind rn:

I fucking got a PERFECT read on Jax. Y'all who started hating him as soon as he started displaying how mean he can be on ep 2 are WEAK. I saw RIGHT through his mask. Although I'll admit I was taken aback by how he took it off and the way it developed. But I CALLED IT. He's trying to take his mind off the Horrors, and wreaking havoc is his way of doing it. He likes being mean, but he's aware of what buttons he can push without deeply hurting the others, and he WOULD actually like being heard instead of dismissed as evil. He represses his sincere feelings so bad because he doesn't feel he can be sincere with anyone. Because they take his teasing as serious and expect him to not have anything worthwhile to say. And maybe it's his fault, and maybe he keeps perpetuating it himself, but it's because he put himself in a box and can't easily break out of it with the people around him. That's why he latches onto Pomni as someone he can be sincere to. Because she doesn't fully see him and expect him to be the mean guy who can never be trusted. But he can also feel free to BE mean, to BE chaotic, because he likes being that, actually. He LIKES being mean and chaotic; he just needs someone to also see that he's more than that.

I am very. Very curious as to the implications here. About. The. Conversation. Oh my godddd.

Also RAGATHA. AUGHH. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT SHE'S THINKING. I want Ragatha to both be a little self-centered sometimes and ALSO to not be quick to judge. There's like this impulse she has that she needs to be helpful or otherwise people won't love her, won't appreciate her. And maybe, deep down, she expects the same of others. That they would go to the same lengths as her to help her as she helps them. That's why it hurt her quite a lot when Pomni left her on ep 1, and why she cannot stand Jax's GUTS, always antagonistic to others and not at all helpful — in fact, to the point that he gets annoyed by her help he considers insincere. She was taught to be the perfect little girl always ready to help to avoid admonishment and she represses all her negative emotions towards others. She keeps everything tightly blocked off and when she lets slip, she feels like she's breached something, done something she shouldn't have. She can never be mean to anyone. But she is, she breaks, and she doesn't know what to do with the pieces after the fact. She gets told to be a bit mean sometimes, so she does, and she gets told to calm down so WHAT. I AUGHHH. She doesn't know how to feel anymore but she's trying to be who everyone needs and it's becoming unmanageable for her. She no longer knows what to do.

Ragatha and Jax are such interesting fucking foils I'm going to pull from Jax's page and do this:

[satellites444]

a threesome with sylus and zayne...

where, admittedly, you were a little nervous to try it, because you’ve seen the porn. it’s always two men using a woman for their pleasure only, where she is the side character, the object to be used.

but, it’s sylus and zayne so of course it’s the complete opposite.

it starts with them between your legs. they’re taking their time with you, both savoring everything you have to offer them. you’ve never had two men eating you out before but your legs are shaking in pleasure as they both tongue at your clit. zayne’s fingers are pumping in and out, curving to hit just the right spot while sylus sucks your clit into his mouth, the both of them working together to make your back arch off the bed, to pull the most lewd noises from you.

you don’t know where, or who, to grab, fingers alternating between sylus’ hair and zayne’s. they make you cum like that, both of them on their knees in front of where you’re spread out on the bed. the orgasm makes you see stars, you have to close your legs and push them both away because they’re greedy, and they keep licking into you even though you’re hyper sensitive.

eventually, it’s sylus who breaks first, needing to be inside of you. zayne obliges, moving to the other side of the bed so that sylus can flip you over pulling your ass in the air as he sinks in.

“sylus,” you moan, his cock spreading you open, and his pace is relentless as he fucks you from behind, his hips connecting hard with your ass on every single thrust. he's trying he very best to make sure you feel him deep inside of you.

“does it feel good, baby? does my cock feel good?” he asks, his voice husky with pleasure. you whimper in response nodding your head, arching your back more for him, knowing he loves the view of your ass like that.

you catch sight of zayne then, just as hard as sylus and almost on reflex, you open your mouth, waiting for him to get close enough to take him into your mouth, you feel like you're practically drooling for it. he comes to the edge of the bed, climbing up and kneeling in front of you, moaning softly as you suck the tip of his cock into your mouth, swirling around the head.

zayne’s cock is in your mouth, his fingers in your hair. he’s guiding you gently, helping you bob on him and sylus still pounding into you, your entire body is alight. it's as if the only thoughts in your head are the two men with you.

“good job, pretty girl,” sylus’ praise fills your ears, “that’s it, take his cock into your perfect little mouth,” he says, picking up his rhythm, his hips snapping quicker against you.

a muffled, “mmmf!” leaves your mouth, unable to talk around zayne’s dick.

you look up just enough to see zayne’s jaw go slack in pleasure, and whispered, “fuck,” leaving his mouth.

“she's doing so well,” he says, and you realize he's talking to sylus, who grunts in response. the idea that they’re having a conversation right now would be hilarious to you if you weren’t con the brink of another orgasm. you can only moan, sending vibrations up zayne’s cock, it pulls his attention to you, “aren’t you?” he says, looking down at you now, watching as you bob up and down on him, “you’re doing so well,” he moans deeply, “you love this, don’t you?”

“i think she does,” sylus answers for you, “can feel her getting tighter.” he pulls almost all the way out, slowly pushing back in so that you can feel every inch of him, a muffled whimper leaves your mouth. “are you gonna cum again, kitten?”

you’re fluttering around him when he suddenly pulls out, and you gasp at the sudden loss of him. “wouldn’t be fair if i didn’t share,” he says. you watch as he swaps with zayne, who quickly flips you onto your back, spreading your legs wide before he pushes inside of you with a groan.

in this new position, zayne brushes your clit with his pelvis on every thrust, and you can feel your toes curl at the sensation. then, sylus is next to you, he taps the tip of his cock against your lips a few times before he slowly lets you take him into your mouth.

“god, fuck,” zayne says through gritted teeth. you feel him throb inside of you, once, twice, three times and then the warmth of him spilling inside of you. that, plus the way zayne circles your clit with his thumb, pushes you over the edge. your second orgasm hits you just as hard as your first one, the scream you let out is muffled by sylus.

“you’re perfect,” zayne says, gently thrusting, working you both through your orgasms.

of course, when sylus cums in your mouth he’s praising you the entire time, “that’s it, beautiful, you did so good for us.”

and the aftercare is going to be gentle and wonderful. they’re going to take their time and make sure you’re okay after how intense things were, and if you all happen to go for another round in the shower…..

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧-𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪’𝘮 𝘢 𝘴𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘊𝘖𝘙𝘌. 𝘢𝘥𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘣 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘪𝘧 𝘸𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪 𝘥𝘪𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴… 𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘧𝘳

[cheftsunoda]

okay okay oscar sister who is exactly like oscar in personality and is also a driver and this is her rookie year or second year? but she has the biggest soft spot for ollie? and if you want to do poly maybe kimi and ollie

soft spot — ob87

smau + blurbs

ollie bearman x !piastri driver reader

oscar piastri x !sister driver reader

yn piastri is in her second year of formula 1, racing alongside her older brother — oscar. if you’ve seen him, you’ve basically seen her. same deadpan humor, same terrifying racecraft, same “please don’t talk to me unless you’re an engineer” energy. people say they’re twins born two and a half years apart. and honestly? they’re not wrong. yn piastri doesn’t smile unless she’s on pole. she doesn’t do drama. and she definitely doesn’t do feelings. or at least… that’s what everyone thought. until ollie smiled at her in the paddock — and she actually smiled back. yeah. it’s bad. oscar is horrified.

fc : f1 academy drivers + jazmyn makenna

reader is 21

(a/n) : someone recently asked if i would write 2nd person pov and i kind of suck it at but i wrote this in 2nd- lmk which y'all like better. love you bunches

—

yn_piastri

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, pierregasly and 7,100,011 others.

yn_piastri : flics from the world’s favorite piastri (hattie is catching up to me)

tagged : oscarpiastri, lando and pierregasly

—

view 347,012 other comments.

hattiepiastri : as long as it isn’t oscar idc

liked by yn_piastri and lando

↳ yn_piastri : honestly same

↳ oscarpiastri : nobody on this earth can humble me like you two

liked by yn_piastri and hattiepiastri

↳ nicolepiastri : you were given only sisters for a reason. we knew you would need humbled.

liked by yn_piastri and hattiepiastri

↳ username00 : the piastri’s are so special to me.

↳ hattiepiastri : but anyways, yn u look so good. imysm and pls send me that meme.

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : miss u more. check your messages.

liked by hattiepiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : what the hell does it mean to look microwaveable?

liked by yn_piastri and hattiepiastri

↳ yn_piastri : no clue but the world says you look the part.

lando : i gyatt something in my eye

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : i cannot stand you 😭

↳ lando : so sit on me instead

liked by yn_piastri

↳ username1 : LANDO- can’t say I blame him.

↳ oscarpiastri : I do not care that we are on the same team. I am driving you off the track.

liked by yn_piastri and lando

oscarpiastri : also why are you hanging out with lando?

↳ yn_piastri : to give you anxiety.

liked by lando

↳ oscarpiastri : it is working.

liked by lando and yn_piastri

alex_albon : microwaveable might be the best adjective anyone has ever used for oscar.

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : i know!! it just makes sense.

↳ oscarpiastri : no it doesn’t ???

liked by alex_albon and yn_piastri

lilyzneimer : the prettiest girl 🩷

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : my girllll

username005 : yn was automatically promoted to my fave piastri the second she made alpine her bitch and managed a p3 in the tractor.

liked by pierregasly, francolapinto, yn_piastri and lando

↳ yn_piastri : hey, someone had to do it.

username5 : ynierre is my fave teammate combo in recent years

liked by yn_piastri and pierregasly

↳ pierregasly : we are rather iconic. won’t lie.

liked by yn_piastri

olliebearman : you’ve been killing it recently, yn! 🤍

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : thanks olliebear!! ❤️

liked by olliebearman

↳ username00 : did she show- emotion?? using emojis and exclamations?? oh mr bearman has her whipped. CONFIRMED

—

It’s a few hours before qualifying, and you’re already suited up, arms crossed as you march down the paddock with one mission— annoy your brother into calling your mother before she calls you again. You find Oscar standing near the McLaren garage, quietly sipping from his water bottle and minding his own business — which, in your world, means he’s due for a sibling attack.

“Oi.”

You tap the back of his helmet with your fingers. “Call Mum.”

He barely turns his head. “Not happening.”

“She’s now threatening to tell Sky Sports that you wet the bed until you were eight.”

Oscar’s eyes narrow behind his sunglasses. “That’s defamation.”

“Is it?” you smirk. “Because I have vivid memories.”

Before he can respond, Lando appears out of nowhere like the nosy older cousin he insists on being, slinging an arm around Oscar’s shoulder with a grin.

“What are we fighting about today?” he asks. “Family secrets? Childhood trauma?”

You open your mouth to reply, but then something — someone — over by the Haas garage catches your attention. Ollie Bearman. Helmet half-on, gloves in hand, mid-conversation with a race engineer — until he sees you. His eyes light up, and he lifts a hand to wave. Soft smile. The kind you pretend not to read into. And yet, before your brain catches up, your hand lifts. You wave back. And — god forbid — you smile. Not a smirk. Not a scoff. A genuine, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. It lasts three seconds, max. But that’s more than enough time.

Oscar is staring at you like you just declared love and Lando drops his drink.

“Wait—did you just smile?” Lando blurts, gaping. “At Ollie?”

Oscar squints at you like you’re malfunctioning. “Was that… affection?”

You blink, back in autopilot now. “Shut up.”

“You smiled,” Lando says, turning to Oscar. “She actually smiled. Like, a real one. With teeth and warmth and everything.”

You roll your eyes and walk off like nothing happened. Behind you, Oscar mutters, “I need to sit down.”

—

The second you climb out of the car and pull off your helmet, the noise hits you — cheers from the crowd, Alpine crew shouting and clapping, and somewhere behind you, someone yelling about how the ‘piastri’s have taken over the grid.’

You’re still catching your breath when you spot Oscar stepping down from the P1 board, helmet under his arm, cool as ever — but even he looks a little smug today. He makes his way over and bumps his shoulder against yours.

“P2, huh?” he says, grinning. “Not bad. For my mini-me.”

You snort. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll be in front of you before you know it.”

Before you can say more, Lando bounces over from P3 like he’s won the whole thing. “Look at this!” he beams, throwing an arm over both your shoulders. “Oscar on pole, YN right behind, and me—beautifully, somehow—in third. Honestly? Iconic.”

The three of you walk off toward the media. Oscar looks like he’s trying not to enjoy it too much. Lando looks like he very much is. You? You’re riding the high of sticking it on the front row with your brother. And then—

“P2! Let’s go!”

You turn just as Pierre comes jogging over in full celebratory mode. He’s flushed, still in his race suit, hair a mess under his cap, but he pulls you into a quick hug anyway. “I knew it was coming today,” he says, still grinning. “That last lap was beautiful.”

You grin back. “You mean yours or mine?”

He snorts. “You’re not funny. But yes, yours.”

He ruffles your helmet hair just to be annoying, then heads off to debrief. You’re about to follow Oscar and Lando inside when you hear your name again — softer this time.

“YN.”

You turn. Ollie’s standing a few feet away, helmet in one hand, gloves tucked into his side. There’s a flush on his cheeks that’s definitely from the heat. Probably. Maybe.

“P2,” he says, smiling. “You were incredible.”

It’s not just the words — it’s how he says it. Like he means it. Like he was watching your lap the whole time and still hasn’t fully recovered. And despite the sweat, the adrenaline, the pure chaos in your veins… you smile. Again.

“Thanks,” you say, a little quieter. “That means a lot.”

Ollie hesitates for a second, then adds, “If you keep qualifying like this, I might start believing in Alpine.”

You raise a brow. “Don’t get carried away.”

He grins, stepping back as someone calls his name. “No promises.”

You turn back around just in time to see Lando whispering something to Oscar — who is staring at you like he just solved a mystery he didn’t want the answer to.

“Unreal,” Lando mutters as you approach. “I’ve never seen you smile twice in one day. This is emotional.”

Oscar crosses his arms. “I give it two weeks before we lose her completely.”

You smirk, brushing past them. “Come on boys, Let’s get this over with so I can win the race tomorrow.”

—

The paddock is buzzing — engineers checking last-minute data, cameras weaving through garages, team radios chirping nonstop. You’re standing by your car in full race suit, helmet under your arm, trying to lock into that pre-race focus zone. Almost there. You’ve got this. And then—footsteps. Familiar ones.

You glance to the side just as Ollie approaches, hands tucked into his Haas fire suit, eyes scanning the garage like he’s making sure no one’s watching. Subtle. Kind of. Not really.

“You ready?” he asks, stopping just in front of you. His voice is low enough that it’s meant for you, and only you.

You nod, trying not to smile. “As I’ll ever be.”

He hesitates, then dips his head a little closer. “You’ve got pace today. Just keep your head down in the first few laps. You already know what to do.”

You blink, a little caught off guard. You’d expected a smirk, a joke, maybe a thumbs-up from a distance — not this quiet, sincere energy. Your grip tightens slightly on your helmet. “Hush. You’ll get me all emotional.”

He chuckles, glancing over his shoulder before returning his eyes to you.

“Good. Maybe it’ll slow you down.”

You roll your eyes. “You wish.”

Then he steps back, gives you one last nod — and that smile. The soft one that somehow always short-circuits your brain. And then—of course—

“Am I interrupting something?”

You jump slightly and turn to find Pierre standing a few feet away, arms crossed, the most smug expression plastered across his face.

You blinked, "No."

He raises a brow. “Because that looked a lot like a moment.”

You shoot him a warning look, but that only fuels him.

“Pierre—”

“Should I warn Oscar? Or let him find out on the broadcast?”

“Pierre.”

He grins. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it quiet. For now. But if you out-qualify me again next weekend, I am texting the group chat.”

You shove your helmet into his chest with a dramatic sigh, and he cackles all the way back to the garage. Behind you, someone’s camera flashes, and you swear you hear your race engineer mutter, “God help us if she gets a podium today.”

—

You’re still not entirely sure how it happened. One minute, you were sitting solidly in P2, chasing Oscar down like a dog after a steak. The next, McLaren boxed both cars too early, chaos unfolded, and suddenly you were flying down the pit straight in clean air, your engineer screaming in your ear that you were leading the race. And you held it. For twelve brutal laps.

Now? You’re parked in front of the P1 board. Out of the car. Helmet off. Surrounded by chaos. Drenched in sweat and disbelief and the overwhelming roar of a crowd losing its collective mind over you. You’re half-hugged, half-dragged by your crew and Alpine engineers, someone yelling “SHE DID IT!” while someone else nearly decapitates you with the team flag. You barely register any of it — your ears are ringing, your hands are shaking, your heart’s still trying to figure out how to calm down. And then Oscar appears. He pulls you into a bone-crushing hug, both of you laughing like idiots.

“You’re joking,” he says into your ear. “P1? That’s disgusting. You’re insufferable now.”

You pull back, grinning. “I learned from the best.”

“I wasn’t that good— especially in that car.”

“You also didn’t have Pierre screaming strategy codes in French in my left ear.”

Speak of the devil—Pierre shoves through the crowd next, yelling “P1! P1!” like he wasn’t there with you the entire last stint. He nearly tackles you with a hug, helmet still on, bouncing with the kind of energy a toddler on a sugar high has.

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, pushing him off playfully. “I still have to do interviews, I can’t look like I got mauled by my teammate.”

“You just won your first race,” Pierre says, beaming. “You should look like that.”

Then Lando walks past, looking miserable, soaking wet, visor down. He mutters, “I hate everything,” and you can’t help but yell “Thanks for the strategy!” after him.

Oscar high-fives you. Pierre howls with laughter. But as the madness starts to dull — as the mechanics scatter, the cameras shift, and the adrenaline begins to fade — there’s a beat. A rare, rare quiet moment. And in that sliver of silence, you feel someone step beside you. You turn, and it’s Ollie.

Helmet off, suit zipped halfway down, curls a little damp, a towel around his neck. There’s a small smile on his face, but it’s his eyes that catch you — bright, a little shy, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here, but came anyway.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Your heart, which had just settled from the final lap, decides to go full tilt again.

“Hey,” you echo.

He looks at the crowd, then back at you. “I didn’t want to interrupt the chaos.”

“You kind of live in it,” you tease gently.

“Yeah, but this one was yours.” He smiles, and this one is all softness. “I’m really proud of you.”

You don’t mean to blush. You also don’t mean to look away that quickly, but the combination is lethal.

“Thanks,” you mumble. “It doesn’t… it doesn’t feel real yet.”

“You made it look real.”

There’s a pause. A beat. And then, still soft, like he’s scared of startling the moment.

“Hey, um. This might not be the best time — you know, given you just beat half the grid senseless and all — but… would you maybe want to go out sometime?”

You blink. You actually blink. And then you blink again, because your brain is trying to replay the sentence in slow motion to make sure it wasn’t just a post-race hallucination.

You tilt your head. “Like… go out where?”

He gives you a sheepish, nervous laugh. “I don’t know. Like… dinner? Real clothes? A place where no one’s holding a stopwatch?”

You stare at him. Then—smile. A real one. Probably your third of the weekend, which is terrifying, if you’re being honest.

“I’d like that,” you say.

His face lights up in a way you’ve never quite seen before. You’re almost annoyed by how cute it is.

Before either of you can say more, you hear Lando from across the paddock yell, “SOMEONE CHECK HER TEMPERATURE—SHE’S SMILING AGAIN!”

Oscar, from next to him. “That is not my sister. Take the trophy away. Imposter.”

Pierre, sprinting back into the frame with a mic he stole from an interviewer.

“CONFIRMED— Piastri #2 is in love, pass it on!”

You sigh. Ollie laughs. Loudly. But even in the chaos, the roar, the teasing that’s definitely going to last until the next race weekend — he stays next to you. Close. Quiet. Soft. And for once, you don’t mind the noise at all.

—

nicolepiastri added a post to her story!

seen by oscarpiastri, yn_piastri, lilyzneimer and 1,002,002 others.

{caption : both of my children are on the podium but only one answers my calls— CONGRATULATIONS YNN! I LOVE YOU}

—

The second your boots hit the floor of the cooldown room, you finally exhale. Suit unzipped just enough to breathe again. There’s a bottle of water in your hand, a grin you still haven’t managed to shake off, and Oscar sitting on the bench beside you, towel slung around his neck and smirking like he’s the one who won. He’s been like this since parc fermé. Teasing. Poking. Looking entirely too pleased for someone who got bumped from P1 because of a McLaren meltdown.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, scrolling through your messages. The notifications are endless — texts, mentions, a dozen missed calls from your mum alone.

Oscar’s already watching you with far too much interest. “Oh good, you’re finally calling her. She’s going to yell at me and cry for you. What a reward.”

You don’t dignify him with a response. Instead, you hit FaceTime. It rings once. Then twice. And then — your mum answers with all the emotional chaos.

“Oh my GOD, YN!”

You barely get a “Hi, Mum—” out before she’s off.

“You WON a Grand Prix! I almost passed out in the living room! Hattie screamed! I was crying during the last ten laps—you didn’t even look nervous! And then the overtake after the pit stop—!”

You hold the phone out slightly so she doesn’t deafen you. Oscar leans over your shoulder and makes a dramatic shocked face into the camera.

“Hi Mum,” he says flatly. “Your second-favorite child reporting in.”

“Oh hush, Oscar. You’re still on probation for ignoring my calls last week.”

You snort.

“I CALLED YOU FIVE TIMES,” she continues. “AND DON’T THINK I DIDN’T SEE THAT SMILE, YN. Don’t even try to act like you weren’t looking at Ollie Bearman like he hung the moon.”

You nearly drop the phone.

“MUM!”

Oscar cackles. Loudly. “Knew it. I knew it. There was a look.”

You turn to him, horrified. “She saw it on the broadcast?!”

Your mum is beaming. “Oh, everyone saw it. You smiled like you were in love. It was very unlike you.”

Oscar’s already doubled over. “You’re DONE. You’re actually finished. Mum caught the soft launch before anyone. You’re slipping.”

“Both of you need to be quiet,” you hiss, gripping your water bottle like a weapon.

Your mum shakes her head fondly. “Darling, I’m happy for you. First race win and a boy you actually like? That’s a big day.”

Oscar snorts to himself “I give it two weeks before we’re picking wedding venues.”

You gave him a look and said, “I give it two minutes before I throw this at your head.”

“Do it,” Oscar dares, eyes wide with laughter. “Make it the first sibling fight broadcast live from the cooldown room.”

You sigh so hard you think your soul leaves your body. “I just wanted to say thank you and maybe get a little love from my supportive family and instead I’m being roasted alive.”

Oscar’s already taking selfies with your phone and trying to angle you both into the frame while your mum yells something about screen recording this for Hattie. Eventually, you end the call, cheeks pink, body aching from the race — and from the sheer emotional whiplash of it all. Oscar tosses you your towel. “Well, race winner. You’ve survived the podium, the press, and Mum. You’re practically unstoppable.”

You sigh, leaning back against the bench with a grin.

“God help me if she meets Ollie.”

Oscar just smirks. “Oh, she’s already planning it.”

—

yn_piastri

liked by olliebearman, nicolepiastri, pierregasly and 10,001,008 others.

yn_piastri : life as a race winner is pretty sweet

tagged : pierregasly and olliebearman

—

view 890,001 other comments.

logansargeant : we get it. you are fast and in love. so proud of you, kid!

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : ignoring the in love part. but LOGANNNNNNN i miss you

liked by logansargeant

hattiepiastri : text me back right this instant. i have questions. but oMG MY SISTER IS A RACE WINNER. I LOVE YOUUUUU

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : love you more

↳ oscarpiastri : i did NOT get this much love my first win.

↳ nicolepiastri : you also didn’t dedicate your first win to your mother and your sisters— yn did.

liked by yn_piastri and hattiepiastri

nicolepiastri : i see him yn. i need to meet him.

liked by oscarpiastri and lando

pierregasly : absolutely incredible! (you are my favorite teammate) (no one tell estie bestie)

liked by yn_piastri

alpinef1team : OUR QUEEN 🩷💙🤍🏆

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : you are welcome.

carlossainz55 : LET HER COOK 🗣️

liked by yn_piastri

lando : you are the only person i’d be okay with stealing this race from me

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : blame your team, norris.

georgerussell63 : You were absolutely insane out there! Congratulations YN!

liked by yn_piastri

lilyzneimer : YAYYYYY! Congratulations YN! You made all of us so proud:)

liked by yn_piastri

franciscagomes : I am so proud of you, YN! Restored my faith in the team 😭

liked by yn_piastri

olliebearman : You are incredible. 🩷💙

liked by yn_piastri, lando and oscarpiastri

—

You’re used to chaos — engine noise, media scrums, strategy debriefs, Oscar’s constant dry commentary. What you’re not used to? This. Silence. Comfort. A night without cameras, paddock chatter, or telemetry breakdowns. Just soft lighting, quiet music, and Ollie Bearman sitting across from you at a candlelit table, cheeks flushed and curls slightly messy from where he kept running his hand through them.

He picks nervously at the edge of his napkin and smiles at you like you’re the only person who exists in the entire world. And somehow, that doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels… right.

“I still can’t believe you said yes,” he says, breaking the silence with a sheepish little grin.

You raise an eyebrow over your wine glass. “You asked me right after I won a Grand Prix. Your timing was immaculate.”

He laughs — that full, warm, boyish laugh you’ve only ever heard from him around his engineers or when he’s completely relaxed. It settles something in your chest.

“Okay, fair,” he says. “I might’ve used the momentum to my advantage.”

You tilt your head, smiling. “Would’ve said yes anyway.”

He goes quiet for a second. Then his voice drops, just a little.

“Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

The words settle between you like a secret. Like something sacred. Dinner comes and goes — light food, laughter, gentle teasing. He makes fun of the way you concentrate so hard when you cut your food, and you tease him for still saying “thank you” to every single staff member like it’s his first day on Earth.

At one point, your feet bump under the table and you freeze — but he doesn’t pull away. Just smiles at you, like he knows how rare it is for you to let anyone close.

“You’re not what I expected, you know,” he says suddenly, once dessert is cleared. “When I first met you, I thought you hated me.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s just my face. And you were loud.”

He laughs. “Still am.”

“Still true.”

But then you glance at him — really look — and say, a little quieter, “I didn’t hate you. I just didn’t know how to be around someone who made me feel like this.”

He pauses. His smile softens. “Like what?”

You shrug, like it’s not terrifying to admit this out loud. “Like I don’t have to be on guard. Like… I can breathe.”

It hangs in the air between you. He doesn’t rush to fill it, doesn’t joke, doesn’t look away. He just reaches across the table, gentle and sure, and lets his fingers brush yours. You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. Instead, you let your hand settle in his.

“Me too,” he says softly. “That’s how you make me feel.”

Later, when you’re outside under the soft glow of city lights, waiting for your car to arrive, he stands beside you with his hands in his pockets, the air thick with something sweet and unspoken.

He looks over at you. “Can I—?”

You beat him to it. You lean in and kiss him. It’s slow. It’s soft. It’s not fireworks or fanfare — it’s better. It’s quiet warmth. A kind of safety you didn’t know you wanted until now. When you pull back, his smile is dazed and dopey and perfect.

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “That answers that.”

Your car pulls up. He opens the door for you.

Before you step in, you glance over your shoulder.

“Next time,” you say, “you pick the restaurant.”

“There’s gonna be a next time?” he teases.

You smirk. “If you keep smiling at me like that, yeah.”

You slide into the car, and he’s still standing there when you look back — grinning like he just won a race.

—

You should’ve known something was off the second your phone stopped buzzing. No texts from Oscar. No memes from Lando. Not even a meme. Just… silence. Peaceful. Suspicious. You’re halfway through a rerun of some terrible reality show, face scrubbed clean, hoodie three sizes too big, snacks in your lap — when it happens.  Someone’s pounding on your front door like you’re harboring state secrets. You pause. Narrow your eyes. It can’t be—You open the door. It is.

Oscar and Lando stand there like a chaotic sitcom duo, Oscar in a hoodie with a smug look on his face and Lando wearing sunglasses indoors like he is about to interrogate you.

Oscar raises a brow. “So. You had a date.”

You blink. “Hello to you too?”

Lando pushes past you like he owns the place. “You kissed him, didn’t you?”

“What—no—why would—”

Oscar follows behind, stepping over your shoes with the precision of a man on a mission. “You smiled three times in one weekend. THREE. We checked. And now you’re soft launching.”

You fold your arms. “Get out of my house.”

Lando flops dramatically onto your couch, eyes wide. “Did you let him kiss you? Did you—initiate the kiss?”

“I—”

Oscar points. “She did. She’s pausing.”

“Deny it,” Lando dares. “Say it didn’t happen. Say you didn’t fall for him.”

You open your mouth to snap back—and then the doorbell rings. The timing is cursed. You all freeze.

Oscar squints. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No,” you say slowly.

Lando’s already halfway to the door. “Oh this is good. This is cinema.”

You try to beat him there, but he swings the door open before you can even shout. And standing there — because the universe is a menace — is a delivery guy holding the most obnoxiously romantic bouquet you’ve ever seen. White peonies. Baby’s breath. Little bits of Alpine blue ribbon tied into the stems.

“Delivery for YN Piastri?” the guy says.

Behind you, Oscar lets out a strangled sound. “You’re joking.”

Lando’s cackling. Full on, no-holds-barred, bent-over laughter. “FLOWERS?! OLLIE SENT YOU FLOWERS?!”

You try to grab the bouquet, but Lando intercepts it instantly.

“He signed the card,” he says, reading aloud in his most smug voice. “‘Can’t stop thinking about last night. Hope today’s just as sweet. Ollie 🐻’ — there’s a BEAR EMOJI. I’m gonna be sick.”

“Give it to me,” you hiss, lunging for the card.

“You’re in LOVE,” Lando gasps, gripping the armrest of the couch like he’s witnessing a plot twist in a soap opera. “You’re actually in love. Our cold-blooded, deadpan ice queen is giggling over peonies.”

“I am NOT giggling—”

Oscar snaps a photo of you holding the bouquet like it’s evidence in a court case. “Mum is going to LOSE IT when she sees this.”

You nearly scream. “DO NOT SEND THAT TO MUM.”

“You’re lucky I’m not sending it to Ollie with a message that says ‘take good care of our emotionally unavailable menace,’” Lando says, grinning.

You collapse onto the couch and bury your face in your hands as the two of them spiral — Oscar dramatically pacing and reading the card out loud again, and Lando pretending to write a best man speech into your Notes app.

“You guys are unwell,” you mumble.

“And you,” Oscar says, dropping onto the armrest beside you, “are in trouble.”

“Big trouble,” Lando adds. “Because now we care. Now we’re invested. We’re emotionally attached to the Ollie situation.”

“God help him,” Oscar mutters. “He’s dating you.”

You look up, cheeks warm, bouquet in your lap. And despite the chaos, the teasing, and the complete invasion of your private life… you smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “Poor guy’s doomed.”

—

It’s late. The house is finally quiet. Oscar and Lando have been banished, the flower bouquet has been moved to the kitchen and you’re lying in bed, hoodie on, phone somewhere near your pillow. You should’ve known she’d call. When Nicole’s name flashes on your screen, you hesitate for half a second… then swipe to answer.

“Hi, Mum.”

“You got flowers.”

Her tone is calm, knowing — the exact way she used to say ‘I know what you did’ when you were seven and tried to hide chocolate under your pillow.

You sigh. “Yes. I did.”

“From Ollie Bearman.”

You groan and bury your face in your pillow. “I’m aware.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just soft. Then, gently—

“Do you want to tell me about him?”

You’re quiet for a long beat. And then, maybe for the first time, you don’t dodge the question. You stare at the ceiling and let the truth slip out in a whisper. “He’s… kind.”

“Kind?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “He’s patient. And funny in this really low-key, unforced way. He doesn’t treat me like I’m difficult to figure out, he just… wants to. And he makes me feel safe. I haven’t felt that in a while.”

There’s another pause. But it’s warm. Like your mum is letting that settle in her chest. Then you hear her smile through the phone.

“I like him already.”

You exhale. “Yeah. Me too.”

“He’s going to get a proper interrogation when I see him, though.”

You groan. “Of course he is.”

Nicole laughs softly. “I’m your mum. It’s in the contract. But YN?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really proud of you. And not just for the win. For letting someone in.”

You close your eyes, heart unexpectedly full.

“…Thanks, Mum.”

You hang up a few minutes later. And for the first time that day, the silence feels calm. Not lonely. Just safe. Just sweet.

—

You should’ve known Ollie was up to something the second he picked you up on time. Hair slightly damp, curls pushed back, white linen shirt on. Waiting outside your flat in Monaco with a quiet smile and one hand behind his back.

“What’s that look for?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as you stepped outside.

“I have a plan,” he said simply. “And no, you’re not allowed to make fun of it.”

Now you’re sitting in the back of a sleek car winding up the narrow streets of Monaco, your hand resting in his, the glittering lights of the coastline slipping past you like a movie. And you realize—this feels different. Intentional. Soft. Thoughtful in the way only Ollie seems capable of pulling off without it ever feeling overdone.

You glance at him. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

He grins. “Nope.”

You squint. “If it’s a boat thing, I swear—”

“It’s not a boat thing. Though I’m offended you think I’d try to drown you this early in our relationship.”

That word—relationship—hangs in the air for a second. Neither of you comment on it. But you smile. The car finally slows to a stop in front of a restaurant tucked into a quiet cliffside — all soft lighting, ocean views, and the kind of clientele that could probably buy half the grid.

You blink. “Wait… this place?”

Ollie only nods. Smug.

“You can’t get a reservation here unless you’re a royal or a Michelin inspector,” you murmur, stunned. “I’ve been trying for months.”

“I know,” he says, helping you out of the car. “I called them every day for a week. And also begged. A little. Not proud.”

You stare at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirks. “Yeah. For you.”

The restaurant is perfect. It’s candlelit and quiet, with ocean air drifting in through open archways and the faint hum of a string quartet playing somewhere nearby. They seat you at a private table on a balcony overlooking the water. And Ollie? Ollie just watches you with that same soft awe he always seems to have when you’re not looking. Except now you catch him.

You tilt your head. “You’re staring.”

“Obviously,” he replies. “You look like you belong in a movie.”

You scoff. “You’re so full of it.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes sparkling. “It’s kind of a problem.”

You eat slowly. Talk easily. About everything and nothing. He asks about your pre-race rituals. You ask about his favorite circuit to crash on in which you receive a snort. He makes fun of the way you order pasta like you’re judging the chef. You call him out for stealing bites of your dessert. But beneath it all, there’s this steady, comfortable rhythm — like the two of you are already past the awkward part of love and deep into the good stuff. The safe stuff. The quiet knowing. As the night winds down and you think it’s over, Ollie stands and holds his hand out.

“One more surprise,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

“Come on.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re at the top of a hill in a tucked-away indoor karting track — privately rented out. You blink at the scene in front of you. The neon lights. The empty grid. Two karts already prepped.

“You… rented a karting track?” you ask, stunned.

He shrugs, trying to look casual. “You said you haven’t been in years. Just for fun.”

“That’s because when I go, I overheat the tires and scare children.”

He grins. “Exactly. I want to see that.”

And so, somehow, your perfect Monaco date ends with the two of you in full helmets and borrowed race suits, gunning down a tight corner in fifty-kilo karts, yelling across the straightaways and laughing like you’re both fifteen again. He tries to block you once. Once. You pass him on the outside, flick the rear end just to be cocky, and when you take the checkered flag, you slow down just in time to see him dramatically pull over and fake defeat. You climb out and yank your helmet off with a grin.

“Not bad for a date night, huh?” he asks, breathless.

You roll your eyes, cheeks flushed. “I won.”

He steps closer. “Yeah,” he murmurs, reaching to brush a bit of helmet hair from your face. “But I still feel like I came out ahead.”

You bite back a smile. “That was so cheesy.”

He shrugs. “You like it.”

You do. God, you really do. And when he kisses you, right there at the edge of the track, under flickering fluorescent lights and the buzz of your post-race high, it feels like a new kind of perfect. The kind you didn’t know you deserved.

—

several weeks later…

f1gossipgirls

5,023,001 likes.

f1gossipgirls : It’s a full family affair in the paddock today! YN Piastri was spotted arriving hand in hand with Ollie Bearman — and showed up with his family. One well-timed photo even caught him kissing her on the cheek. Soft launch? Over. Meanwhile, Nicole Piastri and Lily were seen walking the paddock together like seasoned pros. And yes, the Piastri sisters were all there too — spotted repping Alpine with their father, Chris Piastri, screaming for YN during quali. Busy day for the Piastris. And we’re eating it up.

—

You don’t do the whole hand-holding thing. Not usually. Not where cameras can see. Not where half the grid is lurking behind sunglasses and PR smiles. But today? Your hand is in Ollie’s, swinging ever so slightly as you walk through the paddock, and you don’t care who sees. His mum is on his other side, his siblings somewhere behind you, and the sun’s warm, and the media pens are quiet for once. It’s good. It’s easy. Until Oscar appears like a summoned demon. He materializes in front of you, squinting like he just saw something traumatizing. Which, apparently, he has.

“Oh my God,” he says. “You’re still holding hands?”

You blink at him. “Good morning to you, too.”

Ollie lets out a soft, polite laugh that makes Oscar narrow his eyes even harder.

He turns fully to you, arms crossed. “Right. Well. Mum’s waiting.”

You pause. “Okay… for what?”

Oscar jerks his thumb toward hospitality. “To meet him.”

Ollie blinks. “Sorry—what?”

Oscar shrugs like this isn’t the most dangerous escalation of your relationship. “She saw the kiss. She saw the flowers. She’s making tea and says she’s ‘ready for the boy with the curls.’”

You stare at him. “You set me up.”

Oscar grins. “No, Mum did. I’m just the messenger.”

Beside you, Ollie squeezes your hand — just once — like he’s steadying you, even though he’s about to walk straight into the lion’s den.

“Should I be scared?” he asks, voice low near your ear.

You sigh. “Yes. But smile and she might let you live.”

Oscar’s already walking ahead of you, smug as ever. “Hurry up, lovebirds. She’s heating scones and practicing her interrogation voice.”

And just like that, the paddock peace is over — and the Piastri family trial begins.

—

You walk into Alpine hospitality holding Ollie’s hand like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded — which, to be fair, it is. He’s calm. Charming. A little flushed, but smiling, like he doesn’t realize he’s about to be thoroughly interrogated by the people who know you better than you know yourself.

“Mum will be nice,” you mutter as you walk.

“Are you saying that for me or for yourself?” he asks, quietly.

“Both.”

And then there she is — Nicole Piastri, standing just inside the hospitality suite, sipping tea from a floral mug that she definitely packed from home. Her expression is warm but calculating, and beside her— Oh God. Dad’s here too. Chris Piastri, arms folded, wearing sunglasses indoors like he’s security, and looking very serious about this meeting. You stop short.

“Hi,” you say, maybe a little too loudly.

Nicole’s smile widens. “Darling. There you are.”

Ollie steps up beside you. “Hi, Mrs. Piastri. Mr. Piastri. I’m—”

“We know who you are,” Chris says flatly.

Nicole gently nudges his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous, Chris, he’s adorable.” She turns to Ollie with a dazzling smile. “Sit down, dear. We made you tea.”

Ollie blinks. “You—what?”

“She brewed you her best tea,” you mutter under your breath. “I’ve never even been offered the best tea.”

Chris sits, still sizing Ollie up like he’s a rival team’s lead strategist. “So. You like our daughter.”

Ollie opens his mouth. Closes it again. “Uh—yes. Very much.”

Nicole hums. “He’s honest. I like that.”

“She’s emotionally unavailable,” Chris says bluntly. “You know that, right?”

Ollie, bless him, just nods. “She is. I like that too.”

You shoot him a look. He shrugs like—What? It’s true.

Nicole is delighted. “He’s charming. Chris, stop being a grump.”

Chris sighs like he’s being personally victimized. “Fine. But I reserve the right to glare at him.”

Then, like fate planned it, the doors swing open.

“Oh my GOD, is that him?!”

Hattie’s voice cuts through the air like a missile, and before you can even brace, three little hurricanes storm in.

Hattie, Edie, and Mae — your three youngest sisters, all armed with iPhones, iced coffees, and very little shame.

You immediately try to flee. “Nope. Absolutely not. Goodbye—”

But they swarm.

Hattie practically tackles you in a hug before turning to Ollie like a game show host. “So you’re the boy.”

“Nice curls,” Edie adds, squinting. “Did you style them just for her?”

Mae takes a photo from behind her phone. “This is going to be included at the wedding album.” 

“MAE.”

Ollie is visibly trying not to laugh. “I’m… honored? Terrified? A mix.”

Chris raises his mug. “Welcome to the family.”

Nicole just leans back with a satisfied smile. “I love when everyone’s here.”

”Oscar isn’t.” Mae said with a smirk. 

You look at Ollie — completely surrounded, pink in the cheeks, but grinning at your sisters like he’s having the time of his life. He catches your eye and mouths, You okay? You mouth back, You’re the one in danger. He just shrugs. Like he’d walk into the lion’s den a thousand times if it meant he got to hold your hand at the end of it. And honestly? That’s the moment you know he’s already one of them.

—

You’d done it. Again. The flag dropped, the roar erupted, and your name came through the radio— your race engineer’s voice first — “P1, YN. You’re P1.” This time, there was no shock. No disbelief. Just joy. Crashing, overwhelming joy. But nothing compared to the moment you stepped onto the top step of the podium and looked out at the sea of faces — and saw them. Your family. All of them. Nicole was standing in the front row of the Alpine viewing box, her hand covering her mouth, eyes shining. Chris stood behind her, his sunglasses off, wiping something off his cheek and pretending it was sweat. Oscar was already leaning over the rail, fists in the air, grinning like an idiot. Lily beside him, filming everything on her phone. And then there were your sisters — Hattie with her Alpine cap backwards, Edie screaming at a security guard to move, and Mae sobbing into a little handmade sign that read “LET HER COOK.”

And Ollie — in the Haas garage at first, but then suddenly appearing like magic at the edge of parc fermé, mouthing “I told you.” You barely held it together through the anthem. Through the champagne. Through the press photos. But the moment they let you go — the moment you stepped off that podium and your eyes met Oscar’s? You ran. Trophy tucked under your arm, still half in your suit, you sprinted toward the team area, dodging cameras and PR handlers, until you reached them. Oscar met you first — grabbing you and spinning you around before you could even say anything.

“Back-to-back wins?” he shouted over the noise. “You trying to make me look bad?”

You laughed, breathless. “I’m just better than you now.”

“Not wrong,” he said, grinning proudly.

Then came your mum. Nicole crushed you into a hug that smelled like floral perfume and peppermint tea and home.

“My girl,” she whispered. “You were magnificent.”

“I couldn’t hear you crying from the podium,” you teased.

“I was very discreet, thank you.”

Your dad pulled you into a quick, tight hug next, gruffly muttering, “You’ve made us so proud. But next time, don’t scare me with that overtake on Lap 42. I nearly aged ten years.”

Then the girls tackled you — all at once.

“You were FLYING!” Hattie screamed.

“You BLEW past Max like he was standing still!” Edie shouted.

“I’m not okay,” Mae sobbed. “I haven’t stopped crying since Lap 50.”

You were laughing and crying and breathless, overwhelmed and completely surrounded by love. And when you finally looked up, Ollie was standing a few feet away — waiting. Watching. Giving you space to have your moment. You stepped away from the circle of siblings and met him halfway.

“I told you,” he said again, voice soft, eyes glowing.

“I know,” you whispered, smiling. “But hearing it was different than believing it.”

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, gently, reverently. “Do you believe it now?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He didn’t kiss you. Not here. Not yet. But he squeezed your hand once, and it said everything.

—

Your family rented out a little restaurant tucked into a side street in town — your mum insisted it had to be cozy and not fussy. No press. No cameras. Just you, your family, and a table full of food and noise. Oscar sat at the head of the table like he ran the whole operation, passing bread baskets and complaining about the wine like he knew anything. Your sisters retold the race from their perspective at least six times, each version more dramatic than the last. Nicole ordered dessert for the table before anyone even got halfway through dinner.

Chris made a speech — short, emotional, voice cracking halfway through and he denied it many times. And Ollie? Ollie sat beside you, not trying to dominate the conversation, not trying to steal attention — just being there.

He listened. He laughed. He made Hattie giggle so hard she snorted lemonade through her nose. He leaned over when things got loud and asked if you were okay. He held your hand under the table when no one was looking. He fit.

By the end of the night, Nicole had slipped him an extra dessert plate and whispered, “You’re staying, aren’t you?”

And when Ollie looked to you — grinning, hopeful — you just nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “He’s staying.” The table erupted again. And this time, when they toasted? They toasted to you. To the girl who won. To the girl who loved. To the girl who let herself be known. And for once — completely, deeply, happily — you let them.

—

olliebearman

liked by yn_piastri, oscarpiastri, hattiepiastri and 7,770,001 others.

olliebearman : 2 time race winner AND MY GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!

tagged : yn_piastri

—

view 770,134 other comments.

oscarpiastri : AND MY SISTER!!!!!!! so watch yourself.

liked by olliebearman

↳ yn_piastri : no one is scared of your threats, remember, the internet thinks you look microwaveable.

liked by alex_albon and olliebearman

↳ oscarpiastri : WHAT THE FUCK DOES IT MEAN

liked by yn_piastri, alex_albon and olliebearman

lando : you have to break up now. you gave her superpowers, she cannot keep winning.

liked by olliebearman and yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : BOOOOOOOOO. just get better at driving.

liked by oscarpiastri, lando and olliebearman

pierregasly : this is disgusting. i am sick to my stomach. but you guys are so cute i can’t be mad. take care of my menace.

liked by yn_piastri and olliebearman

hattiepiastri : can i be maid of honor?????

liked by yn_piastri and olliebearman

↳ oscarpiastri : you are assuming he will want to marry her.

↳ olliebearman : i do.

liked by yn_piastri, hattiepiastri, nicolepiastri and lando

↳ hattiepiastri : SFJRBFJASDFNOISAERDFNG OMH

↳ oscarpiastri : never speaking again.

↳ yn_piastri : aw ollie u broke both of them. i love youuu

liked by olliebearman

—

[madamechrissy]

Endless Summer

Pairings- Yandere! Caleb x F!reader

Summary- You are staying home from summer break before Senior year of college with your Gran, Josephine, when a huge surprise happens, after over a year of being unable to see Caleb, he comes back to stay. You're so happy, but there's just a couple problems - one, you want him in ways you shouldn't, and you're just starting to get over it with the distance. And two, Caleb is pretty fucking pissed that you have a date, isn't he enough for you!?

Warnings- eventual smut, light angst, taboo relationships, TW- stepcest, mutual pining, yandere Caleb, he's a virgin bc that's canon to me, him being utterly obsessed. This chap - angst and smut oral sex (f receiving) fingering, overstim, squirting, a fuck ton of sexual tension again, hurt feelings, possessiveness, Caleb just torturing himself tbh- WC 7.2k

Comments/Reblogs appreciated if you enjoyy - taglist open <3

<<<Part two - Part four>>> (coming soon)

Part Three

Caleb hardly talks to you the next couple days, he catches up with friends from college, and you hide in your fucking room, lost in your own head. When you two pass each other in the halls, you barely talk to him, he hardly speaks to you, he doesn’t touch you like he usually does, no brushes of his fingers, no playful touches. He doesn’t linger his gaze on you anymore.

The times you missed him so badly and would treasure these visits that get less and less frequent, only for a simple moment to make everything so difficult. You didn’t want him to stop, you wanted him to do more, fuck you’d have lost your virginity right in the damn car if he let you. But you couldn’t admit the simple truth, the words that terrify you.

That you love him, way differently than you should, and maybe it’s always fucking been that way - maybe you always loved him too much.

It’s awkward still, a couple days later when Gran has left to go shop with her friends at yard sales, she does it every other Sunday. And Caleb is making toast, shirtless, you have to look at that perfectly sculpted back, the dimples at the bottom of it on either side. He looks back at you, his side profile just far too fucking sexy in the soft filtering light of the morning.

God and you’re staring at his ass!

You hate yourself more lately.

“Morning,” he doesn’t say pips, he doesn’t say honey. He hasn’t since the car, when he touched you. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” you admit, he used to make you breakfast, but the tension is clear in his tense muscles. “Um, I’ll make some eggs.”

“I’ll make you some,” you both go to grab the fridge at the same time, his hand over yours then, and you pause, looking at it. Strong and calloused, rough hands that addle your fucking mind, before looking into those eyes, like a sunset glimmering. “You know I cook better than you.”

“Are we talking now?” You ask softly, he glares, hand tightening.

“You’re the one avoiding me.”

“You’re the one… leaving me on… read.”

“What message did you send?”

“Not what I mean,” you shake your head, letting go now, but his hand is still over yours, his body is so close, you inhale that clean scent he has, the fresh shower bouncing off his skin. “I’m just tired. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, are ya not sleeping well?” He touches your dark circles with a cool thumb, cupping your face, and it takes everything not to just beg him to kiss you, fuck to do more.

“I’m not sleeping well,” your words are quiet, eyes fluttering shut. “That feels good.”

He swallows, continuing the gentle cool brushes under your eyes, as his fingers cradle your face like it’s precious - it is precious to Caleb, all of you is, every pretty part of your body. Not just that either, god your energy surrounding him, your very being that he missed so much, and he knows he’s going to be moving so far away, when the fuck would he get to see you again, hold you?

“Should I help you sleep tonight, I can… count airplanes to a hundred, you remember when I used to?” You giggle then, smiling and looking up at him, so precious you make his heart ache impossible more.

“I do remember that. I’d never make it to a hundred, did you count all that way?” He pulls back a bit, smiling.

“I did, you always passed out at fifty.”

“Your voice was so soothing,” you clear your throat now, looking at the fridge and bending down, grabbing the eggs out, brushing against him damn near. He barely handles the fucking motion, trembling as you do. “You can make em.”

“Smart girl.” You both fall into a comfortable silence, you finish the toast and slather it with butter, then pour him his favorite apple juice. It feels too fucking domestic, every bit of you both, how could you ever experience this with someone else in the future?

How would you ever be comfortable like with him, he’s seen you at your best and your worst, he’s the closest person to you. Part of you wants to shove these nagging thoughts back and just enjoy him until he leaves, the other part wants more than you fucking should. Far, far too much.

“You’re so quiet around me,” his words are soft, you hand him a piece of toast and smile then. “You okay?”

“We should um… spend time doing something fun together. Before you go, just the two of us.” He smiles then, his lashes lowering, taking a sip of the juice you poured now, adams apple bobbing.

“Let’s do it, what do you wanna go do? Amusement park?”

“Oh gosh, maybe the beach or something? I don’t know about rides!”

“You’re suuch a baby.”

“Hey!” It’s perfect then, until he gently brushes a drop of juice off your chin, and you both freeze at the damn contact.

How can you act normal when his touches make you want to straddle him!?

You are flushed then, so flushed he frowns, touching your cheek. “You’re warm, you feeling okay?”

“Too much sun lately.”

“But you want more?”

“Yes! While you’re here.” He nods then, and soon he’s driving you in his car, the tops down, it’s blissful. Him watching your hair fly back so fucking pretty, your beautiful smile on your face, those big sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose.

He wants to take a million pictures of you, to keep forever.

It’s perfect as you two set up your things, as you both run into the water and are laughing, Caleb knows you can’t swim for shit so he’s got you on his back as he steps deeper. The sun is shining as you sigh, snuggling up close to him, warming both of your skin, your one arm is wrapped around his neck as the other hand gently brushes his chest.

“It’s perfect here, let’s just stay,” you murmur softly, lips pressed against his ear as you rest your chin, he smiles back at you, little streaks of blond already in his hair showing through the thick chocolate strands. “I’ll become a fish.”

“You’d be a terrible fish,” he says, laughing now. “Can’t swim!”

“Well maybe I could if I was one!”

“You’d be a washed up mermaid.”

“Hey!” You’re both laughing, feeling the ease of each other’s company, when he’s carrying you back you both see your friends again, they’re both talking each of your ears off.

The boy you’ve been talking to on and off is with the group, but you avoid him. How can you even go near someone when Caleb will always have your heart like this? You’re sitting alone, listening to your music as the waves lap on the sure, pretty birds flying over you, when Caleb comes to sit next to you on the laid out beach towel. He’s dripping wet still, droplets undulating across his abdomen.

He leans on an elbow, laying on his side and studying you carefully, his eyes filled with something you can’t describe. “Now you’re quiet.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He brushes the damp strands of hair back, his other hand dangerously close to your thigh now, you shift closer, like his gravity is just pulling you towards him, breath caught in your throat. “That bathing suit… it looks so…”

He trails off, you blush a bit, pretending it’s the sun, as his hand hesitates, fingers tracing the air across your thigh, terrified to cross that line, especially in public. Thinking of anyone saying bad things about you would infuriate him, he could never let you handle something like it.

And what would they say?

Caleb didn’t care, not for him, but you’re too fucking important, the best friend he’s ever have, the closest to him. So his hand eases back, as you let that breath you’ve held go, he closes his mouth, not finishing his words. “It looks so…”

“Good, pip squeak.”

He smiles, sitting up now, you feel him again, pulling the fuck away from you. You bite back your frustration, looking out at the beach again and hugging your knees. You’re so beautiful like that, if Caleb could paint anything in his life it would be you right now, how the wind blows your hair, how your skin looks from the glow of the sun.

Why can’t he say it?

“Do you want me to count those airplanes tonight?” He teases, and you shake your head now, earning his frown. “No?”

“I’m good on my own,” your words kill him then, he can see you slipping further, despite his hope that today could be a reconciliation. But everything is too raw and exposed. “But thank you.”

“Yeah, all grown up I know.” He playfully ruffles your hair, playing his role - fuck he’s tired of it.

*****

It’s storming again, despite the beautiful sunny day, as you lay alone in your bed, shutting your eyes and picturing him, the memories of all those nights You’d come in his room, and he always would rub your hair, count those planes, as the storms would rage outside. You remember when you stopped being afraid of the storms, when they stopped bothering you.

But you still came to him.

Why wouldn’t you, when he feels like home?

You toss and turn, the blanket a tangled mess in your quiet room, as the storm gets louder, echoing with patters along the window, you hear the wind howling, the tree branches scratching the side of the house. The noises drive you fucking insane, you can’t sleep, especially with the thoughts swirling in your mind over and over, memories and fresh fantasies intertwining.

You finally throw your blankets off, feet touching the cold floor underneath, tentatively walking step by step, until you reach his room, hand hovering on the knob now. You turn it tentatively, hearing it click, peeking in the room now, seeing him sitting up in the bed, reading with the soft light next to him on. He’s startled when you walk in, shifting a bit.

“Pip squeak, what’re you up this late for?” He sets the book down, and you see he’s shirtless yet again, his silver tags resting against his breast bone, right between those flat nipples. You touch your own without thinking about it, fingers running over the cool metal, tilting your head as you watch him sit up.

“Sorry, the storm… it’s scaring me.” You’re walking over by his bed now, he sighs, looking away, fists clenching.

As if he can handle you in his bed at this point.

“You’re scared?”

“Yes um, maybe you could… let me lay here?” You’re right next to him now, he could reach out and wrap an arm around your hips, kiss up your tummy, feel your skin under his palm.

“Thought you were too grown up now,” Caleb’s words are dark, lightning illuminating his figure on the bed while he lays there and looks at you. The rain is pattering across the window, while you tremble when you see the look on his face, the heat in his eyes, you’re hugging yourself tightly. “Why come here now?”

“Never mind then, sorry I bothered you,” you turn and he’s on you before you get to the door, pressing it shut and gently gripping your wrist, exhaling. “What?”

“I’m sorry, I just…” He trails off, you feel his hard body against you, his fingers brushing your hair back softly, leaving goosebumps along your skin. “I thought you didn’t need me anymore.”

“That’s not it, not at all.” You hold it in, what you want to say, that you need him in different ways, ways that terrify you and make you question everything. Could your relationship ever really work, could you ever be together?

“Then what is it, all mad at me for days. Was it because I… touched you.”

It was because he stopped touching you.

You shake your head, not trusting the words coming out, Caleb tugs you to him, hugging you from behind then, while you shut your eyes, dying at how good he feels, so strong and warm. Your body reacts as much as your heart does, you’ve just missed him so much too, you feel it all as he presses a kiss on your head, it’s something he did at times, but it all feels so different now.

Before you could pretend better, shove it down more, but since he got back you feel like you can’t hold back. You’re standing there as the little popping sound of his sweet pecks hits your ears, the rain still hammering the window as the two of you stand quietly, just the sounds of your breathing filling the room with the back noise of the storms that still scare you.

“It wasn’t that, it’s just… Caleb, I’m still scared of storms,” you say then, and he turns you, warm hands covering your bare arms, sighing. “I learned to be alone but it doesn't mean I want to when you're here.”

“Oh honey,” he feels horrible then, he's been so cold the past couple days to you, to avoid the blatant need. Feeling horrible his control slipped for a moment, but you still want to come to him. “Do you need me?”

You nod quickly, you need him in so many ways, struggling to keep your composure as the need hits. Deep and hungry, forbidden, you can't even let yourself think about it lately. But you will take any of him you can, including being in his arms, stepping closer now, impossibly closer.

“Do you wanna lay in my bed, Pips? I'll rub your hair like you like,” he murmurs, smiling in that heartbreaking way he does. You nod and swallow nervously when he takes you by your wrist, bringing you over to his bed now. He lifts up the blanket for you, and you slip under it, he always does that, he’ll lay on top of them, maybe to be respectful.

You lift the blanket for him before he can lay down, and he pauses at it, before blushing in the dark, as he hesitates. “You’ll get cold.”

“I’m like a space heater,” he doesn’t think he can handle it, being pressed against you with at least the barrier, but he slips under it, leaning on his elbow on one of his plush pillows, brushing your hair back. Your heart hammers at the tender show of affection, his sweet smile. “You still need me I guess. Just a bit.”

“Of course I do,” you’re nuzzling his hand, pressing a kiss there for a moment, your eyes shutting a bit. “Do you ever need me, too?”

What a fucking question, he can hardly process it - he needs you like the fucking air he breathes. His only fault in all of his pilot training and school was his psych evals, because he couldn’t get you off his fucking mind. It was an obsession that was never going away, he didn’t need you to do anything but exist and he was ruined, never thinking anything could be more.

He thought he’d be okay with you moving on, he knew one day you’d date someone, you’re beautiful and young. People love you. He is in love with you, so why wouldn’t other people be? But the truth was he wanted to be selfish, he wanted to keep you to himself, forever, even though it’s not a possibility.

The talks at the pool alone, along with Gran… it just showed the way people perceive the two of you, if only he could just take you all far away, where no one knew you, not this old neighborhood where everyone knows you all so well, the one you two grew up in since the day you met.

“What’s on your mind?” Your words shake him from his thoughts, you’re looking at him with those eyes, the ones that always try to read him and fail.

“Nothing pips,” he’s always lying, he has to. How can he tell you what he really thinks? “Get some rest.”

“Could you um… hold me?” He’s exhaling now, he used to hold you when you were younger, but it’s gotten impossible. But he would do anything for you, so he puts on a brave fake fucking smile, nodding and holding you at an arms length. You scooch back, and he sucks in a breath, the curve of your ass against his cock now.

Fuck.

“Night pips,” he murmurs, arm wrapping your waist now, his thigh against your heat, god why do you have to feel so good? He’s tucking his cock up in the waistpants of his boxers, trying to keep his hips pulled back. He presses his lips against your temple, a hand slipping against your waist. “I’m sorry about the other day.”

“Don’t apologize please.” You shift a bit, brushing against his thigh and gasping at the sensation, you feel Caleb tense then. “Mnh.”

“Maybe… maybe I should… lay on the floor.” He manages, pressing his thigh harder, feeling your soaking cunt on his bare thigh. “Tell me I should.”

“No, I w-want you to hold me,” you’re rolling your hips, needy and desperate, as his hand grips you so tightly, you’re struggling to catch a breath at it, heart hammering when you roll them again. “S-sorry…”

“Don’t apologize either.” His words reassure you, when he lets you spread your thighs, rolling your hips more and more, he’s throbbing as you do. “Was it from that boy?”

“No, Caleb.” You finally answer it, the words releasing softly from your lips, he exhales at that, moaning now, tugging you closer.

“Do you need me to help you?” His hand slips slowly down your tummy, it trembles under his touch, as you look back at him with dilated eyes, biting your lower lip. “Ask me if you need it.”

“I need it, please, Caleb… it hurts.” He’s always taken care of you when you’re hurt, the words plus your cunt drooling on him are enough to almost make him bust against his waistband.

“Ask nice enough I’ll give you anything,,” he’s slipping his fingers lower, now he knows where your little clit is, he brushes it over your shorts. “Hurts here?”

“Y-yes,” you’re whining out so loud he has to cover your mouth, as the reality of what you two are doing hits, and your eyes meet. Your breaths are coming too quickly, when he slips your shorts to the side, finding you soaking wet. Your eyes roll back when he presses on your clit again.

“Shh, please,” he’s lost when he releases your mouth, wanting to see your pretty face, rolling in circles as you keep riding his thigh, gasping. “Faster, slower?”

“Perfect- mnh!” Your head falls back against him, hands gripping his forearms, feeling the muscles and tendons bulge and move as he works you, as you hear the embarrassing wetness squish as it pours.

“God you’re so wet,” he doesn’t think this could be normal, the way your clit twitches, the way your cunt is so wet as he dips a finger in your hole, pulling back his thigh then. “Do you need more?”

“I’ve never… Caleb…” your words are clear, you’re not any more experienced than he is. But he wants to seem capable, he wants to make you feel so fucking good, to make you comfortable. “I play with myself though.”

“You do?” His words are hoarse, you nod quickly, wriggling as his finger tip prods your little hole. “That’s slutty, pips.”

“Don’t you?” You look back at him, cheeks flushed, eyes so glittery when the lightning illuminates the room.

“You’re asking slutty questions too,” he’s curling a finger in your gummy walls, gripping him already, you’re gasping at it. “You like that, is that what you need?”

“More.” Your words are a hoarse whisper, Caleb’s more than eager to give you it, kissing your neck, curling up again at the spot that’s just a little spongy, the one that makes you quiver. “Yes, please.”

“You’re asking so sweetly now, you still need me huh?” You’re nodding, he needs this, you to need him, want him, it’s almost too much, he’s burying his head against your neck, inhaling your scent. “Is this just me helping you out?”

“What do… you want… it to-” There is a huge clap of lightning then, so loud the lights go out, a large boom of thunder.

“Shit,” he pulls back then, as he hears footsteps. “I need to check the breaker, Gran will freak out.”

“Of course.” You pull back, biting your lip again, cursing yourself for not being able to hold back, to control yourself, when you hear Gran’s door open across the hall, and footsteps, calling your names.

The two of you look at each other again, breaths quicker as he takes your hand, and you both realize how close you are to losing it. “I’ll be back.”

He’s grabbing sweats and slipping them on long slim legs, turning on his phone flashlight, as he and Gran softly talk, and you panic, eyeing the slick mess you’ve made down your inner thighs. You don’t just want Caleb to help you, you want him to be with you, but to say it, to do it?

It’s terrifying.

He’s back soon, the soft lights back on, shutting the door carefully and eyeing you, holding a blanket to your chest, right in his bed. Facing Gran when he’d just had his fingers in you was ridiculous, she surely never thought anything about the two of you in bed together, she knows you’re close. But the very nature of your relationship just wasn’t the same.

“I should go to my bed,” you say then, stepping out from the covers, walking by him when he stops you, and your eyes meet.

“I didn’t help you yet,” his words are far too husky, needy, as he steps you until your back is against his door. He locks it with a quiet click that resounds loudly in his bedroom, bending down to cup your cheek. “Don’t you hurt?”

���I can’t ask you to do that, I am sorry I… I shouldn’t…” He’s so close to kissing you, his lips hovering, straight nose brushing yours.

“You don’t want me to make you feel better, pips?”

“Of course I do- but… what’s it… change? For us?” Your words are heavy, your hands on his bare chest, eyeing the muscles there, feeling his heart race under your palm. “I shouldn’t ask that from you.”

“You think I don’t want to help?” You turn away then, hand on the knob, and he tenses, stopping yours with his own.

“I can’t ask it, we can’t… I’m so stupid.”

“You’re not. You’re just needy, you’re wet… you’re so hot…” he’s gripping your chin then, hand back between your thighs, you’re biting back a moan, arching for more of his touch. “I told you I’ll do anything for you, if you just ask me, if you just say what you need.”

His words are desperate, his breath heavy as you roll your hips, pressing for even more of him. “Anything I ask?”

“Anything,” you shut your eyes, exhaling. “I’ll always help you, I will always be here for you.”

You’re so in love you feel sick, thinking of all the ways you’ll never have him. “You’ll leave soon.”

“Yeah, I will, so use me while I’m here.” His words are too much now, you are coming undone as his other hand grips your tit, squishing it gently.

“I wanna cum, please, I’ve only cum by myself.” He moans at that, the thoughts of it just being him igniting his most possessive, toxic feelings, when he turns you back around, sinking to his knees. “C-Caleb?”

“Shh, have to be quiet or I can’t,” he’s slipping your shorts down, your breasts heave with every quick breath, cunt pulsing around nothing as he looks up at you, his soft brown hair falling over his brow. “I’ll make you cum over and over, until you’re satisfied completely, yeah?”

“Caleb um… what’re you…” He’s got your bare pussy in his face soon, moaning as he sees it, just how fucking beautiful it is, and you’re so nervous. “Is it um… you’re seeing all of me.”

“It’s beautiful, you’re perfect.” His words reassure you, when he tugs a thigh over his broad shoulder, looking up at you under his lashes.

“Have you… done this?” You manage to ask, and he pauses, inhaling your sweet cunt, god he’s tasted you already so many times, but from the source?

“Would that make you mad, pips, if I ate someone’s pussy?” You glare now, and he smirks just a bit, raising a brow and tilting his head. “Yeah? Why?”

“It wouldn’t! Of course not, I just meant… I just… it’s something I… Caleb, you’re staring at it.”

“It’s perfect, can’t help it.” He’s pulling your folds apart like he’s studying every part of your little hole, separating the puffy lips then letting them slip back together, glistening wetness dripping across his thumbs. “You’ve only shown me?”

“Yes,” he’s kissing your cunt then, a sweet pop of his lips, you almost scream, covering your mouth with a hand. “Mmm!”

“Shh,” he’s lapping his tongue up your slit, groaning softly as he drinks your nectar, so sweet and perfect against his tongue. He knows it’s wrong to have already tasted you, he knows he shouldn’t have stolen all those panties. Acting a perfect ‘step brother’ when all he wants to do is drink you. “I want you to tell me what you like.”

“I like… all of it…” He smiles a bit, lapping his tongue up again, flicking his tongue on your clit, it’s so good you almost bite your fucking tongue, hips pressing against his face for more. 

“Good girl, ya listenin’ huh?” You’re nodding, helpless as he starts focusing on your clit, as his fingertips brush the slick that's gathered, shoving two of them deep inside of you, you gasp at it, head slamming the door as his tongue works your clit in circles, until you're pulsing around them, drooling. “Aw, you're so messy honey.

He's taunting you as he sucks your clit into his hot mouth, curling his fingers right up, and you can't think of how wrong it is, you can't think of fucking anything but cumming for him. You're biting down on your knuckles as he works you, as you're so soaked your slutty cunt drips onto the hardwood floor as his fingers work you up and down, and the pressure builds.

You’re gripping his locks and tugging, as he loses himself, just diving in and licking every crevice, every inch of your pussy and relishing in it, in the taste of you, in how you feel. He loves every movement and motion of your body, sucking you up and drinking you, his tongue swirling in quick flicks while his fingers find that spot again and target it.

He’s got your head slamming the door harder, you’re lost, screaming weakly into your palm, feeling yourself lost to him, to all the sensations, grinding on his face soon, for him to pull back and moan. “That’s it, use me honey.”

You’re grinding quicker, as he keeps up the pace, honing in on every place that makes you gush, until you finally feel it, the release about to come, his touches are nothing like your own, they’re unlike anything. Your heart hammers in your chest, as the sounds get lewder, the squelching even louder in his room, mixed with his soft whines, as his free hand brushes his own cock.

He’s about to cum from licking you.

“Cum for me, now.” His voice is commanding suddenly, it’s not sweet Caleb, it’s the military officer's voice, and of course you cum, how can’t you?

You’re gushing so much it’s embarassing, the wetness making such a mess he’s struggling to catch it all, cunt pulsing around his thick fingers as you gasp and slam your hands tighter over your mouth. You’re lost, cumming so hard you’re blinded, and when he feels what he’s done, when he sees it, he’s done right with you, ready to have you cumming again and again.

He shocks you by yanking you to the floor, hovering over you now, fingers moving up and down, so much pressure you feel like you’re gonna pee, you’re trying to stop him then, but he’s too far obsessed, shoving your top down. He’s groaning quietly when he sees your perfect breasts, kissing down them, sucking one of your nipples in his hot mouth.

“Caleb, it’s too much,” he’s moving them up and down, hitting that spot in your slick walls over and over, your eyes rolling back, hips raising off the cool wood of the floor he’s thrown you on. “Mnh!”

“Again,” he orders it, putting his own hand over your mouth to muffle your screams as he exhales, feeling your muscles tighten around him again, so strong with the force they try to push him out, your wetness making it slipper. “Again, you can do it can’t you?”

You’re lost, cumming harder, and this time squirting all over Caleb’s hand, he whines out in wonder at it, bending down again, he shoves his fingers in your mouth, you suck them, up and down, the action filthy. He’s spreading your thighs, slurping you up again, hungry and desperate, while you’re tugging at his hair, muffling your moans with gritted teeth.

He’s relentless, he doesn’t stop after the next orgasm, no he’s waited too fucking long for this, for you. He’s drinking every bit like he’ll never get the chance again, until you’re tugging him harder, shaking, twitching. You can’t control your body anymore, it’s a trembling mess under his heavy weight when he finally leans up, easing his fingers out, running them up and down your slit.

His eyes are black, just a purple ring left now, his lips and chin coated and shimmering with you, lips hovering but he doesn’t slam them down, as if to preserve one shred of his sanity. He cups your face carefully, swallowing nervously and studying you in the night, his eyes darting back and forth across your face, as if committing it all to memory.

“Did I help you, honey?” You barely manage a nod, as he tugs you close, burying his face against your neck, your hands grip his waist, slipping up his back, feeling his breaths quicken as your nails press in just a bit. “Do you feel better, does it hurt?”

“I feel so… amazing.” You can’t hold back, kissing his throat, wondering just what the two of you have done. “I’m mad anyone got that.”

“You're so jealous, pips?” He teases, leaning up, shaking his head. “Anything I do with you is special.”

You blink back tears at that, making him frown contemplatively, while two tears slip from the outer corners of your eyes. “You’re special to me.”

“So are you, so special.” He kisses your forehead, sighing. “Come to bed.”

“Okay,” you’re taking his help to stand, he’s careful as he slips up your panties, caring and sweet, like he wasn’t just being filthy, like he still wasn’t coated in your cunt, no like he’s taking care of you. He picks you up, carefully carrying you to the bed, holding you against him.

It’s so beautiful you want to cry.

You can hardly gather what just happened, you can barely process any of your feelings, any of your emotions, while you look up at him in the night. “Sleep,” he’s stroking your hair, sweaty just a bit from the exertions, he can still taste you on his fucking tongue.

“Caleb, don't you want me to make you cum?”

He can’t take it, your sweet little voice, your eyes looking up at him like that. “What’d I say I like to do?”

You’re blushing now. “Please.”

“Yeeep. So shh, lay down, stop wriggling.” You do just that, snuggling up to him and yawning now.

“I don’t want you to go.” Your sleepy words set it all in, just what he’s doing with you, and what it could mean.

“Shh… one airplane, two airplanes,” his voice is a caress as he says the familiar words you remember from when you were younger. Your eyes get heavy, as he trembles internally, imagining the moment he has to let you go, it is foolish to think there can be more, and he’s selfish to have even drank you on that fucking door. “Three airplanes, four airplanes…”

“Mmm,” you snuggle, feeling the soothing touch and hearing his steady heart beat under your palm. His voice echoes, as the orgasms he’d just put you through are wearing you down, but so much is left unspoken. “Five airplanes.”

“You’re counting now?” He laughs, the sound so endearing your heart hurts, you nod and snuggle closer. “Six airplanes, seven airplanes, eight airplanes…”

He keeps going, as the sleep starts to take you, the bliss of the pleasure and all the pent up frustrations being released finally, it’s enough to take you out by plane number thirty. He’s still counting, even as he looks at your beautiful face in the night with the storm subsiding outside.

“You never make it to a hundred,” he kisses your head with a sweet little pop, tenderly running his fingers up and down your back. “I love you.

*****

Today was busy, spending time with Gran, the two of you keeping your distance, the act like you feel like family, when it’s as far from the fucking reality as anything could be anymore. He sneaks looks at you, your collarbone, the way your skirt slips up your thighs, the way your eyes glitter when they catch his. Your sweet, nervous smile, the way your lashes lower.

The two of you put on the act, you always have, why is it so much harder now, because you crossed the line?

You’re pacing your room later, knowing he’s leaving soon, and knowing you need every moment, every part of him. You keep pacing, trying to talk yourself out of it, he didn’t come to your room, you’re going to his again, are you pushing too much on him, being greedy?

You can’t take the thoughts anymore.

Caleb is laying there, eyes shut, remembering every moment so vividly, touching his hard cock under the blankets and crying out quietly, wishing he didn’t feel so fucking guilty, so terrible, this torture- the sin he feels. Carrying these feelings for so fucking long - god he loved you when he first laid eyes on you as a kid.

You trusted him implicitly, but all he can think of is putting babies inside you and locking you the fuck away. The neediness makes him stay away, but he’s hurting, his cock throbbing now. He’s sticky against his boxers, sighing as he tugs at them, when suddenly the door opens again.

“Pipsqueak…” Caleb tenses when you walk in his room, you’re wearing one of his shirts like to end him, and now he knows just how sweet your fucking pussy tastes, he’s pulling his hand off, thankful you couldn’t see..

“Let me make you feel good,” you whisper, shutting his door now, he’s shaking his head as you come to the bed slowly, hips swaying as you walk towards him, making him want to grab them. “Why not Caleb?”

He can’t take it, that’s why.

“Do you know what to do?” You shake your head. “Are these just lessons?”

“Is that what you want to call it?” He laughs without humor, brushing your hair back now. “Is that what we have to call it, to feel better about it?”

It’s silent then, he swallows nervously, not knowing what to answer, not knowing what to say. What about when he left, would you go back to that boy, or get a new one to date? Would they please you, and would you forget this? The panic sets in, when you’re touching his length over his sweats, and he’s biting back a moan, gripping your wrist.

“Do you feel bad? Did you feel bad when I drank you?” His words are devastating in their husky, raw feelings, you blush and lower your head now. “Can’t answer? Do you think anyone else could ever make you cum like that?”

“Caleb…” He’s done then, fury blinding him, squeezing your wrist so hard it’s bruising him.

“Get out before I lose it, before you won’t be a fucking virgin anymore, in any of your holes, huh?” You blink in surprise, lips parted, while he cups your face and exhales, shaking his head. “I can’t handle you near me, touching me.”

“What if I want it all?” He glares at you now, hand squeezing so hard it is making your arm tingle with pins and needles.

“You want me to take it, then leave you?”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Pips…”

“You’re hurting me, Caleb.” He pauses, releasing your wrist now, head resting against yours, breaths heavier. “Why wouldn’t I want you as my first? Even if I’m not yours.”

“How do you know that, how are you so fucking sure I’ve been with anyone?” He’s squeezing your face, looking at the lips he still hasn’t kissed. “You keep acting like I have.”

“How couldn’t you have? You’re so handsome, funny, smart… sexy… you’re everything anyone could want.”

“You think all that?” You blush, nodding.

“You’re the best guy I know, and of course you seem… um, talented at things.” You blush furiously now, looking down.

“You think you’ll be okay if I do that, and that’s it? Just experience?” You nod again, but he doesn’t believe you, not one fucking bit. “That’s special.”

“You’re special to me.”

“Fuck…” He kisses you then, for the first time in either of your lives, the feeling so electric you’re dizzy, he pulls back and his breathing is heavy, his eyes drugged.

He wants to finally say it - he’s in love with you.

But is it just the experience you want, is it just trusting him to show you? He’ll take any fucking piece of you there is, even if it’s physical for you, it’s enough to live off the memories of you. The words start and die in his throat as you kiss him back, tongue nervously filling his mouth, tiny and sweet as it flicks along his, he’s groaning, hands entangled in your hair.

He almost does it, almost fucks you, but he pulls back, saliva dripping between each of your mouths, as your eyes lock. If he fucks you no way he stops, no way he keeps quiet, no way he doesn’t put babies in you. No fucking way you don’t go move with him, stay with him forever - as if once would be enough for him!?

“I’m relocating to another country,” he says then, and the words settle, you sit back, eyes glassy as emotions hit. “I got a huge promotion. I have to take it, too, there’s not an option.”

“Another country!?” He looks away now. “You didn’t even tell me?”

“I’m telling you now,” he glares up at you, brows lowered. “You really wanna do this once and then I am that far away?”

“I… how far…”

“Far enough.” He brushes your hair back, sighing. “I wouldn’t be able to just do it once. When I start? I’ll never stop fucking you.”

“Caleb…” He’s kissing you again, and you’re torn, between desire, love, and now panic that he’ll be gone.

“You’ll be graduated, hmm,” he’s kissing you again, exhaling against your lips, eyes catching yours in the dark as his hand tightens at the nape of your neck. “You’ll forget me.”

“I’ll never forget you, how dare you think it.” You speak between your tears, teeth clenched so hard your jaw hurts, shoving at him then.

“Of course you will, and I’d rather you not forget that too.” You stand then, taking a breath, shaking as he runs a hand through his hair.

“You didn’t tell me before, why?”

“I wanted this last week with you to be happy,” he shakes his head now. “I wanted things to be like they were before, when we were each other’s everything.”

“Things are different, what I want it’s…” You can hardly hold back, knowing he’s leaving is so hurtful, he was away a lot, but another country? When would you ever see him again? “How far?”

“Other side of the world,” his words break you further. “I am sure I can still fly out once a year, but is that what we’ll do? I’ll fuck your perfect cunt once a year,” he stands now, bending low over you. “And wonder who else has been inside it?”

You smack him then, he pauses, brushing his cheek as you glare. “And I’ll wonder who you’re with.”

He laughs again, it’s a dark sound, as he desperately grips your face. “You don’t even know me sometimes, do you?”

“You don’t let me Caleb, you’re always hiding! You’re always lying, omitting truths, never sharing how you feel. I think I’m losing my mind and you’re calm.”

“I’m calm!?”

“Always, infuriatingly.” You turn now, swiping your tears away. “I’m just embarrassed I asked it.”

“That’s not-”

“Good night.” You rush out and shut the door quietly, leaving him to palm the old wooden door, swallowing down his own tears.

Fuck he almost had you, he almost was inside your perfect pussy, the one that lingered on his tongue for the day, the one that he’s been dying to be in since he knew what it fucking was. But he turned you down, pissed you off so bad you smacked him, and held back completely - like he always fucking did.

That kiss was so intense he can’t even imagine what fucking you will be like, he can’t fathom it, and can’t fathom being your experience, being just that and leaving, not knowing who will have you. If he at least doesn’t ever feel it, he can shove it down like he used to, before he started getting pieces of you, the taste and hope of more, when it’s impossible.

You’ll finish your degree, you’ll buy a house and follow your dreams, and he’ll be a country away, constantly on missions, worried about you, and not even being able to look forward to coming home to you. What sort of fucking life was that, be without you or be with you and never fully have you?

His fist clenches as he turns back, yanking at his fucking hair, tortured by the need to run after you and the need to hide.

Is he selfish enough to do everything he wants? 

They're frustrating me again </3

tags- @blitziwitch @mcdepressed290 @hyunjifilm @mentaltrouble2201 @aquarianbeat @tartartagliaboo @trishiepo0 @virtualityhome @slytherin-min99 @plzdonutpercieveme @taebvby @jlynns-posts @coralbae @thejujvtsupost @deathrye @tsumoorin @mynsan @lostfracturess @dummiebunny @ashirelle @ilovesugurugeto69 @ilovechanyeol16 @sylusqt @liluvtojineteyam @lunaryasha @maisiefrancesca @ravenbc @straows @callme-amaya @yandereaficionado @wordsgodeep @bandomonia @ellexamor @sukunasunflower @wooasecret @kithyyy @yizhouge @dreamingoftomorrow @sylvieisoffline @whiteghostt @szafficat @lhhlver @sanzy4 @chaoticbardlady99 @mistress-daddy-nyx @pinksaiyans @webshooterrr9 @mynsan @bluerskiees @keylimepiebby

[stabosins4]

dont know if you expected anyone to do all of these dont know if anyones gonna read these here we go

1. difficult to say. I'm very distant but stil in contact with my mom, I appreciate she's trying to improve but until she's willing to admit she hurt me we'll never be close. I'm very close with my dad, but I don't feel safe around him and feel he's been mislead by his therapists and doctors into thinking his behavior is not his choice.

2. My dad! I say it every time I end a conversation with anyone!

3. Yeah. I think if you don't regret things you haven't done anything at all.

4. No. I realized at a point that being insecure was annoying for everyone around me, so I stopped. I like to say I "hated myself into loving myself".

5. Not in a romantic relationship, never will be in one. But I've recently been thinking about my best friend (if you follow me, you'll knpw her as The Lesbian) as a dan-and-phil-like platonic soulmate, semi-QPR.

6. I accepted at some point I'm going to die of suicide, but not in a way where I'm planning for it to happen soon. If I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die by my own hands, I guess.

7. Leftover tacos

8. I used to play soccer when I was really little, I also did cross country, but the asthma + fainting disorder sorta got activated by covid and I'm probably never gonna be much of an athlete. I do do musical theater tho! And that is one HELL of a work out!

9. Yes, habitually. When I was super little I couldn't use soap when I washed my hands because it would get in the wounds from where I bit and burn so bad.

10. I don't think I will ever be in a physical fight. I'm very weak and cowardly. I know better.

11. No.

12. Probably, but I can't remember a specific event.

13. I was in a cult for 3 years. Yeah. There's someone I hate.

14. I was in a cult for 3 years. Yeah. There's someone I miss.

15. Yep! 2 dogs, Chewey and Harley, and a cat, who we just call The Kitten (she was initially named after an anime character, and everyone immediately forgot her name)

16. Inexplicably sad.

17. No.

18. Horribly terrifed. This is funny because my bestie loves spiders.

19. I don't think I would. There's a lot of good in my life that wouldn't be the same if I had a happier childhood.

20. My bedroom, several years ago.

21. Clean up where the dog pissed on the floor again, maybe sweep up around the pianos. Mostly just relax.

22. I hope to be a foster parent someday. I was in foster care for a very short period of time and I want to be able to make scary things like that less scary for kids like me.

23. Just the two regular earlobe piercings. Mom pierced them when I was just baby. I rarely wear earrings, tho.

24. English. Everyone always thinks its art, but I hate being told what to make with my art, I'd rather just draw for fun. English is easy when you're traumatized.

25. You already asked this question. Yeah, I miss a lot of people from my past.

26. Coffee ice cream, all the time, always. Actually coffee generally. I'm gonna get some coffee after this.

27. Not as far as I'm aware.

28. No.

29. Not as far as I'm aware.

30. I'm stressed about preparing for college, and my therapist's on vacation but her message isn't clear on if she'll be back for our session next week.

31. Lots of people love me.

32. Probably indigo, like, a dark indigo, maybe leaning a little more blue than purple.

33. Sort of. I struggle to believe that people aren't talking about me behind my back.

34. Balatro, the video game.... im playing too much.

35. My therapist, yesterday.

36. Depends. I certainly give second chances when it's clearly just someone's mental health doing poorly and they want to get better, otherwise no.

37. Forget. I have almost no function long term memory lol

38. God, no. Yes, but god no. It feels like the whole world is against me (as a disabled queer transmasc agender person) but personally I'm doing the best I've ever been mentally, I have great friends, I'm going to college, and I'm creatively fufilled.

39. 12 I think?

40. Nope.

Skipped some, cool :)

51. Chef Boyardee Cheese Ravioli. Yeah, I'm diagnosed.

52: No. Things just happen, we just have to get through it, the end.

53. Prayed

54. No. But I don't believe in like "emotional" cheating like just cause you're attracted to someone that isnt cheating, you can't control attraction.

55. Yeah

56. Zero

57. I'm aromantic, not really. Is there platonic true love? I might believe in that.

58. Rain, but not thundering

59. I like looking at snow, I hate the cold tho

60. Only for tax purposes

61. No

62. My friends, my art, youtubers i love, my family, the stupid things my best friend says, when my loved ones infodump to me, my stuffed animals, protests, cheez-its, chocolate frosting, peanut butter cream pie, my brother's face when I give him the reeses cup off my piece of the peanut butter cream pie because i dont like the texture, old queer couples, soft blankets, my cool forest green t-shirts, newly-out trans people, the color orange, my torah, my pac-man earrings, my old kandi, brightly colored hair, hearing moms in public ask their babies to say things, being able to bring up things i learned in school, remembering rednote, remembering the dream smp, making lesbian couples in the sims 4, the new sims 4 pack!, my mom's crochet, the dinosaur banner hanging above the hallway, my old sketchbooks, my brother's weird taste in tiktoks, old minecraft youtubers, my best friend, my best friend's friends, that old minecraft server my best friend hosted, the narcissist cookbook, my guitar, the music I've written, my dad playing piano, elton john, billie joel, cloudy days, my squishmallows, coffee, baths, my dad and me doing weird reoccurring bits, pukicho, gaud, creaturesinposts, stimming, my hairy legs, my cat, my older brother, my eldest sibling, my inhaler, being off meds that made me emotionless, crying, living, breathing, existing. Existing makes me happy.

63. Already have four times, what's one more?

64. Very hard. Impossible. I couldn't even be in the same room as them.

65. Girl, we already broke up the one time, and you a lesbian, what's wrong with you? go to therapy. /j

66. Yeah, The Lesbian.

67. The Lesbian

68. I don't totally know what "deep conversation" entails, but it was probably The Lesbian.

69. Yeah, platonically.

70. The Lesbian, my dad, my younger brother.

70 horrible questions ... Fuck it

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? 02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? 03: Do you regret anything? 04: Are you insecure? 05: What is your relationship status? 06: How do you want to die? 07: What did you last eat? 08: Played any sports? 09: Do you bite your nails? 10: When was your last physical fight? 11: Do you like someone? 12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? 13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? 14: Do you miss someone? 15: Have any pets? 16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? 17: Ever made out in the bathroom? 18: Are you scared of spiders? 19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? 20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? 21: What are your plans for this weekend? 22: Do you want to have kids? How many? 23: Do you have piercings? How many? 24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? 25: Do you miss anyone from your past? 26: What are you craving right now? 27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? 28: Have you ever been cheated on? 29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? 30: What’s irritating you right now? 31: Does somebody love you? 32: What is your favourite color? 33: Do you have trust issues? 34: Who/what was your last dream about? 35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? 36: Do you give out second chances too easily? 37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? 38: Is this year the best year of your life? 39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? 51: Favourite food? 52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? 53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? 54: Is cheating ever okay? 55: Are you mean? 56: How many people have you fist fought? 57: Do you believe in true love? 58: Favourite weather? 59: Do you like the snow? 60: Do you wanna get married? 61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? 62: What makes you happy? 63: Would you change your name? 64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? 65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? 66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? 67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? 68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? 69: Do you believe in soulmates? 70: Is there anyone you would die for?

[kissandtellus]

Lessons 1-5

Synopsis: Sylus takes you on a Camping Trip to satisfy his more…primal urges. Don’t worry, Sylus isn’t so mean after getting what he wants from you.

Warnings: Outdoor smex , breeding, holding in coom, Use of ‘Sweetie’ and ‘Princess’, PredatorxPrey quink, Sylus is a little meanie but he makes up for it!

Sylus loved the thrill of the chase. Even when his pretty Kitten was playing so hard to catch. Darting between the trees, scurrying around bushes. But she was far from quiet. Sylus had the chance to snatch her up multiple times. But where was the fun in that?

It was you who suggested the forest on the National Park for this hunt. Sylus suggested buying out the entire area for the weekend so he could have you all to himself.

But what would the fun in that be?

The sun sat in the sky as dusk looked over. Your eyes darted to the crack of a twig and you froze like a deer in headlights.

But it wasn’t your ferocious silver haired boyfriend, instead is was a cute little bunny.

“Aren’t you so cute?” You whisper with a giggle. But that giggle turned into a muffled cry of terror when a hand wrapped around your mouth from behind.

His hot breath tickled your ear as he whispered, "Found you, my little kitten." His free hand snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against his hard body. You could feel every ridge and muscle pressed against your back. His red eyes gleamed with amusement and excitement.

"Should've been quieter while you were admiring the bunny..." He nipped at your earlobe playfully, knowing it tickled you. His hand slowly slid down from your mouth, tracing a path along your collarbone. "Running through the woods in those cute little boots.”

You pulled your head away with a pout. “You’re no fair. I swear you can practically smell me, you big oaf.” You huff.

"Big oaf, huh?" He chuckled, releasing his hold on you and stepping back with a mock wounded expression. "And here I thought my tracking skills were impressive." He circled around to face you, his red eyes glinting mischievously in the fading light.

Sylus grasps the back of your neck, pushing your chest against the trunk of a pine tree.

His other hand moves to your waist, holding you pinned against the rough bark of the tree. His face inches closer to yours, his warm breath fanning over your lips as he speaks in a low, commanding tone. "Maybe I should just keep you trapped here until nightfall."

"You know... running from a predator like that only makes me want to chase more." His thumb traces small circles against your neck, making you very aware of how much stronger he is. "And I really do love catching my prey." He leans in closer, his lips almost brushing against your ear.

You try jerking from his hold, using your speed as an advantage but Sylus clicked his tongue with a chuckle.

"Ah ah ah..." He tightened his grip on your neck and waist, easily stopping your attempt at escape. His voice dropped lower, more dangerous now that he knew you were trying to get away again. "You can't run forever." His lips captured yours suddenly, silencing any further protests.

His rough fingers grasped the edge of your leggings, the very same pair that he had bought you because of the way they hugged your ass.

"And would you look at that... my little kitten dressed so perfectly for running." He grins against your lips, his hand sliding underneath your clothing to trace the curve of your lower back. His fingers trail downwards slowly, purposely taking his time. "Wasn't I right about these leggings?"

“Pervert.” You struggle under his grip but Sylus grows tired of your games, of your pathetic attempts of escape.

With a swift motion, he lifts you up and wraps your legs around his waist. His hands squeeze your backside possessively, the fabric of your leggings thin enough for him to feel every curve. "Keep struggling, little thing. See if I don't fuck you right here against this tree."

“Y-you wish.” Well. Shit. You should’ve known those words would be your undoing.

His eyes darkened dangerously. "Damn right. Here's your warning, Kitten. One more smart-ass comment like that..." His fingers dug into your backside harder. "And I will bend you over this tree and pound into you so hard the entire forest hears." His voice dropped dangerously low.

“You cheated.” Well, there was your last comment.

A cruel smile spread across his face. "Oh, you naughty little thing." In an instant, he turned you around and bent you over the tree trunk. He pushed your upper body down so your face pressed against the rough bark. "You just had to push me, didn't you?"

You struggle to find your words and balance. But his fingers find purchase in your hair.

"I think it's time I taught you a lesson." With his free hand, he roughly pulled down your leggings, exposing your bare backside to the cool forest air. His hand came down hard on your right cheek, leaving a red handprint. "First lesson: don't provoke a predator."

He ignored your plea, his hand coming down again on your left cheek this time. "Second lesson: when I give you a warning, you listen." His fingers dug into your hair tightly, keeping your face pressed against the tree as he continued to spank you firmly. Each slap echoed through the quiet forest.

After several more spanks, his hand moved to your core, rubbing roughly through your wetness. "And the third lesson..." He slid two fingers inside you without warning, pumping them in and out as he continued to spank your reddening bottom. "Is that I always win."

He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. "You're so fucking wet, Kitten. Did you enjoy that?" He didn't wait for an answer, instead thrusting his fingers deeper inside you while his palm continued to spank your ass.

“N-no!” You deny, despite your wetness leaking down into the pile of leaves at your feet. “A-Asshole…”

He chuckles darkly, his fingers curling inside you to hit that sweet spot. "Such a dirty mouth on such a pretty little thing." He removes his fingers abruptly, making you whimper at the sudden loss. The sound makes him smirk. "Spread your legs wider, Kitten."

He doesn't wait for you to comply before kicking your legs apart himself. He unbuckles his belt and pulls down his pants, freeing his hard length. Without preamble, he grabs your hips and slams into you from behind, making you cry out as he fills you completely. "Lesson four..."

He starts pounding into you harshly, each thrust punishing and deep. "Lesson four is that when I fuck you, you take it like a good girl." His hand reaches around to cover your mouth to muffle your noises as he continues to ruthlessly claim your body against the tree. "Understand?"

You know better than to ignore his orders. “Y-yes!” You cry out, fingernails digging into the bark of the tree.

"That's my good girl..." He continues to fuck you hard and deep, his fingers occasionally slipping down to tease your clit. His other hand moves to your hair again, keeping your head pressed against the tree. The sound of their bodies meeting fills the forest as he takes you with wild abandon.

Sylus’ wild thrust has your knees weakening to the point he’s taking you from behind on all fours on the forest floor. You don’t care about the dirt on your knees or the leaves in your hair. Sylus is fully enjoying this animalistic ritual.

He growls low in his throat as he watches your body move beneath him. His grip tightens on your hips as he drives into you harder and faster. The forest seems to disappear around them as they get lost in their primal mating dance. Sylus leans forward slightly to bite your shoulder, sinking his teeth into your flesh.

With a final deep thrust and a groan against your neck, Sylus comes inside you. He stays buried deep for a moment before slowly pulling out, his release dripping down your thighs. He sits back on his heels, breathing heavily, looking at your disheveled state with satisfaction. "Lesson five..."

"When I cum inside you, you keep it there until I say otherwise." He watches as you stay on your hands and knees, his hot liquid leaking out of you onto the forest floor.

He watches with hooded eyes as his release slowly drips out of you despite your best efforts. He smirks and slowly reaches out to spread your cheeks apart, watching more of his seed escape onto the leaves. "Such a mess..." He murmurs, his faux coos making your chest tighten as you feel more cum dribble down your thighs

You reach back to cover your entrance, trying desperately to keep his semen inside with a broken sob. “I-I’m sorry…”

He catches your wrist before you can cover yourself, pulling your hand away. "Leave it." He says firmly, keeping your hand trapped behind your back. He reaches out with his other hand to spread your cheeks even wider, exposing your red, puffy, and thoroughly fucked hole to the cool air.

"Look at that little mess." He says mockingly, tapping your hole gently. You whimper at the sudden contact, feeling even more of his hot liquid spill out. "Pathetic little thing can't even keep my come inside." He laughs softly, shaking his head in amusement.

“You’re so mean to me…” you sniffle, despite knowing how much Sylus spoils you.

He laughs again at your pouting. "Sweetie, I could throw you on my bed, eat your pussy for hours, then cover you in kisses and call you my good girl. Yet here you are, knees full of dirt, covered in my jizz, complaining that I'm mean."

Sylus pays your head condescendingly, brushing your hair out of your drool covered chin.

"So tell me, my spoiled little princess, am I really that mean?" He leans forward slightly, letting go of your wrists so he can pinch your still-reddened bottom gently. Nightime has finally fell over the forest but his glowing red eyes nearly glow in the darkness

“Y-yeah.” You hiccup, your thighs shaking.

He chuckles darkly, his fingers moving from pinching your bottom to spreading you wide again. The cold air hits your sensitive flesh, making you shiver. "Prove it then." He commands softly, his thumb pressing against your used hole. "If I'm so mean, push me away."

"Come on, Kitten. If I'm really treating you so badly, fight me off." His thumb presses deeper, feeling his own release coating your insides. His other hand moves to your hair, gently tugging your head back so he can see your face in the moonlight. "Push. Me."

You weakly lift your hands and try to shove at his solid chest, but you’re thoroughly exhausted from the chase and your ruined insides.

He doesn't budge an inch from your weak shoves. He just smirks down at you, his thumb continuing to press into your hole, feeling your inner walls spasm weakly. "Pathetic." He murmurs, leaning down to press his lips to yours in a soft, gentle kiss.

The contrast between his soft kiss and the way he's treating you is stark. His tongue slides against yours gently, coaxing a soft whimper out of you. When he pulls back, he laughs softly. "Mean to you, huh?" Another soft kiss lands on your cheek.

He suddenly stands up, pulling you up with him by your hair. Your legs shake as they try to support your weight after being spread so wide for so long. Sylus throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, making you yelp as his semen spills out again.

“S-shit Sy!”

"Such a sweet princess like you shouldn't swear." He smacks your bare bottom playfully as he walks with you. He chuckles, carrying you back to the campsite.

This would be a long trip.

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Mafia Ateez OT8x Reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior,

Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

18+ only- No Minors

Chapter 1: Ice in your Veins

The crystal decanter shattered against the wall, sending shards of glass and amber liquid cascading across your father's office.

"You've lost your goddamn mind!" you shouted, your chest heaving with each ragged breath. "An arranged marriage? What century do you think we're living in?"

Your father, Don Ricci, didn't even flinch. He simply stared at you with those cold, calculating eyes—the same eyes that had ordered countless men to their deaths. The same eyes you'd inherited.

"Y/n," he said, his voice steady and low. "You've always known this day would come."

"Known? Known?" you spat the word like venom. "I never agreed to be some bargaining chip in your twisted game of power."

He sighed, rising from his leather chair to pour himself another drink from a second decanter—as if he'd anticipated your outburst. Of course he had. Your father always seemed to know what cards would be played before they were even dealt.

"This isn't a game, cara mia. It's survival." He swirled the amber liquid, watching it catch the light. "The Ricci family needs this alliance."

"Then make it with guns and money like you always do," you hissed. "Not with your daughter's life."

"The Kim family has always been our ally. Hongjoong's father and I have been friends since before you were born," he said, his expression softening slightly with nostalgia. "But times are changing. The old alliances need to be... reinforced."

"So call him up for dinner like you used to! Remember those Sunday gatherings with all the families?" Your voice cracked. "You don't need to sell your daughter to maintain a friendship!"

Your father's eyes narrowed. "This isn't just about friendship, Y/n. This is about survival. The Russo family is encroaching on all our territories. Together, our families are stronger."

You laughed bitterly. "So you're afraid of them? The great Don Ricci, trembling before—" You froze mid-sentence, the full implications hitting you. "Wait. Kim? As in Kim Hongjoong? That Hongjoong?"

Your father's eyes met yours, a flicker of understanding passing through them. "Yes. The same boy you used to run around with. You and those eight boys were inseparable once—until they weren't."

The name hit you like a physical blow. You gripped the edge of his desk to steady yourself, memories flooding back in a dizzying rush—laughter shared under summer stars, secrets whispered in the darkness, and then... nothing. Seven years of nothing.

"No," you whispered. "Anyone but him."

Your father watched you carefully, more perceptive than you'd given him credit for. "I thought you'd be pleased. You were close once, all of you. The sons of my most trusted allies." He paused, studying your reaction. 

You turned away, unwilling to let him see the pain in your eyes. "Apparently we weren’t as close as I thought."

"I don’t have the energy for you tonight," he sighed. "This alliance is necessary. The Kim, Park, Jeong, Kang, Choi, Song, and Jung families—we've controlled this city for generations. Now we need to ensure it stays that way for generations to come."

"How considerate of you," you sneered, finding your voice again. "And I suppose Hongjoong has already agreed to this?"

"He has. In fact, it was his father who proposed it."

Something sharp and painful twisted in your chest. So that's how it was. The boy who had once sworn he would always protect you had agreed to make you a prisoner in your own life.

"Did you ever stop to wonder," you asked quietly, dangerously, "why they all disappeared from my life? Why your 'trusted allies' sons suddenly wanted nothing to do with me?"

Your father's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "The world we live in is complicated, Y/n. Boys become men. Priorities shift."

"Bullshit," you spat. "Something happened. Something you're not telling me."

Don Ricci set down his glass with deliberate care. "What I know is that we need this alliance, and Hongjoong is willing. That's all that matters now."

* * *

Across the city, Hongjoong stood at the window of his penthouse office, staring out at the glittering skyline. Behind him, Seonghwa watched his leader carefully, noting the tension in his shoulders.

"You told Don Ricci you'd marry his daughter," Seonghwa said, not a question but a statement.

Hongjoong didn't turn. "I did what was necessary for the family."

"And what about Y/n?" Seonghwa asked, his voice carefully neutral. "Do you think she'll agree?"

A bitter smile crossed Hongjoong's face. "Y/n doesn't have any more choice in this than I do." 

Seonghwa stepped closer, lowering his voice though they were alone. "She doesn't know why we left. What we did to protect her."

"And she never will," Hongjoong said sharply, finally turning to face his consigliere. His eyes were hard, resolved. "That was the agreement. We stay away, she stays safe. And now..."

"Now you're bringing her back into our world," Seonghwa finished for him.

Hongjoong's hand tightened around the tumbler of whiskey he held. "Her father's losing control. The Russo family is closing in. If we don't step in now, she'll be caught in the crossfire regardless."

"Our fathers always intended for the families to unite this way," Seonghwa mused. "It was discussed even when we were children."

"But none of them could have predicted what happened seven years ago," Hongjoong replied grimly.

"And what will you tell her? After seven years of silence?"

Hongjoong downed the rest of his drink in one swift motion. "Nothing. The past stays buried."

"She won't accept that," Seonghwa warned. "You know how she is."

A flash of something—perhaps pain, perhaps fondness—crossed Hongjoong's face. "Yes," he said quietly. "I remember exactly how she is."

* * *

You paced your bedroom like a caged animal, anger burning through your veins. The door was locked—not by your father's order but by your own hand. You needed space to think, to breathe, to process the bomb that had just been dropped on your life.

Hongjoong. After all this time.

You grabbed the nearest object—a porcelain figurine—and hurled it at the wall, taking grim satisfaction in watching it shatter. It didn't help, but at least it was something.

Seven years ago, they had been your everything—Hongjoong and the others. More than friends, they had been your chosen family, your confidants, your safety in a world where your last name made you both royalty and target. The sons of your father's closest allies and business partners, you'd grown up together in the sheltered world of mafia royalty. And then one day, without warning or explanation, they were gone. No calls. No messages. Nothing but cold silence and empty promises.

And now Hongjoong had the audacity to agree to marry you? Like you were nothing more than a business transaction?

You grabbed your phone, scrolling to a number you'd never deleted but never called. Your thumb hovered over it.

A soft knock at your door interrupted your thoughts.

"Miss Y/n?" It was Paolo, your father's most trusted bodyguard. "Your father wants you downstairs. The Kim and Park families have arrived to discuss the arrangements."

You froze, your heart stuttering in your chest. "Already? They're here now?"

"Yes, miss. Your father says you have ten minutes to make yourself presentable."

You wanted to scream, to throw something else, to lock yourself in and refuse to come out. But you were a Ricci. And Riccis didn't hide.

"Tell my father I'll be down," you called back, your voice steadier than you felt.

As Paolo's footsteps faded away, you caught your reflection in the mirror. Wild eyes, flushed cheeks, hair tumbling in disarray around your shoulders. You looked dangerous, unhinged.

Perfect.

If Hongjoong thought he could waltz back into your life and claim you like a prize, he was about to learn a painful lesson. You might be forced into this marriage, but you'd be damned if you made it easy for him.

You reached for your closet, pulling out a black dress that hugged every curve, cut just low enough to be a distraction, just high enough to maintain the appearance of respect. You applied your makeup with deliberate precision—red lips, smoky eyes, sharp enough to cut.

Armor, in its own way.

Ten minutes later, you descended the grand staircase of your family home, each step measured and deliberate. You could hear voices from the main drawing room—your father's deep rumble, and then another voice that sent a jolt through your system.

Hongjoong.

You paused outside the door, steadying yourself with one deep breath, and then another. You weren't that heartbroken teenage girl anymore. You were Y/n Ricci, daughter of one of the most feared men in the city. And you were about to face the ghosts of your past.

With one final steadying breath, you pushed open the door and stepped inside, your eyes immediately finding his across the room.

Time seemed to stop as your gaze locked with Hongjoong's for the first time in seven years.

The room fell silent as you stepped inside. 

Five men turned to look at you—your father, his consigliere Antonio, and three figures from your past. Mr. Kim and his son Hongjoong stood near the fireplace, while Seonghwa lingered slightly behind them, ever the faithful shadow.

"Ah, Y/n," your father's voice broke the silence. "Come greet our guests."

You moved forward with practiced grace, your heels clicking against the marble floor like a ticking bomb. Your eyes remained fixed on Hongjoong, cataloging the changes seven years had brought. Gone was the boy with bright eyes and an easy smile. In his place stood a man, sharp-edged and dangerous, dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit. His hair, once a wild mop, was now styled with deliberate precision, dark strands falling just above eyes that watched you with maddening impassivity.

"Mr. Kim," you greeted Hongjoong's father first, extending your hand with a polite smile. "It's been too long."

The older man took your hand, his grip firm. 

"Y/n. You've grown into a beautiful young woman." His eyes crinkled with what seemed like genuine warmth. "Your mother would be proud."

You kept your smile in place, though the mention of your mother sent a familiar pang through your chest. "Thank you."

Then you turned to Hongjoong, letting your smile cool several degrees. "Mr. Kim," you said again, the formal address a deliberate reminder of the distance between you now.

Hongjoong stepped forward, taking your offered hand. His touch sent an unwelcome jolt of electricity up your arm—a physical betrayal you refused to acknowledge.

"Miss Ricci," he replied, his voice deeper than you remembered. "A pleasure to see you again."

"Is it?" you asked, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "I wouldn't have guessed, given the circumstances."

Hongjoong's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—perhaps surprise at your directness. "The circumstances are... complex."

"They always are in our world, aren't they?" You withdrew your hand from his grasp, turning to the third visitor. "Mr. Park. I see you're still following Hongjoong around like a loyal puppy. Some things never change."

Seonghwa's lips twitched slightly—not in anger, but what almost looked like appreciation for your barb. "Miss Ricci. Sharp as ever."

"One of us has to be," you replied coolly.

There was a time when you would have greeted these men differently—when Hongjoong would have been "Joongie" and Seonghwa would have been "Hwa." When you would have thrown your arms around them without hesitation, your laughter filling the room. But that time was long gone, buried under seven years of silence and unanswered questions.

Your father cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should sit and discuss the arrangements."

"An excellent suggestion," Mr. Kim said, gesturing toward the seating area.

You took a seat in a high-backed chair, crossing your legs elegantly as the men arranged themselves on the surrounding sofas. Hongjoong sat directly across from you, his dark eyes never leaving your face.

"As we've discussed," your father began, "the marriage will take place in three months' time. This will give us adequate opportunity to prepare and to announce the union to our associates."

"Three months?" you interjected, your voice carrying a dangerous edge. "How generous of you to give me a whole season to prepare for my own wedding."

Your father shot you a warning look, but Mr. Kim merely chuckled. "Your daughter has your spirit, Don Ricci."

"Sometimes too much of it," your father muttered.

Hongjoong leaned forward slightly. "Three months is standard for arrangements of this nature. It allows for proper preparations while not delaying the benefits of our alliance."

"Benefits," you repeated, the word dripping with disdain. "How romantic. Tell me, Hongjoong, do you always discuss marriage in terms of profit margins and strategic advantages?"

A muscle in Hongjoong's jaw twitched. "In our position, romance is a luxury few can afford."

"And yet here I am, being auctioned off like a prized mare. Quite the luxury indeed."

"Y/n," your father warned.

But Hongjoong raised a hand. "It's alright. Y/n has every right to express her... reservations."

"How magnanimous of you," you said with a saccharine smile. "Granting me permission to have feelings about my own life."

Hongjoong's eyes narrowed slightly, but you caught it—the briefest twitch at the corner of his mouth, a ghost of the smile you once knew so well. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but you'd seen it. Somewhere beneath that cold exterior, your words had reached him.

"Perhaps," Seonghwa suggested smoothly, "Miss Ricci would like some time to discuss the arrangement privately with Hongjoong. After all, they will be spending their lives together. Some initial conversation might ease the transition."

Your father nodded. "An excellent idea. Y/n, why don't you show Hongjoong to the garden? Antonio and I have some additional matters to discuss with Mr. Kim and Seonghwa."

It wasn't a request. You stood, smoothing down your dress. "Of course. This way, Mr. Kim."

You led Hongjoong through the double doors and into the hallway, your back straight, your steps measured. Neither of you spoke as you walked through the house and out to the garden—the same garden where you had all played as children, where secrets had been shared and promises made. Promises that had ultimately meant nothing.

Once outside, you turned to face him, crossing your arms. "Well? Shall we discuss flower arrangements and honeymoon destinations? Or would you prefer to skip straight to dividing up territories and body counts?"

Hongjoong didn't rise to the bait. He stood with his hands in his pockets, the evening breeze ruffling his perfectly styled hair. For a moment, in the fading light, he looked almost like the boy you'd known.

"You've changed," he said finally.

"Did you expect me to stay frozen in time?" you asked. "The same naive girl waiting for her friends to return?"

"No," he admitted. "But I didn't expect... this."

"This?"

"This version of you. Cold. Hard." His eyes traveled over you, lingering on your face. "Beautiful in a way that cuts."

You refused to let his words affect you. "We all become what we need to survive. You taught me that lesson quite effectively."

"I suppose I did," he murmured, moving past you to look out at the garden. "Do you remember when we used to sneak out here at night? All of us?"

"I remember a lot of things," you said flatly. "None of them relevant to our current situation."

Hongjoong turned back to you, his expression unreadable. "Is that how you want to play this, Y/n? Pretending the past never happened?"

"Isn't that exactly what you did?" you shot back, unable to keep the edge from your voice. "Seven years, Hongjoong. Seven years without a word. And now you want to reminisce like old friends?"

Something flashed in his eyes—pain, perhaps, or regret. But it was quickly masked by that infuriating control. "You're right. The past is irrelevant. What matters is our future arrangement."

"Arrangement," you repeated. "Not marriage. Not partnership. Arrangement."

"Would you prefer I lie to you? Dress this up as something it's not?"

"I would prefer not to be traded like a commodity," you snapped. "But since that ship has sailed, I'd at least like to know why you agreed to this. What possible benefit could you gain from marrying someone who clearly despises you?"

Hongjoong stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more complex. "Maybe I enjoy a challenge."

You let out a harsh laugh. "Is that what I am to you? A challenge to be conquered?"

"No," he said, his voice suddenly serious. "You're much more dangerous than that."

Before you could respond, he reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with unexpected gentleness. The casual intimacy of the gesture stole the breath from your lungs.

"Our fathers have made their decision," he said quietly. "We can fight it and make ourselves miserable, or we can find a way to make it work."

You stepped back, breaking the spell of his proximity. "And how exactly do you suggest we do that? Start fresh? Pretend you and the others didn't rip my heart out and stomp on it?"

A flash of guilt crossed his features. "I don't expect you to forget. Or forgive. But for both our sakes, we need to find a way forward."

"There is no 'we,' Hongjoong. There's you and your precious family, and there's me, doing what I must to survive—just as I've done since you all abandoned me."

Hongjoong's jaw tightened. "You know nothing about what happened."

"Whose fault is that?" you challenged.

For a moment, it seemed like he might actually tell you something—anything—to explain the past. But then his expression closed off again, the wall between you solidifying.

"Some things are better left buried," he said finally.

You laughed, the sound brittle in the evening air. "How convenient for you."

Hongjoong studied you for a long moment, his dark eyes taking in every detail of your face. "You know, despite everything, that fire in you—it's still there. They couldn't take that away."

"They?"

But he was already turning away. "We should go back inside. They'll be waiting."

As you followed him back toward the house, you couldn't help but wonder who "they" were, and what exactly Hongjoong thought had been taken from you. But one thing was certain—beneath his cold, controlled exterior, the boy you once knew still existed. You'd seen it in that fleeting almost-smile, heard it in the softness that had crept into his voice when he spoke of the past.

And that realization was far more dangerous than his indifference could ever be.

Taglist: @paramedicnerd004, @miracle-sol

[yukkiji]

between sets and secrets

a year after secretly eloping with kageyama tobio, you return to japan for an international match—only for an ill-timed jumbotron zoom to expose your hidden marriage, proving that old habits die hard when it comes to keeping secrets... especially from your brother oikawa.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi read part one here

starring. kageyama tobio x fem!reader ft. oikawa tooru, japan's national team, and seijoh vbc members

genre: fluff, romance, crack, older brother!oikawa, secret relationship, seijoh vbc always makes an appearance, siblings banter, eloping, iwaizumi being stressed

wc: 9.4k

author's note: i couldn't help myself not writing a part 2 so here it is and if you haven't read the first part yet please read it first to get the context of the story hehe

you always knew the truth would come out eventually.

not because you were careless—not exactly. not because you didn’t know how to keep a secret. and not even because kageyama tobio, your very literal husband, wore his wedding ring during official matches which, in hindsight, was probably tempting fate.

but maybe because that was just how the two of you were built.

you’d built your love on borrowed time and foreign cities—on tight schedules and layovers, hushed phone calls between time zones, and fleeting mornings where one of you was always leaving. your life together lived in the quiet places, the in-betweens. and maybe you kept it to yourselves because that’s what you had grown used to. not out of shame. never out of shame. but because sometimes it felt like things meant more when no one else knew.

your relationship was private, yes. but it was never a secret.

everyone knew you were dating kageyama tobio. it wasn’t a mystery, not to the press, not to the fans, and certainly not to the people who knew you best. he didn’t flaunt it, but he never hid it either. he’d hold your hand in the middle of the street like it was the most natural thing in the world. mention you in interviews with that same unfiltered honesty he applied to everything else (“i like when she watches my games. it makes me feel fast”). he’d stand behind you at the airport like a human shield, subtly positioning himself between you and any camera lens or overeager crowd.

he loved you in ways that were simple. consistent. certain.

but the engagement—that had been yours.

just yours. yours in the quietest, most sacred sense. a moment kept in soft candlelight, sealed between shared laughter and clumsy promises whispered in a hotel room in santorini. no cameras. no audience. just the glint of a diamond ring and the way he looked at you like he’d known, even back then, that there wouldn’t be anyone else.

you hadn’t expected a speech from him. he was never the speech kind.

but you had noticed the way he was fidgety all day—subtle things, barely noticeable to anyone else. the way he kept checking the time even when there was nowhere to be. how he seemed extra careful with your dinner reservation, how he trailed just a half-step behind you, like he didn’t want to miss a second of it. how he held your hand a little tighter when you walked along the shore after.

you’d thought maybe he was just being sentimental. it was your anniversary, after all. a whole string of years behind you, each one marked by flights, messages, short reunions, long silences, and somehow—still—constancy.

but when you got back to the room and he told you to sit down, his hand not quite steady, his voice a touch too casual, you knew.

he pulled out the ring box like he was pulling out something obvious. inevitable.

“i didn’t write anything down,” he’d admitted, rubbing the back of his neck like he did when he missed a serve or forgot to text you back during training. “because i figured i’d just… say it.”

you didn’t say anything. just watched him kneel, the air still and warm, salt-softened by the mediterranean breeze slipping through the balcony doors.

“i’ve been thinking about this since middle school,” he said, voice quiet. “i didn’t know anything back then, but i knew i wanted to be with you.”

he’d opened the box, the diamond catching the low light.

then, like he couldn’t help himself, he reached out, took your hand, turned it gently in his own, and looked at your fingers like he was already picturing the rest of your lives.

“i know it’s not fancy. but it’s yours. and i want you to wear it. because you’ve always been… it. for me.”

your throat had gone tight. not because of the ring. not even because of the proposal. but because he meant every word—and he said it in the only way he knew how: plain, honest, true.

he hadn’t asked you with a flourish. he asked you like it was the only answer that made sense.

and of course, you said yes.

he hadn’t asked you with a flourish. he asked you like it was the only answer that made sense.

and of course, you said yes.

that night with him changed everything—not in a loud, dramatic way, but in the way that mattered most. quietly, completely. like a door had been closed to the rest of the world, and all that remained was you and him. your yes wasn’t just an answer. it was a beginning. it meant you were his. that he was yours. that from here on out, there was no maybe, no almost, no eventually.

you were locked in. for good.

and just like everything that came before it—your long-distance calls, your early morning airport reunions, the barely-contained smiles exchanged across tournament hallways—it stayed yours. private. sacred. untouched.

there was no announcement. no post. no caption. just the two of you, keeping it where it felt the safest: between your hearts and the silence that knew better than to demand proof.

you wore the ring every day. slipped it on like second skin. and somehow, in all that time—nearly two years of wearing a diamond on your left hand—no one asked. no one noticed.

maybe it was because you always knew how to tuck it just so, how to angle your hand in photos, how to fold your fingers when your friends got too close. maybe it was because, when it came to hiding kageyama, you’d both become professionals or maybe—and this one made you laugh most of all—maybe your friends were just really bad at paying attention.

and so the secret held.

during those two quiet, surreal years of engagement, life went on. matches were won, seasons changed, bags were packed and unpacked in cities that blurred together. but one morning, you found yourself folding your clothes into a suitcase with more intention than usual, your heart a little louder than it had been in a while.

you were flying to denmark to visit your fiancé—who, for reasons yet unexplained, had arrived a full week earlier than planned. actually, two weeks earlier than the official schedule set by japan’s national team, who were supposed to fly out to spain the following week for their training camp.

you had blinked at his text when it first came through.

[tobio:] already here. [tobio:] in denmark. [tobio:] come if you can.

no explanation. no context. no elaboration.

typical.

and yet, even without the full story, you’d booked the flight.

you didn’t question it—not really. not after so many years of slipping between time zones just to be near him. not when it had always been like this: brief reunions in unfamiliar cities, crashing into each other like two people who had never stopped running.

you just packed. called off work. and went.

because wherever he was, that’s where you wanted to be.

you landed in denmark late in the afternoon, the air outside the terminal sharp with cold. the kind that bit at your fingers the moment you stepped outside sliding doors, your breath visible as fog. you scanned the small crowd past customs, half expecting him to be running late, maybe tucked behind a scarf or hidden under a baseball cap like he usually was when he didn’t want to be recognized.

but instead, you found him already there—waiting.

kageyama stood near the arrivals gate, hood down despite the cold, a heavy jacket zipped up to his chin, hands shoved deep into his pockets. his posture was stiff, almost tense, but it was his eyes that caught you. wide, steady, and locked on you like he’d been holding his breath since you left the plane. like he’d been standing there for hours just to make sure he didn’t miss your face in the crowd.

that was the first sign something was off.

you smiled anyway, dragging your luggage behind you, weaving through the last few arriving passengers.

“you’re early,” you said, stepping into his space.

he didn’t answer right away. his gaze dropped briefly to your suitcase, then back to your face, like he couldn’t believe you were really here.

then, a beat late, he said, “i know.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you’re two weeks early.”

“i know,” he repeated, quieter this time.

you tilted your head. “why?”

his fingers flexed in his coat pocket like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know how. and then, with the most kageyama expression imaginable—equal parts serious and awkward, like he was bracing for a block—he said,

“…i was going to ask you something.”

that’s when your stomach did that quiet little somersault. not nervousness. not fear. just something soft and startled.

“in my hotel room,” he added quickly, as if that clarified things. “i thought… it should be somewhere warm.”

and that was all he said.

no elaborate excuse, no rehearsed speech—just that. just him, looking at you like he didn’t know how to say everything at once, so he settled for what he could manage.

when you arrived at his hotel, it looked like every other place he’d stayed in over the years—impersonal, functional, the kind of room that held little more than a bed, a desk, and whatever familiarity came from the scent of his cologne clinging to the hoodie tossed over a chair.

you set your bag down without a word and drifted toward the balcony. it was small, the kind of space barely meant to stand in, but it opened up to a skyline painted in soft gold. denmark in winter looked quieter, somehow—like the buildings themselves were huddled together for warmth.

you stepped outside, wrapped your arms around yourself, and took in the view. the cold kissed your cheeks, but it wasn’t biting. not really. not when you felt him just behind you.

kageyama joined you a moment later. his presence always announced itself quietly—warmth at your back, the subtle brush of his hand against yours before he leaned in, calloused fingers brushing against your cheek like he needed to be sure you were real.

then, a soft kiss. not on your lips, but your temple—gentle, familiar, steadying.

you smiled, turning slightly to face him. your noses almost touched. and before the moment slipped by, you gave him a short, sweet kiss. just enough to make him blink, startled. just enough to remind him you were here.

“is there something on your mind, tobio?” you asked, voice low with amusement.

he didn’t answer at first. instead, he took your hand in his, the one wearing the engagement ring. he didn’t say anything as he turned it over gently, as though he was still getting used to seeing it there, even after all this time.

his thumb brushed over the band, slow and deliberate.

“this still feels… not real,” he murmured.

you tilted your head. “it’s been almost two years.”

“i know,” he said. “but sometimes i look at it and… i don’t know. i feel like i’m going to mess it up.”

you opened your mouth to reply, but he kept going, voice soft and steady in a way that was so uniquely him.

“but then i think about you wearing it. every day. and it’s like… maybe i’m not messing it up. maybe i’m doing something right.”

you stared at him for a moment, heart pressed up against your ribs.

his hand was still cradling yours, thumb tracing circles like it had nowhere else to be. like he was anchoring himself to you.

“i was going to ask you,” he said, eyes flickering to yours. “if you still wanted to marry me. for real. not just… secret engagement, secret ring, secret everything.”

he swallowed hard.

“i thought maybe now is the time. if you still want to.”

you didn’t say anything right away—not because you were unsure, but because your heart was trying to catch up to the softness of his words. because kageyama wasn’t the type to spill things carelessly, and when he did, it always landed somewhere deep. somewhere steady.

he was still holding your hand when he said it:

“i also… i bought the rings.”

your eyebrows rose slightly, lips parting. “you what?”

“the wedding rings,” he clarified, almost nervously. “i already bought them. a while ago.”

your breath hitched somewhere between a laugh and a question. “without me?”

he nodded, quickly. “they match. kind of. i tried not to make them weird. they’re just simple. i picked them out the same day i booked the hotel.”

he paused, eyes flicking down to your hand again.

“i was scared they wouldn’t fit you,” he admitted. “so i guessed. i based it off the engagement ring. i measured it when you left it on the nightstand one morning. with a pencil and paper. like… like a math problem.”

that made you laugh. warm and surprised and affectionate. it slipped from your chest like second nature.

he winced slightly, but there was something fond in his expression—relieved, maybe, that you hadn’t burst into flames.

“i almost asked your brother for help,” he added, quieter now.

your laugh deepened, disbelief soft around the edges. “you almost asked tooru?”

he nodded again, tragically sincere. “but then i didn’t. i thought it’d be weird.”

you grinned, leaning your head back against the balcony rail. “tobio, he doesn’t even know about the engagement.”

kageyama blinked. “oh. right.”

you shook your head, still smiling. “i love you, but you’re a terrible liar.”

he looked mildly panicked for a second, like he was processing just how thin the ice had been all along. but before he could say anything else, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out.

a brochure. folded. worn at the corners.

“there’s a chapel,” he said. “i found it online. it’s small. just… small. and quiet.”

your gaze dropped to the paper. a little building, tucked between old trees and red rooftops, sun spilling through stained glass windows.

“it’s not too far,” he added, watching you closely. “like, we don’t have to. it’s just—i saw it. and i thought… if we did it. if we ever did it, it should be there.”

you looked at him.

he was fidgeting again. not from nerves, not really, but from the sheer force of caring too much and not knowing how to contain it.

you weren’t shocked, exactly. but you were… breathless.

because of course he found a chapel. of course he’d been thinking about this longer than he let on. of course he wanted to do it like this—with just the two of you, no audience, no fuss. just a quiet promise in a place neither of you had ever been before.

you reached out, brushing your fingers against his wrist. “show me.”

and his eyes lit up like you’d said yes all over again.

you left the hotel with your fingers laced through his—gloved hand in gloved hand, your steps slow against the cobbled streets of copenhagen. the sky above was pale and soft, dusted with winter clouds that made everything seem quieter. more sacred.

kageyama walked half a step ahead, the way he always did when he didn’t want you to get lost, occasionally glancing back just to make sure you were still there, like you’d vanish if he blinked. he’d packed the rings in his coat pocket. no box. no ribbon. just wrapped carefully in tissue and zipped into the inside lining like a secret he was terrified of dropping.

when you reached the chapel, it was smaller than the photo had shown—but prettier. it sat tucked away on a quiet street, ivy curling around one side of the old stone, a carved wooden door standing crooked and proud. a hand-painted sign at the steps read: ceremonies welcome. bookings not required.

kageyama looked at you then, as if to say, this is it.

you nodded.

inside, it smelled like candlewax and winter dust. the light through the stained glass cast soft colors on the floor, pinks and golds and gentle greens. there were only ten pews. no altar. no priest yet. no flowers. just stillness. and you. and him.

you sat down in the last row for a moment, just to breathe.

he looked over at you, a little out of his depth, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them now.

"are you okay?" he asked.

you turned your head and smiled. “are you okay?”

“…i think so,” he said, and then frowned slightly. “my hands are cold.”

you reached for one and rubbed it between yours. “you’re nervous.”

“i’m not,” he argued.

you raised a brow.

“…okay. maybe a little.”

the officiant came out a few minutes later—a woman with silver hair tied back in a bun and eyes that crinkled when she saw the way kageyama was staring at you like he’d been hypnotized. she spoke softly, asked for your names, asked if this was what you both wanted.

kageyama nodded so fast it was almost funny. you just smiled and said, “yes.”

you wore the white dress you’d packed on a whim, never really intending to use it. it had stayed folded in your suitcase for months—a soft thing, simple and unassuming. like hope. he was still in his button-up shirt, black slacks, and that too-serious expression he always wore when he was trying not to mess up.

and when you stood at the front, hand in hand, the officiant asked if you had any words.

you looked at each other.

kageyama cleared his throat.

“…i didn’t write anything,” he said. “i forgot. or… i didn’t think i needed to.”

you squeezed his hand. “you don’t.”

he exhaled slowly. “just… i want this. every day. all the quiet parts. all the normal stuff. you. me. everything.”

you felt the warmth crawl up your chest, soft and overwhelming.

you answered him with your eyes before you ever said “i do.”

and when the time came, with hands still slightly shaking, under soft european daylight in a borrowed chapel—

you said it.

and so did he.

then he slid the ring onto your finger, right next to the one he’d given you in santorini, and kissed you like he was promising a thousand more mornings just like this one.

afterward, you left the chapel hand-in-hand, no announcement, no confetti, just two very married people who stopped at a nearby café for sandwiches and coffee like it was just another afternoon. like you hadn’t just made the biggest decision of your life. like forever wasn’t sitting quietly on both your hands.

you leaned your head on his shoulder as you waited for your drinks to arrive, and he tapped your ring with the tip of his finger like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“it fits,” he said.

you smiled. “of course it does.”

you were still in the café, tucked into a window seat with two half-eaten sandwiches between you, his hand resting palm-up on the table like it was meant to hold yours and yours alone. the light outside had dimmed slightly, winter dusk settling over copenhagen in soft blue tones, the kind that made everything look gentler, quieter.

kageyama kept glancing down at your hand. not subtly. like every few minutes, as if the sight of your wedding ring alongside your engagement band still needed to be double-checked for accuracy. like if he looked away too long, it might disappear.

you caught him staring again and let out a quiet laugh, taking a sip from your coffee. “you’re going to wear a hole in that ring if you keep looking at it.”

he blinked, then flushed slightly, eyes darting back to his own cup. “it just looks… right,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “like it’s supposed to be there.”

your smile softened, settling into something warmer. “it is.”

a comfortable silence followed. not awkward—just the kind that came when you didn’t need to fill space anymore. when the person across from you already knew all the words you hadn’t said.

then, leaning back against the booth, you teased, “you know we’re still going to have to do a proper wedding at some point, right?”

he looked up so fast his hair bounced. “what?”

you laughed again, gently this time. “tobio, we got married in a tiny chapel in a city no one even knew we were in. there’s a very high chance my brother is going to launch himself into the sun when he finds out.”

he frowned thoughtfully, like this hadn’t quite occurred to him. “but we’re already married.”

“yes,” you said, reaching over to tug his hand into yours. “but you’re marrying into my friend group. and my family. and there will be consequences.”

he groaned softly, burying his face in his elbow for a moment like the mere idea of oikawa making a scene gave him immediate physical pain. “can we do it somewhere with no microphones?”

“we can do it somewhere with a fire extinguisher in case my brother tries to set you on fire.”

he looked at you, dead serious. “good idea.”

you squeezed his hand. “but yes, i want the dress. the cake. the dancing. and the people we love watching us do this properly. even if it’s just for show.”

kageyama didn’t hesitate this time. he nodded. “okay. if that’s what you want, we’ll do it.”

then, a pause. a softer tone.

“i don’t care how many times i have to marry you,” he added. “just as long as i always get to.”

and just like that, your heart did that quiet little stutter it always did around him. still. even now. even after everything.

you reached across the table again and ran your thumb over the ring on his hand—the one you’d slipped on just hours ago.

“good,” you said. “because the next one will need to come with a seating chart and maybe a taser for crowd control.”

he stared at you.

“…i’m serious.”

“i know.” he took another sip of his coffee. “and i believe you.”

you two spent your unofficial honeymoon like you had everything in the world and no need to tell it. it was a week of quiet joy, the kind that didn’t need documenting to be remembered. half of it was spent wandering through denmark’s crooked streets and quiet museums, sneaking kisses in doorways, splitting pastries in coffee shops, and curling up in bed while the snow dusted rooftops outside. the rest of it was in spain—sunlight, terraces, the sea humming in the distance. he wore sunglasses he didn’t need. you wore his jacket more than your own. it felt like your little pocket of time. a secret with a heartbeat.

and no one knew.

no cameras. no teammates. no siblings breathing down your neck.

just you and him, sharing the kind of silence only love could make comfortable.

well—that perfect silence was shattered, violently and without remorse, when reality hit.

or more accurately… when it rang. again. and again.

at three in the morning.

you groaned softly into the pillow, tangled in sheets with your leg draped over his hip, both of you a tangle of limbs and warmth. your ring glinted faintly under the moonlight that filtered through the blinds, the only reminder that yes, you had actually gone through with it. you were married.

and now, someone was ruining it.

kageyama shifted beneath you, groggy and frowning, blindly patting the nightstand until his fingers wrapped around his buzzing phone.

“who is it?” you murmured sleepily against his shoulder.

he squinted at the screen. “iwaizumi.”

that alone jolted both of you into semi-consciousness.

you sat up slowly, hair a mess, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders like a cape. “does he know?”

“i don’t know.” he stared at the screen like it was a bomb he wasn’t trained to defuse.

and then it rang again.

“pick up,” you whispered.

“what if he’s mad?”

“tobio, of course he’s mad. you left two weeks before the team.”

“…should i lie?”

you gave him a look.

he sighed, then finally answered. “…hello?”

there was a pause—half a second, maybe less—before iwaizumi's voice detonated through the speaker like a fire alarm.

“kageyama tobio, where the hell are you?”

you winced and tugged the blanket higher over your head like it might shield you from the sheer force of secondhand stress vibrating through the mattress.

“i’m in spain already,” kageyama mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep and—let’s be honest—panic.

there was a beat of silence. and then—

“you’re what?!”

kageyama flinched and instinctively yanked the phone an inch away from his ear. you could hear every syllable anyway. so could half the block.

“iwaizumi-san, i—”

“do you understand,” iwaizumi hissed, “that i am currently in tokyo, at narita airport, with ten grown men who can’t function without labeled boarding passes and adult supervision? sakusa’s arguing with customs over sanitizer. bokuto is missing. atsumu is trying to check in his hairdryer as a carry-on.”

you muffled a snort into the pillow.

“we fly out in two hours, and you are not here, kageyama. you didn’t check in. you’re not responding in the group chat. komori thought you were kidnapped. suna said he’d give it 24 hours before calling interpol. and you’re telling me you’re in spain already?!”

kageyama cleared his throat. “i… i told you. i sent it in the group chat.”

iwaizumi sounded like he aged ten years in real time. “you sent just landed airplane emoji with no context. how the hell was i supposed to know where you were?! you could’ve landed in okinawa for all i knew!”

“i thought it was clear…”

“it wasn’t.”

you were shaking with silent laughter now, curled under the sheets, as kageyama rubbed his temple and glanced helplessly in your direction.

“i went to denmark first,” he said, tone now sheepish. “before spain.”

a dangerous pause.

“…why denmark.”

“we got married.”

the sound iwaizumi made could only be described as a full-body malfunction. a strangled mix between a gasp, a growl, and someone trying not to rupture a blood vessel in public.

“you—married—?!”

“yeah.”

another pause. and then, flat and venomous: “does oikawa know?”

kageyama stiffened like a guilty schoolboy. “…not yet.”

on the other end, iwaizumi audibly inhaled, as if trying to summon every ounce of patience he’d ever had in his life. “and when were you going to tell me you weren’t flying out with the team?”

“well,” kageyama began, “we already sent the marriage certificate to the embassy. so i thought—”

“so you had time to arrange paperwork with a foreign government but not text me you were leaving the country early?!”

“…i sent it in the group chat.”

“do you think i read every ‘just landed’ message between memes and hinata’s live-updates on his snacks?!”

there was a thump, probably iwaizumi hitting a wall—or his own forehead.

“we’re going to be teammates for a month,” he muttered. “and you dropped this on me now. at the airport. in front of god and the vending machine.”

kageyama winced. “i can send a proper message.”

“you think?!”

you finally peeked out from under the covers, gently taking the phone from his hand. “hajime?”

iwaizumi groaned. “you too.”

“we’re very happy,” you said sweetly.

“i hate both of you,” he grumbled. “but fine. congratulations. don’t expect me to babysit you through this.”

you smiled. “oh, you already are.”

there was another sigh. long. exhausted. broken.

“if oikawa finds out before i land,” he muttered, “i’m pretending i don’t speak japanese.”

then the line clicked off.

kageyama stared at the screen. “…he didn’t even say goodbye.”

you shrugged. “he’ll survive.”

“…probably.”

kageyama sank back into the pillows like a man barely spared by fate, while your hand slipped into his, both your wedding rings catching the low morning light filtering in through the window.

and that was it.

well—that was it, until it wasn’t.

because that elopement?

the quiet, sacred thing just for the two of you? it stayed hidden for nearly a year.

miraculously.

because of iwaizumi hajime. professional trainer. national team’s unofficial handler. your shared confidant. and, as it turned out, an elite-level secret keeper under immense emotional duress.

he didn’t say a word.

not even when oikawa called him three times that week alone, trying to fish for details on why kageyama was “weirdly chipper” and asking if he’d “caught a new disease in europe.”

not even when bokuto found a photo of you and kageyama in matching coats from copenhagen and shouted, “this looks like honeymoon energy.”

not even when atsumu, bored and nosy, cornered iwaizumi with a protein shake and said, “you’re acting like you’re hiding something. is it drugs or a lovechild?”

iwaizumi kept his mouth shut through all of it.

but not without consequence, because you watched the man visibly age.

he developed three new forehead lines and started carrying around a stress ball that wasn’t there before. he muttered “i need a raise” to himself a lot, and once, when komori spilled pre-game smoothies all over the training mats, iwaizumi sat down on the floor and just stared into space for five solid minutes.

the guilt gnawed at you sometimes—especially when he glared at kageyama during warmups with the same expression a war general might give a soldier who’d accidentally detonated the strategy tent.

“we should tell them soon,” you said once, watching a livestream of a match where iwaizumi could clearly be seen shouting at the bench and pointing a clipboard like it was a weapon.

kageyama had only nodded, chewing his protein bar.

you felt bad. you did.

but…

there was still something sacred about the way your marriage belonged to just the two of you. something lovely in the quiet of it. it had been a promise whispered and signed in the hush of a european winter. something selfish and soft and yours.

and iwaizumi?

he’d kept that promise. never wavered. never slipped. never cracked—not even once.

you knew it cost him sleep. and years off his life. and probably a piece of his soul.

but still.

he’d kept it.

because that’s who iwaizumi hajime was—reliable to the bone, loyal past reason, and deeply, deeply tired of being surrounded by emotionally stunted athletes. but a keeper of your secret, all the same.

he’d sworn not to say anything, and he hadn’t. even when oikawa, calling in from argentina with the energy of someone who absolutely knew something was going on but didn’t have the receipts yet, tried to dig into him like a stubborn cat clawing at a locked cabinet.

“you’d tell me if something weird was going on with tobio, right?” oikawa had asked during one of their check-ins, mid-stretching and dripping sweat.

iwaizumi had stared into the camera like he was contemplating faking his own death. “define weird,” he said.

and that had somehow been enough to throw him off the trail—for a while.

and now, a year later, here you were.

back in japan. back in a packed stadium. seated in the plush, velvet-lined vip box of one of the biggest venues in tokyo.

the crowd was already roaring, the atmosphere electric with anticipation. flags waving, chants echoing, camera lights flickering like fireflies across the arena. and there you were, seated with hanamaki, matsukawa, kindaichi, and kunimi—all blissfully unaware that they were sitting next to someone who had legally and emotionally committed herself to a man currently warming up on the court.

oikawa tooru—your brother—stood proudly on the other side of the net, representing argentina with that same swaggering confidence he carried since high school. across from him, in japan’s uniform, was kageyama tobio, stretching his shoulder like he wasn’t seconds from reigniting an international rivalry and a family feud.

“man, this is gonna be intense,” hanamaki murmured, sipping his soda. “oikawa’s looking extra dramatic today.”

“he always looks dramatic,” matsukawa replied.

“did you hear the commentator earlier?” kindaichi said, pointing to the massive jumbotron above the court. “they zoomed in on kageyama’s hand and were like, ‘is that a wedding band?’”

your body stilled. too still. the kind of stillness that made animals run.

“wedding band?” hanamaki blinked, then turned to look at you. “wait—that’s a wedding band too, isn’t it?”

your fingers instinctively curled inward on your lap, but it was too late.

kunimi blinked slowly. “…okay but who did you marry?”

there was a beat of silence before matsukawa groaned, exasperated.

“are you dumb? it’s obviously kageyama, dumbass. they’ve been together since middle school. remember when tooru found out and refused to speak for a week and a half? cold war era?”

you stared ahead, expression composed, neutral, elegant—despite the chaos brewing in the row behind you.

“wait—wait, so you’re married?” kindaichi practically screeched.

“when?!” hanamaki demanded.

“why didn’t we know?!”

“was there cake?” kunimi asked calmly.

but before you could respond, the jumbotron cut to oikawa.

your brother—sweaty, flushed, stretching his shoulders—froze mid-motion as his gaze zeroed in on kageyama’s ring, and then the camera panned to the vip box. to you.

and then he just—stopped moving.

completely.

as if time itself had paused.

his eye twitched.

iwaizumi, who you could barely see from your elevated spot, was already standing up from the team bench, shoulders squared like a man who had smelled smoke before the fire had even started.

on the court, oikawa dropped the ball he was warming up with. just let it fall. stared across the net like he was calculating the optimal trajectory for a murder.

“uh-oh,” matsukawa said.

“yep,” hanamaki muttered.

“what’s happening?” kindaichi asked.

“he figured it out,” kunimi said. “he definitely figured it out.”

and as oikawa took a step toward the net, iwaizumi appeared—not walked, not ran—appeared, grabbing him by the shoulder mid-lunge.

“not on live television,” you could imagine him saying. “please. not here.”

oikawa pointed at kageyama.

then at the jumbotron.

then—at you.

you gave him a little wave.

iwaizumi looked skyward, mouthing something that was either a prayer or a resignation letter.

and you? you just smiled.

because the truth was out. the rings were seen. the marriage was no longer a secret.

down on the court, chaos was brewing in slow motion.

oikawa, tooru, argentina’s number one, local menace and your older brother, was standing frozen in place. the warmup drill had gone completely forgotten—his arms limp, one knee bent like he’d been mid-step when the realization hit. his eyes hadn’t moved from the jumbotron in almost a full minute.

because on that screen, clear as day, were the two things he feared most:

tobio kageyama with a wedding band.your face in the vip box, smiling like you had no business being that calm while his world was collapsing.

iwaizumi saw it happen in real time.

and for a man who had taped a hundred ankles, mediated fifty shouting matches, and once convinced sakusa not to pepper spray a fan who got too close to the bench—he knew this was a code red situation.

“no,” he muttered under his breath, already walking.

by the time oikawa was marching toward the net, eyes blazing, hands clenched like he might throw the volleyball—or worse, launch it at kageyama’s face—iwaizumi was already on the court, cutting across warm-up zones like a soldier breaking formation.

“tooru,” he called out, calm and firm.

oikawa turned, wild-eyed, and pointed a furious finger across the court. “he married my sister, iwa-chan.”

“yes. and we’re live in seventy-two countries, so maybe don’t commit a felony on international television,” iwaizumi replied smoothly, one hand now gripping oikawa’s bicep like a leash.

“he didn’t even tell me!”

“neither did she,” iwaizumi muttered under his breath, tugging him away from the middle of the court.

“iwa-chan!”

“tooru,” iwaizumi hissed, low and sharp, “if you blow this up right now, you’re gonna be that guy—the guy who lost his cool on camera because of a ring. save it for after the match. yell all you want later. i’ll buy you a punching bag.”

“i don’t want a punching bag—i want to strangle tobio-chan.”

“you can’t strangle the setter from another country mid-tournament. it’s bad press.”

oikawa groaned and dragged a hand down his face like he was physically trying to wipe the betrayal off his skin. “iwa-chan, he stole my sister.”

iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “i’m pretty sure she walked, tooru. willingly.”

oikawa opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again like a fish gasping for one last comeback. but nothing came out.

so instead, he just slumped.

he crashed out, right there on the bench behind the court, head in his hands like he was back in high school discovering your middle school text messages to kageyama all over again.

“i’m going to be sick,” he muttered.

“you’ll be fine.”

“do you think there’s still time to annul something?!”

iwaizumi exhaled, pulling him up by the collar. “play the game first. destroy him on the court. then you can collapse in the locker room. we’ve practiced this routine before.”

“i can’t believe you knew.”

“i can’t believe you didn’t.”

“this is betrayal.”

“this is adulthood.”

“iwa-chan, my soul is cracking.”

“yeah? my spine’s been cracking since 2017. join the club.”

oikawa sulked, but he didn’t storm off the court. he didn't throw a ball at kageyama’s head. he didn’t demand security or scream into a mic. he just… went back to his team, defeated and muttering curses under his breath.

iwaizumi returned to the japan bench like nothing happened. smooth. silent. the man had the emotional composure of a seasoned trauma surgeon and the patience of a saint married to a coffee addiction.

he picked up his clipboard, scribbled something that might’ve been “kill me” in between tactical notes, and took a long sip of his water.

“sooo…” hinata leaned in from the end of the bench, eyes wide, voice hushed but clearly dying to know, “did oikawa find out?”

iwaizumi didn’t flinch. he didn’t blink. he just leaned back, set the water bottle down with a soft clunk, and said, dry as desert wind: “play the game. save the funeral for after.”

bokuto gasped dramatically. “oh my god, someone died?!”

atsumu squinted. “what kinda funeral we talkin’ about here—like actual or emotional? because i’m ready for both.”

suna, filming casually from the corner of the bench, zoomed in on iwaizumi’s exhausted face. “caption: ‘man realizes he raised twelve sons and one of them just married the other’s sister in secret.’”

“wait, hold up,” aran said, brows furrowing. “who got married?”

“kageyama,” sakusa deadpanned, not even looking up from his water bottle. “obviously.”

“wait—what?!” komori yelped.

hinata choked. “to who?!”

they all turned to look at kageyama, who was tying his shoelaces like nothing earth-shattering had just happened. like his life hadn’t just been blown open on the jumbotron in front of thousands.

kageyama looked up mid-knot. “…what?”

“bro, you’re married?!” bokuto nearly shouted. “you didn’t tell us?!”

“you guys didn’t know?” kageyama asked, blinking like they were the weird ones.

“no,” atsumu cried. “did we look like we knew?!”

“who did you even marry?” komori asked, baffled.

“his girlfriend,” sakusa said, like it was the most obvious answer on the planet.

“well, yeah, but which girlfriend?!” atsumu asked

“what do you mean ‘which’?” sakusa asked, narrowing his eyes. “he’s only had one.”

“yeah,” kageyama mumbled. “the same one since middle school.”

a pause.

“…wait.” hinata stood so fast his jersey wrinkled. “you mean—?”

atsumu’s jaw dropped so fast it was a miracle it didn’t dislocate. “oikawa’s sister?!”

iwaizumi rubbed his temples.

“i thought it was just a rumor you two were dating!” komori blurted, still visibly struggling with the mental whiplash.

“yeah,” aran agreed, frowning. “like—i thought oikawa made it up once to get under kageyama’s skin during nationals or something.”

“no,” suna said casually, still filming. “i thought it was real. i mean, you should’ve seen how kageyama looked whenever someone mentioned her name. classic pining face.”

“wait,” hinata turned to kageyama, squinting. “weren’t y’all, like… secret-secret?”

kageyama finally spoke, tone deadpan as he stood up and adjusted his knee pads.

“the world knows we’re dating,” he said, plain and matter-of-fact. “i always mention her during press conferences.”

a pause.

“…you do?” bokuto blinked.

kageyama nodded. “yeah. stuff like, ‘she helped me recover from an injury,’ or ‘she brings me food after training.’ last month i said, ‘i play better when she’s watching.’”

another pause.

“okay wow,” bokuto muttered, eyes wide. “i think i just thought you were talking about, like… a therapist.”

“didn’t you once call her ‘my most important person’ on live tv?” sakusa added, brow raised.

“he did,” komori confirmed.

“guys.” kageyama looked around at them, flat expression slowly melting into disbelief. “do you even notice anything?”

atsumu looked personally offended. “okay rude, i notice lots of things. like the time sakusa changed conditioner.”

“that was six months ago,” sakusa muttered.

“and unforgivable,” atsumu said.

“you’re literally always with him,” hinata added, pointing at kageyama. “how did we not put this together?”

iwaizumi, watching from a few feet away with crossed arms and the distinct look of someone who’d lost all faith in the team’s collective iq, let out a soundless laugh through his nose.

“you all have the memory retention of a wet sponge,” he muttered. “you’ve seen them together more times than i can count.”

suna stopped recording just long enough to deadpan, “so basically, kageyama had a girlfriend, a fiancée, and a wife… and we missed all three stages?”

“some best friends you are,” kageyama mumbled under his breath.

“we need a slideshow,” bokuto said. “like a timeline! ‘the secret love story of tobio and the one who got away but actually stayed!’”

“he married her,” sakusa muttered. “she didn’t get away.”

bokuto gasped. “even better! it’s like a plot twist!”

iwaizumi pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away. “i need noise-cancelling earbuds. and possibly retirement.”

and as the referee whistled for the starting lineups, the japan national team jogged out onto the court— still slightly shaken, entirely too loud, and about to play a very high-stakes match…

while one of their own had just broken the biggest news of the year without even trying.

you, on the other hand, weren’t faring any better.

in the vip box, the interrogation hadn’t let up since the moment kageyama’s wedding band hit the jumbotron in high-definition glory. your friends—hanamaki, matsukawa, kindaichi, and kunimi—had turned on you like you were the surprise twist in a murder mystery, except you weren’t even dead, just very secretly married.

“so you’re telling me,” hanamaki began, leaning in with the intensity of a seasoned detective, “you got engaged and married and never said a single word?”

“what happened to trust?” matsukawa added, clutching his chest like you’d betrayed him specifically.

“what happened to group chat loyalty?” kindaichi gasped.

kunimi just blinked slowly. “i literally stood next to you during a group photo last year. were you wearing the ring then?”

you didn’t even try to deny it. instead, you sipped your drink and said coolly, “maybe you should all pay more attention to the details.”

“we’re not the cia!” matsukawa cried. “we didn’t think we had to inspect your fingers for government-level secrecy!”

“i’m just saying,” you murmured with a small shrug, “you guys are surprisingly unobservant.”

“you literally posted a photo in santorini with a caption that said, ‘best trip ever,’” hanamaki said, squinting at you. “was that the engagement trip?”

you smiled sweetly. “no comment.”

“you smiled in the background of his press photos!” kindaichi pointed out, like the realization was physically painful. “and we just thought it was cute—not, you know, ‘secret wife’ level of cute!”

“how long?” kunimi asked, too calmly, and somehow that made it worse.

you looked up at the court, where kageyama stood in his ready position, laser-focused, completely unfazed by the worldwide bombshell he’d just dropped.

“almost a year,” you admitted.

hanamaki let out a strangled noise. “one. year.”

“how did oikawa not find out sooner?” matsukawa asked, as if that was the true miracle here.

you hummed. “because iwaizumi knows how to keep a secret. and also because we’re very good at sneaking around. old habits.”

“are you pregnant?” kunimi asked flatly.

you blinked. “…what?”

“that’s always how this goes. secret wedding, and then—bam. baby.”

you opened your mouth to respond, but the buzzer went off for the start of the match, drowning out the sound.

“oh my god,” hanamaki whispered as the teams lined up. “you’re totally pregnant.”

you didn’t confirm. you didn’t deny.

you just leaned back into your seat, eyes on the court, ring glinting under the stadium lights.

and in that exact moment, kageyama looked up—just for a second.

and he smiled.

once the game was over—japan victorious, oikawa dramatic, and the stadium still humming from the post-match adrenaline—you made your way down from the vip box, your four friends trailing behind you like a jury who had not yet reached a verdict.

“we’re not done talking about this,” hanamaki muttered as you led the group through a side corridor marked staff only.

“i feel lied to,” matsukawa added, hand dramatically pressed to his chest.

“i feel like i need to see the marriage license,” kindaichi said, half-joking. probably.

“i still feel like this is an elaborate prank,” kunimi deadpanned. “like, where are the cameras? is this a variety show?”

“you’re very loud for people who didn’t notice a literal diamond ring for two years,” you shot back over your shoulder.

“okay, rude,” hanamaki huffed.

a staff member nodded you through security with a knowing smile—apparently, “spouse of a national athlete” had its perks—and you slipped into the hallway that led to the locker rooms.

you knocked once on the door.

there was a beat of silence. then shuffling. then—

“is it her?” came bokuto’s unmistakably hopeful voice.

“don’t say it like that,” sakusa muttered from somewhere inside.

the door opened.

kageyama stood there, towel around his neck, hair still damp from a quick shower, and wearing the most neutral expression he could muster.

which meant: he was trying to act normal but his ears were already turning pink.

you smiled up at him.

“hey, husband.”

“hey,” he murmured. then, after a beat, added: “they’re here too?”

you turned slightly, revealing the four trailing behind you like paparazzi with no cameras and too many questions.

matsukawa gave him a dry look. “you owe us a slideshow.”

kindaichi pointed. “and a proper explanation.”

“also, what the hell, kageyama,” hanamaki said, squinting. “you get married and don’t even blink through the whole match?”

“you’re emotionally constipated,” kunimi declared.

kageyama blinked once. “i’m fine.”

you rolled your eyes and pushed past him gently, tugging him by the wrist into the room. “we wanted to tell everyone eventually. just… you know.”

“eventually?!” matsukawa repeated. “it’s been a year.”

“yeah,” you said with a soft laugh. “and funny enough… we were gonna send out invitations. next week.”

everyone paused.

“invitations?” hanamaki asked. “to what?”

“to our proper wedding ceremony,” you said, grinning now. “for our first anniversary. nothing huge. just family, close friends…”

“you mean the second wedding?” kindaichi asked, still trying to keep up.

“more like the public one,” you corrected.

“oh my god,” hanamaki whispered. “i need to sit down.”

and as if the universe had a sense of timing, another voice echoed down the hallway:

“don’t tell me you’re also pregnant?!”

oikawa.

you winced. turned toward the source of the voice as he stormed dramatically into view, hair still damp, jersey slung over his shoulder, eyes wide with post-match betrayal.

your mouth opened. you considered lying. or deflecting. or maybe just fake-fainting.

but then you caught kageyama’s hand in yours and… sighed.

“…yes.”

oikawa screamed into his towel.

iwaizumi, appearing like clockwork from the opposite end of the hallway, placed a firm hand on his shoulder and steered him the other direction.

“not now,” iwaizumi said through gritted teeth. “not here. i swear, if you throw something again—”

“he got her pregnant!”

“you’re shouting in front of a baby.”

“the baby isn’t here yet.”

“well, it’s probably listening.” iwaizumi dragged him away like a bouncer at a wedding reception. “let them breathe. please. for once.”

you leaned your head against kageyama’s arm, both of you stifling a laugh as your friends stood behind you, stunned into silence.

finally, matsukawa exhaled. “well… at least we’re invited now.”

hanamaki groaned. “do we have to get gifts?”

“get diapers,” kageyama muttered.

“get therapy,” kunimi added, patting your shoulder.

“get me a drink,” iwaizumi called from down the hallway, voice distant but still filled with existential pain.

you looked up at your husband, your secret barely a secret anymore, your life unraveling in the loudest and most ridiculous way possible—and smiled.

“so,” you whispered, “how do you think he’s taking it?”

kageyama considered.

then, calmly, “he’s still alive. so… not that bad.”

oikawa crashed dramatically onto a bench just outside the locker room, towel thrown over his face like a fallen noble hero in a stage play, limbs splayed and sighs coming out in loud, theatrical bursts.

“i’m gonna die,” he moaned. “this is how it ends. death by betrayal. betrayed by my own sister and that guy.”

“you’re being overdramatic,” you said, crouching in front of him, patting his knee.

“overdramatic?!” he peeked out from under the towel with wild eyes. “you got married without telling me, you’re having a baby, and now i’m supposed to just go back to argentina and live like nothing happened?!”

“well… you shouldn’t book your return flight just yet,” you said lightly.

he sat up. “why.”

you smiled. “because you’re walking me down the aisle. the proper wedding’s in two months.”

there was a beat of stunned silence.

then: “i—i what?”

“you’re walking me,” you repeated. “down the aisle. at the ceremony. the one with everyone. flowers. music. seating arrangements. open bar.”

“why would you want me to do that?” he asked, still recovering.

you tilted your head, smiling softly now. “because you’re my brother. and even if you’re ridiculous ninety percent of the time, i still want you there. preferably not crying. or threatening the groom mid-ceremony.”

oikawa blinked. sniffled once. “…do i get to pick the aisle music?”

“not if it’s from your mixtape,” you said flatly.

behind you, the entire japan national team had gathered, half because they were nosy and half because they wanted front-row seats to the emotional soap opera unfolding in real time.

“can i come to the wedding too?” hinata piped up.

“same,” bokuto added, bouncing slightly. “can i give a speech? i’ve already started drafting one. it has metaphors.”

atsumu grinned. “can i mc? i promise to keep it under ten minutes.”

“that is absolutely a lie,” sakusa muttered.

“i’ll bring snacks,” komori offered cheerfully.

“you’re in the wedding party,” you reminded him.

“oh. i’ll still bring snacks.”

“i’ll livestream the whole thing,” suna deadpanned.

“no, you won’t,” you and kageyama said at the same time.

“so we’re really doing this, huh?” matsukawa said, exchanging a look with hanamaki.

“you sound surprised,” hanamaki replied. “our entire lives have been leading up to a kageyama-oikawa wedding showdown. this is fate.”

“i call dibs on sitting next to the cake,” kindaichi muttered.

“you can all come,” you said over the noise. “just… maybe no speeches from atsumu.”

“rude!” atsumu gasped.

kageyama stepped beside you then, hand gently settling on your lower back, quiet as ever. “everything okay?”

“getting there,” you said, glancing toward your brother, who was now muttering something about matching suit colors and learning how to do proper formal knots on youtube.

kageyama leaned in, voice low. “are you feeling sick?”

you blinked. “what?”

“you woke up looking pale,” he said, concern pulling gently at his brows. “and you’ve been standing a while.”

you blinked, then chuckled. “just a little queasy. probably because someone made me laugh while i was drinking juice this morning.”

he looked mildly guilty. “…you sprayed it everywhere.”

“yes, tobio, that’s what happens when someone says ‘what if our kid ends up with oikawa’s attitude’ mid-sip.”

“…i still think it’s a valid concern.”

oikawa, who had just recovered enough to scroll through airbnb listings for dramatically expensive suites near the wedding venue, froze.

his head snapped up.

“wait—what did you say?!”

you and kageyama both turned toward him slowly, caught mid-conversation, like teenagers who’d been overheard saying something they shouldn’t have.

“what?” you said innocently.

“did you just say,” oikawa stood, towel falling off his shoulders like a cape, “what if our kid ends up with oikawa’s attitude?!”

“ah,” kageyama muttered under his breath. “here we go.”

“excuse me?!” oikawa pointed dramatically, nearly tripping over his own gym bag. “my attitude is amazing. charismatic. charming. elite.”

“it’s emotionally volatile,” sakusa said from the side, not even looking up from his phone.

“thank you,” kageyama added helpfully.

“you’re just jealous,” oikawa snapped back, pacing now like a coach delivering a pep talk to an invisible team. “my personality has layers!”

“yeah,” matsukawa said, deadpan. “like an emotional onion.”

“and you willingly married someone who insults me in front of our child?” oikawa turned to you, clutching his chest. “our niece or nephew?!”

“we didn’t know you were listening,” you said calmly.

“i’m always listening!” he barked.

“which is the exact reason we got married in another continent,” kageyama muttered.

“what was that?!”

iwaizumi, still chewing his protein bar and visibly reconsidering his life choices, stepped in before anyone could escalate further.

he raised a hand with the weariness of a man who had been holding everyone’s lives together with ankle tape and sarcasm.

“technically,” iwaizumi said, voice flat, “they’re married in two countries.”

the hallway went dead quiet.

oikawa blinked once. “two?!”

“denmark,” you confirmed helpfully, trying not to laugh.

“and japan,” kageyama added, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “we filed the paperwork when we got back.”

iwaizumi nodded slowly, like a man who had already lost the will to argue. “they even mailed me copies in case someone ‘forgot where they put things.’”

“which was you, wasn’t it?” sakusa said without looking up.

iwaizumi ignored him.

oikawa groaned and sank into the bench again, dragging the towel back over his face. “so you’ve been internationally married this whole time, and i’m the last to know?”

iwaizumi sighed. “to be fair, i found out because i thought kageyama was missing and almost called the embassy.”

“you what?”

“he texted the team group chat ‘just landed,’” iwaizumi muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “just landed, he said. how was i supposed to know he meant denmark? he said nothing else.”

“i thought it was obvious,” kageyama mumbled.

“nothing about that was obvious,” sakusa said.

“it’s like you want to shorten my life,” iwaizumi added. “and now you’ve dragged me into an international conspiracy.”

“oh please,” hanamaki chimed in. “you’re the one who kept the secret. you’re complicit.”

“you think i had a choice? do you know how many ice packs i went through that week? do you know what bokuto did when he found out someone replaced his pre-workout with orange juice?”

“it was delicious,” bokuto called out from down the hall.

iwaizumi just took another bite of his protein bar and stared at the ceiling like it might grant him early retirement.

“i’m surrounded by idiots,” he muttered.

and next to you, kageyama turned to you quietly, thumb brushing your hand.

“are you feeling sick again?” he asked, voice lowered.

you blinked. “a little. not bad. just queasy.”

his brows furrowed, concern flickering across his face. “do you want to sit down?”

“i am sitting down, tobio.”

“then sit more comfortably.”

you snorted, but leaned against his shoulder anyway. “you’re so weird.”

“you married me.”

you grinned. “twice.”

and technically—in two countries.

[bernardsbendystraws]

You Don’t Own Me

SERIES MASTERLIST

Chris Sturniolo lives by his own rules, refusing to be controlled. Some see him as a rebel, a troublemaker—but is that the full truth? Meanwhile, Y/N is focused on making the most of her last year of high school, determined to have a normal teenage experience. But when their worlds collide, they realize they may have more in common than they ever expected.

WARNINGS: COPYRIGHT NOTICE. crying, emotional, angst, fluff, and more

A/N: I’m not ready to let go 😭💔

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[ FINAL ] P31: You Don't Own Me

I feel fucking clueless.

Our final project is done. Shawn and I finished it throughout this past week, trying to rush through all the procrastinated work which left me little to no time to think—which I desperately needed to.

There’s not much time to really do anything but panic. I have to make a decision. Only a week left before I have to choose if I’m packing my bags to move with Chris or not.

And I just don’t know.

“Hey, you good?” Matt asks, his voice layered with concern as he stares up at me from his phone. Mia’s sitting with her legs across his lap, the living room full of three of us on both couches.

“Yeah, um,” I nod hesitantly. The anxiety pulses through my veins, the sight of the sun sinking below the horizon outside making my stomach churn. “-’m fine.”

Mia’s lips slide into a subtle pout, her eyes analyzing me with precision as I grow stiff under her gaze. She knows. I don’t have to hear it to understand that she sees how utterly clueless I feel.

“You sure?” Mia chirps, narrowing her eyes as I nod again.

Somehow that girl could just read me—she could read anyone. Chris hates it. She’s called him out a couple times.

One time, he was just…off. I couldn’t explain it, but she called him out for being all sad, saying he should stay out in the living room so all four of us could hang out.

Chris surprisingly didn’t snap back. He nodded, pulling me into his lap while we all nestled in the living room and played random games.

It’s become a routine now. My favorite games are the stupid ones—the random questions of ‘would you rather’ that made us all rally up with the most bizarre explanations.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom, I’ll be back,” Matt says, brushing off his jeans as he stands before walking down the hallway.

My hands fiddle in my lap. I hear the bathroom door shut softly, taking a glance up to see Mia fully leaned forward, her eyebrows lifted as she tilts her head to the side.

“So…” Her eyes dart around the room. I hear the click of her tongue against the roof of her mouth, wincing as she lets out a heavy sigh. “-you gonna talk or am I gonna have to pry?” she questions.

“It’s just…ugh.” I huff, my eyes squinting shut as I try to block out the overwhelming thoughts that had been echoing in my mind every minute of every day.

“I don’t know what to do. Nothing…nothing seems like the right thing to do. Staying here without Chris…like…why? What’s the point? I’d have his family but that…I don’t know…it doesn’t…ugh.” 

My words roll off my tongue with a loud sigh. Mia squints her eyes at me, rolling her lips together before shrugging. “-well—what’s holding you back?” she asks. 

“I…I don’t wanna feel like this is it for me—like I’m only doing it for him, you know?” Mia nods at my words, her eyes full of compassion as she offers a sympathetic smile. “-I just…I think I need to talk to some people first.” 

“Yeah,” she puffs, planting her hands on her knees as she lets out a heavy breath, “-I agree. Go talk, go think—really think for yourself, then make a decision.”

___

He’s rambling. Baylen has been speaking for at least five minutes, telling me the perfect option instead of going with Chris. 

“-Ryan probably won’t mind—we have a spare room in our apartment, you could stay–”

“Baylen.” 

His name falling off my lips in a sullen tone makes his lips fall open wordlessly. I twiddle my fingers together, my eyes darting out the living room window as I feel Trevor scoot closer against my thigh. 

The sunlight beams in through the windows. It feels odd to haven Baylen over here, but Chris said it was better if I invited him over here to talk. He was right. I couldn’t even stomach the thought of seeing the house I grew up in—I couldn’t stomach the thought of having to give another bittersweet goodbye to everything within those walls. 

I roll my lips together. My nose twitches as I feel Baylen’s gaze burn into me. “Ryan…he’s my ex. We dated years ago.” I mention.

His face drops. He shakes his head, his lips smacking open and shut before he lets out a dry laugh. “Wow…I…I really don’t know you, huh?” he tuts, his voice strained. 

I reach over, placing my hand on his shoulder. He stays deathly still. His hands stay rested in his lap, his gaze trained towards the floor as he stares blankly. 

“It’s not your fault, I didn’t tell you—”

“He’s right—Chris.” 

My eyes narrow. Baylen moves, his hand resting on top of mine before he pulls my hand off his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“You…you should go with him, I…” he shakes his head, turning towards me with sad eyes, “-I don’t get to try and swoop in and act like I deserve to be there for you now. You…he’s proven himself a lot. He—he deserves to have you—you deserve to heal.” 

My bottom lip wobbles. I feel a wave of warmth crawl over my face, my cheeks growing hot as my vision starts to blur. 

“Baylen, you tried your best—”

“No. I didn’t.” he says, a soft smile etched over his features. “-I tried my best for me, not for you. Chris…he can take care of you—he has taken care of you. I’m here when you need me, but,” his eyes flicker over my face, his lips tugging into a sympathetic frown, “-but you deserve to feel safe and heal. I…I can’t give that to you right now. He can.” 

His hand squeezes mine. I feel the tears in my eyes flooding my sight, my eyes squinting as I feel a warm streak of wetness glide down my cheek. Baylen tugs my hand tighter, pulling me into his chest before wrapping his arms around me tightly. 

“I’m sorry,” his voice breaks, his arms cradling me closer, “-’m sorry and…and…I hope I can be the brother you deserve one day.” 

A sharp cry leaves my lips. My hands are pressed between both of us as he tightens his arms around me. 

Years of confusion, years of feeling so alone, so hurt. I finally feel validated. All of it was for a reason. He didn’t just stop loving me one day—it wasn’t my fault. It all makes sense. 

And even though it hurts, there’s still hope. 

___

“I’ll get it, just…just sit down.” 

Chris is anxiously pulling any box I try to lift into his own arms. Jimmy and Matt helped us bring over a bunch of stuff yesterday, we had yet to unpack the stacks and piles of everything.

The vacation home was filled with new stuff. My own picture of Baylen and I is sitting on top of the fireplace mantle. It’s a photo of us in his room from a week ago. We tried to recreate the blanket of forts we used to make, he insisted on capturing a good moment so I would have a reminder of him. 

I really liked it.

My hands latch onto a small bin. The plastic handles are snatched from my grip before I can even comprehend what’s going on. I look up with a shocked expression. Chris spares me a quick smile, turning with the box in his own hands before carrying it down the hallway. 

Looking around, I shake my head, rolling my eyes as I see the lack of boxes. I had yet to even carry one successfully. Chris had taken care of every single one, practically running back and forth so there would be no opportunity for me to pitch in and help.

“Here let me—oh? That’s all of them?” Chris pants, out of breath as he scratches the back of his neck. 

I shake my head with disbelief, plopping down on the couch. Chris sits next to me. His weight dibbets the sofa cushions, making me lean into him more. 

A wave of silence beams over us. I look over to see his eyes glazed over, concern laced in his features as he stares forward with his brows scrunched together. 

Moving, I swing my leg over his lap, plopping myself on his thighs. His hands immediately latch onto my waist. Chris stares up at me with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, his fingers nervously fiddling with the hem of my shirt. 

“You okay, baby?” he asks. 

I tilt my head, cocking an eyebrow as I let out a huff. “Are you?” I quip. 

“Um, I…” He lets out a sigh as I comb my hands through his hair. His eyes shut as he lets out a shaky breath. 

“What’s wrong, Chris?” I interrogate, worried as his eyes fall with a sullen glaze of sadness. 

“Are you…are you sure about this? I mean, it’s a lot, we’re moving in together—”

“Chris.” I cut off, watching as his eyes drift back up to mine with uncertainty, “-I want this, I want to be with you. Why are you still overthinking so much? I chose to come.” 

He sighs. His hands grip my hips tighter, swarming up to my waist before he lets out a shaky breath. “I just…I don’t want you to feel like I’m controlling you—or like I own you—”

I place my hands on his shoulders. Leaning forward, I let my lips press against his gently. The kiss is brutally soft, a gentle pucker echoing. 

Pulling away, I laugh at his dazed expression. His lashes slowly flutter open, his eyes darting into mine with a glow of adoration. 

“I know you don’t control me, Chris, I…” I cup his cheek, my lips tugging into a smile as he leans into my touch, “-you don’t own me—but…but my heart belongs to you.” 

His face brightens with joy. I smile as he tugs me in a tight embrace, laughing as he peppers kisses on the side of my head. 

“Fuck, I love you,” he whispers, pressing his lips over my jawline and towards the corner of my mouth, “-I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

The chanted mantra makes my heart flutter in my chest. I let myself melt in his hold, smiling as he continues to mutter the same words under his breath. 

“Chris,” I giggle. 

He pulls away just enough for our eyes to meet. The shit-eating grin on his face makes it hard for me to bite back a painful smile. 

“Can you say that again?” he asks. 

“Hmmm….” I pretend to wonder, looking aimlessly around the room before feeling his hands squeeze my waist to pull my attention back to him. He looks into my eyes with hope and pure devotion. I feel my cheeks ache, my smile growing as I bathe in his dreamy eyes. “-what did I say?” 

Chris bites lightly onto his bottom lip. “You know…” His tongue prods from the inside of his cheek, his eyes glowing with love. “-you don’t own me, but…” 

He repeats my words, his gaze searching into my own while his hands give a reassuring squeeze on my waist. 

I let my vision blur, my eyes only blurring everything except for him. Biting back a smile, I let the words float off my lips;

“You don’t own me…but my heart belongs to you.”

A/N: Thank you so much for reading along and showing any sort of support! I've adored writing this series and I hope you enjoyed reading! Thank you <333

with love and big tits, rose

[archivesctrccio]

natalie scatorccio x sensitive!gf

✎ᝰ.jinx notes just a few hcs i thought of randomly. my first time writing something here that isn't bots, i hope you like it <3

☪— If you have trouble letting things go, and always get nervous when it comes to getting a haircut, Natalie offers to always cut your hair at home. she always does everything very calmly, stopping every now and then to kiss away your tears and whisper that everything is okay.

☪— You once cried because you lost your favorite hair clip, and Natalie (having memorized which hair clip it was) immediately goes to buy you a new one. She doesn't try to pretend it's the same one, because she knows you hate lies and would notice the difference, and just tries to comfort you while giving you the new hair clip.

☪— Holds you at night because she knows you hate being cold/hate feeling alone while you sleep

☪— Loves to bring you flowers when she gets home from work on ordinary days, without a specific reason, but always gets worried when you start to cry with emotion at the affectionate gesture

"what's wrong, baby? you don't like it? :(" she always says with a tone full of concern, placing the flowers delicately on the table in the doorway and immediately going to gently cradle your face.

☪— After a complicated or stressful day, you two like to spend time together in the evening, when the world slows down. perhaps watching something quiet or just lying side by side, where natalie, with her more closed posture, finally allows you to come closer. you don't talk much, but there's a feeling that, in the silence, you understand each other completely.

☪— Natalie isn't one for words, so she communicates with you in very subtle ways. sometimes a touch on the arm, a longer look or a simple gesture like preparing her girlfriend's favorite coffee. you notice these details and respond with gestures of affection that make Natalie feel loved in a unique way. This creates a dynamic where your love is silent, but deep and very real.

☪— Natalie tends to be much more impulsive, aggressive and even withdrawn, while you are calm, more introspective and concerned about other people's feelings. This contrast between you makes for a perfect balance in the relationship: Natalie helps to bring out more intensity and passion, while you help to soften the sharper edges of Natalie's personality. you complement each other perfectly, almost like a yin and yang.

☪— Natalie, as tough as she is on the outside, has a deep vulnerability that you can touch. you help her to open her heart, to talk about her insecurities and her traumas, things that Natalie usually keeps to herself. you, with your empathy, never push, but over time, Natalie begins to trust more and more, showing that, as much as she wants to appear strong, she also needs someone to lean on.

(bottom divider by @strangergraphics)

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 I'LL TAKE A QUIET LIFE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: you didn't mean for things to turn out the way they did—you swear you really didn't. but when a certain someone decides to provoke you when you're trying to do the right thing… well. things take a turn for the worse. all you wanted was to peacefully borrow dazai for his birthday, whisking him away for a one-week getaway from the city and work, but you know how dazai is, and you couldn't risk any of his coworkers letting something slip. so, now, instead of a nice peaceful surprise and maintaining relations with the agency, you've had to resort to kidnapping. again. you'll make the most of it anyway.

(word count: 13.2k, fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, dazai-typical suicide mentions, past suicide attempts referenced, oral (male receiving), a bit of face fucking, unprotected sex, a little overstimulation, minor implied ptsd episode/grieving (reader))

AUTHOR'S NOTES: HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYY TO THE CUTEST BOY IN THE WHOLEEE WORLD WAHHHHHHH take a cute little post-canon fic for the big day<33 i am so proud of how this fic came out. before you read, i do want you guys to take note that there's a bit of a time jump—i have this fic set around 5-6 months after the ada-pm swap fic. i have a lot to say about this fic so maybeee come back up here at the end to read this because there are some spoilers for it ... this is ur last warning ....... ANYWAY, so as you all know (even though you have no faith in me) pmreader universe DOES have a happy ending. to get to that happy ending, the biggest hurdle that needs to be crossed is what was addressed in one of the more recent pmreader fics (i think i've seen this love before): dazai struggles to find a reason to live. i can't really see him marrying pmreader when he still feels so hopeless about himself/living, for HER sake more than his mind you, because he knows he's very fickle with life and doesn't want to marry her and then leave her behind. so i do think that this is a necessary step to the happy ending: dazai needs to acknowledge that he does see himself having a future with her & their relationship gives him a reason to wake up in the morning. now, this of course doesn't take away from his depression—i dont want any of you to misunderstand and i dont think you will, but i just want to make it clear that him acknowledging this doesn't take away from his depression. it's something that i headcanon dazai struggles with his whole life, but i think this is a necessary step to the happy ending. also on another note, pmreader !!! i hope her whole thing doesn't feel like it comes out of the blue. once they get together again at age 22, i hc that the first few months of their relationship are so chaotic that neither of them can fully come to terms with their situation, and once she does, she really does begin to doubt things. because of course she loves him, and she wants him to feel like he's fulfilled odasaku's last request so he can feel better about himself, but she starts to feel like her presence in his life might be holding him back. so those lingering doubts + her doing something that reminds her of a past she can't remember puts her in a rlly vulnerable space. AND I THINK I CONVEYED IT WELL, but i just like explaining. ANYWAY if you guys got this far, i love you, thank u for entertaining my rambly thoughts

Dazai is over three hours late to work, but in his defense, it’s his birthday, and not even Kunikida is cruel enough to scold Dazai on his birthday. Still, he very much expects dirty looks from the man, and maybe a few loud comments about his terrible work ethic, but that’s just Kunikida. If he wasn’t giving Dazai dirty looks and making loud comments, Dazai would be concerned.

Which is why when he steps into the office at half past twelve and is met with dead silence, Dazai knows something is wrong. He shuts the door quietly behind him and looks around warily, trying to figure out what’s going on. There’s no sign of forced entry or any fighting—there’s an untouched stack of papers in the waiting area that he assumes are from a new client, and a hot coffee still steaming next to it. 

It’s all so unassuming, it’s what he expects coming into work, but it’s too quiet. He can’t hear Naomi bothering Tanizaki, he can’t hear Yosano complaining about the stick up Kunikida’s ass or Kunikida promptly scolding her for her language, he can’t hear Kyouka, Kenji, and Atsushi chatting away whenever Kunikida is pulled away by something. There’s no furious typing from the clerks as they fix all of the mistakes in the reports being filed, and there’s no sighing when they think they finish, only to realize that there’s another report, likely one of Dazai’s, waiting for them to edit.

It’s too quiet, and that’s how Dazai knows something is seriously wrong.

When he steps into the office, he almost expects nobody to be there—maybe they were all called out to some emergency mission, and Dazai is going to have to race to catch up with them. 

What he doesn’t expect is finding his coworkers all sitting stiffly and silently in their seats, and a heavy Port Mafia presence all over the room. Hirotsu is leaning against the far back wall, a cigarette dangling between his lips, Gin is hanging over Haruno, carelessly playing with one of her knives, and Tachihara is trying to convince Atsushi to play a game of cards with him as if Akutagawa isn’t looming right behind him. 

If it were just the Black Lizards, Dazai thinks that they’d probably fight back, but naturally, the red-headed slug is here too, leaning up against the wall with Hirotsu, arms crossed and a bored expression on his face. Dazai’s eyes narrow when Chuuya gives him a smirk that’s far too smug, but the insult on his lips dies when his eyes land on the last person in the room.

You’re sitting on top of his desk, a pretty smile on your lips and a glitter in your eyes that promises no good. You look beautiful, and Dazai’s chest feels all warm and fuzzy—he hasn’t seen you in a few weeks now because you’ve been abroad dealing with pressure from some foreign organizations, and he didn’t think you’d be back for his birthday. He’s so enamored by the sight of you that he almost doesn’t catch the glint of metal on your lap or the way Kunikida is sitting tense at his desk next to where you’re lounging.

“Hey,” you say easily, like there isn’t a gun in your lap pointed at his coworker, safety off, finger firm on the trigger, ready to pull it at a moment’s notice. “Happy birthday.”

“What-” Dazai starts to say, baffled, but flinches when he feels something prick his neck, head snapping to the side to focus on a vaguely familiar figure now standing at his side—your new subordinate, Dazai can’t remember his name. 

Whatever he injected Dazai with works fast, because he’s instantly dizzy, his gaze blurring, and his head all woozy. Just as his knees start to give out, he feels the kid grab under his arms to make sure he doesn’t hit the ground, and he hears you say proudly: “This is a kidnapping.”

---------

In your defense, you really did try to talk things out peacefully with the Armed Detective Agency before resorting to this. 

You weren’t planning on kidnapping Dazai, but you knew he probably didn’t call out of work, and the last thing you needed was to be scolded by Mori for causing any more tension between the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia if they realized that you were the reason Dazai didn’t show up to work. 

Things have been rocky on both sides since the failed transfer—the Agency because the Port Mafia dared to take one of their own, and the Port Mafia because the Agency reneged on their deal and took their member back—but you can’t afford for things to be rocky when things are still incredibly unstable. So instead of just picking up Dazai and leaving for a few days and possibly pissing off the Agency for not giving them any forewarning, you decided to do the right thing and tell them before disappearing with one of their detectives.

Except the President of the Agency isn’t in town. So, you were stuck dealing with that bullheaded blonde who clearly still holds a grudge over the incident with Pushkin and he decided to act on his grudge by making your life as difficult as possible. 

All too smugly, he refused to give Dazai leave for the week because they have an emergency case that needs all hands on deck, and when you offered up Klaus to replace him, much to the boy’s abject horror, he refused. Then you offered up Klaus and Akutagawa, and he still refused. You even proposed giving them Chuuya for the week, and that wasn’t enough, so that’s when you realized he was just being difficult to be petty.

And you doubt the man actually would’ve forced Dazai to miss out on time with you on his birthday, Dazai is his friend and he’s not that much of an asshole. He probably would've okay'd it as soon as Dazai showed up to the office, but he was clearly just trying to be a pain in your ass. And well, you didn’t take that kindly, obviously, so all thoughts of preserving the fragile peace went out the window as you quite promptly demanded all hands on deck for a possible conflict because you were not going to let Kunikida Doppo keep that smug expression on his face for a second longer.

Was Chuuya happy about it? No, you could tell when he gave you a side eye after he showed up, but you knew he wasn’t going to sit by and let the Agency get one over you. So, he was content to stand there as a looming threat, because you were pretty sure that the Black Lizards weren’t going to be enough to scare the Agency into backing down, but the threat of Nakahara Chuuya splattering one of their own against the wall so that there was nothing left for their doctor to revive was more than enough to keep them down.

The Black Lizards and Akutagawa didn’t have the authority to question your orders, and Klaus was more than willing to spill blood at any given moment, so the only thing you have left to worry about is Mori, and you’ll deal with that once you get back from your getaway with Dazai. If Chuuya’s feeling nice, he’ll probably handle it for you, but you don’t think he’s pleased with how you offered him up like a bargaining chip to the Agency.

Your lips curve up into a smile when Klaus tosses Dazai over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Was drugging him unnecessary? Probably, but you didn’t want to deal with his smug ass making comments about the lengths you go to so that you can steal him away for the week the whole way up to the house you and Chuuya bought on the coastline of Hokkaido. It wasn’t just for Dazai—it was your own pride on the line too, it was the principle.

As you motion for Klaus to bring Dazai out to the car, you rise to your feet and look down at Kunikida. You place your gun under his chin to tilt his head up so that he’s looking up at you; he swallows thickly as he glances down at where your finger is still resting on the trigger, throat bobbing before he glowers at you. You give him a too-sweet smile.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” you say, very pleased with yourself. You look back at Chuuya, signalling him to come with you as you put your gun away and start to make your way out of the Agency. You lift your hand in a lazy wave before saying, “I’ll bring him back in a few days.” 

It’s only when the door to the Agency shuts behind you that he finally speaks to you, hands shoved in his pockets as he says dryly, “Mori specifically told us not to antagonize the Agency over the next few weeks.”

“The Agency antagonized me,” you reply airily. “It would’ve been a terrible look for us if we let them walk all over us and come out unscathed. There are already too many rumors circulating in the East about us being weak after the Guild Incident, and now, Dostoevsky, the failed transfer, and the Clocktower—preserving our reputation is more important than relations with the Agency.”

Chuuya barks out a laugh. “You can twist anything to fit your narrative, can't you? If you weren’t an executive, you’d make a great lawyer.”

You raise your eyebrows, unfazed. “It’s not twisting if it’s the truth.”

He scoffs, muttering something under his breath before shaking his head as he holds the door to the cafe open for you. “Right. Next time you decide to ‘preserve our reputation’ through a diplomatic disaster, at least give me a damn warning first.”

“There’s no fun in that,” you say with an easy smile. “Will you deal with Mori while I’m gone?” 

“You’re shameless,” Chuuya tells you flatly. “No, I’m not dealing with Mori. You just tried to pawn me off to the Agency like a fucking mule. You can deal with him.”

“Please.” You flutter your eyelashes at him, pushing your lip out in a pout that has him rolling his eyes. You scowl and then offer, “I’ll take over your mission in Sapporo when I get back.”

“Deal,” Chuuya agrees immediately, reaching out to open the car door for you. You slide inside, and he shuts the door behind you; you immediately roll the window down. He gives you a sharp smile, resting his arms on the car door and leaning in. “I would’ve dealt with him either way.”

“I know because you’re a sucker,” you reply, raising your eyebrows and giving him an equally sharp smile. “I just thought I’d be nice and offer you something in return.”

Chuuya clicks his tongue sharply as he leans back. He stands up straight and gives you a side eye. “Bitch,” he mutters, but there’s a fond smile on his lips. “Enjoy your week with that bastard, you’re gonna be in for hell with Mori once you get back.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” you say dryly, turning to the side as Klaus opens the door to toss Dazai into the car. Literally. “Jesus, Klaus, be a bit more careful with him.”

“No.” Klaus says and then sneers down at Dazai before slamming the door shut behind him.

You shake your head and adjust Dazai into a more comfortable position. He should be out for at least two or three hours—you aren’t quite sure, he’s always had a freaky metabolism, but you don’t know if it’s gotten faster or slower in the four years he was gone. You rest his head in your lap, brushing his hair out of his face. You’ve missed him a lot; you’ve barely been able to see him at all the past few weeks because you’ve been so busy, and your chest aches just at the sight of him in your lap. You turn your gaze back up to the window to find Chuuya staring at you in disgust. Klaus is there too, scowling.

“What is your problem with him?” you ask the boy, giving him a weird look. “You’ve hardly even met him before now.”

“I don’t like him,” Klaus replies, raising his chin.

You stare at him in disbelief, but Klaus only huffs and stalks off, likely to cause chaos elsewhere. Chuuya snorts in amusement, trying to muffle a laugh as he turns his face away. You roll your eyes and fling your hand up dismissively. Klaus has always had something up his ass about Dazai, you never understood why. You’ve learned better than to question what runs through that boy’s head.

“You should get going,” Chuuya says, stepping back from the window. “The jet’s waiting for you.”

“Right,” you agree, stretching your arms and then resting your hand on Dazai’s forehead, fingers carding absently through his hair. “Thanks, Chuuya.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies dryly, turning his back to the car to walk over to where he’d parked his motorcycle. He lifts his hand up in a lazy wave. “See you next week.”

“See you next week.”

---------

Dazai wakes up to the whole world shaking. His heart rate spikes as he shoots up, disoriented and confused. His hand flies to his head, blinking hard to try to clear his blurry vision. He doesn’t even really remember what happened. He remembers waking up late for work and feeling smug because Kunikida couldn’t scold him because it’s his birthday, and he remembers…

Oh.

You.

Dazai glances around, trying to figure out where the hell he is. He’s laying on a white couch in a small room… or, this isn’t a room, is it? There’s a window next to him. Dazai squints at the sudden bright light that blinds him, but he shifts closer to the window so he can look out of it.

He is in the air.

Dazai blanches when he realizes that he’s in a plane. It must be close to landing because the ground is much closer than he expected. He doesn’t recognize the area—there doesn’t seem to be any big cities nearby, only forests and the ocean, so he’s not really sure where you’re bringing him.

He pushes himself out of his seat, stumbling a bit before he catches himself. Whatever you injected him with was strong, but at least now he has something he can whine and complain about. Maybe he’ll be able to convince you to make him the sweet buns you tried baking a few times back when you two were teenagers. You never liked the way they came out, but Dazai had been obsessed with them and was thoroughly upset when you refused to make them every time he asked. 

He salivates a bit at the thought and decides to get a head start on his guilt tripping, making his way over to where you’re sitting. A smile unconsciously pulls at his lips when he sees you sitting a few seats away. Your back is facing him, but he can see you’re focused on your computer, typing furiously with earbuds plugged in your ears. He stumbles once more before kneeling on the seat behind yours, draping himself lazily over the back of it to rest his chin on the top of your head.

His lips part to make a complaint when he pauses, gaze focusing on what exactly it is that you’re doing on your laptop.

Are you on a… video call?

Dazai stares at the screen blankly, recognizing the several faces staring right back at him. Leo Tolstoy looks unbearably amused when he sees Dazai in the frame of the camera, hiding a smile with his hand. An older man who Dazai realizes is Carlo Goldoni raises his eyebrows, lips twitching. Mishima Yukio casually rubs at his lips, pretending he’s not smiling. There are three others, two men and a woman who Dazai doesn’t recognize—they must be new allies of the Port Mafia.

Well, Dazai thinks awkwardly, staring at the screen as he realizes that he just interrupted a meeting between you and several mob bosses. He doesn’t bother moving now, they’ve already seen him, and you don’t seem bothered, considering you don’t immediately shove his face out of view of the camera.

“I’ll contact you all when I’m available again to speak next week,” you say after a moment. “Thank you for meeting.”

You exit the call without waiting for them to answer, taking out the earbuds from your ears. Dazai lifts his chin when he feels you turning your head to look up at him. He gives you a sheepish smile. 

“Did I interrupt?” he asks quietly. 

“No,” you reply. “We’re almost here anyway.”

Dazai shuffles around to sit across from you, resting his arms on the table and his head on top of them. He looks up at you, eyes still a bit droopy from whatever you drugged him with. Your lips curl up into a soft smile, and warmth spreads through Dazai’s chest at the sight of it. His cheeks heat up, so he hides them in his arms and peeks up at you. The smile on your lips becomes a bit fonder, you place your arms on the table, mimicking him, and then rest your head down like he did, peeking up at him the same way as he is at you.

It’s a simple action. A nothing action, really. You’re just mimicking him. Teasing him for being flustered. He doesn’t know why his chest suddenly feels like it's about to cave in. He doesn’t know why he suddenly wants to cry. He doesn’t know why he’s so suddenly and violently reminded of how much he loves you. 

Maybe it’s just because he’s missed you these past few weeks.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper. 

A lump that’s shaped suspiciously like his heart forms in his throat as he looks up at you. He hides his smile behind his arms and says quietly, “You kidnapped me.” Then adds belatedly, “Again.”

“I did,” you agree, eyes glittering with amusement. “It’s a bit of a tradition now, don’t you think?”

“Where are we going?” he asks curiously, hand creeping forward to try to grab yours. He pokes your arm twice; you raise your eyebrows before realizing what he wants and putting your hand in his. Dazai’s fingers slide to your wrist to press against your pulse, feeling the familiar, even thrums and matching his own heartrate to to them.

“To a foreign countryside so I can kill you and dump your body,” you say without pause.

Dazai snorts, lifting your hand to his lips so he can kiss your palm, lashes fluttering shut when your fingers brush over his cheekbone. He says dreamily, “A woman after my own heart.” 

“You’re such a freak,” you say fondly.

“Your freak,” he corrects with a flirty smile before setting your joined hands back down on the table. “I can’t believe you kidnapped me again. And drugged me. I still feel a bit woozy, y’know? How are you going to make it up to me?” 

“A one week escape from work isn’t enough?” you ask dryly.

“Nope,” he agrees, popping the ‘p’. “How about you make me those sweet buns you used to make this week? I haven’t had them in ages, I miss them.”

You squint at him, leaning back in your seat but leaving your hand in his. “Maritozzi?” you ask, and Dazai faintly recognizes the name from back then, so he nods. “What flavor?” 

Dazai pauses and then asks, “Strawberry? Or lemon?” 

“Both?” you offer.

His eyes widen slightly. He didn’t expect you to give in so quickly. Back when you guys were teenagers, he’d whine and ask you to make them and it would turn into a six hour argument of him insisting that he deserves them and you refusing him. 

“That was easier than I expected,” he admits sheepishly. 

“It’s your birthday,” you say like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Again, Dazai’s heart flutters, and he squeezes your hand gently. “The first one we’ve celebrated together in four years. We can stop to get the ingredients on the way to the house.”

The house. Where is it that you’re taking him? Dazai’s mind bounces around with potential answers—far enough that you had to take him on a plane, but not so far that he’s just woken up and its already begun its descent. Dazai has a quick metabolism and a high tolerance for most drugs. You know this and probably would’ve accounted for it, but there’s a large margin of error. You don’t know if his metabolism has gotten quicker or slower over the years apart, and you don’t know if his tolerance has weakened, so you probably didn’t want to risk pushing the dosage anymore than you would’ve four years ago.

Which probably puts the time at… four hours after you injected him? Which would make sense from the position of the sun in the sky. Probably took forty minutes from injection to take off between getting him here and getting everything settled. So a three hour flight? About? Where would that leave you guys? Seoul? No, it couldn’t be—there were no cities anywhere in sight. One of the northern islands then?

“You didn’t answer my question,” he whines. “Where are we going?” 

You hesitate for a moment like you don’t want to tell him, but he pouts and widens his eyes in the way that always makes you give in. You roll your eyes at him exagerratedly, and he gives you a sweet smile in response.

“A property up in Hokkaido,” you finally say. Dazai is smug, realizing his deductions were right, until you continue speaking. “It’s near a small village. Pretty. Me and Chuuya scoped it out and bought it a couple of months ago just to have.”

What. Dazai stares at you blankly, and you tilt your head to the side in confusion, unsure why he suddenly closed off. He narrows his eyes at you, willing away the bitterness that suddenly swells in his chest. It’s sharp and sour, and he definitely doesn’t like it, but when he tries to push it away, it only intensifies. 

“You bought property with Chuuya,” he asks flatly. “You’re taking me to a property that you bought with the slug.”

You roll your eyes. “Stop that,” you say immediately. “I’m taking you to a property that I scoped out because I wanted to bring you here. Chuuya jumped on and offered to pay for half because he wanted a place to escape to outside the city.”

Dazai squints at you, and you raise your eyebrows challengingly. He immediately huffs and looks away, stomach lurching when the plane begins the final part of the descent to the ground. He decides to change the subject instead of pressing, maybe he’ll whine about it some more later.

“So,” he says slowly, voice dropping just enough to catch your attention from the way you tilt your head to the side. “You’ve kidnapped me away from the Agency… to bring me to a house in the middle of nowhere… and decided not to tell me about it until now…”

You hum in response, eyes narrowing, and Dazai leans closer over the table separating the two of you, lips curling up into a lecherous smirk that has you rolling your eyes. You already know what’s coming, but you must let him have his fun on his birthday.

“And we’ll be there for… how long again?”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, seemingly intent on staring out the window. “A week.”

Dazai whistles, leaning back in his seat again. His eyes rove over you—it's been a hot minute since the two of you have been able to do anything intimate. He hasn’t even seen you in a few weeks. And before that, most days, you’re either too exhausted or he’s too in his own head about things to get in the mood. But this… Seven days. No work. No people interrupting. No reason to spiral in his own head. His lips unconsciously pull into another small smile, teeth scraping his tongue as his gaze lingers on the top few buttons of your dress shirt—they’re undone, just low enough for him to see a hint of…

You clear your throat. Dazai’s gaze snaps back up to your face. He gives you an innocent smile that makes you roll your eyes at him again. 

“Pervert,” you accuse.

“Yeah,” Dazai breaths out, voice a bit raspy as he lifts your hand back to his lips. He kisses your knuckles and then the inside of your wrist, gaze flickering back up to your eyes. “I’m going to take advantage of this week.”

The corner of your mouth twitches like you’re fighting off a smile. “Oh, I counted on it.”

Dazai lets go of your wrist when the plane lands. He watches you tuck your hand back into your lap, pulling your phone out to shoot a text to someone before sliding it back into your pocket. His eyes stay on you as the plane rolls to a stop, watching the way the sunlight dances across your cheekbones. You look beautiful—always do—but you’ll look more beautiful tonight when he has you underneath him.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you tell him flatly as you rise to your feet. Dazai follows after you, standing too close, and when he leans down to ghost his lips to your neck, you swat at his head, but he immediately dodges and then drapes himself over your shoulders obnoxiously. “Osamu.”

Dazai lets his full body weight rest on you. You stumble forward, trying to walk toward the exit of the plane, but fail miserably because you’re dragging his dead weight with you. His lips curl up into a smile when he hears your frustrated groan, arms tightening around you.

“Get off of me, you freak,” you complain. “Walk on your own.”

“But I’m still so woozy,” he sighs dramatically. “You drugged me, take accountability and carry me to the car before I pass out and hit my head and die on my birthday. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

He pouts against your skin, nipping your neck for a second before resting his forehead in the crook of it, right next to the small mark he just left. Vision obscured, he misses the way you motion for the pilot, who had come out to lower the steps to the ground, to grab him until he feels two hands around his waist lifting him off the ground. Dazai yelps and flails, trying to figure out what exactly just happened, and blanches when he realizes he’s being held princess style by a grown man.

“Watanabe-san, please make sure Osamu makes it down the steps safely. We wouldn’t want him to pass out and hit his head and die on his birthday, would we?” you say with a sweet smile.

“Of course not, hime,” the man replies gruffly. 

Mortified, Dazai tries to worm out of the man’s arms, but his grip is too tight. He looks at you, betrayed, but you’re only fighting giggles as you make your way over to the car waiting on the tarmac, leaving him in the arms of this man.

By the time he makes it to the sleek black car waiting for the two of you, Dazai’s face is flaming red. The moment he’s placed on the ground, he throws himself into the car and turns his back to you. You laugh and climb in after him, pressing your lips to his shoulder.

“I hate you,” he whines. 

“I love you too.”

---------

Dazai naps once the two of you get to the house, so you focus on getting everything together to make the maritozzi in the morning. You don’t really like making it—the pastries make you upset. Or, well, it’s not the pastries that make you upset, but the fact that every time you make them, you get this strange, aching feeling in your chest—a sense of deja vu so strong that it nearly brings you to your knees.

Your hands always remember what to do, even when your mind doesn’t. You knead the dough with a practiced ease that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you. You know exactly how much flour to dust on the board, how warm the milk should be, how to press your thumb into the dough to check if it’s ready. 

It’s muscle memory, maybe.

You sigh as you rest your hands on the kitchen counter. You plan to start baking in the morning, but you already feel that… odd feeling spreading through you, both sharp and tender at the same time. A homesickness for a place you can’t name. Grief for people you don’t remember.  It happens every time: a flicker of something just out of reach. A child’s gleeful laugh, a pair of warm hands guiding yours, a whispered promise that isn’t kept.

You lay your head in your arms for a moment, eyes sliding shut. You can never get the maritozzi right, regardless of how hard you try. You don’t know what you’re doing wrong, or even what’s wrong with them at all, but you know it’s not right. You hate making them. Each time, you can’t help the hope that swells in your chest that maybe this time will be different. Maybe you’ll get it right. 

Each time you’re disappointed. 

And yet, here you are again trying.

The things you do for love.

You feel a familiar pair of arms wrap around your waist from behind, hands slipping beneath your shirt. Dazai drapes himself over your back, pinning you to the counter. He sighs softly as he kisses the nape of your neck and your shoulder before burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Good morning, sleepy head,” you whisper softly, a smile pulling on your lips as you lift a hand to rest it on the top of his head. You feel his heartbeat thrumming against your back, and his fingers tracing absent patterns on your stomach. “You were tired.”

“You’ve been away for a few weeks,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your neck. You feel him yawn before nuzzling his face against your skin, eyes sliding shut. “I wasn’t sleeping well.”

“My apologies,” you say with faux remorse. “How dare I go away for work and mess up your sleeping schedule.”

He hums in agreement. “A crime worthy of capital punishment, honestly,” he says, and you feel him smile softly, kissing your neck again. You let out a breathy sigh and instinctively tilt your head to the side to give him more room. “I had to sleep without my favorite pillow. You know, the soft, warm, breathing one that makes cute little noises when I kiss her neck.”

“Oh, shut up,” you scowl, but the expression quickly fades when you feel him trailing slow kisses up your neck, deliberately lingering just below your ear.

“How are you ever going to make it up to me?” he whispers playfully before he nips your skin. 

You ignore his noise of complaint when you shift in his arms so that you can face him, resting your hands on his hips as you look up at him through your lashes. You give him a sweet smile before saying, “I can think of a few ways.”

“Oh yeah,” Dazai drawls, lips curling up into a lazy smirk as his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt again. “Is this the part where you beg for forgiveness?”

“Oh?” you hum, leaning in to ghost your lips against his jaw, kissing slowly to his ear as you murmur, “You want me to beg?”

He lets out a soft groan when you nip his skin. “I want you to convince me you’re sorry for leaving me to suffer all alone,” he corrects, breathing a little heavier when you start to kiss down the column of his throat. His voice catches over his words as you slide down the sweatpants he changed into and lower yourself to your knees in front of him. “Oh, fuck.”

“You poor thing,” you say softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his hip bone. “All alone for weeks. I bet you were just aching without me.”

“I—�� His voice breaks into a groan as your mouth trails lower down the line of his ‘v’, lashes fluttering as he rests his hands back onto the counter and glances up at the ceiling before looking back down at you. His pupils are blown wide, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them before. “You have no idea.”

“I think I have an idea,” you say more to yourself than to him, a teasing smile playing at your lips as you finally lift your hand to stroke his leaky cock. His hips jerk instinctively, he twitches in your hand like he’s already on the verge of finishing, and you lift your gaze. His chest is heaving, pink lips swollen and parted, head tilted back as he looks up at the ceiling again, desperately trying to gain control of himself.

God, you love him. You’ve loved him for years, since you were sixteen, even if you only started acknowledging the depths of your feelings for him when you were eighteen. He was always so flighty and unpredictable, you never expected one day he’d be yours the way he is now. You’ll never let him go now. You’ve missed him these past few weeks apart much more than you realized. 

“I would do terrible things for you, Osamu,” you tell him softly, running your thumb over his tip just so you can hear the way he keens. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” he pants. You’re not even sure if he fully hears what you say, already lost in the haze of pleasure, and you don’t really care. “Please.”

You don’t look away from him for a second as you take his tip into your mouth, flattening your tongue against his slit to lap up all of the precum that had beaded there. He lets out a ragged groan, but you can’t see his face, so you lift your hand to grab one of his and tug to get his attention.

His head falls forward, bangs falling in his eyes as he looks down at you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he breathes heavily, gaze entirely unfocused as need quickly fogs and dismantles the cogs of his quick brain. Having gotten what you wanted, you try to slip your hand free to hold his hips again, but his grip on your hand tightens, refusing to let go.

You hum softly, entwining your fingers with his instead as you slowly take him deeper into your mouth. His eyes half-roll back when his tip hits the back of your throat and your tongue presses against the vein on the underside of his cock. He almost lets his head fall back again, but your grip on his hand keeps him grounded to you. Even as fucked out as he is with his cock deep down your throat and your nails tracing patterns on his inner thighs, he manages to keep his gaze mostly locked to yours.

“I—haaah, fuck—you feel s’good,” he slurs, free hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. He lets you set the pace, and you pick a slow and steady one that you know kills him. You want to see how long he can last before he snaps. “I—so many nights…”

His sentences are garbled and mostly unintelligible. It makes you happy—you’re glad he lets his brain shut off when he’s with you like this. He used to try so hard to maintain control that you could tell it was stressing him out when he was supposed to be feeling good, but he doesn’t bother with the pretenses anymore, letting everything crumble away the moment he has you in bed with him. Or, in this case, in the middle of the kitchen. 

You can’t respond, so you resign to letting out a soft hum of acknowledgment; the vibrations make him whimper, cock twitching in your mouth as he gnaws on his bottom lip, desperately trying not to cum so quickly. You can feel his thighs tense beneath your touch as holds himself back from fucking your face.

Your gaze traces his face, catching sight of the red flush of his cheeks, his wet lips, the way his expression is all twisted—he’s so pretty, so you decide to have a bit of mercy on him. 

Plus, it is still his birthday after all.

You lift your hand to tap his hip twice, signaling to him that he can take control if he wants, and the effect is immediate. His eyes snap open fully, glassy and wild with need, and then he moves. 

His grip on your hand tightens just a bit, and the hand on the back of your head slips down to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips, tracing how they’re stretched around his cock. He rocks his hips forward once—slowly, like he’s testing the waters, worried that you might change your mind, but you stay still and pliant, looking up at him through your lashes imploringly.

“Fuck,” he breathes out again. “Love you. So good to me. Always been so good to me.”

He thrusts again, this time deeper, more sure of himself, and you relax your throat for him, letting him set the rhythm. It's not rough or frantic—not yet—just a slow, needy grind of someone who’s waited for this too long. His hand slides back to cup the back of your head as he starts to pick up the pace; you gag a little on his cock, eyes tearing up, but you squeeze his hand encouragingly, telling him silently to continue. To give you more. 

He does.

He rolls his hips forward sharply, cock thrusting deeper, harder, and you take it, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as your throat stretches around him. His thighs tremble under your hands, breath ragged as he fucks your throat. The noises in the kitchen—his low groans, the way you’re choking on his cock, each wet, sloppy thrust into your mouth—it makes your head all foggy, heat pooling in your lower stomach. 

His free hand comes back to your jaw, thumb swiping at the drool spilling from the corner of your mouth before he squeezes your cheeks gently to feel his cock sliding in and out of your mouth. Your jaw aches, your throat burns, and still, you stay there, tears spilling freely down your cheeks, because he’s close. You can feel it. His thigh tenses under your palm, his fingers tighten around yours, his rhythm stutters and takes a more erratic turn, and his voice breaks on your name, groans shifting into pitched moans.

“Haah,” he gasps, hips jerking. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, please, please, baby, I—I’m gonna—”

Your nose is flush to his pubic hair as he cums deep down your throat—his cum tastes so familiar, too salty, after all of these years, he still hasn’t taken your advice of a better diet. Hazily, you remind yourself to scold him about it later, but right now, you’re too focused on trying not to choke over him, swallowing the copious amounts of cum he spilled into your mouth as he trembles above you violently, still feeling the aftershocks of the intense orgasm.

When he finally pulls out, he drops to his knees in front of you, hands cupping your cheeks as he leans in, kissing you deeply. He kisses you like he’s trying to devour you—claim you, even, like he hasn’t already, like you haven’t been his since the moment the two of you met. His breath is uneven, chest heaving, and there’s a flicker of something wild in his eyes as he pulls back to look at you, eyes roving over you. His eyes slide shut again as he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re everything,” he whispers, hands sliding down to your sides as he ghosts his lips against yours. “God, you’re everything. You have no idea what you do to me.” 

You lift your hands to cup his cheeks, pressing your lips to his again. You toy with the tips of his hair as your lips slide messily against his, letting out a soft moan when his hand slides to the small of your back, pulling your body flush to his. His hands dip lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your cotton shorts, and you smile against his lips. 

“I’m not fucking you on the kitchen floor,” you say, leaning back slightly. He chases your lips to kiss you again, a hazy smile on his lips as he gives you a half-lidded look.

“It would be hot though,” he murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip before letting out a low groan against your skin, dragging his lips from your jaw to your ear. You let out a shaky breath when his fingers slide down to your panties, pressing his finger down on your clit through thin silk and moaning again. “Have you face down, nails clawing against the tile, pinned between me and the floor—nowhere to go, can only take it.”

“Jesus, Osamu,” you say shakily, eyes sliding shut as his fingers curl into your hair, pulling your head back so he can kiss down your neck, kisses wet and lingering as he sucks at your skin. He traces slow circles around your clit, and your grip on his shoulders tightens as you try to ground yourself. “Not the kitchen floor.”

“Such a bore,” he complains. “Ruining my fun. It’s still my birthday, y’know?”

Before you can retort, Dazai’s hands drop to your thighs, and you yelp as he rises to his feet, bringing you with him. Sometimes you forget how strong Dazai is—it’s easy when he constantly acts like he’s helpless and drowns himself in long jackets and loose clothes. He used to be able to go blow-for-blow with Chuuya in combat, and although you know damn well he hasn’t kept up his training, you can feel the lean muscles of his biceps beneath his sweatshirt.

Your grip tightens on them; he’s still mouthing at your neck as he carries you into the back bedroom. You whisper softly, “You are so…”

When you don’t finish, Dazai nips your neck playfully and finishes, “Handsome? Charming? The image of your deepest, darkest desires?” 

Usually, you would roll your eyes at him, but this time, you gasp, “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

He nudges the door open with his foot before kicking it shut. He sets you down gently on the bed, pushing you back until your back is flat and hovering above you to steal another kiss. This one is slow and lazy as he settles above you on his elbows, tongue running along your bottom lip, and fingers dragging over your ribs reverently. You think you could kiss him forever and never get sick of it.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch, his eyes are half-lidded, and his breath is warm against your lips as he looks down at you. 

“Still with me?” he murmurs, thumb circling your hip bone.

“Always,” you answer quietly.

His eyes soften as he looks down at you, lifting his hand from your hip so he can cup the side of your face. You lean into his touch, lashes fluttering shut momentarily as you bask in the familiar warmth of his skin. 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You give him a hazy smile as you look back up at him. “For what?” you ask, voice teasing, but Dazai’s smile only softens even more. He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, and you nip at it playfully.

“Everything.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to question him, leaning down to press his lips to yours again. This kiss is chaster than the last, like he just wants to savor in the taste of you rather than outright devour you. His thumb traces soft circles over your cheek, and his other hand slides down your body to your thigh, hiking your leg over his waist so he can slot his hips between your legs.

He kisses you and holds you so gently that you forget to breathe until your lungs start burning. When you push at his shoulder to get some air, he immediately leans down to keep kissing your neck, sliding your shirt up, and tapping you to beckon you to lift your shoulders so he can pull it off. 

Once he has it off and flings it to the side, he leans back to let his eyes roam your body. His pupils are blown wide, and his fingers are a bit shaky; he slides them down your body, tracing your figure like he’s worshiping it. 

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers more to himself than to you. “Divine. The kind of beauty that drives saints to sin and kings to kneel. You make the stars look dim, and the heavens seem dull. I still can’t believe you’re mine. There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for you.”

“My god, Dazai,” you laugh, face heating up at his words. “A bit over the top with the poetry tonight, aren’t you?”

“Not nearly,” he says, voice low and serious as his gaze lifts back to your face. He repeats softly, “No, not nearly.”

Your throat swells as you look up at him, and he runs his knuckles across your cheek before trailing his fingers down your face. His thumb presses heavily against your bottom lip, and you give him a kittish smile before taking it into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the digit as you look up at him through your lashes.

His breath catches, and you hum around his finger when he presses down slightly on your tongue, rolling your hips up to grind against his clothed cock. He murmurs, voice strained, “You drive me insane.”

“Oh yeah?” you press, voice breathy. “Prove it?” 

He kisses slowly to your collarbone, making sure to leave marks on his way down. “Gladly,” he rasps, swiping his tongue along your collarbone before biting over the bone lightly. 

“You’re going to leave so many marks,” you complain, breath hitching when he slowly rocks his hips against yours. He’s already hard again; you can feel him through the thin material of your panties, and you want him desperately. Your walls clench around nothing, and the heat pooling in your stomach has your thighs trembling. “Shit, Osamu, will you just—”

“Good thing I have you to myself all week,” he croons, a smug smirk on his lips as he kisses down your chest to the swell of your breasts. He lets out a shaky puff of air as he pulls back just a bit to get an eyeful of your tits before his lips wrap around your nipple. He moans against you as he rolls it between his teeth, lifting his free hand to grope your other breast. Your back arches up as you press yourself into his touch, a keen escaping your lips. “Gonna mark you up all over, you won’t even have to hide them.”

“Please,” you gasp, head falling back against the pillows. “Please, Osamu, I—”

You choke over your words when you feel him slide your panties down your legs. He pulls his lips off your nipple with a pop before trailing wet kisses back up your chest until his face is hovering above yours. His thumb slips from your mouth so that he can pinch your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look him in the eye.

“Please, what?” he hums insufferably. “C’mon, baby, use your words.”

“You’re so—” You start to reply irritably, only to whimper when he rolls his hips again.

“So what?” he presses, giving you a cocky smile as he taps your cheek twice to get your attention again. “What am I? You’re so cute, I’ve barely done anything, and you’re already so close to finishing.”

“I hate you. I—haaaah, shit—” you moan, but your lashes flutter shut as Dazai slides his fingers between your wet folds. “Osamu—”

He lets out a ragged breath, hot against your skin. “Shit, baby, you’re drenched,” he groans. “All this just from letting me fuck your face? Fuck, I love you. Tell me what you need. Tell me. I want to hear you say it. It’s my birthday.”

“Fuck me,” you gasp, lifting trembling hands to cup his cheeks. “Please, fuck me, Osamu.”

“God, I love hearing you beg,” he breathes out, nipping at your jaw before his lips drag hot and slow up to your ear. “Love seeing you all worked up for me. Only I get to see you like this, yeah?”

His teeth graze your ear lobe, and you exhale shakily, shivering under his touch. He laughs softly, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and you can’t even hit him with a snide comment like you usually would, because your whole body shudders when you feel his cock slide between your folds.

“You don’t even know how good you look right now,” he goes on, voice low and smooth as he traces his fingers down your body again. 

The noise you let out is embarrassing, something caught between a whine and a gasp of his name when he presses the tip of his cock to your entrance. Your hips jerk up, desperate for him to sink inside you again, but he holds your hips down. It’s been weeks since the two of you have done anything together, and your body is falling apart just at the idea of having him deep inside you again. 

“Please,” you whisper again, voice coming out more of a whine than anything else. “Osamu, it’s been so long, I—”

Dazai doesn’t let you finish your sentence. The words are knocked from your lungs when he snaps his hips forward, thrusting deep inside you. Your hands slide underneath his sweatshirt, nails raking down his back as you writhe beneath him. His eyes are half-lidded as he looks down at you, and you’re pleased to realize he’s just as much of a mess as you. His lips are pink and swollen, his face is flushed, hair matted to his forehead, and dark eyes unfocused. He looks beautiful.

You love him. You’ve always loved him, but it hits you so suddenly that it makes your chest ache. You surge upwards to press your lips against his, and Dazai moans into your mouth, rocking his hips against yours suddenly as he presses you back down into the mattress, tongues sliding together messily. Each thrust is deep and even, less like he’s trying to chase release and more like he’s just savoring in the feeling of being with you like this again. 

“Osamu,” you beg, and you don’t really know what you’re begging for, but your lashes suddenly feel wet, and he’s lifting one hand to wipe tears you didn’t realize were falling over your cheeks. “Osamu, I—”

Your words break into a moan when Dazai thrusts just a little harder, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white at the edges. Dazai ghosts his lips against yours, laughing breathlessly. 

“Aw, baby, you missed me, didn’t you?” His voice is teasing as he brushes kisses across your face, deceptively gentle when compared to the way he’s fucking the air right out of your lungs with every thrust. “I missed you too, we’ve both been so busy lately… Didn’t even know if you’d have time today with everything going on.”

Even with your brain fogged with pleasure, you can hear the brief waver of insecurity in his tone. You lift your hands up to cup his cheeks between your hands, forcing him to look you in the eye.

“Always have time for you,” you tell him softly. “Especially today.”

Dazai’s throat bobs at your words, and instead of responding, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of skin-on-skin, breathless moans, and his cock driving in and out of your cunt. You gasp his name, hips bucking up to meet his, both of you now chasing release. 

You’re so close that it hurts, abdomen coiled tight and thighs so tense that they’re shaking around his waist. When he slips his hand between you to rub tight circles on your clit, you finally fall apart. His name spills from your lips and your vision whitens at the edges, you let out a ragged sob that he swallows with a kiss as he fucks you through your high, gasping your name like a prayer over and over again. He’s close, too—you can feel it in the way his rhythm falters and how his breath hitches over every chant of your name.

Your walls spasm around him as he chases your high, pleasure shifting into overstimulation as he uses your body for himself now. You hiccup over a sob as your whole body squirms beneath him, but he holds you down, fucking you so hard that your body jolts further up the bed with each thrust. Your vision darkens at the edges a bit, your head feels woozy, and it’s when you really feel the pinpricks of numbness spreading from your fingertips up to your arms, that he finally finishes, burying himself deep inside you as he cums with a low, broken moan of your name. 

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just breathing hard against your shoulder, body trembling above yours. He finally lifts his head, and with a lazy, sated grin, he says, “What a birthday gift.”

You roll your eyes at him, but the smile that curls at your lips is fond.

“I love you,” you whisper, reaching up to caress his face, thumb running along his cheekbone. “Happy birthday.”

“I love you,” he replies softly, eyes sliding shut as he kisses your palm. “Thank you.”

---------

You wake up early the next morning to make the maritozzi for Dazai. He’s still fast asleep in bed next to you by the time you wake up, tangled in the sheets and curled into your warmth. Slipping out of bed without waking him is no easy feat—he’s always clingy in the mornings, even more so when he’s exhausted. You know he hasn’t been sleeping well these past few weeks you’ve been away, and the last thing you want is to disturb the rare peace he’s found.

So, for a while, you stay. You hum softly under your breath, fingers trailing gently through his hair in slow, soothing strokes. It takes nearly half an hour before his grip on you slackens enough for you to ease out of his arms and tiptoe into the kitchen.

You’ve been up for a few hours now. Dazai is still sleeping, surprisingly; you underestimated just how tired he was. Usually, you can slip out of bed, but he’ll come wandering in, looking for you within the hour. His sleep rarely lasts when you’re not in bed with him. 

The pastries are almost done now; though, you just took them out to cool, and you've put together a little basket for when they’re done. You think maybe you’ll drag him outside to eat. He needs to get some sun; all he’s been doing the past few months is rotting away in your apartment or his. 

You hum softly to yourself as you grab a blanket out of the closet, folding it before placing it next to the basket. You need to clean still, too, but—

You jump slightly when you feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist. Dazai’s familiar weight settles on your back as he leans on you, burying his face in the crook of your neck to kiss your skin gently before resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Cheater,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “Making my favorite, so I can’t be mad at you for sneaking out of bed. So unfair.”

You smile to yourself, looking to the side so you can see him. He still looks sleepy—his eyes are drooping shut and his breathing is heavy, but the bags beneath his eyes are lighter, if only a little. You lift up your hand so you can cup the side of his face before leaning in to press your lips against his cheek.

“Good morning,” you say quietly. “You slept for a while.”

His eyes slide shut when your lips brush his skin. “Come back to bed,” he whispers. “Lay with me a little longer.”

“I need to finish cleaning,” you tell him, ignoring the way he pushes his bottom lip out dramatically; he looks stupid pouting so hard with his eyes closed. Your chest bubbles with warmth. “It’ll be annoying to clean the cream after it hardens in the bowl.”

His eyes fly open at that, gaze suddenly sharp as he scans the counter. He lights up when he sees the two bowls on the counter in front of you, giving you imploring eyes and a sweet smile. You roll your eyes at him.

“You’re such a child,” you insult fondly, but you do reach forward to scoop up some of the leftover cream onto your finger, lifting it to his lips. Dazai immediately wraps his lips around the digit, sucking the thick cream right off your finger and moaning obnoxiously. 

“Strawberry,” he says approvingly after he pulls his lips off your finger with a loud pop. He gives you a sharp smile before saying, “You taste better though. My favorite type of c—”

“Stop,” you interrupt before he can finish the sentence. He pouts again, but then presses a slow kiss to the back of your neck. You sigh, leaning into his touch despite yourself, and he hums softly as he rocks the two of you back and forth slowly, resting his forehead on the top of your head. You rest your hand over one of his, eye sliding shut and then admit, “I’ve missed you a lot.”

“It’s been a long three weeks,” he agrees softly. “I wish Mori would start sending someone else to handle business abroad.”

“I wish you could come with me,” you say with a frown. “The only time you’ve ever left the country, you were thrown in prison. There’s so many places I want to bring you.”

“You don’t know that,” he says petulantly. “I could’ve left during the two years I was underground.”

“Did you?”

“... No.”

“Do you like arguing for the sake of arguing?” you ask dryly, but you find yourself smiling fondly. 

“Where do you want to take me?” he asks instead of answering the question, arms tightening around you. “Hmm? Tell me.”

Your lips part to list off all of your favorite travel destinations. Paris, the City of Love—Dazai would be horrendously obnoxious there with you, but he would love it, so it would probably be one of the first places you brought him. The Yucatán Peninsula too, you think, and maybe Egypt—he had a whole phase back when the two of you were teenagers where he would spend hours a day researching ancient civilizations, watching people explore old ruins with a pout and complaining incessantly about being stuck in Yokohama. You want to bring him to Zhuhai one day to show him the Chimelong Ocean Kingdom, but Qu Yuan and Cao Xueqin have been fighting for territory there for almost two years now so it won’t be any time soon.

But you don’t say anything, because your gaze draws back to the mess of bowls on the counter and then to where the maritozzi are cooling. More than anything, you want to bring him to a home that no longer exists. A home you don’t even remember. You don’t know why you’ve been yearning so badly for it lately; you went years without thinking of your past before you met Mori, not even once had it crossed your mind in that time, but over the last few months, it's crossed your mind frequently. You swear that you can feel familiar arms wrapping around you, a laugh that makes your chest ache that you can’t quite place; you find yourself looking up at the stars, and you can almost hear whispers of a voice you should know laying next to you, telling you all the stories of the constellations.

Dazai seems to recognize something is wrong, because he lifts his hand to your chin to tilt your face up and to the side so that your gaze lands on his. He frowns slightly, running his thumb over your skin before he says, “Dance with me?” 

“Dance?” you ask, trying to laugh but it comes out too forced. Dazai only gives you a sweet smile in return before he spins you around to face him, one hand resting on your waist while the other reaches for yours, entwining his fingers with yours as he starts spinning to a song only he can hear, dragging you along with him as he dances the two of you around the island in the kitchen. “You’re so cheesy.”

“I prefer romantic,” he disagrees as he spins you beneath his arm, dipping you down slightly and holding you there for a moment so he can lean in and place an obnoxiously loud kiss right on your nose. “Isn’t this romantic?” 

You laugh again, and this one is more genuine as you look up at him. His dark eyes are a warm golden color beneath the morning light, sickeningly soft as he looks down at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him. Your throat suddenly feels too tight, and his lips curl up into a soft smile as he places another kiss on your face, this time on your lips.

He lifts you from the dip, and you slip your hand from his so you can hook both of your arms loosely around his neck. His hands settle on your hips as the two of you continue to sway slowly to an imaginary song. 

“Why don’t you like baking them?” he asks quietly. It’s a question you know he’s been dying to know the answer to for years; you’re surprised it took him this long to ask.

Your gaze lowers. “I think… my mother was the one who taught me how to bake them,” you say softly. “I can never get them right. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Dazai doesn’t say anything right away. His hold on you tightens just the slightest bit as he rests his forehead against yours. Your lips press together and your eyes sting with sudden tears. You think about how your hands move automatically through the steps, how your heart always sinks when they come out just a little too dense or the cream doesn’t taste quite right. It’s like there’s a version of the pastry that lives in your memory—light, sweet, perfect—and no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to recreate it. 

Like it belonged to another life. Another version of you. One that was pure, sweet, gentle, and this one doesn’t deserve it.

This version of you has seen too much, done too much. You carry too many shadows in your heart and have too much blood under your fingernails. You were softer then—before the Great War, before Mori, before the Port Mafia.  Every time you make them, you’re reminded that you’ll never be that girl again. The one that exists now… you don’t even know if she can be considered human by most people. The pastries don’t come out right because they’re not meant to. You no longer know how to make something so sweet. You don’t deserve something so gentle.

You suddenly understand why you’ve been thinking so much of your past.

Your gaze flickers up to Dazai as he lifts his hands to cradle your face between his hands. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it can fall. He gives you a small, sad smile before he asks quietly, “This isn’t about the pastries, is it?”

You try to look away but he doesn’t let you. Your voice is barely a rasp as you say, “They’re not right. They don’t—”

I’m not right. I don’t know if I deserve this.

“They’re yours,” he murmurs, cutting you off before you can finish what you’re about to say. He leans in to press his lips against your temple. “They’re perfect to me.”

You’re you. You’re perfect to me.

“It’s not what I want to give you,” you insist. Your voice cracks, much to your horror. You turn your face into his shoulder, not wanting him to see the tears that threaten to spill. “I feel like I’m holding you back, Osamu. That you’ll never be able separate yourself from your past as long as you’re with me, and you’ll never believe in your own goodness when you come home to me every night. I don’t want to be the reason you can never accept that you’ve fulfilled Oda’s last request.”

Dazai’s smile is unbearably soft as he gently pulls your face from his shoulder and forces you to look at him again. His gaze darts up to the basket you started putting together on the table and he asks quietly, “Did you want to eat breakfast outside?” 

You nod, swallowing thickly.

“C’mon,” he nudges you. “Let’s finish getting it all together and go eat. We can talk out there.”

---------

Dazai has never had a reason to live.

The first time he tried to kill himself, he was eleven. It was when his grandfather had started pitting his siblings and cousins against each other, and Dazai first started questioning why he was even alive. He had no ambition for power like his siblings, he had no passion for any hobbies like his mother, and he had no friends, not even his own family liked him. His mother found him slumped over in the bathroom and rushed him to the hospital—she made him swear to never do something like this again. He agreed, but his promise to her died when she did when he was fourteen. 

The second time he tried to kill himself, he was fourteen. His mother got caught trying to smuggle Dazai and his siblings out of his grandfather’s estate. Two of his siblings had already been killed by his cousins, and she was desperate to not lose anymore of her children. She got caught trying to escape with them, and his grandfather ordered his father to kill her. Dazai jumped from the rooftop that very night—that’s how he ended up in Mori’s clutches. 

He’s not sure how many times he tried to die from fourteen to fifteen. More than he can count, and they got progressively more violent and desperate over time. When he met Chuuya and then Odasaku, he found his first friends—although at the time, he’d never been able to fully bring himself to believe that they viewed him that way. Dazai slowed down on his attempts after meeting them; he didn’t fully stop, he just became more… passive with it. Attempts to blow himself up shifted into recklessness during missions; instead of drinking various poisons, he would drink copious amounts of alcohol until his skin was gray and clammy and the room started spinning. 

And then, he met you. 

And then, he met you.

Dazai’s lips curl up into a soft smile as he watches you set up all the stuff you’d prepared for breakfast. He keeps trying to sneak one of the maritozzi buns, but you catch him every time, slapping his hand away and giving him an accusing look. You’re still upset, but you’re a bit calmer now as you focus on something else.

You drove him mad. You drive him mad. You didn’t flinch at his barbed humor or the way he suddenly and irrationally tried to push you away after worming his way into your life. You never gave up when he deflected conversation with a smile or silence. You didn’t recoil from the mess that he was; you just acknowledged it like it was something as simple as the weather, accepting it, him, into your life so easily. You saw through the cocky facade and self-destruction, and you stayed anyway.

It terrified him. He couldn’t fathom it for years—you didn’t lecture him over his self-destructive tendencies, and you never pulled the whole ‘please, stop for me’ shit that he hated so much. You just sat with him. On the nights when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and he couldn’t remember how many bottles he’d emptied, you were there. You didn’t touch him unless he asked, didn’t talk unless he initiated it, and over time, Dazai found himself relying on you in a way that scared him. 

After meeting you, for the first time in maybe his whole life, he started to want things again—small, stupid things, but things nonetheless. He wanted a morning that didn’t start with a hangover so he could wake up early and have coffee with you before you left for your meetings. He wanted to come back from a mission in one piece so he could watch a movie with you before laying down. He wanted to be able to sit beside you and not feel like a grenade with the pin halfway out, ready to take you out with him. Dazai has never believed that he deserved you, and a part of him almost wants to laugh when he realizes that you feel the same about him. 

He thinks back to the conversation he had with you a few months ago when you came back from Rome early to be with him, and he feels so silly.

“What are you thinking?” you ask quietly as you set the basket to the side, finally looking up at him, but only briefly. 

“Do you remember the conversation we had a few months ago? When you came back early from Rome?” 

You raise your eyebrows at him, and Dazai wiggles across the blanket so that he can sit beside you. He nudges your shoulder with his, beckoning you to look at him again. You turn your head to the side, gaze focusing on him. 

“Yeah,” you answer after a moment. “Of course.”

“It’s us,” he whispers. “It’s always been us.”

You look at him, tilting your head to the side. You press your lips together tightly, an expression on your face like you understand what he’s saying, but you think maybe you’re misunderstanding and don’t want to get your hopes up. You set the napkins in your hands down, and Dazai continues, voice low.

“I didn’t understand it then,” he admits quietly. “I think maybe I haven’t understood it until right now, but it’s us. My reason to live—it’s you and me, has been for years. Since we were sixteen. I—”

“Osamu,” you start to say, and your voice wavers. You want to believe him, but you’re scared of being disappointed, like maybe he’s just saying this in the spur of the moment to make you feel better.

He shifts to sit on his knees, grabbing your hands and pulling them into his lap, squeezing them tightly. He can feel your fingers shaking ever so slightly. 

“It’s true,” he insists. “Being with you… it gives me something to look forward to every day. You make me want things I didn’t think I could want. You make me feel things I didn’t think I was capable of feeling.”

He lifts one of your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles and then your palm. His voice is shaking a bit now, but he continues. “You make me want to live. Not just survive. Not just keep breathing because I haven't figured out how to stop. Live. Really live. I want a future with you, I want—”

Dazai’s voice breaks, his grip tightens on your hand. Your eyes are wet with tears, and your lips are trembling, and Dazai loves you. He loves you so much that it makes him sick sometimes.

“I want to marry you,” he rasps. “I want to wake up every morning your husband. I want you to be my wife.”

He watches as you inhale deeply. He can feel your nails digging into his hands and it stings, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t realize just how much he means the words until he says them. And he realizes, a bit belatedly, that he doesn’t have a ring and this isn’t the proposal you deserve, but there’s so much hope in your eyes that he can’t take it back now.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it, Osamu,” you whisper. “Please, don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it.” He lets go of your hands to cup your cheeks. He lets out a broken laugh, blinking hard. “I’ve never been more certain of anything. You’re the only thing in my life that’s ever made sense. I want to live, and I want to live with you. As your husband. And I—I don’t have a ring. I didn’t plan this, I didn’t, uh, I didn’t think I was capable of ever asking anyone—of ever wanting this.”

He leans in to press his forehead to yours. He can taste the mint on your breath, and he can’t help himself from stealing a kiss, a brief brush of his lips against yours that makes his chest ache. 

“But I want it with you. I want to be yours in every way a person can belong to someone. And I want you to be mine,” he says softly, hands sliding down from your face to cradle your neck instead. “This—it isn’t me asking, okay? I want to get a ring, I want to do it right, make it special, but I want you to know, because there is no world where you’re ever holding me back. You’re what keeps me going, so whatever silly thoughts you have going on in that pretty head of yours, they need to stop, okay?”

You take in a ragged breath and lean forward, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, and Dazai pulls you into his lap, holding you close, one hand wrapped rightly around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head. He kisses the top of your head and lets out a long breath, a weight lifting from his chest. Your body fits against his like it always has, like you’re made to be here, curled in his arms with the early afternoon light painting you in gold. He shuts his eyes and buries his face in your hair, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he finally murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple in a lingering kiss. “I don’t even fully understand it, but I know that I want you. I need you. You don’t have to change for me; you don’t have to be someone else for my sake. You as you are—it’s enough. You’re enough. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted; it doesn’t matter that you’re still with the Mafia and I’m with the Agency. None of that matters to me. What Odasaku asked of me… you being in my life doesn’t change anything. He’d never have wanted me to chase after his last request if it meant coming at the cost of you. Do you even know how many years he spent trying to get me to pull my head out of my ass and make a move on you? I think he was more relieved than either of us were when we finally got together.”

You let out a watery laugh, or maybe it’s a sob, Dazai can’t really tell, but he holds you a bit tighter, savoring in the feeling of having you in his arms. He thinks he could stay here forever if given the chance. Live a quiet life away from everything, just you, him and the rest of your lives together.

Maybe one day.

“I love you,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his throat before settling against him. The tension in your shoulders slowly dissipates, and you let out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me.”

He kisses the top of your head again. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “I love you too.”

The two of you bask in each others arms, relaxing beneath the early afternoon sun. He toys with your hair absently, running soothing circles on your upper back. After a few moments, he glances back on the maritozzi you’d pulled out of the basket.

“... Can I have one now?” he asks, giving you an imploring look when you pull back to give him a deadpan one. “Please. It’s literally been five years, do you know how much self control I’ve had the past hour?” 

Your lips curl up into a fond smile. “Fine.”

Dazai’s hand snatches out immediately before you can change your mind, shovelling the sweet bun into his mouth all at once. Your eyes shoot open in shock.

“Jesus Christ, Osamu,” you say, scrambling for a water bottle when he chokes over it. “What is wrong with you? My god, could you eat it normally?”

His eyes sting with tears, but he manages to give you a thumbs-up between coughs and wheezes. “So worth it,” he gasps, mouth-half-full, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

You hand him the water, watching with a mixture of horror and amusement as he gulps it down. You shake your head when he finally manages to swallow, muttering, “You’re insane.”

Dazai leans back with a dramatic groan, collapsing onto the blanket like he’s completed a Herculean task. He reaches out for your hand, entwining your fingers again and tugging you to lay on top of him. 

“So perfect,” he sighs dreamily, voice still a bit hoarse. He winks at you and gives you a flirty smile and then coos, “Just like the baker.”

“You’re so corny,” you complain, but you’re smiling when you look away from him.

“I’m so yours,” he corrects teasingly, kissing your knuckles.

Your smile softens. 

“You are,” you agree quietly, “and I’m yours.”

Yeah, Dazai thinks, an adoring expression on his face as you lean in to brush some of the cream at the corner of his mouth away with your thumb. Yeah, this is definitely all he ever needs.

[pinkpurplesunrises]

Mice in the Dark (Waiting for the Light)

+/-7500 words - the long story - Alexia Putellasx Reader - one of my more prouder works - Angst and Fluff - Happy ending - Pregnancy - Mentions of school shooting (no injured) - Please read with care.

Writer's note: I know I said I was on a break and I promise you... I am, but I finished this today after a full month of writing it and I just wanted to share it because I'm very proud of this one. Makes me excited to share it with you all. I can't promise you that it has no grammar mistakes x

There was something about the way sunlight slipped through the linen curtains in spring. Soft. Golden. Unapologetically honest. It kissed the edge of your cheek, just enough to pull you out of a dream. The first thing you felt was warmth. Not the sunlight. Not even the blanket tangled around your legs. No… it was her.

Alexia.

Her arm was wrapped around your waist with the same quiet protectiveness she carried on the pitch when someone fouled a teammate. Her breathing was slow, steady, a rhythm you’d memorized before marriage. Before IVF. Before last night changed everything.

You didn’t move. Not yet.

Your hand settled over your belly. A gesture so subtle. So new. It still felt like a secret whispered in a chapel.

You were pregnant.

You blinked against the tears stinging the corners of your eyes. One day ago, you and Alexia were standing barefoot in the kitchen. Your thumb trembling on the test. One line. Then two. Then disbelief. Then the sobs. Then that night. The joy. The nervous laughter. The way she kissed your stomach like it was already her favorite thing in the world.

Now here you were. In bed. Her legs tangled with yours. Her skin still flushed from sleep and love.

She stirred.

"Mm," came her voice, husky and low. She didn’t open her eyes yet but her fingers curled against your stomach, instinctively, protectively. "Still here?"

You smiled, a soft sound leaving your throat. "Where else would I go?"

Her eyes cracked open. Lashes still heavy with sleep. "Just checking," she whispered. Then her hand moved. Barely a few inches. And she cupped the side of your belly. She hadn't stopped doing that since last night. Like maybe touching you made it real.

"Still feels unreal," you admitted.

Alexia leaned in, brushing her lips over your shoulder. "It’s real. I keep waking up to make sure you're still beside me. You always are. Now there’s... someone else, too."

A small silence fell over the room. Not the kind that suffocates. One that breathes. That expands.

You turned to face her, brushing a strand of sunlit hair from her face. "You’re going to be such a good mamá."

A smile cracked across her lips, but it was wobbly. Eyes glistening. She didn’t speak for a moment. Just reached to press her forehead to yours.

"I'm terrified," she whispered.

"Me too."

"But I want this more than anything."

You nodded. "Me too."

The alarm buzzed faintly from her nightstand. A soft, vibrating hum. Alexia groaned and reached over to kill it. "Training. Shit."

You let your head fall back onto the pillow. "Do you have to be a football icon every day?"

She grinned, pulling herself up with a stretch. "Yes. Otherwise the world might collapse."

You reached out and slapped her thigh playfully. "Go save the world, Capitana."

Alexia stood in the doorway a minute later. Pulling her jacket on. Her hair was still damp from the quick shower. Her gym bag slung over one shoulder.

She looked back at you.

And it was the kind of look that meant something. Like maybe she’d already sensed the world was tilting. That time was about to split into before and after.

"I love you," she said. Not in a rushed way. In a way that planted its roots.

"I love you more," you replied, smiling.

She gave you that heart-splitting smirk before closing the door behind her.

And you were alone. For the last time, you’d realize later, in the before.

You moved through the morning in that strange, glowing fog that comes with good news and not enough sleep. Your hand kept brushing over your stomach. Absentmindedly. Protectively. Like your body already knew there was something precious inside.

Shower. Clothes. Hair pulled back. A slice of toast half-eaten on the way out of the kitchen.

You were halfway through pouring your travel mug of coffee when your phone buzzed, screen lighting up with Alexia 💜. Right on time. She always called when she pulled into the training ground. Like clockwork.

You could picture her perfectly. One hand on the wheel. A water bottle tucked between her thighs. That ridiculously big sunglasses collection rotating daily. Today, you guessed the tortoiseshell ones.

You slid your thumb across the screen. “Hey, superstar.”

“Hola, profesora,” came her voice, warm and playful with that familiar Catalan curl. “Did you eat?”

“Part of a toast,” you said, grabbing your bag and swinging it over your shoulder. “Half the peanut butter is on my shirt now, so... yes?”

She laughed. It was soft and breathy and made your chest hurt in that nice stupid way.

“You really need a personal chef. Or a wife who’s home in the mornings.”

You locked the front door behind you. “I’ve heard rumors I have one. But she’s too busy winning Ballon d’Ors to make me eggs.”

Alexia sighed dramatically through the phone. “Such a hard life for you.”

You grinned, walking down the street toward your car. “You’re not wrong. Anyway… how’s your knee?”

“Good. Sore in the right way. I think they’ll let me push a little harder today.”

“Pobrecita,” you said, mock sympathy in your tone. “All that running around for Spain and Barça... and still no gold star sticker from me.”

“You’re lucky you’re pregnant,” she warned, teasing. “Otherwise I’d come over there and…”

“Miss Putellas,” you cut in, unlocking your car with a beep, “there are children present.”

Alexia laughed again, and God, you’d bottle that sound if you could. You slid into the driver’s seat, adjusting your mirror like you hadn’t done it the same way a hundred times before.

“Okay,” she said, and you could hear her engine click off. “I’m parked.”

“Which means you’re about to be ten minutes late, like always.”

“I’m worth the fine,” she replied. “I just wanted to hear your voice. That’s all.”

You paused. Just for a second. Because it was such a her thing to say. Effortless. Sentimental. Quietly intense.

“Well,” you whispered, holding the phone a little closer to your ear. “You’ve got it. Every day.”

Neither of you spoke for a beat.

Then she cleared her throat. “Alright. Go teach small humans. Don’t let them bully you.”

“They’re five, Ale.”

“Even worse. They bite.”

You laughed. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

The call ended with a soft click, and the silence after felt just a little too still. Like the calm before the swell of something coming.

You placed a hand over your belly and closed your eyes.

Just for a second.

Then you turned the key in the ignition and started your drive to school. Completely unaware that those would be the last moments you’d ever know as ordinary.

The locker room was already humming when Alexia walked in. Earbuds still in. Her hoodie sleeves pushd halfway up her forearms. She dropped her bag at her usual spot. Tucked between the rows where the sun hit the floor just right in the late mornings.

Mapi was stretched out on the bench like she owned the place, boot halfway on, phone in hand.

“You’re glowing,” she said without looking up.

Alexia paused, one eyebrow raised. “Excuse me?”

Mapi smirked. “You’ve got that look. Like you just committed a murder and got away with it. Or like you’re very in love.”

Alexia rolled her eyes and pulled her hoodie off. “Maybe I just slept for eight hours, por fin.”

“Nope,” Kika said from across the room, tying her hair up. “It’s a suspicious glow. Suspicious and maternal.”

Alexia froze for half a second. Just a flicker. She was careful. Always had been. She recovered quickly, tossing her hoodie into her locker. “What does that even mean?”

Mapi leaned in, eyes narrowing like she was trying to read her captain’s mind. “You tell us, mamá.”

Alexia blinked. “I swear to God…’’

“Okay, okay!” Mapi held her hands up, laughing. “I’m just saying, you’ve had this little... vibe lately. All soft and dreamy. It's giving... lullabies.”

“I will kick your shin,” Alexia warned, but her mouth twitched at the corners.

Kika, now grinning wide, joined the interrogation. “So what are you naming the baby?”

“What baby?!”

“See?” Mapi said, turning to Kika with mock awe. “That’s exactly what someone who’s hiding a baby would say.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Alexia lied, which was technically true. She wasn’t hiding. Just… holding. Holding something delicate and new and way too sacred to throw into the locker room chaos just yet. It was still their secret. Hers and yours. Your tiny miracle.

“I think it should be something regal,” Kika said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Something like… Victoria. Or Reina.”

“You’re out of your minds,” Alexia muttered, tugging on her training shirt.

Mapi tilted her head. “You and the missus doing okay?”

That stopped her, just for a breath. She nodded, a soft smile tugging at her lips without permission. “Yeah. She’s good. Teaching today.”

“Bet she’s got those kids doing Shakespeare and yoga by now,” Mapi joked.

Alexia snorted. “She teaches pre-K, not a spiritual arts retreat.”

“Same thing,” Kika chimed in. “Tiny humans with big feelings.”

Alexia hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the locker door. “Yeah. She said one of them gave her a sticker yesterday for ‘being kind.’ Made her cry.”

“Wait… she cried?” Mapi said. “I thought you were the emotional one.”

Alexia laughed under her breath. “We take turns.”

There was a lull then… just for a moment… where someone cranked up the music and the energy shifted to cleats, water bottles, stretching routines.

But Alexia lingered in that space. That little pause in the noise. Thinking about the sticker. Your laugh through the phone. The way you whispered “we’re really doing this” last night like you were afraid someone would hear and take it back.

She exhaled slowly.

Training waited. Life was rolling on. But beneath her skin, just below the surface, something was shifting.

And she was starting to feel like the world was holding its breath.

The teachers' lounge always smelled faintly like burnt espresso and dry-erase markers. No matter how many air fresheners they plugged into the wall.

You sat at the small round table by the window. A half-full mug warming your hands. Surrounded by the soft murmur of your colleagues’ chatter.

“Another cookie?” Marta asked, holding the plate out with a smile.

You shook your head gently, fingers tightening around your cup. “Thanks, but I’m really not hungry this morning.”

Your voice was soft but firm.

There was a pause.

Then one of them, Lucia, looked at you a little too closely. A flicker of something unspoken passing in her eyes. Maybe she thought you were stressed. Or maybe she was just being a mom and sensing when something was off.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

You smiled carefully. “Just a bit of off this morning, I think. Nothing serious.”

No one asked more. The room went back to light chatter about the school play, PTA meetings, and a funny story about a kid who accidentally glued his shoes to the floor.

You took a small sip of your coffee. Trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach.

After a few minutes, you stood, stretching out your legs. Time to set up for the day.

The classroom was a riot of color: tiny chairs, alphabet posters, and half-finished crayon drawings pinned to the walls. You arranged the cubbies, lined up the picture books and taped the day’s schedule on the board. Circle time. Story. Snack. Nap. And art.

Everything felt calm. Normal.

Almost too calm.

You glanced out the window near the door.

That’s when you saw him.

A small teenage boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen. Standing just outside the school gate. He wasn’t moving. Just watching. His hoodie was pulled low. Face shadowed. But his eyes caught the light for just a second. Watching.

You blinked.

He disappeared behind a parked car almost instantly, like he’d never been there.

Your heart ticked a little faster.

But you told yourself it was nothing. Just some kid waiting for a friend or maybe lost on his way home.

You shook your head and turned back to the classroom.

Focus.

Today was supposed to be normal.

The ball skipped off her boot awkwardly. Rolling too far left. Not a complete miss, but enough to break the rhythm of the drill.

She cursed under her breath.

Another pass. Too heavy.

A third… late.

A few glances were cast her way, but no one said anything. This was Alexia Putellas. Off days weren’t her brand.

But she felt it. The dissonance. The way her thoughts wouldn’t stay where they belonged. They kept drifting. To your voice on the phone. To your morning sickness. To the way your voice hesitated before you said you were okay.

She didn’t like that hesitation.

"Hola," Irene said, jogging up beside her after the last sequence. Her tone was light but her eyes were shar. Watching. Knowing. "You’re off today. Want to talk about it?"

Alexia wiped her forehead with her sleeve, exhaling hard. “Just tired.”

Irene tilted her head. “Tired… or thinking?”

Alexia gave a faint smile. “When am I not thinking?”

They started walking toward the sidelines. Irene didn’t push. She never did. That’s what made her good at reading between the lines.

"Mapi and Kika being Mapi and Kika again?" Irene asked casually, a grin playing on her lips.

Alexia huffed a laugh. “They were throwing baby names at me.”

Irene’s brow lifted slightly. “Oh?”

“Total coincidence,” Alexia said quickly, but her voice gave too much away. “They don’t know. I didn’t tell them.”

Irene nodded slowly. “Got it.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then… gently… “You’re thinking about the last time, aren’t you?”

Alexia’s breath caught.

The last time. The other times. The quiet, negative tests. The hopes that turned into whispered apologies and late-night tears in her hoodie. You saying, “Next time,” even when your voice trembled. Her nodding, even when it felt like a lie.

“A little,” she admitted.

“It’s okay to still feel it,” Irene said. “That was a lot. For both of you.”

Alexia nodded. “I just… I thought it would go away, you know? The fear. But now that it’s real… this time it’s real… and I still feel like if I breathe too loud, it’ll vanish.”

Irene reached out, gently bumping her arm. “It won’t vanish. You two have fought too hard for this one.”

Alexia looked down at the grass. Then back toward the field. Where the rest of the team was still running through drills.

She swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

Irene watched her for a second. “You want to go again or sit one out?”

Alexia clenched her jaw, nodded toward the field. “I’m good.”

She jogged back out, but her steps felt slower, heavier.

In the back of her mind, something was tugging at her. A vague, gnawing unease she couldn’t place.

The drill restarted. Cones. Short passes. One-two touch.

She forced herself into focus. Eyes up, body moving. Trust the muscle memory.

Then… buzz.

Her wrist buzzed faintly beneath the band of her GPS tracker.

Phone in her locker.

A message had come in.

She didn’t think much of it, but when they rotated stations, she cut across the pitch and jogged toward the sideline. Coach was shouting something. Correcting a pass. Waving an arm. But her eyes were already on the edge of her locker.

She unlocked it fast, thumb swiping, screen lighting up.

It was from you.

A photo.

Bathroom mirror. Fluorescent lighting. That soft, faded sweater she always told you looked like a blanket. Your hair was pulled back, face clean, tired in a beautiful way that knocked the air out of her lungs.

Your hand was resting gently over your stomach.

Nothing to show. No change. Just skin and cotton and a look in your eyes that made her whole body ache.

The caption read:

"Still invisible, but ours. First day being her mami at school.❤️"

Alexia didn’t even realize she was smiling until her cheeks hurt.

Her thumb hovered for a second, then tapped back.

She didn’t say anything.

Just sent a heart. Then another. Then the third one turned gold. The only emoji she ever saved for you. One for each of you now.

She stared at the photo a little longer, zoning out. Around her, the locker room sounds filtered in: a dropped cleat, laughter from someone near the showers, the rattle of a water bottle hitting the ground.

The unease was still there, faint. But quieter now.

For a second, she let herself believe that maybe that was all it was.

Maybe her heart was just stretching to make room.

By the time the first little sneakers came padding down the hallway, your classroom was ready. Soft music playing from the corner speaker. Crayons laid out. Books stacked neatly. Sunlight warming the animal rug near the board.

You had exactly four minutes of peace before the chaos began.

“Señorita!” Mateo barreled in first. Backpack half open. Coat trailing behind him like a cape.

“Buenos días, Mateo,” you said, catching the runaway coat mid-air.

More voices echoed behind him. Luna with her braids bouncing, Diego still half-asleep and clutching a juice box. Sofia dragging a stuffed dolphin and a shoebox labeled ‘volcano project’.

It always started like this. Small. Loud bodies. Shoelaces untied. Mismatched socks. Someone already tattling.

But it grounded you. Gave you something solid to hold onto.

You clapped gently. “Circle time, everyone. Come sit. Show me your best criss-cross applesauce!”

There was a bit of squirming. Shuffling. A shoe being removed for no reason at all. But eventually, your class formed its uneven, rainbow-colored circle of small humans. All looking at you with sticky hands and wide eyes.

You smiled, folding your legs beneath you.

“So,” you began, “Who wants to share something from their weekend?”

Sofia’s hand shot up. “I got to feed a goat and it licked my elbow!”

“Ew,” muttered Diego, clearly impressed.

Luna raised her hand politely. “We went to visit my abuela and I made soup. Real soup. With vegetables.”

You nodded. “That sounds amazing. You’re a chef now.”

Then Amelia, your tiniest, most serious child, lifted her hand and waited until you called her name with mock formality.

“Yes, Miss Amelia?”

Her face lit up. “I got surprised! I’m going to have a baby brother! He’s in my mommy’s tummy right now. I don’t know how he got there.”

A few giggles broke out, and you laughed with them. Right before your throat closed up.

Just like that.

You blinked, hard.

It wasn’t even the sentence. It was the way she said it. So proud. So sure. Like the world was good and magic was real and babies just arrived because you hoped hard enough.

And suddenly your chest was aching. Your vision blurred.

You tried to swallow it down, but a single, hot tear slipped out anyway. Then another.

“Oh no!” Mateo gasped. “She’s broken!”

“I think she’s sad about the soup,” Diego whispered to Luna.

“I’m okay,” you said quickly, pressing the heel of your palm to your cheek and forcing a smile. “I’m okay, chicos. Just a little sleepy.”

“Do you miss your mommy?” Amelia asked with wide eyes.

You nodded seriously. “All the time.”

The children leaned in, worried but still entranced. Small hands hovering like they wanted to fix it.

“Don’t cry,” said Sofia, crawling over and gently patting your knee. “We can share our snack with you.”

That almost broke you again.

You sniffed, laughed through it. “Thank you. I think I’ll be alright now.”

And just like that, they moved on. Distracted by a loose crayon or someone’s sparkly shoelaces.

You stood slowly, brushing your hands on your skirt, letting the moment pass.

They couldn’t know yet. It was too soon. Too fragile.

But a part of you wished they could.

Because somehow, their little hearts knew exactly how to hold yours.

The training session ended with sweat on her skin and that familiar burn in her legs.

She showered quickly. Towel slung around her shoulders. Hair damp and curling at the edges. There was a team meeting scheduled in the video room. Something light today. Old match footage. Some laughs. Maybe some lessons buried in the rewind.

The room was already half full when she walked in. The lights dimmed low. Screen paused mid-action on a frame from last season. Mapi and Kika were curled into one chair like teenagers at a sleepover. Whispering something and snorting laughter before looking up and right at her.

Alexia narrowed her eyes instantly. “What.”

Mapi grinned too wide. “Nadaaa.”

Kika held up her phone like it was proof. “Did you see? Sam and Kristie posted… baby incoming.”

Alexia’s heart did a tiny skip.

“Oh,” she said, carefully neutral.

“They look so happy,” Mapi chimed in. “Honestly, goals.”

“They’ve been quiet for a while,” Kika added. “Probably waiting for the first trimester to pass.”

Mapi gave Alexia a not-so-subtle side eye. “Sound familiar?”

Alexia gave her a look, one brow raised. “You two are bored, aren’t you?”

“Painfully,” Kika said, flopping back in her chair. “And you give off such mystery energy. We just want to crack the code.”

Irene slid into the seat beside Alexia with her water bottle and muttered under her breath, “They're relentless today. Should’ve brought holy water.”

Alexia huffed a laugh. “You’re not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to.”

The coaches entered, and the screen resumed with match footage. Barcelona vs Atlético. Midfield control clips, ball recoveries, positioning, angles. Alexia leaned forward, chin in her hand, trying to settle her focus.

She was watching herself, months ago. Moving like she always moved. Fluid. Calculating. Dominant. But now, in this moment, something inside her felt distant from that version. Off-center.

“Alexia,” said one of the assistants, pausing the frame. “See this hold you made here? Can you talk through what you were reading?”

She nodded slowly. “The winger was too wide, their pivot was delayed. I waited for her to commit so I could cut both lanes at once. But I knew if I stepped too early, I’d leave Claudia exposed.”

The coach nodded, pleased. “Exactly.”

Another voice: “God, it’s like your brain is GPS,” someone muttered in admiration.

Kika leaned over and whispered, “Imagine that baby gets your vision. And her eyes.”

Alexia stared at the screen a moment too long before blinking out of it. “You’re worse than the media,” she said, not unkindly.

But inside, something shifted.

That strange tug again.

A thread of unease, like the day was just slightly tilted.

Not wrong.

Not yet.

Just… waiting.

Her phone buzzed quietly in her pocket.

She pulled it out quickly, careful not to interrupt the meeting.

A message from you.

“The small humans arrived safe and sound. Putting my phone away now… no bites yet. ❤️”

She smiled softly, the warmth spreading in her chest like a quiet sunbeam.

Her thumb hovered, then tapped a quick reply: “Good. Hold it down, mami.”

She slipped the phone back into her pocket.

Around her, the discussion continued, but that little message was a momentary anchor.

That strange tug inside her faded… just a little… replaced by the thought of you, in your classroom, steady and brave.

The classroom was buzzing with tiny voices and laughter. Crayons scraping paper. Shoes tapping the floor. When the first sound broke through the hum.

Pop.

At first, you froze.

Pop.

Then…

Pop. Pop.

Shots.

Your heart stopped.

For a second, the world was just a loud, cracking echo, too close, too real.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe.

You looked at the kids. Their faces, innocent and wide, didn’t understand.

“Okay, everyone,” you said, voice calm but low. “We’re going to play a game. It’s called ‘The Quietest Animals.’ Who can be the quietest animal?”

Diego’s eyebrows furrowed. “Like a mouse?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Mice don’t make any noise at all. We’re mice.”

Little hands pressed to their mouths.

You moved quickly, herding them behind the tables, dimming the lights with a flick of the switch.

You crouched low, pulling Sofia close. “We’re going to hide under the tables now, okay?”

The kids obeyed, some giggling nervously, others wide-eyed but silent.

Your fingers trembled as you pulled out your phone.

Hands shaking, you dialed.

No answer.

You tried again.

Your breath caught when you heard the faint crackle of a voice, static, but real.

You whispered, “There’s an emergency at the school. Shots have been fired. We need help immediately.”

You clicked the phone off, heart pounding so hard you feared they’d hear it.

You looked around.

Mateo was clutching his jacket, eyes squeezed shut.

Amelia was frozen, the smallest body shaking.

You swallowed the scream in your throat and smiled at them.

“We’re brave mice,” you said, voice steady. “The bravest.”

But inside, every part of you was terrified.

The room was quiet again after the match footage paused. A pause neither tactical nor deliberate. Just the sort of lull that settled in when the team was waiting for something to shift.

Alexia’s thoughts were miles away, swimming between the soft warmth of your message and the nagging, persistent tug of unease that wouldn’t quite fade.

Suddenly, a sharp tap on her shoulder broke through the fog.

“Alexia? Coach wants to see you outside.”

She blinked, then nodded, following the assistant out of the dim room and into the bright, sterile hallway.

Her phone buzzed again as she walked, but she ignored it.

By the time she reached the exit, her heart was a drum in her chest.

And then…

She froze.

There, standing just beyond the doorway, was her mother.

Her face was pale, eyes wide and glassy.

“Mamá?” Alexia’s voice caught on the question.

Her mother swallowed hard, taking a small step forward.

“Something’s happened at the school.”

Alexia’s breath hitched.

“Is it…?”

Her mother nodded, voice trembling, “There’s been a shooting. They’re saying lockdown. Police are there. We don’t know much, but I thought you should know. I’m so sorry, Alexia.”

Her knees threatened to buckle.

“Where’s… where’s y/n?” Her voice cracked, the fear raw and wild.

“She’s inside. They say the kids are hiding. The teachers too.”

Alexia’s hands curled into fists.

“Can I go? I have to…”

“Wait,” her mother said firmly. “I’ll come with you.”

The urgency in her mother’s voice was a lifeline and a weight.

Alexia grabbed her jacket, heart pounding louder than her footsteps.

Together, they raced through the corridors, her mind spinning faster than her feet.

Every second stretched impossibly long.

Her phone buzzed again… she dared a glance.

Messages, unanswered calls.

She tried calling you.

Her breath hitched.

“Please be okay,” she whispered to herself. Panic squeezing her throat.

Outside, the sky was the soft blue of a peaceful day. Mocking her turmoil.

But the streets were alive with flashing lights, sirens wailing like cries tearing through the calm.

They crossed the last block, and there it was. The school.

The chaos was immediate. Police cars. Paramedics. Frantic parents huddled in small groups. Teachers consoling children. The distant murmur of officials giving instructions.

Alexia’s mother squeezed her arm.

“Stay close,” she said.

Alexia forced herself to steady her breathing.

She pulled her phone out again and sent a quick message.

“I’m coming. Hold on.”

Then she looked up, eyes searching the crowd, searching for you.

Her world was crashing down, but she had to be strong.

For you.

For the children.

For the life you were just beginning to build.

The crowd outside the school was thick with anxiety and murmurs, but Alexia’s sharp eyes caught something that made her heart lurch.

A small group of parents were gathered near the entrance, clustered close around a handful of children. The names on their lips were painfully familiar.

“Mateo?” she heard one parent ask gently.

The boy, cheeks flushed from nerves, nodded eagerly.

“We played mice,” Mateo said, voice small but proud. “We were so quiet. Like real mice.”

Alexia’s breath caught.

She pushed through the crowd. her heart pounding harder with each step.

“Where’s the teacher? Where’s the señorita?”

Mateo looked up, blinking at her like she was a sudden sunbeam.

“Miss y/n?” he answered, voice trembling. “She’s still inside. We were hiding. Luna didn’t want to stop playing the mice game even when they said we could go with help.”

Alexia’s throat tightened.

A sharp sob broke free before she could stop it.

She wrapped her arms tightly around her mother, who held her just as fiercely.

“I have to tell you something,” Alexia whispered through the tears. “… she’s pregnant. We found out yesterday.”

Her mother’s eyes widened, a mixture of awe and heartbreak flooding her expression.

“This can’t be happening.”

Alexia shook her head, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder.

“It’s so fragile, mamá. So new. We were just… starting.”

Her sobs shook her body.

The world was breaking apart around her. And all she could do was hold on.

The room was still dim, shadows stretching long across the floor as the small bodies huddled beneath tables.

Luna’s hand found yours, trembling slightly.

Her eyes were wide and glassy, lost in a sea of fear you couldn’t reach with words. Only with the softest touch.

You leaned down, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Luna, remember our game?”

She nodded slowly, squeezing your hand back.

“Mice don’t just stay in one place forever,” you said carefully. “Sometimes, when the place isn’t safe anymore… they move. They find new homes where they can be quiet and safe.”

Luna’s breath hitched.

“Do you think we can be like the mice?”

You smiled gently, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead.

“Yes. And right now, the mice need to be brave and move somewhere safe.”

Her small hand squeezed yours again, steadier this time.

"It's time to move, little mouse."

Alexia’s eyes were fixed on the scene unfolding just a few feet away.

A teenage boy, hands cuffed behind his back, was being led past the barricade by a calm but firm emergency responder.

The boy’s face was pale. Eyes downcast. The weight of everything pressing down on him.

Alexia’s breath hitched.

The responder caught her gaze and offered a tired but steady nod.

“No one was hurt,” he said quietly, as if the words needed repeating. “Just holes in the ceiling and scared kids. They’re waiting on two more to come out.”

Alexia swallowed hard, feeling like the air had been knocked from her lungs.

She squeezed her mother’s hand, eyes scanning the doorway, desperate for any sign.

Minutes stretched. Agonizing and endless.

Then, the school doors opened.

You appeared first.

Your face was pale, makeup smudged from tears you didn’t want to show, shoulders tense but trying to hold steady.

Behind you... the last child. Breathless and clutching a small backpack. Ran full tilt toward waiting parents, who swept her up into a trembling embrace.

Alexia’s heart broke at the sight.

You started to move forward but when your eyes met hers across the crowd. Verything crumbled.

The brave facade shattered.

You broke down, sobbing openly now, the weight of the day crashing through every line of your body.

Alexia was there instantly. Closing the distance between you.

Her arms wrapped around you. Fierce and protective.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, voice rough with emotion. “You’re safe now. You’re here.”

You clung to her, letting yourself fall apart in the only place that felt like home.

Around you, the noise of sirens, murmurs, and relief swirled. But all that mattered was the warmth of her hold, the steady beat of her heart against yours.

Together, you let the tears fall.

Because sometimes, even the strongest need to be broken. To be held. And to heal.

Weeks had passed since that day. The day that shattered the fragile bubble you and Alexia had been building together.

Some mornings, the world felt calm, the light spilling through the curtains like a promise.

Other mornings, you woke gasping. Heart pounding like it was still trapped in that classroom. The echo of gunshots ringing sharp behind your closed eyelids.

Tonight was one of those nights.

You woke in a cold sweat. Breath shallow and rapid.

Before panic could fully claim you, you felt it. Warm arms sliding around your waist, pulling you close.

Alexia’s voice was low and steady. A soft anchor in the storm.

“Hey, hey… it’s okay. I’m here.”

You curled into her. The steady beat of her heart a balm to your racing mind.

She shifted, settling beside you on the bed. Careful and sure. Fingers tracing slow circles on your back.

“I’m not gone,” she murmured.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Trying to let the fear slip away.

“I’m right here.”

Her hands moved to your belly. Gentle but certain.

You lifted your shirt a little. Showing her the soft small curve that was just beginning to show. The secret growing life inside you.

“Look,” you whispered, voice still shaky. “Our baby’s okay.”

Alexia’s smile was radiant. Her fingers tracing the line of your bump like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“All good so far,” she said softly. “You’ve been amazing.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“We’re going to tell the team tomorrow,” you said.

Alexia’s eyes lit up. “Finally.”

You nodded, a small smile breaking through the lingering shadows.

“They deserve to know.”

Alexia chuckled softly. Brushing a stray hair from your forehead.

“We’ll make it a proper celebration. Maybe Mapi and Kika will start the baby-name guessing games again… only this time, we can join in.”

You smiled, feeling a flicker of lightness.

The fear wasn’t gone. Some nights it still whispered in the dark corners of your mind.

But here, wrapped in Alexia’s arms, you felt something else too.

Hope.

Love.

The quiet certainty that you weren’t alone.

Alexia leaned in. Pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“We’ll get through this. Together.”

And in that moment… it was enough.

The morning sun spilled gently through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room.

Alexia was already awake, her hands busy but gentl. Brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, tracing lazy circles on your arm.

You smiled, eyes half-closed. Feeling the warmth of her touch like the safest place on earth.

“Trying to spoil me, huh?” you teased, voice still thick with sleep.

She grinned, a playful sparkle lighting her eyes.

“Maybe,” she said, leaning in to press a soft kiss just below your jaw. “You deserve it.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugged at your lips.

“Just don’t expect me to return the favor,” you warned.

Alexia laughed. A deep, warm sound that filled the room.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

She helped you sit up slowly, fingers steady as you stretched, the little bump already beginning to show.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, concern threading through her usual lightness.

“Better,” you said. “Thanks to you.”

Alexia’s hand found yours, squeezing it gently.

“We’ve got this. Today’s just another step.”

You squeezed back, teasing now more confident.

“Yeah, but don’t get too cocky... remember who’s carrying the tiny human in there.”

She mock-gasps, placing a hand dramatically over her heart.

“I’m just the supportive one.”

You laughed, feeling the tension of the past weeks loosen just a little.

Breakfast was slow, filled with quiet chatter and soft touches.

Alexia made you your favorite tea, while you caught her stealing bites of your toast when she thought you weren’t looking.

The morning felt like a return to something familiar... a gentle reminder of who you were together, before everything changed.

When it was time to get ready, Alexia kissed your forehead.

“Ready to tell them?”

You nodded, heart fluttering with nerves and hope.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

And as she helped you slip into a comfortable sweater that hugged your belly just right. You knew you wouldn’t face the day alone.

Not ever.

The car hummed softly as Alexia drove toward the training ground, the morning light streaming through the windows in gentle streaks.

You settled into the passenger seat, fingers tracing lazy circles on your belly.

“So,” you began, a teasing edge to your voice, “how long do you think it’ll take before Mapi and Kika start pestering us about baby names?”

Alexia chuckled, glancing over with a grin. “Five minutes, tops. Maybe even less.”

You laughed softly. “They’re going to turn the whole locker room into a baby shower planning committee."

“Probably. And you know Kika will have a whole spreadsheet ready.”

You shook your head, amused. “I swear, these footballers plan everything.”

Alexia’s smile softened. “Well, it’s nice to have something fun to look forward to, right?”

You nodded, warmth spreading through your chest. “Yeah. It feels… hopeful.”

She reached over, squeezing your hand gently. “That’s what we need.”

You let your fingers intertwine with hers. Comforted by the familiar touch.

The radio played softly, a song you both loved. Something light. Something simple.

You hummed along quietly.

Alexia smiled, her eyes on the road but her heart clearly with you.

After a pause, you asked, “Are you nervous? About telling them?”

She shrugged, her grin mischievous. “I’m more nervous about whether they’ll start calling me ‘baby mama’ right away.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Knowing them? That’ll be immediate.”

Alexia’s eyes sparkled. “Great. Just what I need.”

You smiled. Leaning back. Feeling the steady rhythm of the car and the promise of the day ahead.

Whatever came next, you’d face it together.

As the car came to a gentle stop outside the training ground, you turned toward Alexia, heart pounding a little faster.

The world outside felt heavy with expectation, but in the quiet space between you two, everything slowed.

You reached up. Pressing your forehead gently against hers. Eyes fluttering closed.

Her breath mingled with yours.

Softly. Tenderly, you kissed her.

No words needed. Just the warmth of lips meeting, a promise, a comfort, a shared strength.

When you pulled back, Alexia’s smile was soft and full of love.

“We’ve got this,” she whispered.

You nodded, feeling braver already.

Hand in hand, you stepped out of the car. Together.

The hallway leading into the training center buzzed with soft chatter, the shuffle of cleats, laughter echoing off the walls.

As soon as you and Alexia stepped in, you felt it. That shift in energy, subtle but unmistakable.

A few heads turned.

“Eh! Finally decided to show up!” Mapi called from down the corridor. Leaning lazily against the locker room door. Arms crossed. Grinning like she knew something already.

You smiled, half-hidden behind Alexia.

“She made me toast,” Alexia called back, completely deadpan. “I had no choice.”

Kika popped her head out next, face bright. “You always have a choice. Toast is not an excuse... unless it’s avocado toast with extra drama.”

“I am the drama,” you said dryly.

They laughed, pulling you both into the orbit of their usual teasing whirlwind.

Inside the locker room, Irene greeted you with a soft hug. She had been more quiet lately. Still a little haunted by the day she saw Alexia’s world crack. And now maybe she saw the small pieces being placed gently back together.

You sat carefully on the small bench against the far wall. Letting Alexia take off her jacket for you. The gesture was simple but enough to make Mapi’s eyebrows shoot up.

“What is this?” she said slowly, theatrically. “She undresses her now? Are we in royal court?”

Alexia smirked. “Always have, actually. She just usually yells at me to do it faster.”

The room burst into laughter, but your cheeks flushed with heat. Alexia shot you a wink and leaned down, whispering, “I got you.”

You exhaled softly, heart still a little nervous despite the warmth.

It was Alexia who stood tall, clearing her throat.

“Okay. So... we wanted to tell you something.”

Everyone went still in that split second. Wide-eyed, half-expecting a joke, or maybe not quite believing the shift in tone.

You stood up slowly beside her. Placing one hand instinctively on your growing belly. Now noticeable in the fitted stretch of your sweater.

Kika gasped. “No.”

Mapi’s eyes widened. “NO.”

Alexia beamed. “Yes.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then chaos.

Squeals. Screams. Foot stomps. Someone threw a training bib in the air.

Kika was already crying.

Mapi looked between the two of you like she’d been personally betrayed by not knowing sooner. “Are you kidding me?! I knew something was weird the last few weeks. And when you snapped at me for stealing your fries? I knew it.”

You were laughing and crying now. Wrapped in a blur of hugs and soft hands touching your stomach like it was already sacred.

Irene stepped forward last. Quieter than the rest. She touched Alexia’s shoulder. Then yours.

“I’m really happy for you,” she said sincerely, eyes lingering a moment longer on the way your hand rested over your belly.

The laughter died down into warm chatter. Plans already forming. Baby clothes, names, future birthdays on the pitch.

You sat back down, overwhelmed but glowing, as Alexia slid onto the bench beside you.

She reached for your hand under the fold of your sweater, her thumb brushing gently over your skin.

“You did good,” she whispered.

You smiled, eyes still a little glassy. “We did.”

And for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel so far away. It felt right here... growing... steady and surrounded by love.

The room was quiet in that special kind of way hospitals hold.

Not silent, not still... just hushed. Reverent. Alive with the smallest sounds. The slow rhythm of the monitors. The soft rustle of blankets. The quiet breath of a newborn cradled against your chest.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until you felt Alexia’s fingers brush a tear from your cheek.

“You’re doing it again,” she whispered with a small, tired smile. Her voice was raw from joy and worry and no sleep, but softer than anything you’d ever known.

You looked down at the little girl sleeping in your arms. Skin like velvet. A head full of dark wisps. The smallest sigh slipping from her lips.

“I just… can’t believe she’s real,” you murmured, voice trembling. “After everything.”

Alexia leaned in and kissed the top of your head, one hand resting gently on your shoulder. “She’s here. And you were so strong.”

“She has your eyes,” you said.

Alexia looked down and grinned. “She already judges like me too.”

You laughed, exhausted and glowing.

Then came a soft knock at the door.

You sat up a little straighter. Brushing your thumb over your daughter’s cheek as Alexia moved to open it.

The moment the door cracked open, a cluster of tiny voices and footsteps spilled into the room like sunshine.

“Ms.!” one of them squealed.

Your heart swelled.

It was your class. Yur sweet, brave 4- and 5-year-olds—now being carefully herded in by two of your colleagues. Their little faces were a mix of awe and excitement, like they were stepping into a fairy tale.

“Only quiet voices,” one teacher reminded gently, finger to her lips.

Luna was the first to break ranks. Holding something behind her back with a shy smile.

“We brought you something,” she said, inching closer to the bed.

You adjusted the baby slightly and smiled down at her. Heart aching in the best way.

Luna pulled her gift out and held it up proudly.

A small, grey plush mouse.

“Well,” she said with a shrug, “just in case she wants to play mice too.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Alexia turned away for a second. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

You took the mouse and cradled it next to your daughter, who made a tiny sound and blinked once, slowly.

“She’s going to love it,” you whispered.

The kids gathered around the bed, staying back just enough but brimming with curiosity. A few waved shyly. One asked if the baby had a name yet.

“She does,” you said, glancing at Alexia, whose hand found yours again.

“Her name is Elena.”

They all said it like it was magic. Elena.

The room felt so full.

Not just of people, but of something larger. Something that spanned months of fear and pain and healing. Something soft and whole.

Love.

Alexia kissed your temple again and leaned in close.

“See?” she whispered. “Little mice and all.”

You smiled, tears in your eyes. Your daughter pressed against your heartbeat. The tiny mouse plush tucked gently beside her.

It wasn’t the world you imagined before everything changed.

It was better.

Because it was yours.

Together.

Always.

---------------------------------------------------------

Writer's note: I really hope that you liked this one 🥺 please let me know what you think! put a lot of work in it. Right now I won't be able to write for a week because I really need to break and I should hold on to it. But after that I will of course upload again.

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 0.18 Never wish on the brighest stars

PREV PART Trigger warnings: anger, short, kidnapped reader, disabled reader who's disabilities are being used against them main m.list        series m.list      good ending m.list

In the end you did take a bath alone, seriously who does Bruce Wayne think he is? Did he seriously think he could convince you to let him bathe you as if you are toddler? You, who always had been independent and would rather swallow glass than let him touch you when you are ill. Sometimes you wonder if he stopped maturing the day his parents died, you know it’s a cruel thought. A thought that you shouldn’t even be thinking, so you will not put his behaviour on a tragedy that’s separate from it all.

Because the true tragedy is Bruce Wayne cheating on your mama. The betrayal worse than any she ever experienced as she believed that Brucie Wayne would have been loyal to her for the simple fact that she knew who he truly was. For that she knew way more than she ever should have.

The true tragedy is that something is laced with your medication. You are sure of it after you refused to take it today, saying that you thought this brand of medication was making you ill. That you’ll get another appointment, an appointment without Bruce. Outside of anyone he trusts.

It’s why he’s in your face on the edge of being violent once more, only this time in front of Duke and all his children. “What?” you ask him, a smile gracing your face. A smile that looks sweet and threatening. “You are going to hit your sick child? Try me, I am sure my employer would love it if I showed up with a hand shaped bruise.”

Bruce freezes, you are threatening him with the Penguin, yet he doesn’t feel threatened. He, Batman, is not scared of a crime boss. A pathetic stain on Gotham, yet he still freezes. Perhaps it is because he already heard multiple goons and villains wonder about where you are.

Still he can’t help but get a grin on his face. “You think the Penguin cares about you?” he asks, his tone dripping with malice. His words meant to cut at your confidence, yet it doesn’t, instead you stand up straighter and give him a smirk. A smirk that your mama carried on her face whenever she put an idiot in their place, the smirk your grandpa wore whenever he won a game of poker and the smirk your cousins had worn the day they were murdered. “Besides, you aren’t leaving this house until I say so.”

You laugh as you brush your hair out of your face. “It’s amusing you think that you will come out on top,” you say, biting your cheek slightly. “don’t you know Batman I have no qualms in fucking up your life. Not your children’s life as that is my last mercy to them, well except Jason and Dick, but I have no shame in fucking you up.”

Turns out you are brighter than your family expected, it turns out that you are just like your mama. Something Jason always wished for you to be, but now he’s doubting that wish.

Well, never wish on the brightest star, for you may regret it.

NEXT PART IS MY WRITING BLOCK BACK? yes, why? I am stressed as fuckkk

taglist (OPEN): @justsaii, @bbmgirll, @cruzerforce4256, @frank-vanderboom, @lilyalone, @mat5u0, @blackheart1454, @wisefuncherryblossom, @lingxio, @c4xcocoa