#we were never supposed to make it half this far

[coquettefrancaise]

your hands are cold

from Pride and Prejudice (2005)

pair: Azriel x Reader ~ 4.8k

warnings: mysogony (not from az), risque thoughts from reader, sharing a bed ooooh, shadow violence, protective azriel

summary: Azriel would give you the shirt off his back if he knew you were cold and he's trying so so hard to make you see that

Illyrian's lived in the snowy mountains of the Night Court. Thick blankets of snow fell year-round, the sun scarcely offering a reprieve from the constant bite of wind. By the time the children were old enough to run and wield a stick the boys were thrust into training and the girls into house/camp work. Everyone grew to adapt to it, their bodies functioning at an unnaturally high temperature.

Although Azriel, Rhys, and Cassian had lived away from Illyria and the camps for multiple centuries now, they still grew overly warm during the earlier seasons. Both a curse and a blessing.

So why the hel didn't anyone tell you to bring a thicker coat?

Being the night court's newly appointed emissary, you were tasked to go to Illyria to comb over some of the issues stirring up. Specifically concerning the female's training. Surprise surprise.

Thankfully, Azriel had offered to come with. Rhys had given him a smirk, looking between the two of you but Azriel winnowed you before you could decipher what that look meant.

You now stood outside the training ring with him as Devlon and two of his croonies made up some half-assed excuses as to why they weren't prioritizing the females training.

"-we have two new mother's in the area who need the extra support." Devlon ranted, clearly exasperated that his high lord was continuing to harp on this matter.

You looked up to Azriel who was watching the pathetic male with a clenched jaw. He loosened it to say, "Have the father's help then. If they can't care for their own children then they should keep it in their pants."

You refrained from giggling but remained indifferent. Some of the people you worked with were open to your messages while others were... Devlon. And Beron, you supposed. You had to tread lightly because one misstep and they would prod at the weakness until you couldn't handle it. 

"All of our males are needed in training to ensure that they stay in shape. Those females shouldn't have spread their legs so fast." Devlon drawled.

"Surely Rhys would be willing to reenact the castration laws." You said without thinking, glaring at him. "You wouldn't mind being first on the list, would you?"

Devlon only ignored you.

Even with the ire coursing through your veins, you shivered. You were supposed to have been here for an hour max. Get in, yell at them, get out. Unsurprisingly, there was more to fix than you had assumed.

Azriel side-eyed you as you shook from the cold and held out his hand to Devlon. "Coat."

Devlon paused, glaring at the shadowsinger's scarred hand as if it held the plague. "What?"

"Give me your coat. Now."

The words sent an entirely different kind of chill through you. One that made your eyes widen at the hostile calm with which he said it. Sure, you'd heard that tone once or twice, but it never failed to impel you to stand straighter even if it wasn’t aimed for you. 

Devlon scoffed. "I'm not giving you my coat. Who do—"

Shadows crept up around Azriel's feet, climbing his tall, hard body until they amassed near the siphons at his hands, contrasting starkly with the pure white snow that fell around him. With the tendrils of darkness poised to strike, paired with the unforgiving look on Azriel's face, he made a hauntingly beautiful picture. Feyre would be distraught she hadn't been here to capture it.

Not a second further, Devlon took his coat off and placed it in the shadowsinger's waiting palm. His own hand trembling, you noted with smugness.

Azriel stayed silent as he flicked it once. Twice. Until he was certain it was free of any contamination, and then turned to you, a far softer expression pulling at his achingly handsome features. He then stepped forward and brought the coat around your shoulders, encircling you in his arms to fasten the buttons.

Time stopped and you took the chance to study him. The mussed locks of hair from running his hands through it every time Devlon opened his mouth. The smooth planes of his tanned skin. His enviably dark, long lashes framing those all-seeing hazel eyes. And his mouth... if you were a poet you would write odes about it. Both admiring and wicked.

You blushed.

"Is this alright?" he asked softly.

You slowly nodded, words stuck in your throat due to his close proximity.

His fingers brushed against your throat softly and he pulled away, leaving you breathless and aching for more.

When the argument started back up again, you found that while your upper body was warming up, your legs and feet were still at the mercy of the breeze.

Azriel looked to you again and released a heavy sigh. "We'll send healers to perform check-ups on the babes and new mothers. The other females will train as normal. And you will speak to the court's emissary with respect." He told Devlon, voice final.

"I have no idea why he has a weak female performing court check-ups." Devlon bit out, no doubt angry at having been pressed into submission and having his coat stolen.

One second you could see clearly, and the next your vision was clouded by swarming darkness. Instinctively, your hand shot out to find Azriel, fear twisting your stomach at the thought of being attacked or—

You barely had time to call out for him when the darkness vacuumed back to its origin—Azriel.

He now stood a breadth away from Devlon, shadows morphed into the shape of a hand held at the camp leader's throat.

There was no curiosity lingering in your mind as to why he was often referred to as the Angel of Death. His body was tense and forbidding, as if he had been carved from stone. Broad, claw-tipped wings spread in threat, consuming the space around him. The largest you'd witnessed.

"It'd be a shame if your windpipe was broken," his voice was colder than the wind that had picked up, "I'd think twice if you were to make another smart remark about our high lord's emissary."

They stared at each other and then Devlon's shoulder sank in defeat. The ghost hand dissipated at his throat, revealing finger-like bruising. You could only imagine the true harm his shadows could inflict if given free rein.

Devlon's eyes snapped from Azriel to you, chin dipping nearly imperceptibly before walking away, back tense as if he were preparing for an attack.

You waited until he was out of sight to speak. “Thanks for the coat?”

Azriel rolled his shoulders, eyes on the space above your head. “Sorry that it belongs to that dense misogynist; I rarely find the need to carry one around.”

You laughed, hoping to dispel the tension clinging to the air, and clutched the coat tighter to warm your hands up. “It’s summertime; how is it still snowing out here?”

“The elevation of the mountains results in colder weather year-round, no matter the season. This is considered warm.” He jerked his chin in the direction of a group of shirtless Illyrian’s training. “Cassian used to tan on days like this when we were younger.”

“Is that what he’s been doing the past week? I wandered up to the roof yesterday and caught him rubbing some oil into his legs. I never want to see him in shorts those small again.” You widened your eyes in horror. 

"Count yourself lucky. I've seen the bastard’s ass more than I have his face."

"Some would say that you should count yourself lucky then."

Azriel scoffed, eyes glittering with amusement.

“Are you ready to go home?” he asked. 

You really weren’t. Not when he was watching you with such tenderness. A cold gust of wind blew past, making your teeth chatter. Azriel didn’t waste any time in scooping you into his arms. 

“Wait,” your breath hitched, “what about Devlon’s coat?”

“We’ll burn it when we get back to The House.” 

Just as he was about to lift off, thunder cracked, causing you to peer up at the malicious looking grey clouds rolling in. Odd, considering just this morning, when you first arrived, the day had been clear and sunny.

Azriel let loose a long breath, eyes switching from you to the sky until he put you on your feet. "We'll have to wait it out."

"You've traveled in far worse conditions," you reminded, although you'd much rather stay put too.

"I'd never risk your life." He stated, voice gruff.

You had to ignore the butterflies that erupted in your stomach. This was not the place nor time to feel flattered by Azriel's protectiveness. He was this way with all of his friends and family, after all.

"Where will we stay? I guess Devlon would let us-"

Azriel snorted. "If I spend one more minute with that shithead I might strangle him to death. Fortunately, Rhys' mom has a cabin here that we can stay in."

As if to hurry you both, the heavens opened up and peltered you with a cold sleet. You were almost instantly drenched. Azriel wasted no time in putting an arm around your back, wing stretched overhead to offer reprieve, and urged you forward through the slick mud.

Finally, you arrived at the cabin, a, small yet homey, two story house with an already roaring fire and steaming kettle on the stove. The shadows doing, you assumed. You turned to Azriel who retrieved two mugs from the cupboard and filled them with tea.

You could picture Azriel, Cassian, and Rhys as young, growing boys wandering in and out of that kitchen, hungry after long days of training. And you spotted notches in the wooden cupboards and dining furniture where playful fights or inaccurately aimed daggers managed to land.

He made his way to you, setting the mugs on the mantel, cringing as you shivered hard. "Do you mind?" he motioned to the coat you still clutched tightly at. "It will only make you colder."

You shook your head, teeth chattering, and reached to take it off when you were stopped by Azriel's hands. He peeled it off of your shoulders and down your arms and chucked it in the fire without blinking.

You couldn't help but laugh at his obvious distaste of the clothing and it's owner.

"Warm up and drink the tea; I'm going to search for some clothes that are, hopefully, untouched by mothballs."

Who would have blamed you for admiring the way his leathers fit to his bunching muscles as he made his way up the stairs?

A small part of you hoped that he wouldn't be able to find anything. From the stories you'd heard from the inner circle about missions that have gone awry in the cold, one of the ways they managed to stay warm was to share body heat.

The image of Azriel aiding you taking off your wet clothes before doing it to himself, flashed in your mind.

Ugh. You rolled your shoulders, turning towards the fire to soothe the ice settling in your bones. Yes, Azriel had been incredibly kind today by offering to join you and giving you a jacket, but that was just it. Kindness.

When you had first met Azriel, like most everyone, you fell for his devilishly handsome features and cool nature. It didn't help that he was unfathomably loyal and strong. Or tall and athletic. Or a good male with good intentions overall.

"It's just a stupid crush," you muttered to yourself as you put your palms out towards the fireplace.

"Hm?"

You nearly jumped out of your skin as Azriel returned to your side on silent steps. A shadow skittered over your shoulder, tickling your neck as if to laugh at you.

"We should really put a bell on you,"

"I'd prefer my enemies to not know when I'm near." Azriel held out clothes to you. "They're old but should suffice. If you'd prefer to wash-"

"That would be wonderful." The idea of a warm bath caused you to sigh with longing.

Azriel clicked his tongue, amusement lighting his eyes. "I shouldn't have even asked, huh? Come," he jerked his head to the direction of the stairs, "let's get you cleaned up."

Electricity zapped through your body at the image of sitting between Azriel's legs in the bathtub as he used a washcloth to soothe your goose-bumped riddled skin. Would he press his lips to each knob of your spine while he massaged shampoo into your hair and-

"Coming?"

Your eyes snapped to Azriel, the fog of your imagination dissipating, making you feel ridiculous. Your cheeks pinked and you nodded, following him.

The bathtub wasn't big enough to comfortably sit two people. Much less if that second person happened to be an Illyrian male.

Azriel put the dry clothes on the counter. "Do you need any help navigating things?"

"I am confident in my ability to bathe myself, thank you for your concern." You teased.

"Don't need me to get your back or anything?" he shot back, looking a lot less tense than he had when you were speaking with Devlon. In fact, he looked a lot lighter than when he was even around the inner circle.

"I think I have it all under control. Thank you again, Azriel."

Before heading out, he lingered at the doorway, looking as if he had something to say but decided not to. He then left you to your own devices, saying something about cooking something up. You stripped out of your drenched clothes and turned on the faucet, shivering when you first dipped into the water. It felt like a warm hug.

The only thing that would make it better would be if you were nestled against Azriel's tattooed chest.

No no no.

You shouldn't be feeding into your delusions. Especially while the person you were daydreaming about was the only other person in the house with you. It would only make things terribly awkward. And you didn't want to ruin anything with Azriel. Not when you were just becoming close friends.

You had been emissary to the night court for a couple of years now and while you had gotten along quickly with everyone, it had taken a while for Azriel to even speak with you one-on-one. He wasn't easily trusting, which you completely understood. But lately things had been warming up. He would make you breakfast when you were the only two up, hand-deliver the books Nesta let you borrow, even nudge your leg under the table when Cassian was making a fool of himself.

Not to mention the fact that he brought you to this camp despite it being a solo mission.

You pushed it all from your mind, not wanting to overthink things, and finished your bath.

The sweater and sweat pants Azriel supplied you with smelled faintly of him. You wondered if they had been his when he lived in this gods-awful camp.

Having found no brush or comb, you settled with running your fingers through your damp hair, wandering down to the kitchen to find Azriel at the stove, preparing what smelled like chile. He tilted his head up to look at you and fire settled low in your belly as his pupils seemed to take over his irises'.

You swallowed thickly, feeling somewhat self-conscious wearing his clothes that hung off your frame. You tugged on one of the sleeves as it slipped down your shoulder. "Hopefully there's warm water left."

The pot hissed with bubbles, shadows whisking the soup ladle out of the oblivious shadowsinger's hand to continue stirring, as Azriel scanned you from head to toe.

Judging by the amusement dancing in his eyes, you probably looked like a drowned rat. You itched to turn back into the bathroom and check yourself in the mirror.

He stepped into your space, "They're not too big?"

The clothes. You shook your head, pointing to the rolled up pant legs. "Needed some adjusting but they shouldn't cause too many problems."

"Certainly wouldn't want them to fall off," he mumbled, more to himself, the insinuation in his voice not helping in tamping down your growing feelings.

"Do I look silly or something? Why are you watching me strangely?"

"Not at all. I just thought you look... adorable." He smiled crookedly.

You realized now you had never seen a genuine smile—one that wasn't produced from dark humor—grace his face. Red splashed over your cheeks and you hurried to say, "You should probably wash up yourself. Wouldn't want you to catch a cold or anything."

After a moment of consideration all traces of pleasure were wiped from his face. You nearly swayed at the whiplash of his emotions. "There's some soup and I discovered one of Cassian's hidden stashes of wine,"

"Perfect," you offered an awkward smile.

While he bathed, you wiped down two bowls and wine glasses of grimy dust before filling them with soup and wine. You then stood by the sink, watching out the window into the night.

The storm had grown, howling winds causing the structure of the house to groan as rain continued its rhythmic drumming on the roof. A flash of lightning lit up the sky every few minutes with the accompanied roll of thunder.

Your heart raced double its time from the inane fear of how destructive nature could be.

You drained the wine in one swallow.

"Not fond of storms?"

"Shit!" you whipped around to find a fresh-faced Azriel rubbing a towel through his dark, wet hair. "When we return home I'm finding that bell."

His eyes squinted in amusement, tossing the towel onto the back of a kitchen chair. "If it helps soothe your worries, Illyria has endured worse weather than this."

"Are you sure this cabin is sound enough to withstand this weather? Considering how old it is?"

A black eyebrow rose, "Is that a jab at my age?"

Apologies began tumbling out of your mouth. Azriel only waved off the words. "Sit and let's eat. The storm will hopefully clear by tomorrow morning and we can be on our way back to Valeris."

"Were you able to reach Rhys?"

"He told us to stay put," he shoveled a spoonful into his mouth, "and that if anything is to happen to you, I will be the one to blame."

"I'm flattered he finds me so valuable."

Hazel eyes met yours for a heartbeat as he said, "You are very valuable."

Oh Cauldron. If he continued saying things like that, you wouldn't be able to keep your growing feelings from showing on your face.

You cleared your throat instead, "How much trouble do you think we'll be in because of that incinerated coat?"

The rest of the dinner was spent bonding over your hatred of Devlon. You weren't sure how Azriel survived being under the insufferable male for so long. Or all the males here, if you were honest. It helped you to understand why he was so hesitant to claim them as his people.

"How long has this cabin been unoccupied?" you inquired, taking another bite of the chile.

Azriel leaned back in his chair, considering your question. He'd been, surprisingly, open tonight. There seemed to be no trace of the ever-reserved male you encountered more often than naught. "The inner circle prefers to handle the camps during the day so we rarely find the need to stay here. Devlon uses it sometimes for meetings."

"Did each of you boys get your own rooms?"

"Boys?" a corner of his mouth kicked up, "You say that as if we're not all centuries older than you."

You stifled a chuckle, "Considering how often you three wrestle over ridiculous things like who gets the last slice of dessert, I think it's fitting."

His biceps flexed as he stretched them above his head. You felt dizzy with awe. "Whatever," he retorted playfully, "but, to answer your question, we shared the same room until it became too much of a hazard."

"Hazard?"

A faint blush crept over his tan cheeks. "When we became more interested in females than pulling pranks on one another."

Oh. You blushed in response and took a drink from your glass to hide your embarrassment.

Azriel huffed a laugh, obviously recognizing your regret of asking the question. In a considerate manner, he said, "Remember how I told you about Cassian tanning?"

"Oh gods, I won't be able to unable to get the image you offered out of my head."

"Then you'll be affronted to know that I found the oil he used."

A laugh spewed from your mouth. Azriel smiled softly at your unexpected outburst. The conversation was built on from there and your stomach hurt from how hard he managed to make you laugh.

As soon as you scraped the last bean out of your bowl, Azriel took it from you and washed it in the sink. Huh. A male who cooks and cleans? You couldn't believe your eyes. And you had to ignore the space in your heart that warmed.

Your attention was drawn to the shifting muscles in his forearms as he scrubbed the dishes. To the dark tattoos swirling around his powerful arms, practically calling you to trace them with your fingers.

"—sleep?"

You shook your head as you realized you hadn't heard him. "Sorry, what?"

A shadow tugged on your hair teasingly and he repeated, "Obviously you're tired since you can't even think straight. Let's go sleep."

He led you upstairs once more and into what you assumed was the master bedroom, with a large four poster bed, a vanity, armoire, and lace curtains that hung over the window. It looked as if it belonged to a... female.

"Was this—"

Azriel nodded, eyes softening as he took in the homemade quilt, "This was Rhys' mother's room. After difficult training or frightening storms, she would let us all fit in the bed with her as she told us stories of fearless Illyrians."

"You used to be scared of storms?"

You couldn't imagine the spymaster being afraid of anything. Even as a child.

"I was scared of many things,"

That was all he offered before attempting to stoke the fireplace and ensuring the room was warm enough. You hesitated before asking, "Is this where I'll be staying tonight?"

"We'll both be staying in here."

Your world flipped upside down.

"You're serious?"

Hazel eyes snapped to you with amusement. "The only fireplace working is the one in the living room; these logs are too wet. Not to mention the magic of this cabin isn't as strong without Rhys here."

It looked as if your idea of sharing body heat was coming to fruition. This would quite possibly be the best night of your life, so you needed to savor it as much as you could until everything went back to normal the next morning.

Your fingers shook as you pulled back the covers and slipped in. Oh gods. This was much more nerve-wracking than you'd anticipated. Yes, you seemed to get along great and you felt comfortable around him, but he was still handsome as sin and effortlessly attractive.

After Azriel was certain no logs were salvageable, he stood from his crouched position, spread his mighty wings once in to prepare for a cramped bed, then tucked them in tightly. Your eyes tracked the movement, the sconce lamps revealing the red tint running through the membranous tissue.

He walked to his side of the bed and laid down, a weary sigh leaving his lips. "The temperature will drop the later it gets, so it'd be wise if we slept closer. I don't bite."

Despite that last teasing remark, you couldn't help but feel nervous. Who wouldn't? You were only sharing a bed with one of the greatest warriors to ever live. And he was acting like it was a regular occurrence.

You tested the waters and inched close enough that your hips touched. You swallowed thickly.

He fluffed his pillow, and even yours, before resting his head and asking, "Comfy?"

Not trusting your words, you nodded, and the room was engulfed in darkness. There was nothing besides the staccato beat of rain hitting the roof and the buzzing along your skin where you were touching Azriel.

You counted sheep in your mind to calm down enough to sleep, fighting off the overbearing thoughts of the male beside you.

A peal of thunder caused you to start.

A heavy hand closed over yours, the ridges and callouses of unhealed burns pressing into your own unmarked skin. You caught your breath. "I won't let anything harm you," came Azriel's deep assurance, instantly calming your racing mind.

Two blinks later and you were sound asleep.

It was so gods-damned hot.

Having Azriel sleep beside you was like having your own personal Illyrian heater. Sweat beaded at your temple and your body felt like it was being roasted over a fire.

Obviously this sleeping-together thing would have worked a lot better if you didn't have access to the indoors or multiple blankets. The fact that you were so inclined to move away made you frown. You enjoyed sleeping so close to Azriel; he was safe, and strong... but he was going to burn you alive.

Slowly, you inched away from Azriel, closer to the edge of the bed, and pulled off the quilt, sighing at the instant relief of cool air sliding across your heated skin. You could finally—

The windows blew open, a gust of frigid wind bursting through the room. You began shivering and grabbed the corner of the quilt when a heavy arm was thrown over your stomach, tugging you into a hard body.

"Where were you going?" Azriel rasped into your ear.

This time you trembled for a different reason. "Wh-what?"

His thumb stroked over your hip, "You were trying to leave."

"It was hot," you whispered, afraid that if you spoke any louder, he would realize what he was doing and let go of you.

"Don't go."

Hel, you wouldn't move again if a thousand Illyrians dragged you out of his protective embrace.

"Are the windows broken?" you asked.

What had caused them to slam open like that? Was this cabin deteriorating quicker than Azriel had let on? Would it hold on through the night?

You turned your head to the side to assess the damage just as the windows pulled together again. The latch clicking into place.

Squinting your eyes, you managed to spot two slithering shadows gliding along the windowsill.

"Azriel," his name came out suspiciously. Did he send his shadows to open the windows?

He hummed, the vibration of his chest reverberating through your own. "You're always so antsy around me," he admitted, "getting nervous when I start to get comfortable and changing the subject."

What else did you expect from the spymaster of the night court? Obviously he would be able to read a person's behavior.

"I didn't want to scare you off." Came your timid reply.

Azriel huffed a laugh. "Why would I be scared of the attention of a beautiful female?"

A pink flush spread across your cheeks, hidden in the dark of the room. You were never getting over this. Oh, how you wished you had your journal.

"I like you," he continued, "and I know you like me. But this game of cat and mouse has me growing anxious. I would rather like to smile at you without you diverting your eyes."

"I don't think you're scary."

"I know." He said in a cock-sure way.

You scoffed, amused. "For the record, I wasn't escaping because I was scared this time, but because your body runs at two hundred degrees."

"That's why I opened those damn windows." So that the cold would send you rushing back into his arms, you slowly realized.

You were at a loss for words.

"Say something," he asked, an imperceptible plea in his voice.

What were you supposed to say? I think you're beautiful and want to get to know you? You decided to play it safe with, "This is nice." There. That was enough to keep your heart at ease, and not make you sound desperate.

"I like you too," he tightened his hold on you, languidly nosing along your scalp, as if he were smelling you, "And I always want you here."

"In this cabin?"

In the span of two seconds, he had you on your back, limbs trapped under his own. From the scarce lighting of the cloud-covered moon, you could make out the slants and slopes of his face, the soft glimmer in those all-seeing eyes. "In my arms."

In all your day-dreaming, nothing ever compared to hearing him say those words than in real life. When his thumb brushed along your fluttering pulse, and his warm breath fanned against your face.

You swallowed thickly, "Is this a dream?"

His lips met yours, achingly slow, and oh so beautifully.

Once. Twice. He kissed you. The simple action conveying all that words could not. That he truly did like you. That you shouldn't be afraid. That he was falling with you. Falling so so so fast.

author's note: RELEASE ME! guys. i have been trapped in the writer's block hell. i'm home. if there are any mistakes or loopholes, no there aren't. i hope you all love it, pretties. (I haven't forgotten about the beautiful readers who sent me requests🥰)

[littlejoyss]

𝓯𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 9

“One single thread of gold tied me to you.”

Stray Kids - Felix x Reader

Red (golden) string of fate trope

Word count (so far): 21k

𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 �� 𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 → 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 (coming soon!)

The show had started five hours ago. It was full of chaos, as expected. And your models were supposed to start walking in an hour.

You barely had time to gather your breath before the curtain pulled back again, revealing seven very familiar silhouettes peeking cautiously into the alcove.

Changbin was the first to step fully inside. “Uh… are we interrupting something?” he asked, eyes darting between you and Felix like a nosy sibling catching someone mid-confession.

“No,” you and Felix said at the same time.

“You sure?” Seungmin deadpanned. “Because this feels like the part in a drama where we’re supposed to back out slowly and give you privacy.”

Lee Know crossed his arms and leaned against the wardrobe rack like he owned the place. “Too late. We’re here now. Besides, someone,” he shot a look at Chan, “wanted us to actually introduce ourselves instead of hovering like weird bodyguards.”

Felix laughed, stepping aside to make space. “Guys, this is her, the genius I haven’t shut up about for about a month now.”

Jeongin looked both bashful and starstruck. “Hi. I love your designs. Like, actually. I’ve never seen anything like what you did with that ombré silk and the beaded cuffs.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “You know about the cuffs?”

“Oh, he knows everything,” Han chimed in, nudging him with his shoulder. “He watched the leaked rehearsal video three times. You’re a legend in the group chat right now.”

Hyunjin stepped forward, his eyes tracing the half-staged looks on the rack with reverent curiosity. “You did all this with substitute materials? After someone tried to erase your concept?”

Your throat bobbed. “I didn’t really have a choice.”

“You made it look like one,” Chan said quietly, stepping into view. “That’s what makes you different.”

There was a beat of silence where the air felt weighted with unspoken respect. None of them were putting on an idol charm or saying what they thought they should. They were just seeing you, tired, resilient, and stubborn. 

“Felix said you were scary when you’re focused,” Han said, eyebrows wiggling. “I didn’t believe him. But… yeah. You’ve got that ‘make-a-grown-man-cry-in-fittings’ aura.”

Felix gasped in mock betrayal. “You promised not to say anything!”

“I said it was a compliment!” Han retorted. “She looks like someone who commands a fashion army, not like someone who’s been surviving on stress and thread.”

You snorted. “That’s probably accurate.”

The wardrobe alcove wasn’t big, and with eight idols inside, it was starting to feel less like a safe haven and more like a very glamorous closet. But none of you seemed to mind.

Hyunjin gently picked up a headpiece you hadn’t had time to box yet, delicate wirework and mother-of-pearl pieces arcing like wings. He turned it in his hands with the care of someone who understood how long it must’ve taken to make.

“This belongs in a museum,” he murmured. “Or a gallery.”

You met his eyes. “Or on a runway, in fifty-five minutes.”

He smiled, handing it back like it was precious cargo. “You’re going to steal the whole show.”

Bang Chan stepped beside Felix, lowering his voice just enough to keep it between you three. “If you need anything. Statement, support, literally anything. We’re all here for you. You’re the first soulmate of one of our members, so you’re a little special.” 

“Thank you,” you said softly. “Seriously. All of you. You didn’t have to come back here, or say anything, but-”

“But we did,” Changbin interrupted, firm and warm. “Because he loves you.”

Felix turned bright red. “Bin!”

“What?” Changbin shrugged. “She should know. She deserves to know.”

“Got it,” you whispered, your smile matching the flutter in your chest.

“Okay, sappy time over,” Bora announced, poking her head in again like the unflappable queen she was. “Makeup touch-ups in three, model lineup in five, showtime in twenty. Anyone not actively sewing or strutting, out.”

There was a scramble. Stray Kids didn’t need to be told twice, though not without dramatic goodbyes.

“Can we get a picture with the genius before we’re kicked out?” Han asked, already pulling out his phone.

You laughed. “One. And someone tell Seungmin to stop pretending he’s not excited to be backstage.”

“I’m composed,” Seungmin deadpanned, but his phone camera was already open too.

They gathered around you, chaotic and warm, arms thrown around each other like they’d been doing this for years. Felix stood beside you, his hand grazing your waist.

The flash went off.

“Legendary,” Han declared. 

As the others dispersed with a few final waves and chaotic bickering, Felix lingered. He tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear before pressing his lips lightly to your forehead. “Go knock them out,” he whispered.

And then he was gone, disappearing into the hum of the venue, the curtain swaying in his wake.

You exhaled. Then squared your shoulders.

The noise of the crowd swelled beyond the backstage walls. Models slipped into their final looks. Your assistants flurried around you with pins and tape and calm panic.

Your show was next. Your story was next. And you were ready to tell it in every stitch they tried to erase, in every detail you fought to bring back to life. Because no one could silence a designer who had found her voice. Not even Jiwoo.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

  The announcer spoke over the speaker, announcing your name to the crowd.

You heard it from backstage, your name echoing across the venue in perfect pronunciation, your brand stitched into the air like your embroidery on silk. The spotlight shifted to the edge of the runway, where a sleek black podium stood waiting.

Bora appeared at your side with a mic and a fire in her eyes. “It’s time. Go out there and let them know who you are.”

You took the mic with both hands, grounding yourself in the weight of it. Around you, your team stilled, models in half-laced boots, assistants gripping lint rollers mid-swipe. Even the hum of backstage fell to a hush.

One step. Two. Then you were past the curtain, stepping into the light.

The crowd murmured. Cameras clicked like a second heartbeat. Behind the runway, a massive screen flashed your name and collection title in bold, serif font. The music dipped just enough for the audience to feel the gravity of the moment.

You reached the center of the stage and paused. The podium mic caught a soft intake of your breath, but you didn’t flinch.

You lifted the mic. “Good evening,” you began, voice steady, clear, and somehow louder than the stadium-sized venue. “My name is …, and tonight’s collection is called Golden Resilience.”

A subtle shift rippled through the audience.

“I won’t take too much of your time, because the clothes will say everything I need to. But I want to tell you one thing before the first heel touches this runway.”

You took a breath, fingers tightening just slightly around the mic. “This collection almost didn’t happen. Materials went missing. Plans fell apart. Some of the original fabrics you’ll see tonight were never even meant to exist in this show. And yet, here they are.”

You let your breath fill your chest, grounding you in the moment. The runway lights were hot, and the silence was heavier than silk. “When I came to Korea, I wasn’t expecting my life to take this big of a turn. I thought I was just here to build a name for myself. Maybe prove a point. I had a vision, a sketchbook full of dreams, and enough ambition to power a city block. But then something unexpected happened. Something that rewrote everything I thought I knew about design, about why I create.”

You looked past the glare of the lights, past the rows of cameras and editors, toward the shadowed third row where you knew he sat.

“I found my soulmate.”

There were audible gasps. 

“I know many of you probably saw the headlines and the guesses in the media,” you continued. “But I didn’t want my first public confirmation to come from a photo or a rumor. I wanted it to come from me. From this.”

You swept a hand gently toward the runway, the garments lined in waiting just out of view.

“This collection was originally born from pain, creative pressure, fear of failure, and sabotage. But as I rebuilt it… I realized what I was really stitching into each piece. Hope. Trust. Safety. The kind of softness that only comes when someone sees you for exactly who you are and says, ‘Yes. You’re enough.’”

The spotlight narrowed slightly, sharpening around you like the universe was leaning in. “Golden Resilience isn’t just about bouncing back. It’s about who you become when you realize you don’t have to fight alone. When you meet someone who loves you not despite your cracks, but because of them.”

“This is my love letter. To resilience and rebuilding. And yes, to the boy who sat beside me on the floor while I worked, bringing me tea and folding scrap fabric just to keep me company.”

Your voice softened, but carried. “So, whether you’ve found your soulmate yet or not, I hope this collection reminds you that love doesn’t just look like flowers and kisses. Sometimes, it looks like thread. Like a golden string that holds you together.” You lift your pinky finger to remind everyone that they’re own soulmate thread is there. “And now… welcome to Golden Resilience.”

The lights dimmed. A heartbeat of silence. Then, the music began.

Your first model stepped out, draped in yellow hues. Every inch of fabric shimmered with intention. The gown’s train moved like water, embroidered with symbols you thought you'd lost when Jiwoo tried to bury your designs.

You stepped back, away from the podium, melting into the shadows as your story unfolded in silk and sequins.

Applause rose softly, respectful, awed. Not the kind of clapping people gave because it was expected, but the kind they offered when something hit them right in the chest.

Dress after dress, your designs walked the line between softness and steel. A cape that had been dyed into the deep blue of comfort, a jacket lined with fabric scraps, and a menswear piece with golden thread running through the collar.

You caught a glimpse of the boys from Stray Kids along the left wing, sitting now, faces beaming, clapping softly without stealing focus. Felix had a hand over his mouth, his eyes glossy in a way that told you he wasn’t blinking.

You waved lightly at him. He didn’t wave back. Not because he didn’t see you, but because if he did, he might cry. So instead, he placed his hand over his heart. Just once. You smiled, then turned your attention back to the runway.

There was a pantsuit dyed in golden tones, the fabric stiff at the shoulders and soft at the waist. Another model wore a coat with blue thread, glittering as they moved. 

And then came the look that silenced even the camera shutters. The finale dress.

Made of layered translucent silk, gold melting into rose, it moved like sunrise after the longest night. The bodice was embroidered in delicate loops of thread, the same design you used to sketch in the margins of your notebook when you thought no one would ever see your work. Attached to the back, a dramatic cape was placed. It was shaped like phoenix wings. 

The crowd gasped again, unfiltered this time. Some even stood.

The model at the center of it all walked like she already knew the runway beneath her was solid gold. And behind her, every dress that came before began to return one by one, flooding the runway with your army of resilience. Applause thundered. A full standing ovation.

You stepped forward with your bow. 

You bowed. Once. Twice.

And then, when you lifted your head. Felix was there. He was no longer seated. He had stepped just beside the runway, arms crossed tightly over his chest like he was holding himself together. When your eyes met, he gave you the smallest, most grounding smile. Then he mouthed: Told you you’d knock them out.

You laughed, even through the sting in your eyes.

As you turned to take your final bow, you were bathed in gold, but not from the lights. 

The string around your pinky glowed even brighter than when you first saw him. (A/N: This isn't over yet! The next release will be the last couple of parts. But...I have an itch to write more skz stuff! Could you vote on what you want below?)

taglist (comment to be added): @shinygubbins @lizzygd @btch8008s @under--space @monniemons @chimmyn0chu @wickedbutlovely @sunanlix @beal-o @valkirymin @moonlitcelestial @wolfhallows4 @beppybeesnuggets @eridanuswave @lynastrawberry @multiifanbigbang @yxna-bliss @chasinghxran @velvetmoonlght @rylea08 @rjrjhfvrvdhdhrvvrrv @daisylove3 @rougegenshin @wolfs-howling @akindaflora @felixsonlyrealwife @chaosandcandies @ateez-atiny380 

[mullermilkshake]

Just a donor - Lying in weight.

Part 2 <- Part 3 -> Part 4

Suguru confronts you with with everything he knows so far.

Sperm donor!Satoru Gojo x Fem New mom!reader x Suguru Geto Tags - Established relationship, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Breastfeeding, Sickness,

<<< For more Satoru content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Mood board >>>

“So, how do you want to play this?” Satoru kept himself between you and the door.

Suguru called again, stealing your attention for just a second. Satoru stepped towards you like a ghost, no sound, nor breaths to distract you until he was so close it startled you. Sakura had stopped drinking, her eyes rolled back in a drunken state and began chewing on your nipple. You didn’t want to pull away with Satoru in eye shot like this.

“I think she’s finished.” He said, noticing her mouth stop moving almost immediately as you felt it. “Maybe put her to bed and we can go and talk to Suguru together, hm?”

You were not unlatching your daughter in front of him. Just how many times had he watched you breastfeed, noticing the little signs of Sakura’s behaviour that even Suguru couldn’t keep up with?

Now, you weren’t shy about breastfeeding like you thought you might have been, happy to feed your daughter with anyone in the room, and pumped without shame while your own mother-in-law sat next to you watching a movie. More out of pure exhaustion than confidence to feed your child, Sakura was hungry more than usual and cluster fed.

“He isn’t going to believe you, Satoru.” You said, holding firm.

“You wanna test that theory out? All the messages between us and visits while Suguru’s at work, y’think his resolve is that strong?”

If he referred to the messages you and he would swap occasionally, more so that not it was regarding Suguru, or at a rare chance, asking him to pick something up for your daughter from the store. Nothing remotely suggestive or romantic in nature to even put a thought in Suguru’s head.

When you didn’t say anything, the corner of Satoru’s mouth twitched into a small yet deranged half smile. “You’re doubting him, aren’t you?”

“Honey, where are you?!” Suguru called again, sensing the bass in his voice, he was either near, or in the kitchen by now.

“Coming!” What else could you do?

“Put our baby in her crib, let’s go.” Satoru slipped off his shirt and balled it up in his hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” You jerked away from him, taking the opportunity to unlatch your daughter and cover yourself up before heading for the bedroom door. “Put your fucking shirt back on- I’m taking her with me, I'm not leaving her up here on her own.”

Satoru huffed and somehow let you walk away from him and open the door with the baby still in your arms. The sound was more like he knew how this would go and the mistake you were making was huge. A noise of condescending proportions.

You did not care.

Holding Sakura close, you bopped down the stairs, wanting to run but afraid to wake the predatory animal behind you into a run for the hunt. You hoped Suguru would greet you from the kitchen, but he sat with his back to the doorway. A large envelope addressed to him in Satoru’s handwriting, trembling in his hand, and a wad of paper in the other.

“Suguru?” Your relief never stayed long, not at the sight of large captured screenshots glaring back at him. “...Suguru.”

Satoru came in, and hurried to pull his shirt on just as Suguru looked up and noticed him, his eyes were swollen, exhausted and getting bloodshot before your eyes in real time. He looked back and shuffled through the pages, blinking everything positive away from his eyes with silent breaths.

“Is this true?”

Sakura stirred in your arms and settled back down with comforting pats to her bottom. You used the repetitive motion to ground you before your words burned away on your tongue.

“Suguru-”

“Listen, Suguru.” Satoru cut you off. “There’s something we need to tell you.”

You shook your head like it was supposed to fight your corner all on its own. “Don’t listen to him- Suguru, put those down.”

Satoru grinned at you behind his best friend's back, adjusting his shirt like some horrific victory lap. His eyes stayed trained on you the way a bloodhound would after they found the scent they tore the room apart for. “Suguru, I had to come clean about us, because we’re planning on running away-”

“What the fuck?!” How could you control yourself with a terrifying reveal like that?

Satoru placed his finger to his lips to silence you, and it almost worked. “But… wait- no, I won’t be quiet. This is ridiculous" You moved over so you were visible in Suguru’s line of sight. “Don’t listen to this bullshit, Suguru. He’s lying-”

“I always thought there was something going on with you two. I just couldn’t prove it.”

What?

The ground swayed beneath the soles of your feet before you could breathe. You couldn’t breathe, not even with your daughter on your chest like she was, not the rhythmic patting to keep her calm, not the sweet little breaths from her throat.

Suguru believed Satoru.

Your husband suspected and never told you.

He believed his best friend. Not you.

You wanted to see the screenshots, see what they said and tear them up along with the inaccuracies. Nothing on that page could have been true, there was nothing to admit truth about. You were never once unfaithful. Ever.

Satoru approached Suguru with a look you’d never seen from him before. Utter guilt. “I’m sorry, I wanted to tell you sooner, but she wanted to keep it quiet. Even now she keeps denying it, but I can’t do it to you anymore. We grew up together and I needed you to know.”

How could everything fall apart between your fingers? You wanted to lay down, to slump on a chair and cry from tears you were holding back. Was this why he wanted you to keep Sakura in her crib? To keep her from falling if you passed out?

Nothing but control, no care involved.

“Suguru…” You said, letting your tears fall down your cheeks freely. “Don’t believe it-”

“My wife, and my best friend.” Suguru sighed with exhaustion, like he was ready to give up. “It’s sort of poetic, really. My daughter isn’t related to me, but my wife’s affair partner. You two just didn’t sleep with each other to make her- well, maybe you did.”

Shaking your head became a second nature you wanted to forget the muscle memory. “Suguru we never did anything-”

He held up his hand to silence you. “Satoru, can you come back tomorrow? I’d like to talk to my wife, we’ll talk over things tomorrow… If you stay, I’m afraid that I’ll do something I’ll regret, and I don’t want to put you in the hospital right now.”

Satoru almost laughed, covering his mouth quickly to prevent it, all the while watching you and not his supposed best friend. “Alright… I’ll come by in the morning- look I’m sorry, I just had to do right by you when all this time I’d done wrong. I know you’ll never forgive me, but I need to make things right.”

“Just go.” Suguru waved him off and paid his attention to you. “Go upstairs, and put Sakura to bed and we’ll talk about this.”

Were you going insane, hallucinating or drunk? Suguru was an intelligent man, and he was just believing this bullshit as though it was gospel.

“Suguru-”

“Take her up to bed. I’ll be right up.”

You should have said no, stopped your feet from moving, but they were going without your brain telling them to. It left your mouth agape, unable to pay attention to anything around you until Satoru pulled you from it and stopped you in your tracks.

He whispered, but it was just loud enough that Suguru must have picked up on it. “Don’t worry, we’ll get this all sorted out, baby. Call me if you need anything.”

Whispering back was a result of psychological warfare. “Stay the fuck away from me and my daughter.”

You stormed off, stomping up the stairs unable to comprehend what just happened. Your husband suspected you of having an affair with his best friend, he believed it.

Sakura rested heavily on your chest, still and relaxed. When you reached the bedroom you took her right over to her crib and swadded her, pulling the pink fabric over her arms and legs, wrapping her up like a little potato and settled her in until she needed feeding again.

Then, you inhaled, struggling for air of the long drawn breath you had forgotten to take. You covered your mouth and sobbed into it, silently. The bed never felt so empty, hard and haggard, you sat down on it with a short bounce.

Your husband believed that you were cheating on him.

How do we come back from that? Can we even come back from this?

Satoru had ruined everything, every positively warm memory, each moment around your daughter, your marriage, your life. And your precious little girl knew nothing of it.

What if Suguru wanted to split up and divorce? She’d spend her life having two homes, two Christmases, two birthdays. No good memories with her mom and dad together because it became shadowed over the ghost of an affair that never happened.

She’d find out that Satoru was her biological father.

You rushed from the bed towards the bathroom, slipping through the bedroom door and barely making it over the toilet when you vomited. Panicking to pull your hair back, you wretched and hyperventilated, your life falling apart just as easily as the bile leaving your mouth. Everything hadn’t just fallen apart in a single evening, or a few weeks, maybe even months and you never knew.

You never knew.

I never knew anything.

When there was nothing left to bring up, you barely brushed your teeth and cleaned your face, noting how puffy your eyes were. No amount of makeup would cover it enough to stop your skin looking half dead.

“Oh my god-” You don’t know why, but you didn’t actually anticipate Suguru coming up like he said.

He sat on your side of the bed, watching his daughter sleep. You stood in the doorway unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to think.

“Come and sit next to me.” He said, patting the bed halfheartedly, about as much effort as he could muster.

“Suguru-“

“Please.”

You held your breath, padding over to bed to sit down with the pit of your stomach in your knees. The springs in the bed creaked under your weight, judging you for nonexistent actions and lies in Satoru’s web.

It was bullshit that you even had to defend yourself. “Suguru, what he said- the screenshots, all of its lies. Nothing happened.”

“I know.”

“He’s delusional and he- wait, what?”

“I know you’re telling the truth, honey.”

You sat there in a state of shock, holding yet another breath, another string of words you couldn’t quite get off your chest and lingered in your throat.

Suguru took your hand lovingly in his, keeping his tired eyes in the baby, blinking slow enough that his aching eyes began to weep.

“I'll be honest in saying I did suspect, and I’ll live with that guilt for the rest of my life for not trusting you, but I’m so tired… so exhausted… It was so difficult not letting those thoughts in.”

Despite Suguru’s explanation, you couldn’t shake away the sharp stab, a little shard of your heart chipping away. “I hope you know that I’d never do something so horrible.”

“I know, I know you wouldn’t… I should have seen this coming, the way Satoru was acting around you in the beginning- you were so oblivious to it. I just hoped he’d moved on, and for a while I thought he had.”

“What do you mean?” It was only after Sakura was born that things escalated.

Six weeks wasn’t long, but to a sleep deprived new mother, it may as well have been six years.

“The way he looked at you when we first started going out, he thought I never saw it, that I wasn’t paying attention, but I was. Then it stopped and I thought it was the end of that. But it hadn’t.”

This whole time. This whole fucking time, Satoru had his eye on you and you never knew. Well, how could you? It wasn’t like you were looking at him a whole lot. 

You remembered sitting there, meeting Satoru for the first time, meeting all of Suguru’s friends for the first time. Being nervous as hell, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans before greeting them. Satoru pulled you into a hug and no one corrected it, you chalked it up to being his regular behaviour.

Now, you couldn’t tell his own baseline.

“I never knew he watched me like that.”

Unsettling was an understatement, a poor use of the word. You thought of each interaction you could remember with Satoru being the main focus and never saw anything before Sakura’s birth of notoriety.

“I just ignored it, I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.” Suguru finally made eye contact, squeezing your hand with a firmness you felt safe in. “If I had, then maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“You didn’t know he was like this.”

He gave an amused huff in response. “Didn’t I?”

“What do you mean?”

Suguru cleared his throat and adjusted himself uncomfortably to avert his gaze from you once again. “Satoru had a girlfriend maybe two years before I met you. She was lovely, kind, and had a tendency to see the best in others… until she left him, after that, she told the friend group that he tried baby trapping her while they were together and was stalking her after the break up.”

Baby trapping? It was all beginning to make sense. But stalking a girl… what the fuck was he capable of?

“So… you pulled him up on that, right?”

He shook his head slowly, so much regret over his eyes. “He played it off, said she was unstable and needed help. He said she cheated on him and ran off with this prick on the other side of the country… but now I’m doubting what is true and what isn’t. Not after the way he spoke to you.”

“You heard?”

“Well, after I suspected you two were-“ He stopped himself from saying it. “I put a recorder in the bedroom, because I wanted to get proof- please don’t think bad of me- I didn’t know what to do.”

“I don’t judge you for it, love. But what I’m confused about is why you thought I was messing around in the first place.”

Suguru ran his fingertip over the edge of Sakura's little nose, she sucked lips together. “It was all Satoru, he would act strange when I got back from work while you were up putting Sakura to sleep, or he’d pay you a compliment out of ear shot. And then I found your underwear in his car, he shoved it in his pocket when I brought it up and he said that he’d been seeing someone new.”

It unsettled you to even ask. “How did you know they were mine?”

He sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose as though to prepare himself. “They were part of the set I bought you for our anniversary last year.”

You gasped, covering your mouth so as to not wake your daughter up. The missing underwear you thought you misplaced, never suspected that they were stolen. Satoru had been rifling through your underwear drawer. That man had touched your intimate clothing, looked at everything else that you had stashed away in there, like your adult toys and spare lube when nights got steamy. Satoru had seen it all.

Fuck- fucking fuck.

“What do we do, Suguru? This is fucked up.”

"Fuck... why did he do this to me? to us? He was my ride or die." Suguru turned to you, closer than he had been before, A saddened gaze and caressing your cheek to settle you. “We’ll need to play him at his own game… I won’t allow him to tear our family apart, even if he was my best friend."

You knew then, that the amount of effort it would have taken to just get Suguru’s name on the birth certificate was less than what was to come.

Why didn’t we just get it changed like we wanted to?

Even if you did, something told you Satoru wouldn’t have just rolled over if you actually went through with it.

He was more insidious than that.

Part 2 <- Part 3 -> Part 4

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DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[gotxpenny]

Every Line We Crossed

WWII. Bad timing. Worse decisions. Long stares across war rooms, a translator who speaks four languages and still can’t find the right words, and Lewis Nixon who drinks too much and feels too much. It’s tense. It’s messy. It’s that kind of almost-love that was doomed from the start—but God, did it burn.

Pairing: Lewis Nixon x Reader

Prompt: "You think I don’t know how wrong this is? But I never once wanted something so badly.”

Word Count: ~3,400

Genre: Fluff/Angst, hurt/comfort, slowburn, TENSION

Setting: Berchtesgaden, Germany

Note || sooooo i blacked out and this fic wrote itself. it’s soft, it’s messy, it’s a little emotionally unstable—kinda like lewis nixon with a whiskey bottle. if you’ve ever wanted to scream “just kiss already!!” at two fictional characters flirting, this one’s for you. enjoy the tension. blame harry welsh for the commentary. and remember: no war room was harmed in the making of this aggressively tender meltdown <3 (also, speirs slapping people into silence? peak behavior.)

gotxpenny's masterlist band of brothers masterlist

They met in the dark.

Toccoa wasn’t dark in the literal sense—Georgia was too hot and raw for that. But something about war always shaded the air around it, even in the training camps. And in the middle of all the barked orders and scraped knees, he noticed her.

Y/N, the translator. The one who was always flipping through thick, dog-eared notebooks of German, French, Italian, and—what surprised him most—Yiddish. It wasn’t her fluency that first caught Lewis Nixon’s eye. It was her silence. She was sharp, but measured. Bright, but never eager to show off. She spoke like every word mattered. Like every thought had a weight. And something about that haunted him.

Maybe it was because he had never been very good at thinking before he spoke.

She was softness in a world built to crush it.

Nixon never quite understood how she made it this far, not because she wasn’t capable—God, she was terrifyingly capable—but because she carried herself like someone untouched by the rot of war. While the rest of them had started to harden, crack, even lose shape entirely, she still somehow managed to be kind. Gentle. There was steel in her, yes—but it was quiet. Forged into her spine, not worn like armour.

And she was small. A fact that made him ache more than it should’ve. Her uniform was always a size too big, sleeves rolled twice over and pant legs cuffed just so. Her helmet sat crooked more often than not, slipping too low over her eyes like it belonged to someone else. Which, of course, it probably did. Everything the Army gave her looked borrowed. Too harsh. Too impersonal. As if the world didn’t quite know what to do with someone like her.

He remembered Normandy.

They were crouched in the hedgerows, mud thick on their boots, sky still bruised from the drop. She had landed rough and hard, scraped and breathless, helmet practically swallowing her whole head. He’d spotted her half a mile away just from the way she moved—calm, sure, but dragging her radio pack like it weighed more than she did.

“You sure you weren’t supposed to land with the field mice?” he’d called out, grinning as she emerged from the brush beside him.

She had shoved her helmet up with a huff, eyes narrowed beneath it, “You’re hilarious.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, nudging her boot with his, “You might be the first paratrooper in history who could hide in someone’s pocket.”

She’d flipped him off.

He’d fallen in love a little.

Even then, soaked in rain and war, she looked like something too good for this place. And Lewis Nixon—hungover, jaded, already a little ruined—knew damn well he had no business wanting her.

He tried not to. Tried to drown it in the usual ways—brown liquor, black humor, buried glances. But she kept being there. With her quiet tenacity, her sleeves always too long, her voice calm even when half the room was losing their heads. She translated enemy reports like they were puzzles, threading through languages like silk, and sometimes—just sometimes—she’d look up at him while she spoke, and he swore it felt like confession.

Now, in a dim room littered with maps and wires and the stale weight of smoke, she was talking again. Something about troop movement east of Remagen. He couldn’t focus. Not with her sitting that close, lips moving, hair tucked beneath a helmet that still never fit right.

He wasn’t hearing a word of it.

He was watching the way she bit the inside of her cheek when reading aloud, the faint crinkle in her brow when she stumbled on a dialect shift. He was watching her mouth, mostly. And wondering what it would take to close the distance.

She paused. Blinked at him.

“Are you even listening?”

The room wasn’t quiet—papers rustled, boots scraped, the typewriter clacked faintly in the next room—but her voice sliced through it all.

Nixon blinked. She was sitting across from him at the table, fingers resting on a handwritten enemy communiqué she had just translated aloud. Dick Winters, beside her, was methodically flipping through another set of files. Speirs leaned in his chair, unreadable as always. Harry Welsh was too amused to be useful.

But Nixon wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

He was staring at her lips.

“Nope,” he said, shameless. His whiskey-laced grin curled at the corners, “But if you’d like to repeat yourself—maybe a little slower this time—I promise I’ll hang on every word like it’s scripture.”

Y/N’s mouth opened. Then shut. Then flushed.

She hated how easily he got under her skin.

It wasn’t just the smirk—the one that never quite reached his eyes—or the way he always smelled like a mix of cigarette smoke, damp wool, and something warmer, something him. It wasn’t even the fact that he could be infuriatingly charming when he wanted to be, which was often, and usually when she was trying to be professional.

It was everything else.

It was how he looked at her like she was something he meant to find. Like she wasn’t just some Army-assigned translator in a war room full of men trying not to fall apart, but something important. Something good. And she hated that, because she knew he had no right to look at her like that—not with that ring on his finger. Not with that kind of baggage bleeding into everything he touched.

She had tried to keep her distance after Normandy. Told herself it was just adrenaline. Just the intimacy of surviving. A man like Lewis Nixon didn’t mean the things he said when there was whiskey in his breath and smoke in the air. And she didn’t want to be one more mistake he tried to drink away.

But it never stopped.

He kept circling back to her. In the mess, at debriefings, brushing past her in narrow halls just close enough to make her breath hitch. He was never overt—not really—but he lingered. In looks. In jokes. In late-night silences that made her stomach twist.

And worst of all?

She liked it.

She liked him.

The way he was sharp and broken in equal measure. The way he let his guard down around her, just a little, like she was the one person who wouldn’t try to fix him or leave him worse.

She flushed now—not from his words, but from the heat of wanting something she knew she couldn’t have.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, mostly to herself. 

Because if she let herself fall any deeper into this, she didn’t know if she’d survive it.

“She’s gonna stab you with her pen,” Speirs said dryly, not even looking up.

“Oh, come on,” Nixon teased, chin in hand now, eyes fixed on her with that glint—playful, yes. But something darker too, “You know I’m not the only one who enjoys hearing you talk, sweetheart.”

There was a beat of silence after Nixon spoke—just long enough to feel loaded.

Dick Winters didn’t even look up from the report in front of him. His jaw ticked slightly, but he said nothing, flipping a page with the same crisp precision as always. Still, anyone who knew him could read the warning in that subtle shift: Careful, Nix.

Speirs, leaning against the windowsill with arms crossed, gave a barely audible snort. He didn’t say much—he never did—but the slight upward tug at the corner of his mouth said enough. Amusement. Disbelief. Maybe even a touch of curiosity, like he was watching a slow-burning fuse and wondering when it would reach the powder.

“I am this close to translating something wrong on purpose and letting Speirs go in guns blazing,” she shot back.

Harry leaned forward suddenly, lips twitching, “Okay, is anyone gonna say it or should I?”

“No,” Winters warned preemptively, still reading.

Harry ignored him. Harry Welsh dropped his pencil with a clatter and let out a laugh that was far too loud for the room, “Jesus, Nix,” he grinned, rubbing a hand down his face, “You flirting or interrogating? You two look like you're about five seconds away from tearing each other's clothes off or tearing each other’s throats out—I can’t tell which.”

“Harry,” Dick warned, sharper this time, finally looking up.

But Harry just held up his hands innocently, eyes wide, “What? I’m just saying. You two look like you're about five seconds away from aggressively making out,” he said cheerfully, “Which, for the record, is what usually happens when Kitty and I argue like this. Except sometimes, y’know, we just go ahead and fuck.”

That shut everyone up—including Y/N, who went still as stone, her cheeks going crimson.

Nixon just chuckled, slow and low, not taking his eyes off her.

And that—that—was what made Dick finally close the file with a firm snap.

Winters slowly lifted his eyes and gave Harry the look.

“Shutting up,” Harry said immediately, hands up.

But the damage was done.

She didn’t say another word for the rest of the debriefing. And Nixon? He stopped pretending to read and started drinking in silence.

The silence that followed was long enough to stretch.

Dick, still holding the closed file in both hands, looked between them—first at Nixon, who had resumed nursing his canteen of whiskey with deliberate ease, and then at Y/N, who sat stiff in her chair, jaw clenched, staring furiously down at the translated report like it might burst into flames under her glare.

“You two need to figure out whatever this is,” Winters said evenly, not unkind but firm, “Before it starts affecting more than just the mood in the room,” it wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a warning. It was a statement. Clear. Measured. But sharp enough to cut through whatever tension had wrapped itself around them.

Speirs, still lounging against the windowsill, piped up without looking over, “Just make sure it doesn’t affect enemy intel either. I’d hate to walk into a death trap because Nix was too busy trying to undress someone with his eyes.”

Y/N made a sound—half laugh, half exasperated groan, “You know what really affects intel?” she snapped, glaring at Nixon now, “The fact that this one never pays attention. I could be translating Hitler’s funeral plans and he’d still be staring at my goddamn mouth instead of the map.”

Harry choked on a laugh but covered it with a cough. Speirs raised an eyebrow. Dick didn't react—his expression unreadable—but the silence deepened around them, the air turning almost too still.

And then, without thinking—again—Lewis spoke.

Low. Careless. Raw.

“Can you blame me?”

The words hung there.

Not teasing. Not grinning.

Just true.

Everyone froze.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. She didn’t move, didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Harry actually whistled under his breath.

Even Speirs straightened just slightly, the ghost of a smirk fading from his face.

Dick stared at Nixon for a long moment. And when he finally spoke, it was quiet.

“Out. Both of you.”

“But—” Y/N started.

“Out,” Dick repeated, without raising his voice.

Nixon stood slowly. No jokes this time. No grin.

Just those dark eyes, flicking to her like a storm ready to break.

Y/N followed, every step like walking on ice.

The door shut behind them, and the room fell into stunned silence.

“…Told you,” Harry muttered, “Aggressively making out. Five seconds.”

The hallway outside the debriefing room was dim, narrow, and oppressively quiet. The only sound was the low hum of distant generators and the dull buzz still ringing in Y/N’s ears from what Lewis had just said.

Can you blame me?

She hadn’t expected it—not like that. Not with that look on his face. Not with that truth in his voice.

She marched a few paces ahead of him, arms crossed tightly over her chest, trying to keep her expression neutral. Professional. Unbothered. But her heart was beating too loud and too fast and too hopeful, and that made her furious.

Lewis followed behind her with slower steps, the rhythm of his boots uneven, like even he wasn’t sure where this was going.

Finally, halfway down the corridor, she stopped and spun on him.

“You’re an idiot,” she hissed.

He stopped too, head tilted, “That’s fair.”

“And you can’t say shit like that in front of everyone!”

His brow lifted, slow and unreadable, “I didn’t plan on saying it, Y/N.”

“You never plan anything, Lewis,” she snapped, “You drink, and you stare, and you flirt like you don’t care who’s watching—like this is some goddamn game. But it’s not. You have a wife. You—”

“I know,” he said quietly. Firmly, “I know I do.”

That stilled her.

And it was the way he said it—not defensive, not deflecting—that made her heart twist.

She looked at him for a long second, trying to read past the shadows under his eyes and the way his shoulders sagged slightly, like carrying the weight of it all had finally started wearing him down.

“Then why?” she whispered, barely audible.

Lewis took a step closer. Then another. Close enough now that she had to tilt her chin up slightly to meet his gaze.

“Because you’re the only thing that still feels real,” he said, voice low, steady, “Everything else is noise. The war, the drinking, the mistakes I’ve made. But when you walk into a room—when you talk, even if I don’t listen like I should—you cut through it. You make me feel like I haven’t completely drowned yet. You think I don’t know how wrong this is?” he said, voice low, “But I never once wanted something so badly.”

She stared at him, heart pounding. Y/N’s throat tightened. She hated how part of her wanted to lean into him. Hated how part of her believed every word.

Her voice trembled, “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“I have to,” he said, “Because if I don’t say it now, I might never get the chance.”

Silence settled again. Not awkward. Not angry.

Just heavy.

The silence stretched, thick and weighted, as they stood in that dim hallway between two breaths, between two choices.

Y/N dropped her gaze first. Not because she was weak—but because if she kept looking at him like that, she was afraid she’d fall into something she couldn’t climb back out of, “I hate the way you drink,” she said suddenly, the words slipping out before she could catch them.

Nixon blinked. It was the first time her voice had truly cut—not teasing, not playful, not distant. Just honest.

“I know,” he said quietly.

But she wasn’t done, “I don’t mean the smell or the slurring,” she whispered, eyes still fixed on the floor, “I hate what it does to you. How it dulls everything good. How it makes you forget what you’ve got. How it—” her voice cracked, just slightly, “How it makes you look right through me some nights like I’m not even real.”

He stiffened. That stopped him. Like the world had hit pause. Not because he was offended. Not because he didn’t know it was true. But because it was the first time she’d said it. 

Out loud. No jokes. No sarcasm. No safe distance.

And she wasn’t afraid of him. She wasn’t afraid he’d hurt her.

She was afraid he was already hurting himself.

“You’ll drink yourself to pieces, Lew,” she added, softer now, “And I don’t want to watch you drown when I know I’d still reach for you, even as you dragged me under.”

He stared at her, stunned quiet.

Then he stepped forward.

One slow, deliberate step.

“I’ll stop,” he said, “If you want me to. I’ll stop.”

Her eyes met his again, uncertain. Hope flickering at the edges of fear, “You’ve said that before,” she whispered, “To other people.”

“I didn’t mean it before,” Lewis murmured, and this time, he reached out—gently, firmly—and took her by the wrists, pulling her just close enough that her breath caught. His voice was rough, but clear, “I promise,” he said, eyes locked on hers, like if he said it with enough conviction, it might undo all the wreckage behind him.

Y/N looked up at him, her heart in her throat.

And for the first time in a long time, Lewis Nixon wasn’t running from anything.

She stared into his eyes and saw everything she’d been trying so hard not to feel.

Not just the want—that had always been there, simmering beneath every careless smirk and lingering glance—but the ache. The quiet desperation. The way he looked at her like she was the only clean thing left in a world that had gone to hell.

And for a second—just one painful, electric second—she wondered how long he’d been carrying this weight alone. How long she had.

She’d fought it for months. For reasons that were good and right and solid. He was married. He was self-destructive. He drank too much. He flirted too easily. He lived like he didn’t think he’d make it to the end of the war—and most days, neither did she.

But in this moment, all of that fell away.

Because this wasn’t about logic. It wasn’t about rules. It wasn’t about what was right or wrong or what the others would think.

It was about now.

Because he said he would stop. Because he meant it. Because for once, he wasn’t trying to charm his way out of the truth—he was facing it. Because his eyes were steady and open, and all she saw there was her.

And maybe it would end badly.

Maybe it would fall apart.

But for once, she wasn’t afraid of falling.

Because somewhere along the way—between the war and the silences and all the almosts—she’d already fallen.

So before she could talk herself out of it, before fear clawed its way back in, Y/N grabbed the front of his jacket, pulled him down to her—and kissed him like it was the only thing keeping them both alive.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t slow.

It was years of tension igniting all at once—messy and breathless and real. He responded instantly, hands fisting in her sleeves, mouth desperate against hers like he’d been waiting his whole life for permission.

When they finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, she whispered, “This doesn’t fix anything.”

“I know,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over her cheek, “But it doesn’t make it any less true.”

She didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t let go.

Inside the debriefing room, the air had settled again, though the tension still clung faintly to the walls like smoke after a fire.

Dick Winters sat stiffly at the table, arms folded, his expression unreadable but his eyes fixed on the closed door that Y/N and Nixon had just walked through. The silence that followed their exit had stretched too long—long enough that it was impossible not to wonder what was happening on the other side.

Harry, who had tried to focus on the scattered intel pages in front of him for all of three seconds, leaned back in his chair with a smug little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He waited.

Waited just a bit longer.

Then, with a small cough and no particular sense of timing or shame, he said, “So...we all heard that kiss, right?”

Dick didn’t move. Speirs raised one brow, unimpressed.

“I mean,” Harry added, throwing his hands up casually, “I did say they were about five seconds away from aggressively making out. You all laughed—except Speirs, who doesn’t have emotions—but I was right.”

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose.

Speirs looked directly at Harry, expression as deadpan as ever, then reached out and slapped the back of his head with a sharp thwap.

“Ow— what the hell, Ron?!”

“That’s for being insufferable,” Speirs said flatly, “And for the phrase ‘aggressively making out.’”

Harry rubbed the back of his head, muttering, “Still accurate.”

Dick finally exhaled, the barest flicker of something like resigned concern crossing his face, “This is going to complicate everything,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Speirs gave a lazy shrug, “Could be worse.”

Harry perked up, “Yeah, at least it wasn’t in here. I’d never be able to sit in this room again if they’d started ripping uniforms off.”

Dick gave him the look again.

Harry shut up. Briefly.

But the door stayed closed.

And none of them said it out loud—but they all knew something had changed.

For better or worse…that line had finally been crossed.

[duke-of-envy]

*Duke couldn’t meet her eyes. Her body trembled, anger tangled with exhaustion, fear mixing with a deep ache of empowerment. The dull throb in her veins was shoved aside as adrenaline surged in its place. Chandler didn’t get to play the survival card - not when Duke was the one barely holding it together. She was greedy, insatiable, and every word out of her mouth sounded wrong. Duke blinked hard, nurturing the feeling of something fierce in her chest. Chandler didn’t scare her anymore, at least, not until she actually realized how depleted she really was.*

“Oh, right - the mythic bitch turns undead and suddenly I’m supposed to what? Throw a fucking pity party? Do you even see me, or am I just your blood bag with a half-decent wardrobe? I swear, one second you’re tearing me down like it’s your damn hobby, and the next you’re licking my neck like you’re Ram Sweeney. It’s disgusting, Heather.”

*Heather's eyes locked on Chandler’s exposed fangs, her glare sharp despite the weakness in her limbs. Duke could feel something flicker inside her at the glint of Chandler’s fangs - a pitiful, desperate show of dominance dressed up as control. Pathetic. Duke was starting to find her footing now, and she wouldn’t be backing down.*

“Not just the fang fetish, but the part where you pretend any of this isn’t ruining me too.”

*She’d take a moment to catch her breath, her hand stabilizing herself against the cold tile counter as her gaze lifted to meet Chandlers eyes.*

“And still… you try to guilt me. Like I’ve never worried about you. Like Heather and I didn’t go to war just to keep the psycho who tried to kill you out of the damn building. Even when we thought you were dead.”

*She took a moment to wrangle in her thoughts, steering her words away from any vulnerability. She had hated those nights, how she had slept over at McNamara’s practically every night, the two somehow ending up in her bed, the girl clinging to her with each police press report that played over the radio, and every gust of wind outside. They had put that behind them, Heather was alive now - or at-least as close to it as she could be.*

“I saw you, Chandler - before all of this. You moved like a ghost, dead, inside and out. I watched you stumble around like some dethroned queen, lost in your own damn castle, dazed and staggering through as if your crown didn’t fit anymore. If I wanted you gone? Maybe I would’ve started there. But I didn’t.”

*Her voice cracked, the weight of pain seeping through her carefully built defenses. For a moment, the fierce mask slipped, revealing the fragile girl beneath - afraid, tired, but still holding on.*

“None of this would’ve ever happened if I had, this negligence, greed, abuse, borderline controlling possessiveness wouldn’t had spiraled into existence. If think I want you gone that badly, you should know I would’ve started there.”

*Duke smirked, but it wasn’t as biting as usual. The exhaustion in her eyes didn’t stop the venom lacing her words. She leaned into the blunt truth like a shield. The fear was slowly starting to settle in, with each word it dug itself under her skin, with each glance to Heathers lips she noticed the fangs devastating sharpness. Duke tried using her precision tone to hide how close she was to conceding, and running back into Heathers arms, thinking about how far she truly had pushed this - and maybe if falling into the girl with her neck barred would make her forget about it all.*

*The fluorescent lights of the bathroom gleamed down on the two of them, Heather Duke and Heather Chandler in a more than vulnerable position. Duke’s knees buckled, and the cold tile dug into her back as she’s pressed against the counter. Her fists are clenched white at her sides, she could never do the intimacy of having her hands be anywhere else, even the idea of having her fingers laced in fancy red fabric that practically burned for her touch felt like a sin. Her head was tilted back as if she was pleading with a god. Except the only god she knew of in this moment was Heather Chandler, the woman who was currently latched onto her neck. Her fangs sunk in deep, and chilled body frozen up against Duke. Chandler bit like she was starving, like Duke was something she hated and wanted just as badly. Her typical slow control, and assertion of power played its devastating hand at tearing Duke down, and it felt as if the bite agonizingly built her back together, piece by broken piece.*

“Oh- my god..Heather. Come on-“

*It came out like a prayer, the perfect whining undertone slipping through her voice. It showed just how unserious about it she was. How maybe she didn’t want it to stop just yet. A vampire, feeding on her, and she didn’t even try to push her off - even if it stung. Even if it fucking drained her of everything she had. She knew she shook and writhed in pain, that it ached and lit her veins on fire in a feeling not much could compare to. She could never trust Heather not to socially crucify her, and yet here she was trusting the undead with her own life. Except maybe in a dark and sick way, it had felt different recently, and maybe, Duke thought, that it meant Chandler was slowly dragging her down to hell with her, one blood drawing at a time.*

*It had become a ritual by now, and she hated how special it made her feel. She knew that the mythic bitch only drank her blood, or maybe she just convinced herself of that - she’d rather live in denial than face the music of Chandler being latched onto somebody else like this. Duke knew it wasn’t for nutrition either, the girl barely ate enough food to sustain herself - much less to have anything substantial in her bloodstream for Heather to feed on. God, maybe she wasn’t enough, and damn it - she should’ve kept down lunch. Maybe it would’ve satisfied Heather, and maybe this wouldn’t happen as often - but Duke knew no matter what happened, at the end of the day she’d be drained, and left feeling empty inside.*

“This is a mess, Chandler.”

*Her voice came out sharp and cracked, like glass under pressure. Everything felt tight and strangled, as she held back a gasp - cold lips pressed against her pulse point like a warning, or an invitation. Her back arched slightly, and she hated how she shook. Her hands moved to grip the edge of the counter behind her, knuckles white, trying to stay upright - trying to pretend this didn’t shatter her from the inside out.*

“Fuck, I should hate this.. you’re messed up- just tell me you’re done, tell me I’m still me-“

*She pushed at the shoulder in-front of her weakly, with no real force, and no power or meaning behind it. Maybe her words meant nothing, or maybe the difference she was starting to feel was taking a toll on her. The sting of Chandler’s icy lips, and her fangs that pierced deeply into her neck burned. Nothing could compare to her first bite, and nothing could compare to the feeling now. She could hear her own heart beat, and it ate at her just like how Chandler was now. It echoed, strong and willing as it pumped around what Heather now considered to be liquid gold through her body. She held back a cry, refusing to give Chandler the satisfaction of seeing her undone.*

*In these fragile moments, Duke opted not to breathe. Chandlers scent choked the air, flanking Duke with every breath of air. Her scent could wake the dead, and suffocate anyone dumb enough to drink it in. Heather was too intoxicating. The girl drew her in - even after drawing blood - and it was a pull too dangerous for Duke to fuel, and something she absolutely forbade the idea of entertaining- even when she felt lost late at night, lying awake without the girl clad in red not pressed coldly against her in a feral feeding liturgy - wondering if maybe she was awake too, itching to come over. Maybe that’s why she always kept her window unlocked, even if the myths were true that vampires need invited it, Heather had already invited herself into Dukes mind and body like a plague. So Heather could go ahead and leave her mark, and leave the patchy bruise that tauntingly dances across her throat, because it never truly mattered what Chandler ever left, because she never left anything good behind.*

< @vqmpchan >

[your-friendly-neighbourh00d-fag]

deadly trilogy. you understand.

[chaosmultiverse-a]

smash or pass + bart // for slobo ………

Slobo sat and pondered this for maybe longer than one expect, his relationship with sex was a weird one.

"...Smash? I guess? If he wanted to then yes."

[enhaflixer]

Touché - DATING YOU TO DISTRACT YOU BUT GETS DISTRACTED FIRST

Academic Rival!Jake x f!Reader (Smut, Crack, Fluff) MDNI 18+ ENHA HARD HOURS

Jake Sim has one job—beat you in the race for the Harrison Fellowship. His strategy? Get close. Get under your skin. Get you too distracted to focus. His method? Kissing you stupid. Pressing you against walls. Finding out exactly how far he can push before you snap. The problem? You like to push back. Now, between tangled sheets, heated arguments, and “just one more time” turning into every damn night, Jake’s got a new problem. He’s not thinking about winning anymore. He’s thinking about you. 💔 “This was supposed to be a game. So why do I feel like I’m the one getting played?”

-

You drum your fingers against the desk, watching Professor Martinez pace at the front of the lecture hall. The midterm papers are stacked neatly in his arms, and you can practically feel the anxiety radiating off the two hundred students packed into the room.

But you're not anxious. Not really.

You know exactly what score awaits you—the same score you've received on every major assessment since freshman year: the highest in the class.

Your eyes drift across the lecture hall to where Jake Sim sits, surrounded by his usual entourage. Even now, minutes before receiving a grade that could make or break their GPA, they're laughing at something he's said. The sound of his rich laughter carries across the room, drawing more than a few admiring glances.

Jake Sim. Campus golden boy. The kind of person who walks into a room and immediately owns it. The kind of student professors mention in other classes. The kind of face that appears on university brochures—which it literally does, as he's been the unofficial "face" of the university's marketing materials since sophomore year.

He's also the only person who's ever come close to beating your scores.

"Before I hand these back," Professor Martinez says, silencing the murmurs, "I want to discuss the grade distribution."

He clicks to display a graph on the projector screen. The curve looks normal enough, with a significant peak around the B-range.

"As you can see, the class average was 78.4," he continues. "We had a standard deviation of approximately 12 points. However—" he pauses, adjusting his glasses, "—we also had two outliers."

The next slide shows the same curve with two dots far to the right of the main distribution. Your throat tightens with a familiar tension.

Jake's eyes meet yours across the lecture hall. His expression is casual, but you recognize the intensity in his gaze. This is what it's always been like between you two: a silent acknowledgment of the competition that's defined your college experience.

"Our top two scores," Professor Martinez announces, "were separated by only half a point."

The room stills. This is closer than usual.

You see Jake sit up straighter, his perfectly coiffed hair catching the light as he leans forward. Even from across the room, you can see the flash of white teeth as he grins confidently. His friends nudge him, already assuming victory.

"Mr. Sim scored an impressive 98.2," Professor Martinez says, and a ripple of impressed murmurs spreads through the lecture hall.

Jake's golden-boy smile widens as he accepts congratulatory shoulder pats from his friends. He hasn't looked at you yet, clearly believing he's finally done it—finally beaten you.

"And Ms. L/N—" Professor Martinez pauses, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, "—scored a 98.7."

The half-point difference might as well be a chasm.

Jake's smile freezes in place, his dark eyes immediately seeking yours as the realization hits him. He's lost. Again. By the slimmest of margins.

You allow yourself a small, satisfied smile before looking down at your notebook, pretending to be humble about your victory. But inside, you're savoring the moment. It never gets old, watching the golden boy settle for silver.

After class, you take your time gathering your materials, accepting quiet congratulations from a few classmates. Unlike Jake, you don't have an entourage. You have acquaintances, study partners occasionally, but your focus has always been on achievement rather than popularity.

As you make your way up the steps of the lecture hall, you sense someone behind you. You don't need to turn to know who it is—you can tell from the expensive cologne and the sudden hushed whispers of nearby students watching the university's academic rivals in proximity.

"Congratulations," Jake says, falling into step beside you as you exit into the hallway. His voice carries none of the warmth it does when he's with his friends. "Half a point. Must be nice."

"It is," you reply coolly, clutching your midterm paper with its red 98.7% circled at the top. "Maybe next time."

Jake stops walking, forcing you to stop too unless you want to seem like you're fleeing. You turn to face him, noting the way his dark hair falls perfectly across his forehead despite the late afternoon humidity that has your own hair frizzing at the edges.

"There's always the final," he says, his voice lowering into something almost like a threat. "And the Harrison Fellowship application is due next month. Midterms are just one battle."

You raise an eyebrow. "A battle you lost."

Something flashes in his eyes—not anger exactly, but frustration mingled with something else. Challenge, perhaps. Determination.

"This isn't over," he says, his voice carrying just enough for a few passing students to slow down, sensing drama between the two top students.

"Never said it was," you reply with a sweet smile, hugging your perfect test paper to your chest.

Jake maintains eye contact for a moment longer than comfortable, then breaks into the easy, charismatic smile that's plastered across half the campus publications. The sudden shift is disorienting, his intensity disappearing behind his golden-boy mask so quickly you almost doubt it was ever there.

"See you in Advanced Statistical Methods tomorrow," he says cheerfully, as if your competition is just friendly banter. "Front row as usual?"

"Where else?" you respond, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.

He winks—actually winks—before turning to join his waiting friends, who immediately surround him like a protective bubble of popularity. You watch him go, telling yourself the flutter in your stomach is just the satisfaction of victory, not a reaction to those dark eyes or that practiced wink.

One of Jake's friends says something that makes the whole group laugh, and you catch Jake glancing back at you before joining in. Something about his expression makes you uneasy, like he's not quite done with this interaction.

You shake off the feeling and head toward the library. The Harrison Fellowship application won't write itself, and you'll need to maintain your perfect GPA if you want to beat Jake Sim for that too.

What you don't realize, as you push through the heavy library doors, is that Jake is watching you go, his mind already formulating a plan that has nothing to do with studying—and everything to do with making sure you don't beat him again.

-

Jake closes his apartment door behind him and leans against it, loosening his tie with a frustrated jerk. The congratulatory words from his friends still ring hollow in his ears. Second place. Again.

"Damn it," he mutters, tossing his backpack onto the couch. His roommate looks up from his laptop, eyebrows raised.

"Let me guess. You didn't beat her again?"

Jake shoots him a glare that would silence anyone else, but Ethan has been his best friend since orientation week. He's immune.

"Half a point," Jake says, collapsing into an armchair. "Half a freaking point."

Ethan whistles. "That's close, though. Closest you've gotten."

"Close doesn't get me the Harrison Fellowship," Jake snaps, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up for the first time all day. "Close doesn't get me into Stanford. Close is just another word for failure."

"Dramatic much?" Ethan chuckles, turning back to his computer.

But Jake isn't listening anymore. He's staring at the ceiling, where he's pinned his vision board—Stanford acceptance letter (photoshopped, for now), Harrison Fellowship certificate (also photoshopped), summer internship offer from Goldman Sachs (real, but he turned it down for a research position), and a cutout from last semester's dean's list (where your name appeared just above his).

A slow smile spreads across his face as an idea forms.

"I need to change tactics," he says, sitting up straight.

Ethan glances over. "What do you mean?"

Jake jumps up and begins pacing, energy suddenly radiating from him. "I've been trying to beat her on a level playing field, but that's clearly not working."

"So what, you're going to cheat?" Ethan frowns.

"No, nothing like that," Jake says, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm going to... distract."

Ethan closes his laptop, now fully invested in the conversation. "Distract how?"

Jake's smile grows wider, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I'm going to ask her out."

Ethan stares at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. "You're joking."

"I'm completely serious," Jake says, grabbing his planner from his backpack and flipping it open. "Think about it—if she's spending time with me, that's less time studying. If I can get under her skin, disrupt that perfect focus..."

"That's cold, man," Ethan says, though he sounds impressed. "Even for you."

Jake shrugs, already jotting down ideas. "It's not personal. It's strategic."

"And what if she says no?" Ethan challenges.

Jake looks up, his signature confidence returning. He runs a hand through his hair, instantly restoring it to its usual perfection, and flashes the smile that got him voted "Most Likely to Succeed" three years running.

"No one says no to Jake Sim," he says with a wink.

Over the next hour, Jake crafts what he considers the perfect plan. He maps out your study schedule based on when he's seen you at the library. He notes your usual coffee spots, your preferred study locations, even which days you attend office hours. He's been your competition long enough to know your habits.

"Phase one: casual coffee," he mutters, writing it down. "Phase two: study dates. Phase three: actual dates."

Ethan watches with growing concern. "You know, most people just ask someone out because they like them."

"I do like her," Jake says absently, still planning. "I like beating her."

"You sound abusive."

"You know what I mean."

"And what happens when midterms are over? When you've gotten what you want?"

Jake looks up, genuinely confused. "Then I end it, obviously."

Ethan shakes his head. "You're going to fall on your face with this one, Sim."

"Watch me," Jake replies, holding up his planner with a flourish. Every hour of the next two weeks is now color-coded and annotated with his "Distraction Campaign."

He's never been more excited about a project in his life. The Harrison Fellowship is as good as his. And the look on your face when he finally beats you? He can already imagine it, can already feel the sweet satisfaction of victory.

What Jake doesn't account for is the possibility that his perfect plan might have one fatal flaw: himself.

-

The next morning, you're settling into your usual spot in the library's northeast corner—the one with the perfect combination of natural light and distance from foot traffic—when a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision.

"Americano, extra shot, light room for cream. That's your usual, right?"

You look up to find Jake standing there, holding not one but two cups of coffee, dressed in a blue button-down that makes his eyes seem impossibly dark in comparison. His hair is artfully tousled, and he's wearing the smile that graces the university's promotional materials.

"How do you know my coffee order?" you ask, suspicious.

Jake shrugs, sliding the cup toward you. "I notice things."

"Like my study schedule?" You glance pointedly at your books, then back at him.

"Actually, that's why I'm here." Jake pulls out the chair across from you without waiting for an invitation. "I was thinking we could study together for the Advanced Statistical Methods final."

You nearly choke on your first sip of coffee. "Study together? You and me?"

"Why not? We're the top two students. It makes sense."

It makes absolutely no sense. You and Jake have been academic rivals since freshman year. Studying together would be like a gazelle inviting a cheetah to dinner.

"What's your angle?" you ask bluntly.

Jake places a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "Can't a guy just want to collaborate with a fellow academic?"

"A guy, yes. You? No."

His smile shifts into something more genuine—smaller but reaching his eyes. "Fair enough. But I'm serious. Professor Rivera's finals are legendary. Even I could use some help with time series analysis."

God, I'm good, Jake thinks, mentally congratulating himself. The humble approach is working perfectly. A little vulnerability, a touch of self-deprecation, and she's already softening. Time series analysis? Please. I memorized that chapter last week. But she doesn't need to know that. Step one of the Distraction Campaign is officially in motion.

Against your better judgment, you agree. You tell yourself it's because you can keep an eye on him this way, maybe even figure out his study techniques.

By the fourth study session, you're beginning to regret your decision. Not because Jake is unpleasant company—quite the opposite. The problem is that nothing gets done when he's around.

"So if we apply the Durbin-Watson statistic here—" you begin, only to be interrupted by Jake's phone buzzing for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all as he checks the message. "Study group chat. They're trying to figure out where to meet later."

"You have another study group today?" you ask, exasperated.

"No, tonight's the Alpha Delta Pi mixer. I'm helping set up." He flashes that campus celebrity smile. "You should come."

"Pass," you say, trying to refocus on your notes. "Some of us prioritize academics."

"All work and no play," Jake tsks, leaning back in his chair. His foot nudges yours under the table—accidentally? You can't tell.

"Can we please get back to time series analysis?"

"Sure, sure," he concedes, but within minutes, he's tapping his pen rhythmically against the textbook, creating a distracting beat.

You grab the pen from his hand. "Jake. Focus."

He grins. "Sorry. Did you know you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you're concentrating? It's cute."

The comment throws you so completely that you lose your place in your notes. Jake takes advantage of your momentary disorientation to check his phone again.

"Don't you have a system?" you ask, frustration mounting. "A study schedule? Notes? Anything?"

Jake laughs. "I have a photographic memory. I just need to read through something once."

You stare at him in disbelief. "That's..."

"Unfair? Yeah, I know." He winks. "But we all have our strengths. Mine's memory. Yours is..." he gestures vaguely, "...being intensely organized, I guess."

You narrow your eyes, not sure if you've been complimented or insulted.

The pattern continues for a week. Jake shows up at your study spots with coffee, snacks, or once, inexplicably, a small potted cactus ("It reminded me of you—prickly but low-maintenance"). He asks insightful questions just often enough that you can't justify kicking him out, but he constantly interrupts with texts, stories, or unnecessary observations.

"Did you know the librarian at the front desk used to be a professional ballerina?" he whispers, leaning so close you can smell his cologne. "She performed with the National Ballet for ten years before blowing out her knee."

"Fascinating," you mutter, trying to ignore how his proximity makes your heart rate pick up. "Can we please focus on the practice problems?"

"I was focusing," Jake protests. "I finished the set fifteen minutes ago."

You glance down at his paper. Sure enough, all twenty problems are completed, with work shown in his surprisingly neat handwriting.

"How did you—I've only done eight!"

Jake shrugs, looking pleased with himself. "Photographic memory, remember? I read the chapter once."

"Then why are you even here?" you snap, frustration boiling over.

His expression softens into something unreadable. "Maybe I like the company."

You don't have a quick response for that.

-

The day before your Advanced Statistical Methods final, Jake suggests studying at his apartment "for a change of scenery." Against your better judgment, you agree.

You arrive to find his roommate Ethan headed out the door.

"You must be the competition," Ethan says with a knowing smile. "Good luck." He shoots Jake a look you can't interpret before leaving.

Jake's apartment is surprisingly neat, with an unexpected number of books lining the walls. You'd pictured a bachelor pad with pizza boxes and sports memorabilia, not this adult space with actual furniture and framed art.

"What? Did you think I lived in a frat house?" Jake asks, reading your expression with annoying accuracy.

"Kind of," you admit.

"I'm more than just the campus golden boy, you know." There's an edge to his voice you haven't heard before.

The study session starts out productively enough. You quiz each other on formulas, and Jake makes flash cards that actually help clarify a complex concept you've been struggling with.

Then, in the middle of explaining autocorrelation, Jake suddenly says, "I'm starving. Want pizza?"

Before you can answer, he's on the phone ordering, and somehow twenty minutes disappear into a conversation about the best pizza toppings (you: mushroom and olive, him: Hawaiian, which leads to a heated debate about pineapple as a legitimate topping).

When the food arrives, Jake insists on taking a study break. One episode of a show turns into three. When you finally check your watch, it's 11 PM, and you've accomplished maybe a third of what you planned.

"I should go," you say, gathering your notes.

"It's late. I can walk you home."

"I live in the north dorms. It's a fifteen-minute walk."

"Exactly. Perfect opportunity to quiz each other on regression analysis."

You want to say no, but he's already grabbing his jacket.

The night air is cool, and Jake walks close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush. True to his word, he quizzes you on formulas as you walk, and you're begrudgingly impressed by how much he actually knows.

At your dorm entrance, he hands you a final flash card. "Last one."

You take it, squinting in the dim light. Instead of a formula, it reads: "Coffee tomorrow morning before the final? 7 AM?"

You look up to find him watching you intently, his usual confident smile replaced by something more hesitant.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," you say slowly. "I have a morning routine before exams."

"Part of which includes coffee, right? I'll bring it to you. No study talk. Just caffeine and moral support."

You should say no. This whole "friendship" with Jake has already cut into your study time more than you'd like to admit. But there's something in his expression that makes you pause.

"Fine. But if you're late with my coffee, all bets are off."

His smile returns full force. "I wouldn't dream of it."

As you head into your building, you realize with a start that you've actually enjoyed spending time with Jake. Not that you'd ever admit it to him.

What you don't see is the way Jake's smile transforms into a triumphant grin as soon as you're gone. He actually pumps his fist in the air like he's just scored the winning touchdown.

"Phase two: complete," he whispers to himself, pulling out his phone to text Ethan. THIS IS TOO EASY, he types, adding three crying-laughing emojis. She's actually letting me walk her to her dorm. Tomorrow I'll sabotage her entire morning routine.

He strolls back toward his apartment, checking items off his mental Distraction Campaign list. Yet somewhere between his self-congratulation and plotting tomorrow's coffee delivery (he plans to be precisely seven minutes late—just enough to throw off her exam prep but not enough for her to give up waiting), he realizes he's humming.

Jake Sim doesn't hum. But here he is, practically skipping down the sidewalk, because he's seeing you again in less than twelve hours. For the plan, he tells himself firmly. Obviously just for the plan.

-

The Statistical Methods final comes and goes. Despite Jake's best attempts at sabotage, you still manage to edge him out by two points. His frown when Professor Rivera announces the scores is brief but noticeable before he slips back into his golden boy persona, all easy smiles and gracious congratulations.

"This calls for a celebration," he says afterward, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom.

"Me beating you again?" you ask with a smirk.

"Our combined brilliance," he counters smoothly. "Dinner tonight? I know a place off campus that makes incredible pasta."

You hesitate. The study sessions were one thing—you could justify them as academic. But dinner? That sounds suspiciously like a date.

"I have to start my research paper for Political Economics," you say, which is true. The paper isn't due for two weeks, but your color-coded semester planner has tonight blocked off for outline development.

Jake's smile doesn't falter. "Perfect. I'll bring takeout to the library. Which section will you be in? The third-floor carrels or your usual table by the east windows?"

It's unnerving how well he knows your study habits.

"Fine. East windows. 7 PM." You shake your head, wondering when exactly you started agreeing to Jake Sim's proposals so easily.

Jake arrives at 6:58 PM with two bags of food that smell so divine you immediately realize how hungry you are. He pulls up a chair beside you—not across the table where a study partner would sit, but close enough that your elbows occasionally brush.

"I got you the mushroom ravioli," he says, unpacking containers. "And garlic bread. And tiramisu."

"How did you know I like mushroom ravioli?"

Jake grins. "You mentioned it during our pineapple-on-pizza debate. I pay attention."

The food is incredible, and despite your intentions to eat quickly and get back to work, you find yourself lingering over dinner, drawn into Jake's animated story about his disastrous first college party.

"So there I am, completely soaked, holding this stranger's pet iguana, while the campus police are knocking on the front door," he concludes, and you're laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth to avoid disturbing other students.

Jake reaches out and gently moves a strand of hair from your face. The gesture is so unexpected that you freeze.

"Sorry," he says, not looking sorry at all. "It was bothering me."

Perfect, Jake thinks, noting how you momentarily freeze at his touch. One small touch, ah-ah-ah! Another step in my master plan. He mentally checks off another item on his distraction checklist, feeling rather pleased with himself for how easily you've been thrown off your focus.

You clear your throat and turn back to your laptop, suddenly very interested in your research paper outline. "I should really get back to work."

"Of course," Jake says, but he doesn't leave. Instead, he pulls out his own laptop. "I've got some reading to do anyway."

Every few minutes, he shifts in his seat or sighs or taps his fingers on the table, each movement pulling your attention away from your work. You're about to snap at him when he leans over to look at your screen.

"Your outline structure is impressive," he says, genuinely. "I never thought to organize political theories that way."

The compliment catches you off guard, and you find yourself explaining your approach. Before you know it, an hour has passed discussing political philosophy instead of writing your outline.

"You're doing this on purpose," you accuse, suddenly realizing his game.

"Doing what?" He widens his eyes in mock innocence.

"Distracting me."

Jake places a hand over his heart. "I'm wounded. Can't I just enjoy intellectual conversation with the smartest person on campus?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Seems to be working so far," he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes and turn back to your laptop, determined to ignore him. It works for approximately five minutes before he slides a folded piece of paper in front of you.

Curious despite yourself, you open it to find a surprisingly good sketch of you concentrating on your work, complete with the small furrow between your eyebrows that he'd mentioned before.

"When did you do this?" you ask, startled.

"Just now. I dabble in drawing."

"Is there anything you're not good at?" The question comes out more sincere than you intended.

Jake's cocky smile falters for a moment. "Beating you, apparently."

There's a hint of genuine frustration in his voice that makes you look at him more closely. For a brief moment, the golden boy facade slips, and you catch a glimpse of something more complex beneath—ambition, insecurity, determination all mixed together.

Before you can respond, he stands up. "I should let you work. But first..." He hesitates, then plunges ahead. "Would you go out with me? Like, on an actual date. Not studying. Not takeout at the library. A real date."

You stare at him, speechless. This isn't part of your carefully planned semester. Dating Jake Sim doesn't fit anywhere in your color-coded schedule or your academic goals.

"Why?" you finally ask.

His smile returns, but it's different somehow—less practiced, more nervous. "Because I like you. Because you're the only person on campus who doesn't buy into my whole..." he gestures vaguely at himself,"...thing."

You stare at him blankly for a moment, then raise an eyebrow. "What 'thing'? Your dick?"

Jake's eyes widen in shock before he bursts out laughing, a genuine, unpolished laugh that's nothing like his carefully cultivated campus-celebrity chuckle.

"No! I meant—" he gestures vaguely again, still laughing, "—the whole golden boy persona. The Jake Sim Experience™."

"Oh," you say, fighting a smile. "I thought you were just being weird."

You should say no. Every logical part of your brain is screaming to reject this distraction from your goals.

"When?" you hear yourself asking instead.

Jake's face lights up with genuine surprise, as if he expected rejection. "Friday? 7 PM?"

"I have to work on my—"

"Political Economics paper, I know," he interrupts. "But even you need to take breaks sometimes. I promise to have you home at a reasonable hour, and I'll even help you with research on Saturday."

You find yourself nodding. "Okay. Friday."

"Okay," he echoes, looking so genuinely pleased that you momentarily forget this is Jake Sim, campus golden boy and your academic rival.

He gathers his things, still smiling. "I'll text you details."

As he walks away, you try to refocus on your outline, but your mind keeps drifting to Friday night. It's just one date, you tell yourself. What harm could it do?

-

Back at his apartment, Jake crosses off "Step 7: Secure actual date" from his Distraction Campaign list with a flourish.

"She actually said yes?" Ethan asks, looking up from his video game.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Jake tosses his backpack on the couch and collapses next to it.

"Because she's smart enough to know better?"

Jake throws a pillow at his roommate. "The plan is working perfectly. I've already cost her at least ten hours of study time this week. By the time the Harrison Fellowship application is due, she'll be so off her game I'll finally beat her."

"And you're still convinced this is just about winning?" Ethan asks, pausing his game to give Jake a knowing look.

"What else would it be about?"

Ethan snorts. "You sketched her, man. You never sketch anyone."

"It was part of the distraction," Jake insists, but he finds himself pulling out the second drawing he made—the one he didn't give her, the one that captures her mid-laugh, eyes bright with intelligence and humor.

"Right," Ethan says, noticing the drawing. "Just make sure you know which one of you is actually getting distracted here."

Jake rolls his eyes. "Please. I'm totally focused. You should hear my internal monologues when I'm with her. I literally count every successful distraction tactic like I'm Count Dracula or something. 'One missed study hour, ah-ah-ah! Two coffee dates, ah-ah-ah!'"

Ethan stares at him for a beat. "Yeah, right. Because that's not what love sounds like at all."

"Right?!" Jake agrees enthusiastically. "It's pure strategy. Nothing else."

Ethan face-palms. "That was sarcasm, you idiot."

"Whatever." Jake waves him off, completely missing the point. "You'll see when I win the fellowship and she's wondering what happened to her perfect GPA."

-

Friday arrives faster than you anticipated. You spend an embarrassing amount of time choosing an outfit—something casual enough to maintain your dignity but nice enough to acknowledge this is, in fact, a date.

When Jake knocks on your door at precisely 7 PM, he's brought his A-game. Designer jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled up to showcase his forearms, and that calculated smile that's gotten him through every social situation since puberty.

"You look nice," he says, his eyes doing an appreciative sweep that makes you momentarily self-conscious.

"So do you," you reply, because it's true, even if you wish it weren't.

The restaurant he's chosen is a small Italian place tucked away on a side street downtown, far enough from campus that you're unlikely to run into other students. It's intimate without being overtly romantic, with exposed brick walls and soft lighting.

The conversation flows surprisingly well. Jake is charming when he wants to be, asking questions about your hometown, your family, your childhood dreams. You find yourself laughing at his stories, drawn in by the way his face lights up when he talks about his first debate tournament victory.

This is going perfectly, Jake thinks, watching you smile at something he's said. Phase three proceeding exactly as planned. Every minute she spends with me is a minute not spent on the Harrison application. By this time next month, that fellowship will have my name on it.

His internal victory lap continues through dessert, especially when he catches you staring at his mouth while he tells a story about his freshman year roommate.

After dinner, Jake suggests a walk along the riverfront. The night is cool but not cold, and the path is lit by old-fashioned lampposts that cast a golden glow on the water.

"So," Jake says, walking close enough that your hands occasionally brush, "this was nice."

"It was," you admit, surprising yourself with how much you mean it.

"We should do it again sometime," he suggests, stopping by the railing overlooking the river.

"Maybe," you say, unwilling to concede too easily. "I do have a lot of work to do on my fellowship application."

Jake takes a step closer, exactly as he'd planned during his pre-date strategy session with Ethan. "The fellowship isn't for another month," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Plenty of time for both work and... other things."

Before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you.

It's meant to be calculated—the perfect mix of confidence and restraint, designed to leave you wanting more, to occupy your thoughts when you should be focusing on academics. But something unexpected happens when his lips meet yours.

For a brief, disconcerting moment, Jake forgets the plan entirely.

Your response, the soft sound you make as your hands find his shoulders, the way you taste like the tiramisu you shared for dessert—it short-circuits his strategic thinking. When you pull back slightly, he follows, chasing your lips without conscious thought.

"That was..." you begin, sounding slightly breathless.

Jake quickly regains his composure, mentally adjusting his strategy. This is even better than I planned. She's completely flustered.

"Just the beginning," he finishes with a confident smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "If you want it to be."

You narrow your eyes slightly, as if trying to figure him out. "What's your angle, Sim?"

"No angle," he lies smoothly. "Just enjoying the moment."

You don't look entirely convinced, but when he leans in again, you meet him halfway.

-

Over the next week, Jake implements what he privately calls "Operation Kiss Distraction." The strategy is brilliant in its simplicity—physical contact prevents academic focus. And it works every time.

On Monday afternoon, you're reviewing notes for Professor Wright's Macroeconomics seminar when Jake slides into the chair beside you, coffee in hand.

"How's it going?" he asks, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

"I need to finish these notes before—"

He silences you mid-sentence with a kiss, soft and deliberate. Your protest dissolves as his hand cups your cheek, tilting your face toward his. By the time he pulls away, you've forgotten what chapter you were reviewing.

"Before what?" he asks innocently, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

"I... don't remember," you admit, and Jake's smile is nothing short of triumphant.

On Wednesday, you're in the library's reference section, surrounded by economics journals for your fellowship research. Jake finds you there, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before you even realize he's arrived.

"How did you find me?" you ask, trying to maintain your focus on the article you've been highlighting.

"I always know where to find you," he murmurs, his lips moving to the sensitive spot below your ear. The highlighter slips from your fingers as he works his way along your neck, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

"Jake," you protest weakly, "I have to finish this research."

"In a minute," he promises, turning your chair to face him. His kiss is deeper this time, more insistent. Your hands find their way into his hair as he pulls you to your feet, backing you against the shelves. The solid weight of the books behind you contrasts with the warmth of his body against yours, his mouth hot and demanding.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing hard. Jake's usual perfectly styled hair is mussed from your fingers, his eyes dark with something that looks like genuine desire.

"See? Just a minute," he says with a grin, though it's been at least fifteen.

You try to remember what journal article you were reading, but your mind is blank, filled instead with the lingering sensation of Jake's mouth on yours.

-

By Friday, you've developed a Pavlovian response to his presence—one look from Jake across a room and your pulse quickens in anticipation. He knows it too, using it to his advantage.

During a study group at his apartment, he waits until the others are engrossed in problem sets before leaning close, his breath warm against your ear.

“Meet me in the kitchen.”

You shouldn’t go. You have work to do. But two minutes later, your book is forgotten, and you’re following him anyway.

The moment you step inside, Jake is on you. He shoves you against the counter, his mouth crashing into yours, hungry and insistent. His hands are already under your sweater, fingers skimming up your sides, making you shiver at the contrast of his heat against your skin.

“We shouldn’t,” you pant as his teeth scrape against your collarbone, his grip tightening on your waist. “Everyone’s right there.”

“Then be quiet,” he murmurs, lips dragging lower.

A moan slips out before you can stop it as he sucks a deep mark onto your throat, his tongue teasing the bruised skin before moving lower. His hands wander, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers brushing over your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he exhales against your neck, pressing the pads of his fingers firmly over the thin fabric. “Already wet for me?”

Your breath hitches as he rubs slow, teasing circles, the pressure making your thighs shake. He chuckles, dark and low, before slipping his hand beneath the fabric, his fingers sliding against your slick folds.

You grip his shoulders as he works you open, curling his fingers just right, his pace unrelenting. Your body arches against him, desperate for more, but he doesn’t let up—doesn’t stop marking you, doesn’t stop driving you closer to the edge with expert precision.

“Cum for me,” he whispers against your skin, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Be a good girl and make a mess for me.”

And you do—your climax crashes over you, your body shuddering as his fingers continue their slow, torturous strokes, dragging it out until you’re barely holding yourself up.

He finally pulls back, admiring the deep red bruises blooming across your neck and chest, the way your body still trembles in the aftermath. He smooths a hand over your thigh, smirking as you struggle to catch your breath.

Twenty minutes later, you return to the study group, cheeks flushed, legs weak, lips swollen from his kisses. You pretend to focus, but you can still feel the ghost of his fingers between your thighs, the bruises throbbing like a silent confession.

Jake follows a minute after, looking impossibly composed, except for the self-satisfied smirk he can’t quite suppress.

Another productive session, he thinks, eyes flickering to the marks on your skin. She’s falling further behind every day.

-

The next Tuesday, after an especially intense makeout session that leaves you both disheveled and breathless, Jake captures your hands in his, expression suddenly serious.

"I've been thinking."

Your stomach tightens. Is this where he admits the whole thing has been a calculated distraction? That none of it meant anything?

"We've been doing... whatever this is... for a couple weeks now," he continues, his thumb tracing circles on your palm in a way that makes it hard to focus. "And I think we should make it official."

You blink, surprised. "Official?"

"Be my girlfriend," he says, flashing that perfect Jake Sim smile that's graced countless campus publications. "Properly."

It's the logical next step for his plan, he tells himself. Girlfriend status means more of her time, more distraction, more control over her schedule. It's strategic brilliance, not genuine desire. The flutter in his chest when she smiles up at him? Merely satisfaction with his own cunning.

"Okay," you agree, and he kisses you again, mentally checking off another item on his master plan.

Phase Four complete, Jake thinks triumphantly. This fellowship is as good as mine.

What Jake doesn't acknowledge, even to himself, is how often he finds himself thinking about you when you're not around. How he's started skipping his own study sessions to meet you. How his friends have noticed his GPA slipping while yours somehow remains steady.

"Dude, you missed the entire Econ study group yesterday," his friend Matt points out after class. "We're two weeks out from finals."

"I had something more important to do," Jake says, thinking of how you'd smiled against his mouth when he surprised you outside your afternoon lecture.

Matt looks skeptical. "More important than maintaining your GPA for the Harrison Fellowship? You've been working toward that since freshman year."

Jake shrugs it off, but the comment nags at him. Has he possibly overcommitted to his distraction strategy? Is he risking his own academic standing in the process?

He resolves to recalibrate, to find a better balance between distracting you and focusing on his own work. But that resolution lasts exactly as long as it takes for you to text him asking if he wants to meet at the library.

Just an hour, he promises himself. I'll kiss her senseless for an hour, then go back to my apartment and work on my application.

The hour turns into three, and he doesn't get any work done that night.

The pattern continues. Each time Jake thinks he's the one in control, each time he mentally tallies another successful distraction, he fails to notice how his own academic focus is slipping. How his perfectly organized planner is suddenly full of your name instead of study reminders. How he's started dreaming about you instead of his acceptance letter to Stanford.

-

"The plan is still on track," he insists when Ethan questions him. "She's completely distracted."

"And you're not?" Ethan asks pointedly, gesturing to Jake's phone that he's checking for the fifth time in ten minutes.

"Of course not," Jake scoffs, hastily putting his phone face-down. "I'm laser-focused on victory."

"Right," Ethan drawls. "That's why you've written her name in your planner instead of 'study for Econ final'?"

Jake slams the planner shut. "That's... strategic. So I remember when we're meeting to... implement distraction tactics."

"And the fact that you've started wearing cologne to the library?"

"Psychological warfare."

"You missed basketball with the guys to help her carry books."

"Building trust to maximize future distractions."

"You turned down Jessica Miller—who you've had a crush on since freshman orientation—because she asked you out on the same night you were supposed to see the protagonist."

"Commitment to the mission."

Ethan picks up a crumpled paper from Jake's desk and unfolds it. "And this poem?"

Jake snatches it away, cheeks reddening. "Research! I'm researching what kind of sappy stuff might further distract her."

"Uh-huh. And you've set her text tone to a special sound because...?"

"So I know exactly when my target is messaging me," Jake explains with the confidence of someone completely deluding himself.

"You literally have a framed photo of her on your nightstand."

"That's just to... remind me of the enemy."

Ethan throws his hands up in exasperation. "You planned your entire class schedule around hers for next semester!"

"Advanced strategic planning," Jake insists, even as he absently doodles her initials on his notebook margin. "The long game."

The truth—which Jake is nowhere near ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real conversations, his perfect plan has developed a fatal flaw:

He's falling for you. And he doesn't even realize it.

-

Jake wakes up in a cold sweat, staring at the calendar on his wall. Three weeks until the Harrison Fellowship deadline, and his plan is working too well—on himself.

"I need to recalibrate," he mutters, grabbing his planner. "Time for phase five: Total Disruption."

After a hurried breakfast, he texts Ethan his new strategy while walking to class.

"You're digging yourself deeper," Ethan replies immediately.

"Watch and learn," Jake types back with the unfounded confidence of a man about to step on a rake.

He implements the new tactics that very afternoon. When you mention needing to study at your apartment that night, Jake suggests studying together, kisses you until you agree, then "accidentally" falls asleep on your couch. By the time you wake him at 2 AM, neither of you has done any work, but he counts it as a win.

"Sorry, princess," he murmurs sleepily, using one of his new strategic pet names. "Guess I was more tired than I thought."

You raise an eyebrow at the nickname but let it slide. "You should go home and get some actual sleep."

"Or I could stay," he counters, pulling you down for another kiss. "Save myself the walk across campus."

It works. You let him stay, and Jake falls asleep feeling smug about another night of study time successfully sabotaged.

What he doesn't anticipate is waking to find you already up, quietly typing at your desk, wearing his sweatshirt from the night before.

"Morning, sleepyhead," you say without looking up. "Hope you don't mind I borrowed this. It's comfortable."

Jake stares, momentarily forgetting his master plan because something about seeing you in his clothes makes his chest feel tight. "I... no, that's... it looks good on you."

"Thanks," you reply, still focused on your laptop. "I made coffee. I've been up since six working on this fellowship essay. Having you here actually helped me focus—I didn't want to wake you by going out to the library."

Jake's smug feeling evaporates. "You've been working for three hours already?"

"Mmhmm. You're cute when you sleep, by the way. Very peaceful. Not at all like when you're awake and plotting world domination."

He's not sure which is more disconcerting—that his sleepover tactic completely backfired or that you called him cute.

The next day, he tries a new approach. While you're in the bathroom during a study session, he quickly closes all fifteen tabs on your laptop, thinking it will set your research back significantly.

You return, notice immediately, and sigh. "Did you close my browser?"

"Oh, did I?" Jake feigns innocence. "Sorry, I was just checking something and must have hit the wrong button."

"It's fine," you say, pulling out your phone. "I was using the cloud sync feature. See?" You tap a few buttons, and all fifteen tabs reappear on your laptop screen. "Everything's backed up automatically. Handy, right?"

Jake's smile feels brittle. "Super handy."

His attempt to hide your textbooks the following week is thwarted when you casually mention that you primarily use the e-book versions anyway. "They're searchable," you explain, showing him how quickly you can find specific information. "Much more efficient."

The emergency ice cream date he arranges the night before your Political Economics paper is due—which should have derailed your writing schedule—somehow turns into a productive discussion about Keynesian theory that actually helps you refine your thesis.

"This is exactly what I needed to tie my argument together," you tell him excitedly between bites of rocky road. "You're a genius, baby."

The casual endearment catches Jake so off guard that he chokes on his ice cream.

"You okay there, Jakey?" you ask, patting his back as he coughs.

"Fine," he wheezes, face red. "Just... went down the wrong way."

You continue using the nickname throughout the evening, each "Jakey" hitting him like a physical blow. It shouldn't affect him—it's just a name—but something about the affection in your voice when you say it makes his stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with ice cream.

By the time he walks you home, Jake is thoroughly confused by his own reactions. This isn't part of the plan. None of it is.

The clothing swap attempt is perhaps his most spectacular failure. After a particularly heated make-out session at his apartment, Jake deliberately puts his t-shirt in your bag and hides the one you wore over.

"Can't find my shirt," you say, rummaging through your things the next morning.

"That's weird," Jake replies, feigning confusion. "Maybe it got mixed in with the laundry?"

"Probably," you agree easily, grabbing one of his shirts from his drawer. "I'll borrow this one, okay? I'm already running late for Richardson's lecture."

Jake watches in disbelief as you pull his shirt on, gather your books, and kiss him goodbye. The shirt is too big, sliding off one shoulder, but instead of looking disheveled, you somehow make it look deliberate and stylish. When you walk into lecture twenty minutes later, he overhears two girls complimenting your outfit.

"Isn't that Jake Sim's shirt?" one whispers. "They must be serious."

The comment shouldn't please him. It's supposed to be about making you late, not about public confirmation of your relationship. Yet he finds himself smiling anyway.

-

The text message barrage during your Advanced Economic Theory seminar is Jake's next carefully plotted distraction. He sets alarms for precise intervals, determined to make your phone buzz continuously throughout Hammond's lecture.

8:05 AM: Morning. Left a coffee on your desk. Hope Hammond doesn't bore you to death today.

8:13 AM: Still thinking about last night. The way you gasped when I touched you there...hard to focus in class right now.

8:19 AM: Prof Wilson just used your elasticity argument from last week. Didn't credit you though, the bastard.

8:24 AM: thinking abt you in that tiny red dress of yours, suddenly my dicks stood up like a perfectly inelastic supply curve

8:31 AM: Found that article you needed for your paper. I'll trade it for dinner tonight. Thai place just opened downtown.

8:36 AM: You look so good in that blue sweater. Even better when I was taking it off you yesterday.

8:42 AM: Remember what we did in the library stacks last week? I keep picturing you pressed against those books, trying not to make a sound.

8:47 AM: Study at my place tonight? Ethan's gone till morning. We can actually be loud for once. I love it when you're loud.

8:52 AM: The hickey I left on your inner thigh still there? Maybe I should check personally after class.

8:55 AM: Just realized I still have your underwear from Tuesday. You can have them back... or not. Your call.

The messages continue, alternating between casual conversation starters, blatant attempts to tempt you away from academics, strategic pet names (Jake has privately ranked their effectiveness, with "princess" at the top), and the memes he's carefully selected as backup distractions.

But when class ends, you emerge looking perfectly composed. "Phone on silent," you explain when he casually asks if you got his texts. "I always silence it during Hammond's lectures. He's strict about interruptions."

"Right," Jake says, deflated. "Smart."

"But I did see them after class," you continue, linking your arm through his as you walk across the quad. "The memes were funny. Nice distraction technique."

Jake glances at you, trying to gauge whether you're annoyed about the explicit messages.

"So..." he ventures, "the other texts didn't bother you?"

"Bother me? No." You give him a sly smile. "Though I'm pretty sure Hammond would've had a stroke if he'd seen what you wrote about perfectly inelastic supply curves."

Jake feels his face warm slightly, which is ridiculous because he's not the type to blush. "I meant every word."

"I know you did." You lean closer. "And yes to dinner tonight. Though I already found that article myself."

"I meant what I said about my place too," Jake says, his voice dropping lower as a group of freshmen pass by. "Ethan really is gone all evening."

You pretend to consider it. "I do have that study block scheduled..."

"I'll make it worth rescheduling," he promises, mouth close to your ear.

"You always think you're so irresistible, don't you, Jakey?" you whisper back.

There it is again—that fluttering in his stomach at the nickname. It's getting harder to ignore, especially the way it sounds so natural coming from your lips. Jake doesn't understand why his calculated pet names feel like strategic maneuvers while yours feel like treasured endearments.

"We'll see," he says, already thinking of ways to make you forget all about your study schedule tonight. Maybe he'll wear that shirt you like, the one that brings out his eyes. Maybe he'll suggest dessert after dinner. Maybe he'll use that cologne you always seem to lean in for.

Jake's so busy plotting his next move that he doesn't notice the knowing smile on your face—or the flash drive in your bag containing a nearly completed fellowship draft that you've been working on during the hours he thinks you're distracted.

-

Three days later, Jake implements what he considers his most strategic move yet: the extended weekend getaway. Under the guise of a romantic surprise, he books a cabin at a lakeside resort two hours from campus for the weekend before a major economics presentation you both need to prepare for.

"No internet," he tells you with what he hopes is a charming smile. "Just you, me, and nature for two days."

To his surprise, you seem genuinely excited. "That sounds perfect! I've been so stressed with all these deadlines. A break will help clear my head."

"Exactly," Jake agrees, already imagining how far behind you'll fall without internet access or your usual study materials. "It'll be... relaxing."

They arrive Friday evening, and Jake is pleased to discover the cabin is as rustic as advertised. No WiFi, spotty cell service, and blissfully isolated from neighboring cabins.

"It's beautiful," you say, walking onto the small deck that overlooks the lake. The setting sun casts everything in a golden glow, including your profile as you lean against the railing.

Jake finds himself staring, momentarily forgetting his ulterior motives. "Yeah," he agrees softly. "Beautiful."

You turn and catch him looking, and something in his expression makes you smile in a way that creates a strange tightness in his chest.

"So," you say, walking back to him slowly. "What should we do first in our internet-free paradise?"

Jake has a detailed plan for keeping you thoroughly distracted all weekend. It involves hiking, canoeing, cooking together, board games, and strategic makeout sessions whenever you mention anything remotely academic.

What he doesn’t plan for is how the isolation amplifies everything between you. Without the constant interruptions of campus life, without the pressure of appearing a certain way for classmates or professors, something shifts.

-

Friday night, you build a fire in the small stone fireplace, and Jake uncorks a bottle of wine he brought specifically to lower your academic defenses. One glass turns into two, which turns into lazy kisses on the couch that grow increasingly desperate, increasingly needy.

Your hands slip under his sweater, dragging over warm, taut skin, feeling the way his muscles flex under your touch. When you tug it over his head, he helps you, throwing it aside like it’s useless, like all he needs right now is you. Then he does the same with your shirt, his hands immediately returning to your skin, sliding up your sides, his rings cold and teasing against your heat.

“Fuck,” he breathes, staring at you, pupils blown. His hands roam, fingers grazing over your bare stomach, thumbs brushing up to your tits, teasing your nipples until they pebble under his touch. He groans, head tipping back for a second as if he’s trying to compose himself, but it’s useless. He’s already too far gone.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, unfiltered. It’s not calculated—just a raw, messy confession that makes your breath hitch.

You don’t answer. You just pull him back down, kissing him deeper, harder, tongue sliding against his as you push up against him. He moans into your mouth, low and needy, gripping your hips as you press closer.

“Bedroom,” you whisper between kisses, and he barely nods before hauling you up, hands firm under your thighs as he carries you there.

The cabin’s lone bedroom is small, but he barely notices it, too focused on the way firelight spills across your skin, making you look almost unreal. Almost untouchable.

But he does touch you.

He lowers you onto the bed, spreading you out beneath him, then he’s kissing his way down, taking his time, dragging his lips over your collarbone, your stomach, leaving a path of heat in his wake.

And then he’s between your thighs, spreading you open, eyes dark, his rings a sharp, cool contrast against your burning skin.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice already wrecked. “Look at you, baby. So fucking wet.”

You whimper as he trails his fingers through your slick folds, the sensation heightened by the hard, unrelenting press of his rings against your sensitive skin.

“Jake,” you whisper, thighs twitching as he spreads your folds with his fingers, watching the way you glisten in the dim light.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re dripping. You want me that bad?”

You nod, gasping when he drags his thumb over your clit, pressing down, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The metal of his rings makes it colder, sharper, and the sensation sends a full-body shiver through you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Need to taste you.”

Then he dives in, licking a long, slow stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking, hard.

You cry out, hands immediately burying in his hair, gripping tight, and Jake—Jake fucking moans so loud into you it vibrates through your whole body.

“Oh my god—Jake,” you whine, head falling back as he keeps going, licking, sucking, absolutely devouring you like he’s starving.

He groans again, his hips grinding into the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you, and the desperate, wrecked sounds coming from him make you even wetter.

Then he slides two fingers inside, and you swear you see stars.

“Holy fuck,” he pants against your thigh, thrusting his fingers in and out, his rings catching against your slick heat with every movement. “You’re so fucking tight. Jesus, baby.”

His fingers curl, finding that spot that makes your whole body jolt, and he moans again, practically whimpering against you as he watches you come undone beneath him.

“Listen to her,” he groans, voice shaking, fingers plunging deeper, faster, wetter. “Fucking talking to me, baby—your pussy’s talking to me—”

You sob his name, hips grinding against his mouth, and he loses it, sucking harder, fingers working even faster. The sounds are obscene—wet, messy, loud—but he loves it, loves how ruined you are, how ruined he is.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he rasps, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, his lips slick with you. “Gonna make a mess all over my fingers, yeah?”

Your whole body tightens. The heat in your stomach snaps, and you cry out, thighs shaking as you come, clenching hard around his fingers.

Jake moans so loud it’s almost embarrassing, almost filthy the way he reacts to your pleasure like it’s his own.

He keeps moving, working you through it, voice a wrecked, desperate mess of praise. “That’s it, that’s my good fucking girl—holy shit, you feel so good—”

You whimper, body twitching from oversensitivity, and he finally slows down, pulling his fingers out, bringing them to his lips. He groans as he licks them clean, eyes dark and half-lidded as he stares at you.

Then he’s crawling up your body, kissing you breathless, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

He’s lining himself up, pressing in, and the moment he pushes inside, his head drops back and he lets out the most wrecked, filthy moan you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He sounds like he’s falling apart, like this is undoing him completely. His forehead presses against yours, his breath ragged. “Oh my god, baby, you feel—” He exhales sharply, shaking. “I can’t—I need to move—”

“Do it,” you whimper, nails digging into his back.

He groans as he starts thrusting, deep and slow at first, like he’s savoring the way you feel wrapped around him. But then you moan, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he breaks.

He picks up the pace, fucking into you hard, deep, the bed creaking with every movement.

And he’s so loud.

Every thrust rips another filthy moan from his throat, another wrecked gasp, another desperate curse as he loses himself completely.

“God, you’re so loud,” you tease, voice breathless but smug, knowing full well how completely undone he is.

His response is immediate—he gets louder. A shameless, broken groan rips from his chest, his head tipping back, fingers digging into your hips.

“You—fuck—” His voice cracks, his thrusts turning erratic. “You’re gonna—gonna make me—”

“Cum inside me,” you whisper, staring right into his dark, blown-out eyes.

Jake fucking breaks.

He lets out the filthiest, most desperate moan you’ve ever heard, his whole body shaking, his hips snapping against yours one last time as he spills inside you, burying himself deep, filling you up with everything he has.

After, he collapses against you, still shuddering, breath uneven, lips brushing over your skin as he whispers something you can��t quite hear, something too soft, too raw.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was supposed to be a distraction. But as you drift off to sleep against his chest, Jake stays awake, staring at the ceiling, completely, utterly fucked in a way that has nothing to do with sex.

-

Saturday morning, Jake wakes to find you gone from the bed. Panic spikes through him momentarily before he hears movement in the kitchen. He pulls on sweatpants and pads out to find you at the small stove, wearing nothing but his button-down shirt from the night before, making pancakes.

"Morning, angel," he says, the endearment falling from his lips without conscious thought. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and is rewarded with a smile that does strange things to his heart rate.

"Morning, Jakey," you reply, turning to kiss him properly. "Sleep well?"

That nickname again. He should hate it—it's childish, diminutive—but when you say it, it feels like some private treasure between you.

"Very," he says, and means it. "Those look good."

"Blueberry pancakes. I found some berries in the fridge."

Jake blinks. Cooking breakfast together was on his distraction agenda, but you've already taken the initiative. He'd planned to get up early, hide your phone to prevent you from checking emails, and control the day's activities. Instead, he slept later than intended, and you seem perfectly content in this tech-free environment he designed to frustrate you.

After breakfast, you suggest a hike, another item from his distraction checklist that you've somehow adopted as your own idea. The fall morning is crisp and clear, perfect for exploring the trails around the lake.

"I needed this," you say as you walk hand in hand along a pine-scented path. "I've been so focused on the fellowship and finals that I forgot what it's like to just... breathe."

Jake feels a twinge of guilt. "You have been working really hard."

You squeeze his hand. "We both have. That's why this weekend is so perfect. A chance to reset before the final push."

The guilt intensifies. He's been working hard, yes, but not as hard as he should be. Not as hard as you. His grades have slipped over the past few weeks, his focus increasingly fragmented between his academic goals and his fixation on sabotaging yours.

The hike leads to a small clearing overlooking the lake. Without discussion, you both stop to admire the view. You lean back against Jake's chest, and he wraps his arms around you instinctively, resting his chin on top of your head.

It's peaceful. Simple. For a few minutes, Jake forgets about fellowships and competition and distraction strategies. He just exists in this moment with you, and it feels bizarrely right.

"Thank you for planning this," you say softly.

"You're welcome, princess," he replies, the pet name now coming naturally.

You turn in his arms, looking up at him with an expression he can't quite decipher. "I like when you call me that," you admit.

"Yeah?" Jake tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "I like when you call me Jakey."

The admission surprises him as much as it seems to please you. You rise on your tiptoes to kiss him, soft and sweet, and something in Jake's chest aches.

The moment is interrupted by a distant roll of thunder. You both look up to see dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

"We should head back," Jake says, taking your hand. "Looks like rain."

You make it halfway to the cabin before the skies open. By the time you reach the porch, you're both soaked through and laughing. Jake pulls you inside, where the remains of the previous night's fire have left the cabin pleasantly warm.

“We should get out of these wet clothes,” Jake suggests, voice thick with heat, his smirk widening when he sees your eyes darken.

You don’t hesitate. Your soaked jacket hits the floor with a heavy plop, followed by your drenched shirt, clinging to your skin before you peel it off.

“Race you to the shower,” you tease, already backing toward the bathroom.

Jake growls low in his throat, tearing off his own clothes as he follows, jeans hitting the floor as he stalks after you.

The moment you step under the spray, hot water cascading down, he’s on you—pressing you against the cold tiles, kissing you deep, messy, hungry.

His hands roam your slick skin, fingers trailing up your waist, over your tits, down your stomach—gripping, groping, claiming. The sharp chill of his rings against your heated body sends a shudder through you.

Then you reach for his hand, dragging it to your mouth. Holding eye contact, you wrap your lips around his middle and pointer finger, sucking slow, obscene.

Jake chokes.

“Ngh— oh my fucking god—”

His hips jerk forward, cock twitching against your stomach, eyes blown wide as he watches you drag your tongue up the length of his fingers before pulling off with a wet pop.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, voice wrecked, and suddenly his mouth is at your ear, his breath hot, desperate. “Turn the fuck around.”

You obey without hesitation, pressing your hands flat against the tiles, arching your back just enough to tempt him.

Jake grips your hips, dragging his cock through your slick folds, teasing—

And then he slams inside.

“Fuck!” His moan is loud, raw, unfiltered, tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt.

You gasp, gripping at the tiles as he stretches you open, splitting you apart. He barely gives you time to adjust before pulling out and slamming back in, setting a brutal, punishing pace that has you wailing.

“Louder,” he growls, voice shaking as he bites down hard on your shoulder, his hips snapping against you. “Fucking scream for me, baby.”

Your moans rise in pitch, gasping and broken, but it’s not enough for him.

“Fucking louder,” he snarls, gripping your chin and turning your head slightly. “Let everyone fucking hear what I’m doing to you.”

And fuck, that does it. You wail his name, voice cracking, high-pitched and desperate, and Jake fucking snaps.

“Oh my fucking god,” he groans, loud, no shame, no restraint. “That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck, you’re so loud for me, fuck, fuck—”

His fingers slide between your legs, rubbing your clit in harsh, fast circles. “Come on, baby—come for me—fucking scream for me while I ruin this little pussy—”

Your body locks up, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your moans turning into sharp cries as you come hard, clenching down so tight around him.

Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck, oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck—ngh—”

His voice shatters, his thrusts turning wild, his hands gripping your hips hard as he slams into you one last time and spills inside you, hips twitching, letting out the most wrecked groan you’ve ever heard.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—” His head tips back, mouth hanging open, the filthiest, most obscene moan tearing from his throat as his cock pulses inside you, filling you up.

He keeps thrusting, whimpering, riding it out, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, panting so hard he’s practically breathless.

Silence. Just the heavy, ragged sound of your breathing, the water pounding down over you both.

Then—Jake laughs, breathless, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“Well.” His voice is wrecked, rough. “Guess I should’ve made you scream my fucking name sooner.”

-

Afterward, wrapped in the cabin's fluffy towels, you curl up together on the couch to watch the storm through the large windows. Jake pulls a blanket over you both, and you nestle against his side, fitting perfectly.

"This is nice," you murmur, already sounding half-asleep. "Just being here with you. No competition, no pressure."

Jake feels a fresh wave of guilt. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "It is."

Eventually, you doze off, your head on his chest, one hand curled possessively on his stomach. Jake strokes your hair absently, listening to the rain and your steady breathing, trying to ignore the growing realization that he's no longer sure what game he's playing—or if he's playing one at all.

That evening, Jake cooks dinner as planned, but the romantic meal meant to keep you from studying now feels like something he wants to do for you rather than to you. He finds himself putting extra effort into the pasta sauce, adding spices he knows you like, opening the better bottle of wine he'd brought as a backup.

You set the small table by candlelight, and when you sit down to eat, the conversation flows easily—not about classes or the fellowship, but about childhoods and dreams and favorite books. Jake learns more about you in one dinner than he has in three years of competitive observation.

"I want to make a difference," you tell him when he asks about your post-graduation plans. "Economics isn't just about markets and money to me. It's about understanding systems that affect real people's lives."

"That's... actually really cool," Jake says, surprised by his own sincerity.

"What about you?" you ask. "Why economics?"

Jake opens his mouth to give his standard answer—the one about prestigious job opportunities and his father's expectations—but what comes out is something closer to the truth.

"I'm good at it," he admits. "And being good at things has always been important to me. Maybe too important."

You reach across the table to take his hand. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to excel."

"There is when it's the only thing that matters," Jake says quietly, the words emerging from some honest place he usually keeps carefully locked away. "When you'll do anything to win."

You study him for a moment, head tilted thoughtfully. "So when exactly were you planning to tell me that this whole relationship was just an elaborate scheme to distract me from winning the fellowship?"

The question hits like a physical blow. Jake stares at you, mouth actually dropping open. "What—how did you—"

"Please." You roll your eyes. "The timing was painfully obvious. You suddenly wanted to 'study together' right when applications opened? The constant texts during lectures? Accidentally closing my browser tabs? Hiding my books? The weekend getaway with 'no internet'?" You make air quotes with your fingers. "I've been onto you since day one, Jake Sim."

Jake runs a hand through his hair, completely thrown off script. "I—well—shit."

"Did you actually have a written plan? Like an actual document called 'How to Sabotage Her Academic Career'?"

Jake winces. "It wasn't called that exactly, but..."

"Oh my god, you did!" You start laughing, which confuses him even more. "Let me guess, you had phases? Codenames? Did you rank your distraction techniques by effectiveness?"

His silence confirms it all.

"You stupid dumb fuck," you say, shaking your head in disbelief. "I knew everything from the very beginning. Every single move. And you thought you were being so clever."

Jake stares at you for a moment, then his expression shifts from embarrassment to something closer to amusement. His lips quirk up at the corners.

"Baby, I'm so sorry," he says, though his tone makes it abundantly clear he's not sorry at all. He leans forward, lowering his voice. "But I'm also not at all because honestly? Fucking you, being with you is so fucking enjoyable that I don't care what I did to get here."

"Are you serious right now?" You're caught between outrage and reluctant admiration at his audacity.

Jake shrugs, completely unrepentant. "The plan was stupid, sure. But it got us here. And here..." he reaches for your hand across the table, "...is pretty damn good."

"You're unbelievable," you tell him, though you don't pull your hand away.

"I know," he grins, completely missing the criticism. "So, do I need to grovel, or can we skip to the part where you forgive me because you've been playing me just as much as I've been playing you?"

After dinner, you curl up together in front of the fireplace with the second bottle of wine. The storm continues outside, rain pattering against the windows, making the cabin feel even more isolated from the rest of the world.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," you challenge, your head in Jake's lap as he plays with your hair.

He considers for a moment. "I almost transferred after freshman year."

You sit up, surprised. "Really? Why?"

"Because of you, actually," Jake admits. "You beaten me in every class we shared, and I'd never... I wasn't used to being second best. I thought maybe I wasn't cut out for this university after all."

"What changed your mind?"

Jake meets your eyes. "Pride. Stubbornness. I couldn't let you win like that."

"So you stayed just to beat me?" You sound more amused than offended.

"I stayed to prove I could," Jake corrects. "And then it became about more than that. About actually learning, actually growing. Having you as competition made me better."

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. "You make me better too, you know. You push me to work harder, think differently."

The kiss deepens, wine and confessions making you both bolder. Before long, you're straddling his lap, the blanket fallen to the floor as his hands grip your thighs.

“Take me to bed, Jakey,” you murmur against his ear, voice dripping with heat, but your body is soft, pliant against him.

Jake groans, gripping your thighs tighter before standing, lifting you with ease, your legs locked around his waist. His arms wrap securely under you as he walks the short distance to the bed, his lips dragging over your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he can’t stop touching you.

The bed creaks as he lowers you onto it, but instead of diving in like usual, he hesitates. Hovering over you, eyes dark, his fingers trailing over your ribs, your stomach, up to your collarbones.

For once, he’s not rushing.

This time is slower, more deliberate.

Jake peels your clothes off piece by piece, kissing each newly exposed patch of skin, his mouth reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. He lingers at your stomach, your hips, your inner thighs—leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses, his breath hot against your sensitive skin.

And you do the same, taking your time dragging your hands down his torso, feeling the muscles tense under your fingertips. You push down his briefs, freeing him completely, and the way his cock twitches in anticipation makes your thighs press together.

Then—finally—he sinks into you.

And it’s so fucking much.

The stretch, the heat, the way his hips press flush against yours, leaving no space between you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, a wrecked, trembling breath escaping him as he fully seats himself inside you.

He doesn’t move. He just stays there, buried to the hilt, breathing hard, his body shaking like he’s about to fall apart.

You feel everything—every pulse, every twitch, every inch of him pressing so deep inside you it makes your breath hitch.

“Jake,” you whisper, voice soft, fingers threading through his hair. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

He’s still hiding—head tucked against your neck, panting against your skin, avoiding your eyes like he’s afraid of what he’ll see.

“Jakey,” you murmur again, voice lilting, teasing. “Baby, look at me.”

Still nothing.

So you smack him.

“Ow—what the fuck?” he sputters, head snapping up.

And you take advantage of his shock—grabbing his face, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you.

The moment his eyes finally meet yours, something shifts.

His pupils are blown, his lips parted, his breathing erratic. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard, his body stiffening above you.

And then—his gaze drops.

Straight to your tits.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans, completely mesmerized, and instead of thrusting, instead of moving at all—he just stares. “Holy shit.”

You smack him again.

“Jake!”

“SORRY!” He grins, voice breathless, but his eyes don’t leave your chest. “It’s just—you look so fucking good—”

“You dumbass, I said look at me,” you growl, yanking his chin up—forcing his eyes back on yours.

He exhales sharply. And this time, he listens.

Eyes locked on yours, he lowers himself, lips grazing over your collarbone, trailing lower—lower—until his mouth finallycloses over your nipple.

“Ohhh, fuck,” you moan, your back arching into him as his tongue flicks over the sensitive bud.

Jake groans, low and deep, sucking hard, his lips wrapping around the soft flesh, but his eyes never leave your face.

“That’s it, baby—” His voice is thick, raspy, hot against your skin. “Wanted my fucking eyes? You got ’em.”

Fuck, it’s so much worse.

The way he’s sucking on your tits, so focused, so intent, his hips starting to rock against you in slow, deep thrusts—never breaking eye contact.

“You’re gonna watch me, baby,” he breathes, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses over your skin between every filthy suck. “Gonna watch me fucking ruin you.”

You whimper, clenching hard around him, and his groan vibrates against your breast.

“Oh my fucking god,” he chokes, voice breaking. “*You’re squeezing me so fucking tight—ngh—fuck, baby, you feel so good.”

You’re a mess now, panting, gasping, fingers threading through his damp hair, pulling him closer.

“Jake— ohhh my god—”

“Louder,” he demands, voice rough, biting just hard enough to make you cry out. “Scream for me, baby—let me fucking hear you.”

And you do.

You moan his name so loud, your body shaking beneath him, and Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck— baby—fuck, you’re gonna make me—ngh—”

His hips snap forward, pace turning desperate, his breath coming in wrecked, gasping moans as he buries himself inside you, his cock hitting so deep it makes your vision blur.

“Come with me,” he pleads, voice wrecked, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Fuck, please,”

The coil snaps.

Your orgasm rips through you, your walls squeezing around him so hard it has Jake shouting.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—”

His whole body trembles as he spills inside you, his hips twitching, his moans so loud, so filthy, his eyes still locked on yours even as he completely falls apart.

His thrusts stutter, erratic, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until he’s completely drained, panting, shaking, forehead pressed against yours.

A few moments pass, the air thick with heat and heavy breathing.

Then—Jake huffs a breathless laugh.

“Did you really fucking smack me?” he murmurs against your skin.

You smirk, breathless, fingers still buried in his hair. “Wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t a goddamn tit guy.”

Jake grins. “Guilty.” He kisses your collarbone, then your throat, then your jaw. “But can you blame me?”

You roll your eyes, legs still locked around his waist. “Just shut up and hold me, Jakey.”

And this time—he does.

"I think I'm falling for you," he says quietly, the words slipping out in the darkness before he can consider their implications.

You're silent for a moment, and Jake holds his breath, suddenly terrified. Then you prop yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him in the moonlight.

"I know," you say with a small smile. "Your distraction campaign has been pretty obvious."

Jake's eyes widen. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew. I've been competing with you for three years. I know how your mind works." You trace his jawline with one finger. "What I couldn't figure out was when it stopped being a strategy and started being real."

"I'm not sure I know either," Jake admits. "Maybe it was real from the beginning, and I just didn't want to admit it."

You lean down to kiss him, soft and sweet. "For what it's worth, I'm falling for you too. Even though you're still a competitive jerk sometimes."

"And you're still an academic show-off," he retorts, but he's smiling as he pulls you back down against his chest.

As you drift to sleep in his arms, Jake realizes with a start that he hasn't thought about the Harrison Fellowship once all evening. More surprisingly, he doesn't care.

-

Sunday morning brings clear skies and the reluctant awareness that their weekend escape is coming to an end. Jake wakes to find you already up, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed with your laptop open.

"I thought there was no internet here," he says, sitting up groggily.

"There isn't," you confirm. "But I downloaded all my research documents before we left. I've been working on my fellowship application."

Jake blinks, his brain still foggy with sleep. "You... what?"

You glance at him over your shoulder. "I've been up since six. Thought I'd get some work done before you woke up."

"But this was supposed to be..." Jake trails off, realizing too late what he's about to admit.

"A way to keep me from working on my application?" you finish, arching an eyebrow. "Yeah, I figured that out about five minutes after you invited me."

Jake groans, falling back against the pillows. "Am I that transparent?"

"Only to me," you assure him, closing your laptop and crawling up the bed to kiss him. "And I came anyway, because I wanted to spend the weekend with you. But I'm still going to win that fellowship."

"You're terrifying," Jake informs you, pulling you down for a proper kiss. "And impressive."

"I know," you reply with a smirk that reminds him exactly why he's been obsessed with you for three years.

They spend their final morning at the cabin making love once more before reluctantly packing up to return to campus. The drive back is comfortable, your hand resting on Jake's thigh as he drives, the radio playing softly in the background.

As the campus comes into view, Jake feels a strange reluctance to return to reality—to classes and competition and the looming fellowship decision. The weekend has changed something fundamental between you, but he's not sure how it will translate back to real life.

"What now?" he asks as he pulls into a parking space outside your dorm.

You turn to face him, expression serious. "Now we both work our asses off on our applications, ace our finals, and see what happens. No sabotage, no distractions."

"And us?" Jake asks, surprised by how much your answer matters to him.

"Us is separate from the competition," you say firmly. "I want to be with you, Jake. But I'm still going to try to beat you in every class."

Jake laughs, relief washing over him. "I wouldn't have it any other way, princess."

You lean across the console to kiss him goodbye, lingering longer than necessary. "See you tomorrow, Jakey. I've got a fellowship application to finish."

As he watches you walk away, Jake is struck by the realization that for the first time since freshman year, he doesn't care if you beat him. He just wants you both to succeed.

-

Back at his apartment, Ethan takes one look at his face and bursts out laughing.

"Oh man, you've got it bad," he says, shaking his head. "What happened to 'Total Disruption'?"

Jake collapses onto the couch with a groan. "It all backfired. Spectacularly. She knew what I was doing the whole time."

"No shit," Ethan says, not even looking up from his game. "Everyone knew. You weren't exactly subtle."

"What do you mean everyone knew? I was totally subtle!"

Ethan pauses his game and turns to face Jake, exasperation written all over his face. "Dude. You literally canceled a meeting with your fellowship advisor because she texted asking if you wanted coffee. You've been walking around campus with this dopey smile for weeks. You drew her. Multiple times."

"That was part of the plan!" Jake protests.

"The plan you spent more time talking about than actually studying for the fellowship you supposedly care so much about?"

Jake opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "Okay, but here's the thing—"

"No," Ethan holds up a hand. "Here's the thing. You're in love with her. You have been for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe years, who knows?"

"I just realized it today," Jake admits quietly.

"TODAY?" Ethan throws his hands up. "Oh my god. I literally told you this would happen the day you made your stupid plan! Day one, I said, 'You're going to fall for her,' and you said, 'No way, it's purely strategic.'"

"I didn't think—"

"Obviously!" Ethan's practically shouting now. "You've been so busy convincing yourself this was all some master scheme that you completely missed what everyone else could see from a mile away."

"It wasn't that obvious," Jake mutters defensively.

"You FRAMED a PHOTO of her! It's on your NIGHTSTAND!"

"That was to remind me of my enemy—"

"Oh my GOD, will you STOP?" Ethan throws a pillow that hits Jake square in the face. "Just admit it. The great Jake Sim, master strategist, completely played himself."

Jake is silent for a long moment, then sighs heavily. "Fine. You were right. I played myself. I fell for her. Hard. Are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Ethan deadpans. "So what's the plan now, Romeo?"

Jake stares at the ceiling, thinking about your parting words. About competition and companionship, about winning and wanting.

"The plan," he says slowly, "is to stop planning so much and just... see what happens."

"Revolutionary," Ethan rolls his eyes. "What about the fellowship?"

Jake sits up, a new determination settling over him. "I'm still going to try to win it. But not by sabotaging her—by actually earning it. And if she wins instead..." He pauses, surprised to find he means what he's about to say. "Then she deserves it."

"Who are you and what have you done with Jake Sim?" Ethan asks, though his sarcasm has softened slightly.

Jake's phone buzzes with a text from you. He checks it immediately, a smile spreading across his face at the message: Missing my Jakey already. Study date tomorrow? I'll bring the coffee if you bring those amazing notes from Richardson's lecture.

"Case in point," Ethan says, watching Jake's expression change. "Completely whipped."

"I am not—"

"Just answer your girlfriend and spare me the denial," Ethan cuts him off, turning back to his game.

Jake ignores him, typing back: It's a date, princess. I'll even let you borrow my sweatshirt again.

Your reply comes seconds later: Bold of you to assume I was planning to give the first one back.

The warmth that spreads through Jake's chest at your message is undeniable, as is the realization that his perfect plan has completely, utterly, wonderfully failed.

Because the truth—which he's finally ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real connections, Jake Sim has done the one thing he never planned on:

He's fallen in love with his greatest rival. And he couldn't be happier about it.

fin.

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @kkamismom12 @princesstiti14

[sunni-stuff]

Everything changed when that pregnancy test read positive.

The day you fumbled into his office, bearing what you thought to be bad news, John's excited face threw you for a loop.

Wasn't he supposed to be upset? Tell you that he didn't want to have a kid with someone he didn't fully care about? Why was he crying? Why did he embrace you so tenderly?

"I'll be there for both of you, Dovie," Price reassures in the nook of your neck, arms caging you against his chest.

Take care of both of you.

Both?

"M-Mr. Price, with all due respect—"

Price cuts off your protests. He leads you out of his office. His large hand grips your waist more possessively. "Go rest your feet up in the lounge; I'll take care of everything." His lips press to the crown of your head, ushering you away gently at the reception entrance.

You were supposed to have one fun night, not to be locked in for the rest of your lives.

Your days of working at a desk were replaced with John's house. It was far from the bustling base you had grown used to. The space was warm and homey. Bits of memorabilia were scattered about. Medals adorned the walls, and old photos sat on the shelves.

John said you only have one job now: making yourself at home.

There was so much space that you didn't know where to start or even how to start! It's not like there was a plan for having your boss's child! So much was happening so fast it left you overwhelmed, sitting on his couch with nervous hands. "Mr. Price, I'm really not sure about all this; I mean... what we did was a big mistake, right?"

From upstairs, you hear John laugh. He's been up there all morning, fixing the nursery for your child. He wanted to create a special room for them, saying that his kid deserves nothing but the best. Heavy footsteps announce his presence as he closes the distance between you. Calloused fingers grip your chin, forcing you to look into his ocean eyes. "You don't want this?"

His touch has you melting, words dying on your lips as you get lost in those eyes. God, why did he look at you that way? Churning like laundry, your gut writhes. A violent spin cycle grips your innards, knotting and wrenching them mercilessly. "I never—I never said that; I just think we're taking things too fast, don't you?" The half-hearted mumble escapes your lips, unconvincing even to yourself.

John's expression shifts; his eyebrow raises in slight scrutiny. "If you believed that, you wouldn't be here."

He's right.

"I do-"

He cuts in swiftly, voice firm. "You don't."

John's grasp tightens on your chin. He leans in, eyes intense. Your heart races. His lips brush yours. The kiss—chaste yet electric. A moment suspended in time. Emotions flood through you both, unspoken but palpable. "You have me. Whatever you want is yours, all you have to do is say the word."

John waits, poised for your word. His eyes betray a craving—silent, deep, and raw.

He belongs to you. He's all yours.

Your lips purse in a line, lip caught between your teeth.

Anything you want?

"I don't like the color of the nursey..."

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

P1

❥ I wasn't originally gonna do a part 2 but... I really like this one, next fic will be longer, possibly fluff and smut maybe who knows ❥

[mieisunki]

feeling witchy | jungwon

summary: when you performed the spell to get your familiar, you expected anything but the hybrid you got. now here you are, in college making frowned upon potions with your hybrid familiar. what could go wrong? maybe the fact that you're completely head over heels for your familiar...

pairing: blackcatfamiliar!jungwon x witch!reader

warning: friends to lovers | fluff | angst | smut (dom!jungwon, oral (both receiving), face fxcking, spanking, unprotected sex, lots of dirty talk, spanking, hair pulling) | jungwon calls reader kitten a lot | alcohol consumption (nothing excessive)

word count: 10.2k

taglist: @graythecoffeebean @forwinterstars @k1ttyjwon

"where is it?"

you take a step back, looking over all of the jars until you found the one you were looking for. once you found it, you grabbed it before reading over the label to make sure its the right one. the last thing you needed was to put the wrong ingredient in your potion and mess everything up- especially when you needed the money.

it was perhaps a little frowned upon what you did- selling you potions while you were still in school. it wasn't against any rules to do it, so they really couldn't say anything. but a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do to survive. you weren't making nearly as much as you would when you graduated, but it was plenty enough for you and your familiar to get by.

"you finding everything okay, gorgeous?"

your gaze snaps up from the jar, eying the sketchy shop owner who was staring at you from down the aisle. his name was kevin, and if it weren't for the magic ban surrounding the building, he would be completely harmless. at least, you weren't completely weaponless.

you open your mouth to answer, but snap it shut when a black tail wraps around your waist. you look up to see your familiar jungwon staring at kevin with a sharp glare. his eyes turn feline before he lets out a loud hiss. it successfully scares away kevin who tells you he'll be at the register when you're ready.

jungwon's eyes return to normal before his dark gaze meets yours. "why can't we find another ingredient shop again?"

"because the closest one besides this one is an hour away." you respond, putting the jar in the basket he was holding. "besides, you know he's all talk."

"don't ever come here without me."

you roll your eyes, already quite familiar with his commands. you bite back your retort about how your technically the one in charge, and he should be listening to you. but you know that argument never goes anywhere, so you just find it easier to agree with your familiar.

it was very rare for familiars to be hybrids. none of the people at your school had one, and none of your teachers believed you when you said your familiar was a hybrid. it wasn't until he showed up one day with a shit eating grin and proving all of them wrong that they believed you.

you didn't care if they believed you or not, but you also don't blame them for not believing you. you didn't even believe it yourself at first. all you knew was that you were supposed to perform the spell that gives you your familiar on your 16th birthday. you followed everything perfectly- having studied the spell for months. but instead of getting an animal like everyone else, you got a sassy 5'9" black cat hybrid with ears that almost blended in with his black hair.

you didn't mind though. it was nice going through life with an actual person instead of an animal. especially since your parents all but abandoned you as soon as you turned 18. jungwon was there, helping you pick up all of your broken pieces and then some. he was a good familiar and a good friend. a friend that loved to blur the lines of friendship and make you confused about your feelings for him, but a friend nonetheless.

"yes sir." you half heartedly agree with him before moving to grab your last ingredient. you didn't make it very far because of his tail that was still wrapped around you, forcing you to look back at him. he raises his eyebrows as he stares down at you.

"i mean it kitten."

"i know you do, wonnie." you respond to him, rolling your eyes at the ironic nickname. he still looked like he didn't believe you, so you held up your hand to link up with his pinky. "i promise i will not come into this store alone."

he huffed, finally believing you and interlocking your fingers. "good girl." he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple before pulling away. "now where's the last ingredient, so we can get out of here."

you duck your head, feeling your face flush as you turn away from him. he follows you, keeping your tail around your wrist like he normally did. he's always been like this- touchy with you. you used to could be able to brush it off, but it started getting harder and harder to do. you didn't understand it, so you brought it up with your close friend and classmate, sunoo.

"oh, that's easy." he answered you instantly. "you like him."

you roll your eyes at his answer. "of course i like him. he's my familiar."

"no, you idiot. i mean you like him more than that."

you originally refused the answer that sunoo gave you. it wasn't until you thought about it that you finally agreed with him. he gloated, but it didn't last long with you said you weren't going to do anything about it. you couldn't be with him.

he was your familiar. you two were bound for life. what if you two got together and broke up? that would make things unnecessarily awkward. that's if he returned those feelings- which you didn't think he did. you would rather just suck it up and ignore them. sunoo didn't agree with any of what you said, and to this day is still trying to convince you to try.

jungwon let out a satisfied sigh once you gave him your last ingredient. he then held out his hand making you roll your eyes. his tail lets go of you when you start digging in your bag before pulling out your wallet. you hand it to him before following him to the register. his broad shoulders block you completely as he checks out. you notice jungwon give kevin one last glare before he leads you out of the store.

"i would still prefer it if we found another shop." jungwon mumbled as the two of you walked down the street where your car was parked.

"i know." you tell him, reaching out and grabbing his hand before stopping him. he looks down at you with a curious gaze. "next time, we will go to a different one. deal?"

the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled brightly down at you, happy he's getting his way. "deal."

the next time you had to go to that dreaded shop was two weeks after yours and jungwon's initial deal. you know he was going to kill you for not bringing him. you weren't technically breaking your promise because you only promised that you weren't going alone, and you weren't. you were bringing sunoo who you've told about the whole situation.

"i feel like this is going to end bad." he retorted as the two of you got out of the car. you shrugged your shoulders before starting to walk down the street.

"probably, but i need these ingredients today." you had someone offer you double your original price if you could get this potion to them tomorrow, and you would be stupid if you didn't accept that. only issue is that jungwon wasn't around to accompany you.

"and why can't jungwon come?"

"i already told you. an arcade opened up downtown. him and jake have been waiting months for it to open. i don't want to ruin that for him."

jake was a fellow golden retriever hybrid that belonged to a mutual friend of your, heeseung. the two of them have been close since you two introduced them a little over a year ago.

"you know he wouldn't mind rescheduling." he told you as he held the door open for you.

"i know that." you sighed, walking into the store. you look around, not seeing kevin just yet. "but i feel like he deserves this. he shouldn't have to suffer because one asshole can't take a hint."

sunoo looked around before looking back at you. "you know this is the only place around here that inhibits our powers? maybe you should listen to jungwon and go to the one i go to. i know the owner, jay. he's pretty cool."

"jungwon and i were talking about it, but i don't have time to drive that far for this order." you tell him as the two of you start grabbing the jars you need. you were thankful he knew exactly what you needed for this potion, so the two of you could hurry and get out of there.

"i still don't know if you're going to have enough time." sunoo told you as you continued to scour the store. "why did you accept the offer anyway?"

you sighed before looking to sunoo. "i need the money. you know jungwon's birthday is comming up. i want to get him something special."

"what are you going to get him?"

"he's been wanting a gaming set up, so he can play with jake and heeseung online instead of having me drive him over there. i didn't realize how expensive it was before coming up with the idea." you explain. when you didn't get a response from sunoo, you look over to see him smirking at him.

"you gonna tell him you're in love with him while you're at it?" you open your mouth to respond to him, but someone interrupted you before you could say anything.

"hey gorgeous. how are you doing today?"

you meet sunoo's gaze for a moment before turning around and seeing kevin standing behind the counter. "doing good. how about you?"

"better since you're here." you roll your eyes at his answer before going back to looking through the store.

"oh my god." sunoo whispered, walking up next to you. "you didn't say he was that creepy."

"yes i did." you laugh at him.

"he's glaring daggers at me." sunoo whined. "we need to hurry."

you nod your head, grabbing the last thing you need. "okay. we can go."

you and sunoo walk over to the counter where kevin was. you handed him the basket, and he started ringing everything up. you were always behind jungwon for this part, so it felt weird watching him- especially when he couldn't even take his eyes off of you for more than two seconds.

"who's your friend?" the two of you look over at kevin when he motions to sunoo. you look over to sunoo with an apologetic expression- which he brushes off before smiling at him.

"i'm sunoo. yn's boyfriend." you eyes widened at his answer for a second before you recover. kevin pauses ringing you up as he looks at you.

"what happened to the cat?"

you finally meet his eyes- this time with a glare. "his name is jungwon, and he is none of you business."

kevin got the message, continuing to ring you up. you feel sunoo grab your hand, squeezing reassuringly which you return. once kevin had everything checked out, he handed you back your basket while he printed out the receipt. once it was printed, he held it up to you with what you thought was a disgusted look.

"so you're little cat doesn't mind you whoring yourself around?" you hear sunoo let out a gasp as you gawk at him. it took you a few seconds to respond to his insult, but once you did, you let out a scoff.

"so because i'm not interested you, i'm a whore?" you question, snatching the receipt out of his hand. "if that's the case, sunoo i guess you're dating a whore."

you quickly turn, not allowing him to respond before you storm out of the store. you hear sunoo running to catch up with you as you make your way back to your car.

"are you okay?" sunoo asked.

"peachy." you answer as the two of you got inside of the car. once you start the car, you let out a groan of frustration as you lay your head on the steering wheel. "we should've went to the other place."

"you're telling jungwon about that right?"

"no." you hear sunoo groan at your answer. "you know exactly what he's going to do, and i don't have bail money."

"you need to tell him. he has no right to say those things to you." you look over at sunoo, knowing that he's right, but not having any clue on how to tell him. you knew he was going to be mad at you, and you hated when he was.

"i know." you sigh, running your hand over your face. "i will. just let me finish this order, and i will tell him."

"okay."

the next day, you had somehow successfully managed to complete the order when it was needed. you don't know how you did it. you had to stay up all night to complete it. thankfully jungwon decided to stay over at heeseung's, so he didn't wonder why you were staying up so late.

you still didn't know how you were going to tell him about yesterday. you thought of every possible way to tell him while you worked on the potion, but none of them seemed good enough. maybe it was just the lack of sleep keeping you from thinking properly.

you had just fallen asleep on the couch when the front door slammed shut. you nearly jump out of your skin at the sound, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes when you saw jungwon storm into the living room. in your half asleep state, you couldn't see the angry expression on his face as you greet him.

"hey wonnie. how was-"

"don't hey wonnie me." he interrupted, confusing you. "why did i just get a call from sunoo telling me the two of you went to kevin's shop yesterday?"

that question woke you up real quick. "look, i was going to tell you, but i fell asleep."

"you shouldn't have to tell me anything. you shouldn't have gone at all. you promised me you would go in there without me." you shrink under jungwon's glare.

"i said i wouldn't go alone, and i didn't."

"you know damn well that's not what i meant." you jump as jungwon glares at you. "what if he tried something? you and sunoo are practically useless without your magic."

your face falls as his words hit you. "jungwon-"

"do you have any idea how irresponsible and dangerous that was?" jungwon questioned. "what was so important that you just had to go back there?"

at least sunoo didn't give that away. not like it mattered. you couldn't bring yourself to even look at him- too ashamed at yourself. your answer wouldn't matter anyway. jungwon just made that clear that he didn't feel the same about you.

you hear jungwon scoff in anger. "of course you don't have an answer. i'm going to stay with jake and hee until you can answer me."

you wait until you hear the front door slam shut before the tears start to fall. you didn't know how you were going to get him to forgive you for this.

you spent the next two days in bed, completely distraught of yours and jungwon's argument. you understood what you did was against what he wanted, so his anger was warranted. but his words weren't- which really hurt you. you tried to call him a couple of times but he didn't answer.

at first you thought it was because he was trying to calm down, but then the doubts started creeping in. maybe he finally got tired of you like your parents. maybe he realized you needed him way more than he needed you- not like he needed you in the first place.

all of these thoughts kept haunting you, even when you were in class. you ended up skipping your last period- choosing to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to catch up from you spacing out during classes.

you were in the middle of reading when someone pulled out the chair in front of you. you looked up, seeing a guilty sunoo sit down in front of you. you look at him for a moment before going back to your work. you know you shouldn't be mad at him. it was your fault, but you wanted to be the one to tell jungwon. you didn't know if it would have made a difference though, but at this point it didn't matter. it already happened, and there wasn't anything you could do to change it.

you look back up when sunoo slides something towards you. you eye the drink he got you, which was your favorite, before looking back at him. "yn, i'm sorry. when i brought that up, i thought you had already told him. i wouldn't have said anything if i knew."

"i know you wouldn't." you tell him, grabbing the drink before taking a sip. "i have no one to blame but myself."

"how did he react? he sounded upset over the phone." you looked away from him at his question, shrugging your shoulders.

"about as bad as you'd expect." you answer, trying not to think of the argument because you knew you would cry again if you did. "he yelled at me before leaving. i haven't seen him since."

sunoo's eyes widened. "he left?"

"he asked me what was so important that i went there for. when i wouldn't tell him, he said he was staying with jake and heeseung until i gave him an answer." you explain, blinking back tears. "i messed up, sunoo. he won't answer any calls or texts from me. i had to call heeseung and make sure he was okay."

"now i feel even worse." sunoo started to tell you but you cut him off.

"don't. it was my fault."

"i still feel bad. i don't even see how you're functioning right now?" sunoo told you. "i feel like i can't be away from daisy for more than a few hours before i start to feel bad."

you let out a sigh as you rest your head on the table. "i feel like shit."

everyone knew the rules of witches. they weren't supposed to be away from their familiars once they got one. the longer the two were apart, the worst the witch felt. you were being scarce with your answer to sunoo. it felt like a piece of you was missing. you were doing everything in your power to not go marching over to heeseung's and seeing him. the only reason you weren't was you were still upset with him.

"you need to go and see him." you look up at sunoo. "i'll come with you after school." you shake your head, mumbling about how you didn't want to see him. "yn, you know it's only going to get worse."

"you didn't hear what he said, sunoo. i know he only said them out of anger, but they still hurt. the last thing i want to do right now is see him."

"what are you going to do?"

"i don't know, but i'll figure something out." you brush it off, wanting to pull away from the subject. "but for now, help me catch up with what i missed."

sunoo looked at you for a moment before nodding his head. "okay."

the two of you studied for a few hours before the two of you went your separate ways. you rubbed at your tired eyes as you unlocked the door to your apartment. you really didn't want to come here since jungwon wasn't here, but you didn't really have any other options.

you close the door, sliding off your shoes when you noticed something. jungown's shoes were in his usual spot. it was then that you could feel his presence. he was here. that made you more nervous than you thought it would. you didn't want him yelling at you again.

you throw your bag on the ground before walking out of the entry way and sure enough, jungwon was there, sitting on the couch while scrolling on his phone. you saw his ear twitch at the sound of your footsteps before he looked up at you. you nearly flinch at his gaze as he stared at you, not making any notion of being the first to talk.

you decided to speak up first. "are you back?"

jungwon shifted, putting his phone in his pocket before patting the spot right next to him. you shift your weight before walking over to him and sitting next to him. you kept your distance though, not knowing if he wanted you close to him.

"you really hurt me, yn." you find your eyes watering as you listen to him. "i asked you not to do something, and you agreed not to just to turn around and do it."

your eyes trail down to your lap where your fingers were playing with your jewelry- a habit you did when you were nervous. "i'm really sorry. i never wanted to hurt you. i thought of sunoo came with me, it would've been okay."

"why didn't you just come to me?" you feel his eyes on you after he asks the question, but you didn't make any move to look at him.

"you had plans with jake and i-" you try to explain, but jungwon stops you.

"that's not an excuse."

"it is for me." you finally look up and meet his gaze. you could tell he was trying hard not to get angry, so you tried to pick your words carefully. "you had been looking forward to those plans for weeks. you had already done so much for me, and i just wanted you to be able to go out and have fun."

"i would've rescheduled." he told you. "you know i would have. we could've went to the other one, and none of this would have happened."

"i know you would've, but i didn't want you to." you pull away from his gaze, not wanting to look at him for your next admission. it was better for him to know everything, even if it upset him even more. "i also didn't have time to go to the other one."

"what do you mean?"

"i took an express order." you told him. the two of you talked about it a couple of times, and you both agreed that you wouldn't do it unless you thought it necessary. "they wanted it by the next morning, so i didn't have time to drive all the way there and back."

you hear jungwon let out a sigh, and you already had a feeling you knew what his next question would be. "are you going to tell me what was so important that you did all of this for?"

"i'm honestly shocked you haven't figured it out yet." you admit as you look over at him again. you watched his eyebrows furrow in confusion. you normally rub your thumb along the crinkle of his forehead when he does that, but you interlocked your fingers to prevent yourself from doing so. "what's coming up next week, wonnie?"

it takes him a second, but he finally figures it out. "kitten, i told you i didn't want anything for my birthday. you already spent enough with heeseung for the party next week."

"do you really think i'm not going to get the most important person to me a gift for their 21st birthday?" you question. "who do you think i am?"

"you're making it really hard to be upset with you." jungwon told you. he was still trying to keep his composure, but all it took was one smile from you for him to loose it. you let out a sigh of relief as the rest of his anger slid away when he laughed. "why didn't you just say that two days ago?"

"you kind of didn't give me a chance." you answer him. your happy mood darkened when you remembered the argument, and what he said to you. you blink away your tears before shifting farther away from him than you were- an act that didn't go unnoticed.

jungwon moved over, grabbing your waist before pulling you to him. you straddled his legs as he pulled you to his chest. you wrapped your arms around his neck, and jungwon swore he felt his heart break when you started crying. "i'm so sorry for what i said, kitten."

"i didn't mean any of it." he continued, rubbing his hand down your back to try to comfort you. "you're not useless or irresponsible. you are the complete opposite. i wouldn't be able to function without you by my side."

"i thought you were going to leave me." jungwon's arms tightened around you at the confession.

"never." he pulled you away from him. he looked at you softly while brushing away your tears before cupping your cheeks and making you look at him. "you're stuck with me for the rest of your life."

"you promise?"

jungwon nodded, kissing your temple before pulling you back into his arms. "i promise."

after you and jungwon made up, things between the two of you almost went back to the way they were before. key word being almost. you couldn't understand what was different, but there was something different about the two of you that you couldn't put your finger on.

you tried to explain it to sunoo, but for once, he didn't have an answer either- just as stumped as you were. you choose to just brush it off since it wasn't causing any harm. you didn't have any choice since today was jungwon's party.

jake has kept jungwon busy all day while you, heeseung, and sunoo help set up everything. it took most of the day for you three to set everything up, and you were pretty sure your hands were going to be sore tomorrow from tying so many balloons. but it was worth it. heeseung's place looked great.

people had already started to show up when you and sunoo were finishing up setting up the food. heeseung turned on the music and dimmed the lights while you did one last look around to make sure everything was perfect.

you pulled out your phone to text jungwon to see when he would be here when something wrapped around your waist. you glance down, seeing the black tail that you know belonged to your familiar before turning around. he laughs, catching you when you jump into his arms.

"happy birthday, wonnie."

"thank you kitten." he kissed your cheek as he set you down. "this place looks great. you and heeseung did a good job."

"i helped too!" you turn when you hear sunoo's voice.

you pulled away from jungwon, so he could greet sunoo. the three of you stand there for a minute, talking about setting up when some other friends of his came to greet jungwon. you and sunoo shared a look before you both moved away, so he could hang out with his friends, though you stopped when jungwon's tail wrapped around your wrist.

"where are you going?"

"i'm going to get a drink." you answer. "i'll catch up with you. go have fun with your friends."

though you kind of regret that now. the party's been in swing for a few hours, and you all have just sang happy birthday to him. people, including you, were starting to get tipsy from alcohol. you were still fully aware what was going on, but you could feel the effects of the alcohol despite this only being your third drink. you blame yourself for allowing heeseung to mix the drinks.

you were talking with two witches from your class, glancing back occasionally to check on jungwon. he was sitting on the couch on the other side of the room from you. you haven't been able to talk to him since earlier, and it seemed like every time you tried, he would get swamped with friends.

this time when you glanced back, you noticed that there was a new girl sitting next to him- another cat hybrid. you didn't recognize her as you looked her over. her brown hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and her dress was very short. you shrugged her off at first, thinking she was just a friend. but then she placed her hand on his thigh with a flirty smile, and jungwon didn't push her away. you felt your heart sink when he smiled back at her.

you look away from them, staring down at your drink while you tried to hide your jealousy. of course he wouldn't want a witch. why would he when he could have a pretty hybrid like the one right next to him? you felt yourself become sick at the thought of him being someone else's. you turn back around to look again when someone wrapped their arm around your shoulder.

"what's cooking, good looking?" you smile before looking up and meeting the eyes of jake.

"hey jake." you greet, turning to him fully. "you having fun?"

he pulled you closer to him, leaning down so you could hear him. "you and hee really know how to throw a party. you need to do mine next."

"of course." you agree. "you could do it early on halloween and have everyone dress up."

jake gasped, clearly loving the idea. "you're a genius babe! you should dress up as tinker bell and i'll be peter pan."

"jungwon could be your wendy." you joked, laughing when jake doubled over in laughter. clearly, he had a little too much to drink. once he recovered, he pulled you back underneath his arm, which wasn't anything new. everyone knew jake was touchy. "speaking of jungwon. who's that girl next to him?"

jake turned and looked, letting out a scoff before turning back to you. "that's sarah. she's been trying to get with jungwon for i don't know how long."

"he's never mentioned her to me." you hum, taking a sip of your drink and nearly spitting it out when jake gets close to your face again.

"probably because he hates her."

it was your turn to let out a scoff. you turned to see if they were still in the same position as before, and they were. "where do you see that? the two are currently cuddled up on the couch together."

"are you jealous?" you roll your eyes at his question. thankfully the lights were dim enough to hide your blush.

"no. they're just painting a different picture than what you're saying."

"don't worry, babe. you're secret's safe with me." jake smiles at you when you shove him. "not like it's much of a secret anyway. you two are so obvious about it."

"shut up." you glare. you didn't miss the fact that he said the two of you instead of just you. you just didn't want to believe him. especially not with the scene that was playing out behind you.

"wanna make him jealous?" he asks, confusing you.

"how would we do that?"

"do you trust me?" you shrug at his question.

"i probably shouldn't."

you look away for a moment, greeting a friend as they passed by you two. as soon as you turn your attention back to jake, you jump in shock when his lips meet yours. you don't even kiss him back. you just stand there when he's ripped away from you. your view of jake is blocked by jungwon.

"what the fuck jake?"

"come on man." you hear jake's whine. "we were having fun. weren't we yn?"

jungwon turned around, looking down at still very confused you. you could see his eyes flickering between his normal ones and his cat like ones- a clear sign he was mad. his hand suddenly grabbed your wrist before pulling you away.

"jungwon? what are you doing?" you question as he pulls you towards the stairs. apparently, you weren't going fast enough because jungwon turned to you again. you let out a yell when he threw you over his shoulder before making his way upstairs. "jungwon, what the hell? put me down!"

he ignored you and kept walking until he reached the guest bedroom where he stays when he's here. you let out another yell when he throws you onto the bed. you bounce at the movement before you hear the door slam shut. you look over at jungwon like he had lost his mind.

"what the hell is wrong with you?"

"i should be asking you that." jungwon retorted. "why the hell were you kissing jake?"

you let out a groan before standing up. "i didn't do anything. blame your best friend."

he didn't respond to you causing you to look over at him. he still had a glare on his face as he stalked towards you like you were pray. you didn't move out of your spot as when he stopped in front of you. "you shouldn't have kissed him. you aren't his."

what the hell was that supposed to mean? you weren't jakes? did that mean you were his? you couldn't tell how he meant it. as a friend? more than a friend? you didn't think a friend would get mad at you for kissing some one. was jake right when he said jungwon liked you back?

"i didn't kiss jake." you told him when you recovered from his words. "he asked me if i trusted him. i stupidly said yes, and he kissed me. i didn't kiss him back, and i didn't even have a chance to push him away before you showed up." jungwon looks at you for a moment. once he could tell you were telling the truth, he moved away before trying to leave the room. "where are you going?"

"to kill jake." you flicked your wrist when jungwon opened the door causing the door to slam shut. you didn't only shock jungwon, but also yourself with that move. you never used magic on jungwon. he tried to open the door, but he knew it wouldn't budge until you opened it yourself. he turned to you with a look you haven't seen from him before. "open the door yn."

"no." you stand your ground. "you can't just throw me over your shoulder, tell me i'm not jakes, and then leave. what are you even going to do when you go back out there? yell at jake before going back to sarah?"

you let the words flow out of your mouth without even thinking about them. you weren't sure where this confidence was coming from. "maybe i should go back out there too. i could find jake, and we can finish what we started."

a low growl comes out of his mouth when he storms back to you. this time when he reaches you, his hand wraps around your hair, pulling your head back to look up at him. his eyes feline as he bent down to your level. "you are mine. do you understand me? mine."

"then prove it."

his hand tightens around your hair at your words before his lips slam into yours. the hand that isn't tangled in your hair grips your waist and pulls you closer to him. your hands move to grip his shirt as you kiss him back. his tongue slides past your lips before tangling with yours, causing a soft moan to escape. his grip on your waist tightens around your waist before he pulls away from you.

when he pulled back, he rested his head on yours. his eyes weren't feline anymore. the reality of what just happened hit you. your familiar kissed you. you kissed him back. and now that you have, you never wanted him to stop. his hand fell from your hair before brushing against your cheek.

"kitten." his lips brushed against yours as he spoke. "if you don't want this, you need to tell me to stop, and we'll forget this ever happened."

he was giving you the chance to back away. you stuttered for a moment, thinking that maybe he wanted to stop. but then you felt his erection pressing against your stomach. he wanted this just as much as you.

instead of responding to him, you leaned up, capturing his lips once again. jungwon got the message, kissing you back while his hands explored every inch of you. his hands slid under your shirt, slowly trailing up while his lips left yours before moving to your neck.

you let out a gasp when his hands cupped your breasts as he left a dark bruise on your neck. you gripped his shoulders to keep steady when he pulled his face away from your neck. he kissed you one last time before pulling away.

"are you sure you want this, yn?"

"i do." you instantly answered him, a desperate plea in your tone. "please, wonnie."

whatever hesitation jungwon had disappeared the moment you begged for him. you could see the shift in him, and it turned you on even more. "then get on your knees, kitten."

you did as he said, sitting on your knees before looking up at him. he let out a groan before his hand brushed your cheek. "always my perfect girl. listening to everything i say. isn't that right?" you nod your head at his question. "here's what gonna happen kitten. you're going to be a good girl and suck my cock before i have fun with that pretty pussy okay?"

you let out a whine at his words, not used to your familiar talking to you so crude. he could tell you loved it though by the subtle shift in your thighs. once you nodded your head, you watched as his hands went to his jeans. he unbuttons his jeans before sliding them and his boxers down his hips. you eyes widen as his dick springs out, but you didn't make any move towards him. not until he motioned you forward did you move.

one had rested on his thigh while the other one wrapped around his length. you pump his length a few times, earning a groan from jungwon before you leaned forward. you licked the underside of his length before placing his head in your mouth and sucking. you watched as jungwon threw his head back as you started to bob your head, using your hand for what you couldn't fit in your mouth.

"my sweet kitten- fuck." you nearly gagged when he thrusted into your mouth. his hand moved around to grip your hair again as he continued to move his hips. you kept your hands on his hips for stability. "are you going to let me cum in this pretty mouth, kitten?"

you moan at his words, feeling your eyes start to water. you could tell he was getting close from the sounds he was making. after a few more thrusts, you felt his release hit the back of your throat, making you gag. when he pulled away from you, you let out cough after you swallowed. you were catching you breath when you saw him bend down.

"open." you do as he says, opening your mouth to show him. "good girl."

your arms wrap around his neck as his lips press against yours. you try to get up, but you feel yourself being lifted by jungwon before you could. your legs wrap around his waist as he carries you over to bed. you felt your back hit the bed as jungwon laid you down. his teeth bite your bottom lip before he pulls away.

his hands grip the bottom of your shirt, and you sit up enough for him to pull it over your head. his lips attach to your neck, biting and marking every place his lips touch. you arch into his touch when his hands squeeze your breasts.

"so responsive, kitten."

his hands squeeze your breast again before he moves to unhook your bra. he slides it down your arms, throwing it before moving down your body. you let out a moan when his lips attach to your nipple, sucking harshly.

"fuck, wonnie."

he smirks against your breast, clearly loving the sounds that are coming out of you. he continues to bite and suck, leaving bruises all over your chest and stomach. he stops at the hem of your jeans and chuckles when you shift your hips.

"does my girl need some relief?"

"yes." you answer, jumping when he bits your thigh. "please wonnie."

he kneels down between your legs, quickly unbuttoning your pants before pulling them down your legs. his lips ghost up your thigh as he makes his way to your heat. "god, kitten. you're never wearing clothes around me again."

jungwon lifts your legs, placing them over his shoulder as he lines his face with your heat. he tests the waters, sticking his tongue out, tasting you and groaning as he does so. after a small whine from you, he finally gives you the relief you want. his tongue darts out again, easily finding your clit. you back arches when he flicks it before attaching his lips to it.

"fuck." you roll your hips against his face. the action causes a groan to come out of jungwon.

"i can't believe i waited so long to do this." he mumbles against you. "you taste so good, kitten."

he trails his fingers around your entrance before slowly pushing his index finger in. you squeeze around his finger as you adjust to him. your hands grip the sheets, a moan coming out of your mouth when he curls his finger.

"wonnie." you cry out when he eases a second finger inside of you. his speed increased while his tongue continued to move in patterns on your clit. you were a moaning mess beneath him, gripping his hair in your hand while he brought you closer to your climax. "wonnie, i- fuck."

you couldn't even fully warn him before you climaxed. jungwon tightened his grip on your waist, continuing his movements and not showing any signs of slowing down. you felt overly sensitive as you came down from your high, trying to pull away from jungwon. he open his eyes before looking up at you.

"you can handle one more, right kitten?" you found yourself nodding at his question before you could even think. "one more before i fill you with my cock."

you whine at his words. you feel jungwon smirk against you before his lips reattaches to your clit. you moan out his name again, completely losing yourself in his touch. it didn't take long at all for your second climax to build back up.

"wonnie, i'm-"

"i know, kitten." you hear him say. "you're going to be my perfect girl and cum all over my fingers again, aren't you?"

"yes." you moan out.

all it took was one more curl of jungwon's fingers before you climaxed again. he helped you through your high before pulling away from you. his lips ghost up your body before pressing against you lips. his tongue pushes through your lips, brushing against yours. he pulled away, giving you one last kiss before leaning up.

"roll over kitten." you do as he says and rolling over onto your stomach. jungwon grabs your waist, pulling you to where you were on your knees. you look over your shoulder when you hear rustling. he discarded the rest of his clothes before looking at you. his hands run over your ass before kneading the flesh. "who does this ass belong to yn? does it belong to jake?"

you jump slightly when his hand lands on your cheek. "no."

"then who does it belong to?"

"you." he slaps your ass again at your answer.

"i didn't quite catch that kitten."

"you, wonnie." you whine. he groans in satisfaction, running his hands over the spot he spanked.

"that's right. so what aren't we going to let jake do again?"

"kiss me." you answer, jumping when he spanked you. you look in confusion to see him clearly waiting for the right answer. "touch me?" he spanked you again. you let out a whine of frustration as he slid his dick through your folds. "anything because he's not you?"

"good girl." you let out a loud moan when jungwon entered you in one smooth thrust. he stills, allowing you a moment to adjust. he leans forward, pressing kisses along your spine. "do you feel how well your pussy takes me kitten? like she knew she was mine this whole time."

you whimper at his words, silently begging him to move. you shift your hips as you try to get him to move. he gets the message, tightly gripping your waist before he pulls almost completely out of you. he slams back into you full force, a choked moan coming out of you at his speed. if he didn't have such a good grip on you, you don't think you would be able to hold yourself up- even if you were pretty sure there were going to be bruises tomorrow.

"fuck wonnie."

"does that feel good?"

"s-so good."

the only thing that could be heard was the slapping of skin, along with the two of your moans. you didn't think he could possible go any faster, but he did the closer he got to his climax. he let out a groan when you squeezed him. "fuck, kitten. i'm not- fuck."

his hand left your hip when you squeezed him again. you gasp as his hand finds your clit, rubbing harshly and bringing you close to your climax. "wonnie. please."

"come on, kitten." jungwon leaned forward again, kissing your shoulder. "let me feel you cum all over me."

you felt tears prick your eyes as you climax for the third time- his name falling from your lips. he groans when you squeeze him, bringing him to his own climax. you feel him fill you before he pulls out of you. he catches you when your legs finally give out on you, helping you lay down.

"you did so good, kitten." he whispers as he presses light kisses to your face, ending on your lips. "i didn't hurt you, did i?"

you shook your head, a small smile gracing your lips as you looked at him. "no, wonnie. you didn't hurt me."

a yawn came out of your mouth, the exhaustion of your guys activities finally hitting you. jungwon leaned down, kissing your forehead.

"rest kitten. i'll take care of you."

you let out a soft groan, wiping the sleep from your eyes before blinking them open. you freeze, not recognizing the room you were in until it hit you. you were in jungwon's room. a room that you don't normally come in unless necessary because he's very particular about scents. but here you were, in his bed. you look down to also see that you were in one of his shirts.

you remember faintly what happened after jungwon gave you the best night of your life. he helped clean you up before redressing you. he wanted to leave heeseung's, but you couldn't remember why. you do remember him hissing at jake when he stepped to close to you as he was carrying you to the car. you fell asleep in the car, and don't remember anything after that.

you shift slightly, feeling an arm tighten around your waist. you turn your head to see jungwon tucked into your back. his breathing shallow as he sleeps next to you. he frowned when you shifted again, and in his sleep, his tail moved to slide around your bare thigh.

maybe in jake's drunken stupor he was right. maybe jungwon did feel the same. you really hoped so at least, and it wasn't just sex. if it was just sex to him, he wouldn't have taken care of you while you were asleep. he wouldn't have changed you into his clothes before putting you in his bed. he wouldn't be wrapped around you like he didn't want you to leave if it was just sex. you really hoped so because you wouldn't survive it was just sex.

before you could go down that road, your bladder stopped you. you really had to use the bathroom. you struggled, gently unwrapping his tail before his arm. you shifted closer to the edge of the bed before sitting up. right as you sat up, jungwon's arm wrapped around you again, pulling you to him. you land back on the bed with a yelp before looking up at jungwon who was hovering over you.

"where are you going kitten?"

you swallow when his nose brushes yours. "i- um. bathroom."

"you sure about that?" he teased, noticing your stuttering. you flush before nodding your head. he moved off of you to lay next to you. "use mine."

you look over at him in shock, but didn't ask him why as you got back up. the only time you were ever in his bathroom was before you moved in here. you turn on the light, shutting the door before doing your business. you looked in the mirror after you were done, expecting that you would look a mess since you didn't take your make up off last night. your hair was slightly messed up from sleeping, but there wasn't any makeup on your face. did jungwon take off your makeup?

you leave the bathroom, more confused than when you came in there. you see him laying in bed, back facing you. you thought he fell asleep again, but he shifted when you heard you walk back in the room. he lifted his arm, silently calling you back to him.

"did you take off my makeup?" you ask as you shuffle back towards him.

"yes. you hate sleeping in your makeup." he shrugged like it was nothing. you felt your heart flip at his words. he really did take care of you while you were asleep.

as soon as your thighs brushed the bed, jungwon lifted up the blankets for you. you hesitantly slid back in and pulled the covers over you before laying on your back, looking at the ceiling. you hear him chuckle causing you to look over at him. he was resting on his arm, looking down at you with an amused look.

"what's wrong kitten?" he questions. "you look nervous. you weren't nervous last night."

you roll your eyes at his innuendo. "i'm not nervous."

"then what are you?"

"confused." you answer hesitantly. he watches you as you look away from him. "you told me a hundred times never to come in your room, but here i am. in your room. in your bed. after using your bathroom."

jungwon shifts closer to you, moving his hand to play with yours. "ask me why i asked you to not come in here."

"why?" you ask after a moment.

"i couldn't deal with your scent in here." he answered. you furrowed your brows in confusion, sort of hurt from that sentence. "i'm already tortured by your sweet scent everywhere else in this apartment. i needed somewhere safe, or i was going to do something crazy."

"crazy like?"

"last night." he looked up at you when you snatched your hand away from him. you looked away, but not quick enough for him to see you blink back tears.

you move away from him, trying to get out of the bed. "i knew it just sex for you."

"hey." he grabbed your waist, stopping you again from getting up. you struggled, trying to pry his arm off of you, but it was useless. he pulled you back to him. "it was not just sex for me."

"you just said it was crazy." you sniffle, still not looking at him.

"i meant the part where i threw you over my shoulder in the middle of the party." he clarified. "not the part where we had sex."

"so you don't regret it?" you ask, finally looking over at him. he removed his hand from your waist, cupping your cheeks and wiping a few stray tears.

"no." he answered. "i wish our first time wouldn't have been in the middle of a party, but i don't regret it. nor would i change a thing. i meant everything that happened last night."

you nod your head, believing him. he smiled at you before leaning down and catching your lips with his. unlike last night, the kiss was soft and unrushed. you lift up your hand, brushing it along his fluffy cat ear. he pulls you closer to him before settling in between your legs. his tongue tangles with yours as his hands explored your body.

"you belong to me." jungwon whispers against your lips as he pulls away. his fingers grip your thigh, running over an old scar. "all your scars? mine." you jump, a gasp coming out of your mouth when he cups your heat. "this pussy? mine." his hand then trailed up before tapping your chest. "this heart? mine. just like mine belongs to you."

your eyes widen at his confession. "wonnie-"

"i knew i was yours the moment we met." he told you, brushing your hair behind your ear. "i'll never forget it. the way you looked at me with those wide eyes. i knew i was a goner. i knew that i would do anything you asked me to just so i could stay by your side."

your at a loss for words. not like he gives you a chance anyway because he kisses you again. you pull him closer, melting in his embrace. his lips pulled away when you needed oxygen. he kissed the corner of your mouth before trailing down your jaw.

"the first thing i felt when i conjured you was fear." you mumble, smiling when he chuckles against your neck. "it wasn't because i was scared of you. i was scared of how you made me feel. what 16 year old girl falls in love with her hybrid familiar?"

you feel his lips stop kissing your neck when his words hit him. he pulls back, looking down at you. "please tell me you meant to say that."

"say what, wonnie?" you ask, a teasing hint to your voice. a whine slips past his lips at the teasing. "i wouldn't have said it if i didn't mean it."

"say it again. please."

"i love you, jungwon." as soon as the words leave your mouth, his lips pressed to yours. his hands cup your cheeks as he tried to get closer to you. his lips stayed against yours until your lungs felt like they were going to explode.

"i love you, yn." he told you as he pulled away. you let out a relieved breath that he felt the same. "i love you so much, kitten. seeing you with jake last night nearly killed me."

"so did me seeing you with sarah." you told him. you watched as his features turned to confusion.

"who's sarah?"

"the bitch you were with last night." you answered. "she was all over you."

you watch as jungwon smiled at you. you then realized the mistake of your words. "jealous, kitten?"

"i hate you." you grumble, upset you fell into his trap.

"no you don't." he smiled before kissing you. "you love me."

"i change my mind." you laugh as he gasps at you.

"take it back." you shake your head. you scream when his hands attack your sides. you try to move away from him, but his legs were trapping you.

"stop!"

"tell me you love me."

"i love you." his hands froze when the words left your lips. you gasp for air as he smiles down at you.

"sarah means nothing to me. in fact, i can't stand her." jungwon told you. "jake told me to let her flirt with me to see if you would get jealous, so i did. hated every second of it. then to top it off, when i looked at you, jake was kissing you."

"he asked me if i wanted to make you jealous." you tell him. "that's why he asked me to trust him. i really didn't think he would kiss me."

"idiot." jungwon grumbled. you laugh at his pout, reaching up and kissing his pouting lips. he responded instantly, slightly groaning against your lips.

jungwon's hands traveled down your sides before slipping under your shirt. you sigh into the kiss as his hands explore your stomach before traveling to your chest. he squeezes your chest causing a moan to slip past your lips. you lift your hips, brushing your core against his already hard erection.

"you're not too sore, are you?" jungwon asked as he pulled away.

"no." you answered with a shake of your head. "please. i need you."

"fuck kitten." he groans before kissing you. his hands play with your nipples until you're moaning into his mouth. his lips leave yours before pulling up your shirt and attaching his lips to your breasts.

"wonnie." you moan at the contact.

his hand squeezes your other breast while his other travels to your underwear. he runs his finger along the top of your underwear, smirking when you moan at the contact. "you're already soaked, kitten."

"please wonnie."

he pushes your underwear to the side, playing with your clit with his thumb while his index finger teases your entrance. you moan at the stretch when his finger pushes inside of you. he takes his time, allowing you to adjust before adding a second finger. you arch your chest into his mouth when he curls his fingers.

he speeds up, loving the moans that are coming out of your mouth for him. he looks up, seeing your eyes sealed shut as you lose yourself to the pleasure. he lifts away from your breast before moving back up your body. his lips press against yours, swallowing all of your sounds.

"god, you sound so pretty, kitten. i love how responsive you are for me." he praises. you squeeze around his fingers at the compliment. "does my girl like being praised?"

"wonnie." you whine. "i- i'm close."

"i know, sweet girl." he curls his fingers again and again until you saw stars. you gripped onto his bare shoulder as he brought you to your climax. he kissed all over your face as you recovered. "you look so beautiful when you cum, kitten."

you blush, shyly pushing him away. he laughs at your embarrassment of his words. he eases his fingers out of you causing you to moan at the loss. you watch him as he moves his hand to his mouth, sucking on his fingers that were just inside of you. he groans at the taste of you before pulling his fingers out of his mouth and replacing it with yours.

you kiss him back while your hands slip into his sweats. he jerks into your hand, moaning into your mouth when your hand wraps around him. you stroke him gently, feeling him relax at the feeling. soon, he pulls your hand away before stripping you out of your underwear. he slips his sweats down enough to get his dick out before looking at you.

"are you sure you're not too sore?"

you shake your head. "i'm not. please fuck me."

he wraps his hand around his dick, running it through your folds and getting a moan out of you before he slid the tip in. unlike last night, he doesn't push fully in. he moves inch by inch, making sure you're okay before he continues. he groans, pressing his forehead to yours once he's flush against your hips.

"you feel so good kitten." he kisses you.

"fuck, wonnie." you beg, shifting your hips. "please move."

he does as you ask, thrusting slowly at first before he speeds up. you claw down his back as he speeds up even more. "fuck, w-wonnie. i love you."

"i love you kitten. so much." he responds, loosing himself in pleasure like you were. he moved your thighs to wrap around him, allowing him to go in deeper. you moan at the feeling of him. "i can feel you squeezing around me kitten. are you close?"

you nod your head. "y-yes. i'm close."

at your answer, he speeds up, chasing his high with you. his hand starts rubbing your clit, and you cry out as he brings you to your climax. he lets out a curse before spilling into you right after. he all but collapses on top of you as you both try to catch your breath.

once he recovers, he kisses you while praising you. "you always do so good for me kitten. i'm never going to get tired of you."

"you promise?"

"i promise." you kiss him again at his promise. he kisses you back before slipping out of you. you groan into his mouth as he pulls away. "i'll be right back."

he gets off of you, fixing his sweats before disappearing into the bathroom. after a minute, he returns with a warm rag, cleaning you up before tucking you back in bed. he slides in beside you. you lift up your arm when he cuddles into you, resting his head on your chest as his legs tangle with yours. you stroke his hair. he relaxes into you, as you do him, but there was something missing.

"do the thing." you speak up.

"yn-" jungwon groans, but you stop him.

"if you love me, you'll do it." you hear jungwon let out a sigh of defeat. you smile when you hear the soft purring coming from him. you kiss his head. "i love you wonnie."

"i love you too, kitten."

[sunnami]

❝i am half-agony, half-hope. . . i have loved none but you.❞

summary: how the marauders loved you in their time. featuring harry potter the time-traveller and sixth-wheel.

pairing/s: poly!marauders + lily x reader.

tags: reader is referred to as she/her and a mother throughout the whole fic[!], reader is a violent gremlin who craves blood but the marauders love you for that, implied child abuse[!], mentions of blood and violence[!], disgustingly sappy poetic fluff, no angst, happy ending, not proofread we die like finnick odair, edited: very minor detail.

note: there is little plot, it’s just the marauders and their adoration for you. thank you all so much for your kind responses to my first marauders fic :(( ilysm! i hope you enjoy this one as well! because there are parts when i was writing that i ended up kicking my feet in the air and smiling to myself.

“MY NAME IS HARRY POTTER. I come from twenty-years in the future, you’re my mum — one of my ‘em, actually. It’s complicated. And you’re married to James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black.” 

You blink. 

“Get the fuck out of my room!” 

Harry James Potter has dodged many things in his life. Killing curses, jinxes, girls, Draco Malfoy, and Dudley’s sloppy punches, but he’s never had to dodge his sixteen-year-old mother’s fuzzy slipper before. (Godric, that sounds weird, even in his head.) He doesn’t know precisely how he arrived here. In the Slytherin common room, to be exact, in your dorm. Harry remembers duelling with Death Eaters, Hermione calling his name, and a flash of light hitting him square in the chest, then he remembers waking up in the cold tiles of the snake dungeon. He nearly throws himself off the window when he meets your eyes, bleary from interrupted sleep — it’s not often he gets to meet [read: one of] his dead parents, after all, three had been brutally murdered by Voldemort, and one killed by his own loony cousin. He misses Sirius, though. A lot. And right about now, he could do with some of Hermione’s nagging and brilliant plan-making. 

At present — or past, Harry guesses — he watches you scramble out from your duvet, hand clumsily reaching for your wand as you snarl at him. He wonders if his mother knows that he’s encountered other creatures far more threatening than her. Oh shit, he realizes with all the forces of an angry Hermione Granger, isn’t this the last thing he’s supposed to do? But, well, Harry has given, and given, so much of himself all for the greater good — just this once, he’d like to see his parents alive and well. Even if they were currently trying to blast him into the walls. 

“If you’d just let me explain, mum—!” Harry pleads, nearly dropping his glasses after dodging one of your stinging hexes. Godric, you’re crazy. “Please!” 

“Stop calling me that!” You screech, eyes set ablaze.  Harry finds that you’re quite dynamic with your attacks. A hairbrush, followed by a stinging jinx, then a thick History of Magic textbook — which rudely hits him in the face, but he doesn’t dare complain because you’re his mother, and he’s respectful like that — and after you’ve exhausted your breath, running him into a corner, and your nostrils flare with the stubbornness of a lion, you point the tip of your wand at him. “If this is another one of the Prewett’s shitty pranks, I want you to leave! You are in the girls’ dormitory beyond midnight, and so help me, if you aren’t walking out that door in the next five seconds, I will kill you and string you up by your bottoms for everyone in school to see! Maybe all your stupid rumours of me being a Death-Eater might come true after all!” 

“You’re a Death-Eater?” Harry asks dumbly. 

You growl furiously, and Harry figures that was not the right thing to say. “I wonder what McGonagall would say if I delivered your head to her on a silver platter.” 

“Professor,” Harry corrects with a toothy grin. “Professor McGonagall.” 

You slam his head against the wall.

Definitely the wrong thing to say. 

Harry groans, little Dobby heads floating around his vision. Why was this so much harder than actually facing Voldemort? Quick, he needed to think of something, otherwise he’d end up eviscerated to ashes on your cold, stone floors. Harry is pretty sure you’d use his remains as decoration to send off a message to your enemies. 

“You hate your father,” Harry slurs through the pain, remembering Remus’s stories of how you were the gentlest magical being he’s ever had the privilege to love — now that Harry thinks about it, Remus was being extremely biased, nothing about you is gentle at all. “He’s forcing you to marry someone old enough to be your grandfather. You love to read Muggle literature but had to stop when your father burnt your whole collection of books. Your favorite novel is Persuasion by Jane Austen. It’s the one book you carry with you everywhere, you could never get tired of it.”  

Your grip on his shoulders falters, but the fury in your eyes crackles. “This isn’t funny.” 

“It’s not meant to be funny, mum,” Harry croaks, voice cracking pathetically — strange how this is the most he’s ever uttered the word, mum; it’s a peculiar string of letters, foreign on his tongue. “You have tremors in your left leg from when your father cast the Cruciatus curse on you. One of your dearest friends is a Hogwarts house-elf named Pipley. You cheated on your Transfiguration essay once, and—” 

“That’s enough!” You bark, eyes narrowed in dangerous slits. “I don’t know where you heard those from, you creepy, little stalker, but if you want to keep breathing, then I suggest you shut up.” 

Harry scoffs — you don’t understand. Everything he’s learned about you is from Sirius and Remus. They talk about you with whispered devotion, your name like a prayer on their lips, their eyes glazed with wistfulness as though they could see you reaching out for them — but you were dead in Harry’s time. Yet, you might as well have been alive with their tales of you. 

(“She’s a different kind of beautiful,” Sirius had said, a year after breaking out from Azkaban, sitting by the fire in Grimmauld Place, taking a swig of decade-old firewhiskey, “The kind of beautiful you don’t want to take your eyes off from because you’re afraid she’ll disappear from your eyes. But you won’t forget her, oh no, you’ll memorize the freckles and moles on her skin, the scars from her years, the light in her eyes, and the way she holds her head up high. You should have seen her, James, she. . . she was — is glorious.”) 

“I told you,” says Harry firmly — although he loves his mother very much, she’s beginning to wear him out, “My name is Harry James Potter, I come from twenty-years in the future. You are one of my parents.” A lightbulb flashes in his head. He squirms in your hold, reaching for his robe pocket until he finds the thing he’s looking for. Harry dangles the ring in front of you, grinning in success when your eyes flash in recognition. “It’s—” 

“A family heirloom,” You say breathlessly. The alexandrite winks under the light, a familiar gold band with the Latin inscription of your House words. “Where did you steal this from?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “You left it for me in my Gringotts vault. It’s my heirloom now. You have to believe me, there’s no way you can deny this.” 

You take a step backwards, nibbling on your lower lip, as you stagger to your bed — Harry nearly stumbling to catch you in case you fell; adjusting to the living proof of time travel was quite difficult, he, of all people, should know. He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Magic, amirite?” 

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches gracefully thanks to his Seeker reflexes, as you plop down in the comforts of your quilts. “Sleep. The other girls won’t be back until the end of the holiday. We can deal with whatever this is in the morning. It’s way too early for me to process the idea of a future Potter spawn following me around.” 

Harry smiles. “Yes, mum.” 

ONE THING THAT his fathers failed to tell him about you, and that Harry had to learn himself, was that you took ages to get ready. You sat on the chair in front of your vanity mirror, the birch wood legs whittled with snakes, and it was as though you had a Sticking Charm on the cushion. Harry didn’t know there could be so many creams, oils, and serums, and powders one put on their face. He blanches when you turn to offer him a cream for his under eyes. (“Suit yourself.” You shrug, turning to brush your cheek with dusts of pink. “Just saying, those dark circles aren’t doing you any favors.”)

“What am I like in the future?” You ask, a kind lilt to your voice, much like a warm hug, much like home. 

Harry stiffens, shoving his hands in pockets of the robes that were twice his size — you had given him the garments of Lucius Malfoy to change in, which you apparently had stolen from his room. It’s come full circle, really, the Sorting Hat had once told him he would be great in Slytherin, and now here he was, looking fabulous in green — because he was about to hurl at the feel of the velvet on his skin, knowing slimy Lucius Malfoy had worn it. (“No son—” You pause with a tight purse in your lips, as if you still can’t accept the fact. Harry doesn’t blame you. “—no son of mine will be parading around in red of all colors, future or not.” And Harry finds that he really doesn’t care, so long as you call him your son.)  

“Loved,” replies Harry gruffly, avoiding your eyes in the reflection of your mirror — they were piercing. One look and Harry wanted to spill all of his deepest, darkest secrets. He remembers the photographs in his album, the one he’s stared at so many times as a child. It’s a moving photograph of the five of you, fresh out of Hogwarts, each wearing a smile that stretched from ear-to-ear. Before Sirius and Remus, it was the only semblance of proof that Harry had — that you had once been alive. Remus is holding you by the waist in the picture, twirling you around as autumn leaves fell. You were — are — loved, and Harry thinks there’s no better description than that. 

(“I bloody hated her cat,” says Remus with a roguish quirk to his lips, regalling Harry with more talks of his parents. “Sirius, too. We just never got along with the little creature. But your mother loved it, and we would have done anything to make her happy. She deserved it, you see. She deserved more than what I had to offer her, but still she chose me anyway. And I am a selfish man, Harry, I crave glimpses of her and the whispers of her voice. She has made me a mad man whose only reprieve is her touch.”) 

You hum knowingly. “Stupid question, I guess. Since you aren’t allowed to reveal anything more about the future.” You sigh, gracefully threading your arms in the sleeves of your shirt, a green tie in the center of your collar. “Except, of course, when you gave me a heart attack in the middle of the night by telling me the last thing I want to become — no offense, I just don’t see how a relationship with those rowdy bunch would work. They get on my nerves far too much for me to ever feel anything other than disgust.” 

Harry doesn’t need a mirror to see that his expression has contorted in confusion; brows knitted and upper lip crinkled. By their memories of you, you all were madly in love in Hogwarts. Damn. This just made his trip to the past a lot harder. No maze seems to be ever just a maze. 

Luckily, you don’t notice him brewing a grand master plan to bring his parents together. Instead, you say, “But you don’t seem to be phased by any of this. If I had been thrown twenty years into the past, I would have puked my guts out twice at some point.” 

“Thanks for the image,” says Harry with a scowl. Truthfully, it had either been a present with a noseless Dark Lord to face, trauma to unpack but really never have the chance to, or a past where all of his parents were alive, and a chance to talk with them for however long he has. He knows where he’ll be staying, thank you very much. 

“Anytime,” You reply with an impish smile. 

Your heels pad across the floor as you walk over to him, mouth clicking as you pat the top of his head, full of wild, untameable Potter hair. “You need a trim soon,” You mutter, frowning, as you brush the thick strands away from his eyes, then you gasp — and Harry knows exactly what’s coming next. “Oh, you’ve got Evans’s eyes. That’s freaky.” 

“I know.” Harry grins. 

“Here’s the plan,” You say as you lead him out of your room, making sure no one saw him walking out of your door and getting the wrong impression — because that would be so wrong on many levels, but also, explaining to someone else that the person beside you was a time-traveller was just complicated in general. The Slytherin dungeon is unfamiliarly familiar, eerily quiet, as the two of you made your way out. “Just say you’re Potter’s distant relative, twice or thrice removed, and you’ve always been here. If you lie to their faces enough, they’ll believe it eventually.” 

“Will that work?” Harry doesn’t really mind — he needs a connection to James, his father, if he’s going to work out a connection between you and the others, because at the moment, it doesn’t seem like you’re too fond of them. There’s a tick on your jaw every time you mumble the word, Potter. Nevertheless, Harry decides he’s going to spend the duration of the holiday break trying to set you up with them — on the list of most insane things he’s ever done, living out the Parent Trap was high up the tally. 

You shrug. “They’ve fallen for less.” 

(“She’s got this adorable habit when she lies,” Sirius tells Harry, whipping up a stack of pancakes for their breakfast — Remus browsing through the morning paper. It’s the closest he’s ever been to a normal family. “It’s not obvious to her, of course, but I know her more than I know my own name. So we play along with it.” For a moment, he stops drizzling the maple syrup on the well-cooked batter, gazing at Remus fondly. “D’you remember that, Moony? She led us straight to one of her pranks, and we ended up covered in slug slime. She was so obvious — with her adorable fucking giggles. I need help with Charms, she said, and we knew right away it was a set-up. But it didn’t matter. I’d happily let her lead me to my ruin.”)  

The Great Hall is the same as Harry remembers. Now that most have returned home for the holidays, those who stay back mingle with students from other Houses, sharing meals under the bewitched ceiling, their low murmurs and hushed Christmas greetings bouncing off the walls. Harry scours the four tables to find a hint of blazing red hair, or the scent of impending trouble. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to search very far. As fate would have it, James Potter finds you — and where he is, Sirius Black is sure to follow. 

You’re barely seated when James comes bounding over to your table — more precisely, he struts, and Harry is horrified to ever be proven wrong by Snape, of all people. He ignores the roll of your eyes as he drags a leg over the bench, sitting to face you as Sirius occupies the space to your left before Harry can even sit down. He can’t even fathom how weird it is to see his parents as rambunctious teenagers. Lovesick, rambunctious teenagers. 

“Morning, dove.” James preens under your glare, stealing a grape from your bowl with a boyish smirk. His hair looks as though he’s ran his hand through it many times. “You look ravishing today.” 

“As always,” Sirius pipes in. “But that eyeshadow really isn’t complementing your skin tone, my darling.” 

You smile at him, right before your lips twist into a cutthroat sneer. “Piss off, Black.”

James stifles a laugh as he shovels a mass of potatoes on your plate, then pumpkin pasties, and slides a steaming cup of Dragon Well tea in front of you. 

“What the hell are you doing, Potter?” You reach over to smack his arm when he sprinkles apple slices and bacon on your breakfast. 

“What does it look like?” James smiles lopsidedly. “You need to eat more, honey.”

(In the future, Sirius will tell Harry, “It started off as a joke, a way to get on her nerves — but then, it just became this thing about taking care of her, making sure she got enough sleep before her tests, wondering if she had breakfast or dinner, staying with her in the library, walking her to the Slytherin common room, and sending her stupid notes just to make her laugh. You don’t get it, Harry. I’d give my every breath to ensure her life. We all would.” Harry doesn’t see Sirius any more during that evening, but he hears a bottle crashing against a wall, cracking into a million pieces, and the masked sound of Sirius sobbing, and Harry decides to leave him alone for the night.) 

Then, you tear your eyes away from James — he huffs, pushing your plate to you, mildly annoyed that you’ve deprived him of your eyes; they were his favorite part of you, you see, so expressive and full of life; James thinks you put the stars to shame — and thankfully, you remember that Harry still exists. You lightly smack Sirius’s leg until he gives Harry some room to sit. “Potter, meet other Potter. It’s the holidays, shouldn’t it be the perfect time to let go of House prejudices and spend time with family?” 

James looks at Harry up and down. “You must be from dad’s side of the family with all that hair.” 

Harry lets out a breath of relief. That was easy — way too easy. When he takes the vacant space in between you and Sirius, you dump all the available food on his plate, just as James had done for you. 

“Eat,” You say with a tone of finality. “You look like the wind could snap you in half.” 

“Yes, m—” Harry stops himself before he could finish his sentence, avoiding Sirius’s curious gaze. 

“Wow.” Sirius pokes Harry in the shoulder and in the cheek. “You really look like a mini-James, you’ve even got his terrible eyesight.” 

“Oi!” 

Your fork clatters against the silverware as you turn to Sirius with a shrill. “Not that I do enjoy your company — because, trust me, I do not want you here at all and would very much prefer if you got out of my sight — but why are you here? The Gryffindor table is over there. Unless your housemates finally got sick of you, Potter, which I can definitely see happening.” 

James chuckles, tossing another grape in his mouth without taking his eyes off you. “It’s as you said, isn’t it? It’s the time for putting aside House prejudices. And I think it’s a lovely day to enjoy a meal with my favorite snake.” 

“Drop dead,” You retort, digging into your chicken with a little more force than necessary. 

“Oh, dove.” James shakes his head, a teasing grin pulling at his lips. “It’s cute that you think death will keep me from you.” 

(Harry’s been told before, probably by Sirius, that this line had been wedged into his wedding vows for you. “A dramatic one, James was,” Sirius chuckles to himself one morning, Harry and Hermione listening intently, “He always said he’d rather die than ever hurt her. There was this time in seventh year, they had a fight — it was ugly — and she had ignored him for a week. James cried in Remus’s arms begging him to cut his heart out, saying that he didn’t deserve to keep on breathing, not after making you cry.”) 

“That is so creepy,” You say in disgust, scrunching your nose. Sirius chortles at your side. “I still wonder why Evans agreed to go out with you.” 

“It’s all part of the charm, dove.” James winks. “It’s all part of the charm.” 

Harry wants to barf, actually.

After breakfast, James then decides to introduce Harry to Lily, Remus, and Peter. (He’s gonna need the patience of a saint to not Avada Kedavra that rat on the spot.) Harry had spent the whole morning watching Sirius peel oranges and give them to you with a smitten look in his eyes — naturally, you gave whatever Sirius offered you to Harry, and each time Padfoot would visibly wilt. If he were in his Animagus form, Harry thinks he would be whining by now, tongue out and all. James and Sirius follow after you like lost puppies when you extricate yourself from the table.

“Where are you going?” James calls, hot on your heels as you leave the Great Hall.

“Away from you, Potter!” 

And James actually sighs when you turn the corner and disappear from their peripheral vision. Seconds later, he turns to Harry with a blinding smile, “She’s definitely charmed.”

Harry chortles.

“Well, come on then!” James guffaws as he wraps an arm around Harry’s neck — this is so, so strange. They begin walking in the opposite direction of where you went. “I still can’t believe we’ve got another Potter here and in Slytherin. I think I would have remembered Minnie calling your name during the Sorting Ceremony. What year are you in?” 

He’s supposed to start his sixth-year in a few weeks. “Fifth.” Technically. 

“We should ask Lily,” says Sirius, hands in his pockets and ebony ringlets tickling his nape. “She’s got the best memory out of all of us.”

It’s odd, Harry thinks, meeting the person who’s got his eyes — or the other way around, as people have told him. It’s like someone carved out the emeralds of Lily Evans’s eyes and bestowed it upon Harry for safekeeping. She sits beside Remus Lupin, head resting on his shoulder, hands clasped together, as they enjoy the shade. Nex to them, oblivious to their intimate conversation, is Peter Pettigrew — with his rosy, cherub cheeks and innocent blue eyes; not at all the image of a pathological, cowardly liar. Their heads snap in attention as James boisterously cries for their name. 

“Marauders — and Lily-pad — meet ickle Potter.” James lightheartedly whacks Harry on the back, to which Harry feels his lungs spill out from his mouth, he’s sure there’s an imprint of his father’s hand on his back now. 

“There’s two Potters in Hogwarts?” Sea-green eyes look at him in scrutiny as Lily knits her brows. “How even is the castle still standing?” 

James cackles like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard in his entire life, slapping his knee for dramatic effect. Oh, well, at least they’re buying Harry’s half-baked lie. At this point, it’s not even baked, it’s just wet, soggy, and poorly done. “Good one, Lily-pad!”

Sirius ruffles Remus’s shaggy blonde hair, canines bared in a wide grin. “This one here’s Moony, uptight prefect in the morning and absolute beast in the evening.” 

Harry blanches. Surely he was talking about his furry problem, right? Right? 

Remus doesn’t even flinch, just peels off Sirius’s hand from him and extends his hand out to Harry. “Please do not mind him. Remus Lupin, nice to meet you. Although, I can’t believe this is the first time we’ve met. We would have definitely remembered if we had another Potter in our midst.” 

“It’s true, we Potters are just hard to forget,” says James, smiling cheekily. 

Harry pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Mum didn’t take the Potter name. I’m part Dursley. Muggle.” 

Lily hums, toying at the ends of her bright hair. “Dursley, huh? What a familiar name.” 

“It’s a common one,” Harry assures her — not at all the names of the people who would take him in after they died. And make his life miserable. 

“I suppose you’re right,” says Lily, unconvinced. 

“And this is Peter.” James introduces the boy eagerly, pride in his voice — as though this isn’t the person who literally allies himself with Voldemort. As if Peter won’t betray his friends all because of fear. 

“N–Nice to meet you,” Peter stammers with a nervous fidget, “Any family of James is a friend of ours.” 

Harry’s eye twitches. 

IT IS ALMOST COMICAL — the way their eyes land on your figure, bursting through the courtyard from the corridors, winter cloak swishing with every step, tendrils of hair swaying in the crisp wind, and head held up high, thick books under your arms. You pause in front of the Marauders, face blank, then you turn to Peter, greeting him with a: “Hello, only Gryffindor I can tolerate.” 

Peter’s cheeks burn a saccharine hue of pink. Oh, no, no, no — absolutely not — Harry will not stand for a little crush Peter Pettigrew has on his mother. He needs James to act now. “Hi,” Peter replies shyly. 

Lily quirks her lips. “Hello, princess, see your score for the Astronomy test yet?”

You scowl. “Zip it, Evans.” 

The sound of Lily’s laughter fills the atmosphere — it’s the sort of melody that makes flowers bloom in deserts. “Had a bit of difficulty with the star charts?” 

Sirius pinches your cheek — Harry thinks you’re going to murder him on the spot. “Difficulty? I think this one just slept through the whole thing.” 

James snickers. “Must have been one hell of a nap, princess. You were drooling on my jumper.” 

“I most certainly do not drool!” You gasp, appalled, eyes wide as you step away from Sirius.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “What? Is drooling too barbaric for the pretty, little pure-blooded princess now? Newsflash, pet, you’re just as human as we are.” 

“Oh, you horrible, loathsome, infuriating—” You whip around to beat his chest with the course book in your grasp — it’s the kind of book Hermione would consider for light reading. 

“Irresistibly attractive—?” Sirius supplies for you, grin widening with as he captures your wrist with his hands. 

“In your dreams!” You shrill. 

You exhale slowly, eyes closing, chest rising when you take a sharp inhale. You open your eyes and stare straight at Harry — for a moment he fears that you’ll bite his head off. “Harry, dear, will you accompany me to the library? I think I’ve found something important regarding your situation.” 

Harry nods. “Is it time already?” 

“Yes,” You say firmly. “And time is of the essence. Come on.” 

“Wait!” Lily calls out to you as you turn to head back to the castle, Harry in tow — he tries to avoid the way James is glaring at your linked arms. “Hogsmeade next week?” 

Your jaw falls to the ground — this must have been unrehearsed, if the others��� reactions were anything to go by; Remus had dropped his book in shock, Sirius looked like he couldn’t decide between applauding Lily’s bravery or shaking her, and James was somehow frozen in time. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re excused, princess,” says Lily, dimples poking out of her cheek as she takes another step towards you. “You, me, Hogsmeade. A date. I’m sure you’ve gone on one of those before.” 

Harry elbows your stomach as you stare at Lily in shock. It takes a few moments to break you out of your stupor. “A–And what makes you think I’ll just go with you?” 

Lily shrugs. “I’m fit. Aren’t I, Remus?” 

“The fittest,” says Remus without missing a beat. 

You laugh incredulously. “Do you just expect me to go along with this? You’re mad, Evans.” 

Harry glares at you. You need to go along with this. 

“Are you scared, princess?” Lily’s face is inches away from yours, noses almost touching — Harry doesn’t know if he should keep watching this painful way of flirting — as she grins at you, happiness barely contained within her eyes. 

To your credit, you don’t back down. (Harry has to say this for the masses: he saw your gaze flitter down to Lily’s lips for a split second.) “Stop calling me that, Evans.” 

“One date, then.” 

You growl in exasperation, eyes flickering to the boys behind her back — pretending not to hear their conversation. “I suppose I’ll have to deal with them as well?” 

Lily beams and Harry swears sunflowers could grow in her direction. “We’re a package deal.” 

“Unfortunately,” You utter — but Harry notices it, the lack of venom in your voice. You straighten your posture, nose lifted haughtily, “I choose where we’re going.” 

“Done.” The sun peeks out from the cloud just as Lily smiles at you. 

“And I want to—” 

“Done,” Remus interjects raspily, peering up at you from underneath his lashes. “Anything you want, it’s yours.” 

You fight a growing smile, but continue, “If we’re going out in public, you’re going to have to wear—” 

“Done,” says James giddily, he looks as though he could kiss you in front of everyone without a care in the world.  

“You can’t just agree to anything I say!” You flap your arms in frustration. 

“Yes, dear,” Sirius teases. 

“Do you know how much you piss me off, Black?” You squawk. “Because you are this close to—”

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Sirius confesses, every pretense shed raw from his skin, sincerity pouring from his words. 

“I—” You falter, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’ve gone mad.” 

“It’s your fault, dove,” says James, eyes twinkling like crescent moons as he smiles. “You best take accountability for this.” 

“You’re incorrigible — all of you,” You say as you avoid their gazes.

(But they were yours. Past, present, and future. They loved you so much that their soul was no longer their own — it was yours; yours to keep, yours to break, and yours to love. It would be unjust to ask them why they loved you. Do we ask why the sun rises each day without rest? Do we ask a daisy to stop blooming, or a tree to stop growing after it has endured storms and floods? After all, we do not ask why humans follow the light in a tunnel shrouded in darkness.) 

“Come on, Harry, let’s go.” You reach for his hand, he notices immediately that the tips of your ears are pink, and your palms are warm with sweat. He barely sees Peter wave goodbye before you tug him in the direction of the castle entrance. 

“Wait up!” Remus catches up to you two in quick strides, offering to carry your books for you — not that you agree, stubborn Slytherin that you are. “I’ll walk you to the library.” 

“There’s no need for that, Lupin, thank you.” You dodge his eyes, lips tightly pressed together, nails slightly digging into Harry’s arm. 

“Remus,” He says with a twinkle. “Call me Remus.” 

“Alright.” You pause. “Remus.” 

(In that moment, Remus wonders if you remember decking Lucius Malfoy in the face to defend him in your fourth year. He didn’t think he deserved to even breathe in the same air as you — the pure-blooded princess, dressed in clothing worth more than his life, adorned in jewelry he could only dream to afford, raised to believe she was better than everyone else. Then, you beat up Evan Rosier the next month in the courtyard, eyes ablaze, extravagant silk marred with grass stains and mud, and knuckles split open. You spit blood on the ground, looking at Lily then back at Rosier. “Red,” You say, kicking him one last time in the stomach, unafraid of McGonagall’s wrath growing louder and louder. “Just like everyone else. Like those Muggleborns you fear. We’ve all got dirty blood, Rosier. Suck it up.” 

“I’ll tell your father about this!” Rosier bellows through bloody teeth. 

“Tell him!” You grab his neck and slam your forehead against his. “Tell him that I decide my own future now!”

Remus doesn’t even have to think about it. 

He falls in love.) 

FUNNILY ENOUGH, IT’S LILY who gives you her heart first, before anyone else does. It’s the last month of her first year at Hogwarts — it still hasn’t quite sunk in yet that she was a witch. Her, not Petunia, but her — Lily Evans, the witch. Apparently, some people can’t believe it either. A girl from Ravenclaw calls her this foul word, she’s heard it a few times now but it always hurts the same. James and Sirius get into a fight for her honor, now faced with detention later this evening. But she can’t help but wonder, what if they were right? What if she really didn’t belong in this world? It was too good to be true, anyway. Perhaps she’ll just run a flower boutique with Petunia.

“Oi.” 

The sound of your voice startles her, and she nearly topples over in the Great Lake. Lily catches sight of your Slytherin colors and resigns herself to another round of name-calling. “What do you want?” 

“They’re wrong, you know,” You tell her, ignoring Lily’s question. You look down on her with your nose raised arrogantly — she wishes she could be like you. Born to be magic. “You’ve got a terrifying brain locked up in your head there, Evans. And they know it, too. They’re scared.” 

Lily scoffs. “I’m just a Mudblood to them. There’s nothing to be intimidated by.” 

You sneer. “Don’t say that word. You’re more than that. More than them. They’ve got long ways to go to prove they have a place in this world. But you — you’ve defied the odds and you were destined to become magic. You don’t have to prove anything. You have the right to be in the wizarding world and no one can take that away from you.” 

Then, you pivot on your heels, not bothering to hear her reply. “You’re my rival now, Evans. Do keep up. We’ve got an Astronomy test tomorrow. I look forward to seeing how you do then.” 

Lily just gapes. She’s certain there’s butterflies in her stomach. Her heart thumps wildly against her ribcage. Lily raises her hands to feel her blushing cheeks. There’s a light unfamiliar sensation in her stomach — like the urge to kick her legs and scream into a pillow, or more precisely, chase after you and hold your hand.

She stiffens.

Oh.

part two

[chaosmultiverse-a]

have you ever been in love? // slobo 🥺

Slobo looked surprised by the question, then puased to think on it before he repiled.

"I mean yeah, of course I have, I do love you guys, Young Justice, always have, always will. Why do you ask?"

[nereidprinc3ss]

candied pecans

in which uni!reader has to wake up early for a final, and spencer reid is determined to let you get as much rest as possible

fluff (18+ for mildly suggestive remarks) wc <800 warnings/tags: Spencer being a sweetheart, basically sex jokes, he makes you breakfast, gnreader a/n: I MISSED THEM BADDDD!!! this is v v short and based on a dream I had where he brought me breakfast so I could sleep in and I asked him to stay in bed while I was gone LOL

Your alarm goes off and your brow furrows like even in sleep, you’d been bracing for it. Every dream had been sterile—and worse—or potentially better—you’d dreamed about your study material.

Quickly as it started, the robotic blaring ceases. You almost slip back into sleep, but fight tooth and nail for consciousness, propping up on an elbow and rubbing your eyes in the dark grey of the early morning. Already there’s a warm hand on your chest, exerting what is more a suggestion of pressure rather than any actual force. Spencer’s voice is grainy. 

“Hey. Go back to sleep.”

“I have a final,” you slur. 

“In two hours. You can get at least another half hour of sleep.”

“But then I can’t—”

“I know, you can’t use that time to scroll on your phone. I’m terrible for even suggesting it. You were up late, honey. Come back and sleep longer and you’ll do better on your final.”

You’re already falling down. The bed is so warm, and your lids are so heavy. 

“Okay,” you mumble, eyes shut before you even hit the pillow. 

You wake up to fingers in your hair. He’s always so unbelievably gentle with you. Just as effective as an alarm clock—far more pleasant. 

“Good morning,” he says, and there’s no sleep in his voice like there was the last time you woke up. You curl into him where he sits on the side of the mattress and he cups your cheek with a warm hand. 

“Time?”

“Don’t get mad at me.”

That really wakes you up.  

“What did you do?”

“I let you sleep for a half hour!” he defends. Your brow furrows and you rub an eye, squinting up at him. That sheepish look on his face is concerning. “… Twice.”

“It’s seven?” You half yell, rocketing upward. He laughs and catches you against his chest. In your half-awake state, you can’t defend yourself, so you end up with your head cradled to his chest. But you’re not as happy about it as you’d normally be. 

“All I did was cut into your phone time, which we came to a consensus on, and your breakfast time. So I made you breakfast.”

You turn your head so you can look up at him from against his chest. 

“… Oh. You did?”

“Yes,” he says simply, picking up the plate you’d missed on the bedside table and presenting it to you. 

Two pieces of toast, each with butter and a different kind of jam because he knows you can never pick. Apple slices. Eggs, exactly the way you like them. Candied pecans, which are supposed to be for salads, and which you sneak handfuls of anyway. 

“Oh,” you murmur again. 

“There’s green tea in the mug, too. Caffeinated, obviously.”

You sit up straighter and take the plate into your lap over the blanket, nibbling on a slice of toast before kissing him. 

“Thank you,” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder and studying the frosty day beyond the window, deciding how to dress for the weather as you chew. 

He slips his hand under your shirt to rub circles on your back. 

“Of course. I was actually excited to make you breakfast. How often is it that you’re running out the door and I don’t have anywhere to be?”

“How often is it that you get so badly injured Hotch makes you stay home?”

Too often, is the punchline. 

“He’s being anal,” Spencer scoffs, mood suddenly a wink soured. “A sprained ankle is hardly an injury.”

“Mm,” you hum around another bite of toast. “I’d say a fractured bone is pretty injurious.”

“He’s on your payroll, and you want me home. It’s a plot.”

“That’s ridiculous. I don’t pay him. He’s just scared of me.”

“It is pretty suspicious I got the week off just as we’re heading into your winter break.”

“Mhm. I’m gonna keep you here,” you say earnestly, snapping off half an apple slice with your teeth and offering the rest to him. “And make you watch movies and have sex all week.”

He crunches on the fruit and laughs. 

“Ambitious. I’m pretty sure it’s more likely that we watch movies and sleep all week.”

You look up at him with big eyes. 

“That’s still fun.”

“Oh, that’s exactly my idea of fun,” he says, and while those who don’t know Spencer quite as well as you do would perhaps mistake it for sarcasm, you know better. You settle back on his shoulder. 

“I think you should stay in bed, ’cause I’ll be home by 10:00. And then I’ll get here and you’ll already be all warm and cozy so we can cuddle all day.”

“Or we could have sex,” he says hopefully. 

You throw a pecan at him. 

[pucksandpower]

You Owe Me

Day 9 → Overstimulation 💋 Charles Leclerc

Warnings: 18+ content

Kinktober Masterlist

The door to the hotel suite slams shut with a sharp click, echoing through the quiet space. You freeze just inside the entryway, one heel still half-off, your body already half-turned toward Charles. You can feel the tension before you even look at him — an unmistakable tightness in the air, like the room itself is holding its breath.

“Baby?” You ask softly, already sensing this isn’t going to be a conversation that ends with laughter or a kiss. He’s standing by the window, arms crossed, the lights of the city casting a harsh glow over his face. His jaw clenches, and there’s something stormy in his eyes, something that makes your stomach tighten.

He doesn’t turn. “You had fun tonight?”

It’s a simple enough question, but his tone carries weight — far too much for something that should be innocent. You take a breath, trying to ease the knot building in your chest. “It was fine,” you reply, stepping out of your other shoe. “The sponsors were … you know how it is. They want to feel important.”

He laughs, but it’s sharp, humorless. “Oh, I saw. You made them feel very important.”

You blink, thrown by the bitterness in his voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Finally, he turns, his eyes locking on yours. There’s fire there, a barely controlled flame flickering in the depths. He takes a step closer, then another, his movements deliberate, calculated.

“You spent the entire night,” he says, his voice low, “flirting with everyone in sight.”

Your mouth falls open, words caught in your throat. For a moment, you just stare at him, trying to process what he’s just said. “Flirting?” You repeat, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. “Charles, I wasn’t-”

He cuts you off with a wave of his hand, pacing now, back and forth across the plush carpet. “I’m not blind. I saw how you were with them. Smiling, laughing at their jokes, touching their arms. Acting like they’re the most interesting people in the world.”

You stand rooted to the spot, the accusation swirling around in your mind like a bad dream. “I wasn’t flirting,” you say again, more firmly this time. “I was being polite, trying to sweeten them up for you. For the team. That’s why we were there.”

Charles shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

“Bullshit?” You echo, incredulous. “You think I was flirting with them? For what? To get a free drink? To make you jealous?”

“Maybe you wanted to make me jealous,” he spits out, stopping dead in front of you. His presence is overwhelming, a towering force of frustration and anger, and you feel it pressing down on you, threatening to suffocate. “Maybe you like the attention. You like how they look at you, like they’re ready to do anything for you.”

You take a step back, the weight of his words hitting you like a punch. “You really think that low of me?”

For a moment, the anger in his eyes wavers, something else flickering behind the fury. But it’s gone just as quickly, replaced by the hard, cold expression you’ve never seen from him before. “I think you knew exactly what you were doing tonight.”

Your chest tightens, and for the first time, you feel the burn of tears threatening to rise, but you refuse to let them fall. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was there for you, Charles. I was trying to help.”

He snorts, turning his back on you again. “You call that helping?”

You shake your head, stepping forward. “What do you want from me? Do you want me to stop talking to anyone else? Should I just sit in a corner and be invisible?”

His silence stretches out, and you wish, for a moment, he would just say something, anything, that isn’t loaded with accusation.

“You don’t get it,” he finally mutters. “You never get it.”

“What don’t I get?” Your voice is rising now, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Tell me what I’m supposed to understand here, Charles, because right now all I see is you punishing me for something I didn’t do.”

He turns sharply, eyes locking on yours. “You don’t understand what it’s like, watching them look at you like that, knowing that at any moment, they could sweep in and-” He cuts himself off, pressing his lips together as if he’s said too much.

You stare at him, stunned. “Is that what this is about? You’re worried someone’s going to steal me away?”

Charles’ eyes flash with something dangerous. “I’m not worried,” he snaps. “I know how this works. You think they’re just being polite, just being nice, but I see it. I see how they look at you, like you’re a prize they can win. And you, you play right into it.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes your lips. “You think I’m some object? Some … trophy for them to fight over? That’s insane, Charles. You know me better than that.”

“Do I?” His voice is sharp, and there’s something raw, almost vulnerable, in the way he says it. “Because tonight, it sure as hell didn’t feel like it.”

You open your mouth, then close it, searching for the right words. “I was doing my job as your date, Charles. I was talking to sponsors, making connections — for you.”

He shakes his head again, the muscles in his jaw working. “That’s not what it looked like.”

You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. “Then what did it look like to you? Because from where I’m standing, all I did was try to help, and now I’m being accused of God knows what.”

His eyes darken, the fire in them burning hotter now. “It looked like you were enjoying it. Every second of it.”

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, you’re too stunned to respond. When you finally do, your voice is quiet, a sharp contrast to the storm raging between you. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” He steps closer again, his presence overpowering, like gravity pulling you in whether you want it or not. “You think I didn’t notice the way your hand lingered on his arm, the way you leaned in when you laughed? You think I didn’t see him watching you?”

You shake your head, exasperated. “I was making conversation.”

“With his arm?”

“Charles-”

“I’m not an idiot, Y/N.”

Your chest tightens at the way he says your name, so cold, so distant. The Charles you know isn’t like this. He’s fierce, yes, but not like this. Not with you.

“I wasn’t flirting,” you repeat, your voice low but firm. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

He studies you for a moment, his eyes scanning your face like he’s searching for a lie, for something that isn’t there. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, measured, but it carries a weight that makes your stomach churn.

“You flirted with eight men? You owe me eight.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unfamiliar, their meaning unclear at first. You blink, your confusion only deepening as you replay the sentence in your mind.

“Eight?” You ask, your voice barely more than a whisper. “What does that mean?”

He doesn’t explain, doesn’t elaborate. His eyes stay locked on yours, cold and unyielding, and you know there’s no point in asking again. He’s already decided — whatever it is he thinks you’ve done, however he’s convinced himself of it, he’s not backing down.

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating.

For a moment, you want to fight. You want to argue, to demand he explain himself, to push back against this irrational anger that’s tearing him apart. But you’re exhausted — emotionally, mentally, drained from the evening and the unexpected accusation.

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders sagging under the weight of the moment. “I don’t know what you think I owe you, but this … this isn't fair.”

Charles’ eyes don’t leave you as the silence stretches unbearably thin between you. His breath is steady, controlled, but there’s an unmistakable tension in the way he stands — coiled, waiting. His gaze sharpens, and you feel it like a current, an invisible pull dragging you back toward him.

“Come here,” he says, his voice low and commanding.

Your heart pounds in your chest, the weight of his words sinking in slowly. You take a step toward him, hesitating for a fraction of a second. His eyes darken, daring you to defy him, but you can’t. You don’t. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you that holds you in place, that demands your obedience without ever saying the words.

His hand reaches out, curling around your wrist, firm but not harsh, and he pulls you closer. The air between you feels thick, heavy with unresolved tension and desire. You know what he wants. There’s no mistaking it now.

“You owe me eight,” he repeats, and this time, the meaning behind his words is crystal clear.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you feel the heat rise in your body, your skin prickling under his gaze. There’s no room for argument, no space to deny him. He’s made up his mind, and you … you’re at his mercy.

He doesn’t waste time.

His hands are quick, efficient as he pulls at your dress, the fabric sliding down your body with an ease that makes your pulse race. Every brush of his fingertips ignites something in you, something you can’t control. His touch is rough, but not cruel — dominant, but laced with something deeper, something that sends a thrill down your spine.

You open your mouth to speak, to say something — anything — but the words are gone before they form, lost in the haze of his touch.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear, sending a shiver down your neck. “Not a word. Not until I say.”

And you nod, because what else is there to do? You’re already under his spell, every part of you tuned to him, to the way his hands move, the way his eyes never leave your face. You’re his. For this moment, for as long as he decides, you’re his.

He starts slowly, his fingers tracing patterns along your skin, teasing, coaxing your body into submission. Your breath hitches, and you feel the heat rising in you, the anticipation building with every calculated touch. He’s methodical, deliberate, focusing entirely on you, on what you’re feeling, how you’re reacting. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and you can’t stop the way your body responds to him.

“Charles,” you whisper, a breathless plea escaping before you can stop it.

He pulls back just slightly, eyes narrowing. “What did I say?”

You bite your lip, nodding quickly, trying to regain control of yourself, but it’s slipping fast. His touch is too much — precise, intentional — and you can already feel your body unraveling beneath his hands.

Then he starts in earnest.

His fingers move with purpose, finding that spot that makes your breath hitch, your body jerk involuntarily. It’s a slow build at first, the pleasure winding tighter and tighter until it’s all you can focus on. Your mind goes blank, every thought consumed by the sensation coursing through you.

The first one comes hard, fast, and you gasp, your body arching into him. He doesn’t let up, his fingers relentless, pushing you higher, faster. You barely have time to recover before the second one crashes over you, leaving you breathless, trembling.

“That’s two,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, a dark satisfaction in his tone.

You’re barely coherent now, your body no longer your own as he drives you toward the third. He’s focused, unrelenting, and you can’t stop the sounds escaping your lips, broken, breathless moans that fill the room as he pulls you closer to the edge again.

The third comes slower, more drawn out, and by the time it crests, you’re shaking, your body trembling under his touch.

“Three,” he murmurs, and there’s something almost possessive in the way he says it, like he’s claiming each one as his own.

He doesn’t stop. His hand moves faster now, more insistent, and you can feel yourself slipping, your mind clouding with the overwhelming pleasure building inside you. The fourth one crashes into you harder than the last, and you cry out, your body jerking as it hits.

He pulls you closer, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers, “Four.”

You’ve lost count, your mind too hazy to keep track anymore, but Charles hasn’t. He knows exactly where you are, and he’s not done. He won’t be done until you’ve given him everything he’s asked for. Everything he’s demanded.

By the time the fifth one hits, your legs are weak, your body trembling uncontrollably. You can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything but feel. The pleasure is overwhelming now, consuming, and you’re teetering on the edge of losing yourself completely.

He slows down just for a moment, letting you catch your breath, but the reprieve is brief. His hand moves again, more purposeful now, driving you toward the sixth with an intensity that leaves you breathless.

It hits harder than you expect, your body spasming as it crashes over you. You can’t control the sounds escaping your lips, the soft whimpers and moans that fill the space between you.

Charles is relentless, his fingers never pausing, never giving you a moment to recover. You’re incoherent now, your mind a blur of sensation, your body completely at his mercy.

The seventh one comes before you’ve even had time to process the last, your body convulsing under his touch. You’re barely holding on, your mind fogged, every nerve ending on fire.

And then, the eighth.

It’s slower, drawn out, the pleasure building and building until you’re sure you can’t take any more. When it finally hits, it’s like an explosion, tearing through you, leaving you trembling, incoherent, completely undone.

Your body goes limp, every muscle weak, every thought gone. You can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even breathe properly.

Charles finally stops, his hand withdrawing as he leans back slightly, his eyes dark and intense as he watches you, taking in the sight of your trembling body, your flushed skin.

“You owe me nothing now,” he whispers, and there’s a possessive satisfaction in his voice that makes your heart pound, even through the haze.

***

You wake slowly, consciousness seeping in like warmth spreading across your skin. For a moment, everything is soft, gentle — the sheets tangled around your legs, the early morning light filtering through the curtains, and the quiet, rhythmic sound of breathing beside you.

And then you feel it — Charles’ fingers.

Your heart skips a beat as you become fully aware of the slow, deliberate movements beneath the sheets. He’s there, under the covers, his body pressed against yours, and his touch … God, his touch is focused, intentional, right where he knows you’re most sensitive.

You stir, a soft moan escaping your lips before you even realize it. Your eyes flutter open, but everything is still blurry, your mind foggy with sleep and the sudden, electric sensation coursing through you.

“Charles …” your voice is quiet, husky with sleep, but there’s a hint of surprise mixed with something else — something warmer, something stirring deep within you.

He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, his fingers move with more purpose, flicking lightly at the bundle of nerves that’s now fully awake. Your breath hitches, your body responding immediately, instinctively, arching slightly into his touch.

You can’t see him clearly, but you know the look on his face — the intense focus, the way his eyes darken with desire, the way his lips curl into that knowing, smug smile when he knows he’s affecting you.

A soft chuckle escapes from under the sheets. “You’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice low, the words vibrating against your skin. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t give you time to adjust to the sudden onslaught of sensation. His fingers continue their work, teasing, circling, flicking, until your body is already trembling beneath him.

You bite your lip, trying to stifle the moan threatening to spill out. Your legs twitch involuntarily, and you’re about to speak again, to say something — anything — but he presses down a little harder, his thumb joining his fingers in perfect rhythm.

“Charles-” you gasp, but it’s barely a word, more of a plea, your breath hitching as the pleasure builds too quickly, too intensely. “What … what are you doing?”

He hums, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh as he speaks. “Making sure you start the day properly,” he says, the words laced with that unmistakable arrogance that only he can pull off without sounding insufferable.

You can feel the heat rising in your body, spreading from where his fingers work their magic. You’re already sensitive — too sensitive — and he knows it. He knows exactly how to push you to the edge, exactly where to touch, how to touch, and you can’t stop the way your body responds to him.

Your hips shift, bucking slightly as his fingers quicken, and you let out a soft whimper, your hand gripping the sheets beneath you. You can feel the tension coiling in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter with every precise flick of his fingers, every teasing circle.

“Charles, please …” you whisper, but you don’t know if you’re begging him to stop or to keep going. The pleasure is already overwhelming, your body still exhausted from last night, but the heat building inside you is impossible to ignore.

“Please, what?” He asks, his voice teasing, almost playful, but there’s a darker edge to it, something commanding. His fingers slow for a brief moment, and you take a shuddering breath, trying to steady yourself, but he doesn’t give you time to recover.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks, his fingers pausing just at the edge of where you need him most, his breath warm against your skin.

You shake your head, biting your lip to keep from crying out. “No,” you manage to whisper, your voice shaky.

He chuckles softly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “That’s what I thought.”

And then his fingers are back, moving with even more purpose than before, faster, more insistent. Your hips lift off the bed, your body moving of its own accord, chasing the sensation, chasing the release you know is coming, but Charles is in control — he’s always in control.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing, but there’s a command hidden in the softness. “Let me take care of you.”

You try to comply, but your body isn’t listening. Your legs twitch, your breath coming in ragged gasps as his fingers work you closer and closer to the edge. It’s too much, too soon, and you can feel yourself unraveling, the tension in your core coiling so tightly it’s almost painful.

“Charles, I can’t-” you gasp, your voice breaking as your body tenses, every muscle tightening in anticipation.

“Yes, you can,” he whispers, his voice a mix of gentleness and command. “Just let go. Let me.”

And you do. You don’t have a choice — your body gives in, the tension snapping all at once, and the release crashes over you like a wave, leaving you breathless, trembling, your vision going white for a moment as the pleasure ripples through you.

Your fingers grip the sheets, your back arching as your body rides the waves of your orgasm, and Charles doesn’t stop. His fingers slow, but they don’t stop, drawing out every last bit of pleasure, pushing you through it until you’re a quivering mess beneath him.

You’re gasping for breath, your mind fuzzy, your body limp and uncooperative as the aftershocks roll through you. You can’t even form words, your lips parting uselessly as you try to catch your breath.

Charles emerges from under the sheets, his eyes dark and satisfied, a smug smile playing on his lips. He hovers above you, his fingers brushing your cheek as he leans down to kiss you, soft and slow, letting you taste the satisfaction on his lips.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice soft now, the roughness replaced by something gentler, more tender.

You try to respond, but your body is still too weak, too overwhelmed by the sensations still lingering in your skin. Instead, you just nod, your hand weakly reaching up to brush through his hair.

He chuckles softly, pressing another kiss to your forehead before pulling back slightly, his eyes roaming over your flushed face, your trembling body. There’s something possessive in his gaze, something that sends a shiver through you despite the heat still coursing through your veins.

“You can take another,” he says, and it’s not a question.

Your eyes widen, your breath catching in your throat. “Charles, I don’t think-”

“You can,” he insists, his hand slipping between your thighs again, fingers finding that sensitive spot immediately, and you whimper, your body twitching involuntarily.

“I’m … I’m too sensitive,” you gasp, your hips shifting away instinctively, but he follows you, relentless.

“I know,” he murmurs, his fingers moving in slow, teasing circles. “But I want to see you fall apart again. You can give me one more, can’t you?”

There’s no real room for refusal in his voice, and despite the sensitivity, despite the overwhelming pleasure still buzzing in your veins, you find yourself nodding, your body already responding to his touch.

“Good girl,” he whispers, his fingers pressing down harder, and you moan, your body already trembling again, the sensitivity only heightening the pleasure now.

It doesn’t take long — your body is still on edge, still too raw from the first orgasm, and Charles knows exactly how to push you back to the brink. His fingers are relentless, flicking and circling in a rhythm that makes your legs shake, your breath coming in shallow gasps as the pleasure builds too quickly, too intensely.

You try to hold on, try to control it, but it’s impossible. Charles is too skilled, too focused, and your body is too weak, too sensitive. The second orgasm crashes into you faster than the first, more intense, more overwhelming, and you cry out, your body convulsing as the pleasure tears through you.

You’re shaking uncontrollably now, your body completely uncooperative, every muscle trembling as the orgasm rips you apart. You can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything but feel as wave after wave of pleasure rolls through you, leaving you breathless and incoherent.

Charles slows his movements, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you’re nothing but a quivering, trembling mess beneath him.

When he finally pulls his hand away, you’re gasping for breath, your body limp and useless, your mind a hazy blur of satisfaction and exhaustion. You can’t even open your eyes, can’t form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.

Charles leans over you, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “That’s my girl.” His breath is warm on your skin, sending shivers down your spine even though your body is already wrecked, trembling, barely holding on to the remnants of what he's given you.

But it doesn’t stop there. You can feel him shifting beside you, his body pressing closer, his chest brushing against your back as he moves. The anticipation builds again, that familiar, heady pull tightening in your core even though you’re exhausted, overstimulated, every nerve in your body screaming that you’ve had enough.

And then you feel it — him. Sliding between your legs, the head of him nudging against you. Your breath catches in your throat, the sensation sharp, almost too sharp, like your body can’t take any more, like you’re already too far gone.

“Charles, I-” you start to protest, but the words come out broken, barely a whisper, swallowed by the overwhelming feeling of him pushing into you, slow, deliberate, but still relentless.

“Shh,” he murmurs, his voice soft but commanding, his lips brushing the back of your neck. “I know it’s too much. I know.”

But he doesn’t stop. He slides in deeper, stretching you, filling you completely, and the sensation is so intense it feels like fire — burning, bright, consuming. Your body tenses, your fingers gripping the sheets as the overstimulation turns into something almost painful. The pleasure from before mixes with the sharp edge of it, and you gasp, your eyes squeezing shut as he presses further in.

“Charles, I can’t-” you try again, but the words are lost, drowned out by the sound of your own breath hitching, your body tightening around him involuntarily, every muscle clenching as you try to cope with the overwhelming sensation.

“You can,” he says again, his voice low and firm, like he’s coaxing you, pulling you through the pain, the pleasure, everything at once. “You can take it. Just breathe.”

You try to listen, try to breathe, but it’s so much — too much. Your legs twitch, your hips buck involuntarily as he moves deeper still, every inch of him sending shockwaves through you. Your vision blurs, your head swimming as the pressure inside you builds again, twisting tighter and tighter until it’s unbearable.

The overstimulation is like electricity, buzzing under your skin, every nerve on fire. You can feel everything — every inch of him, every stroke, every push — and it’s overwhelming. Your body is trembling uncontrollably now, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as you teeter on the edge of something you can’t control, something that feels too intense, too much to handle.

Charles’ hands are on you, firm, steady, holding you in place as he thrusts deeper, his movements slow but unyielding, drawing out every ounce of pleasure and pain until you can’t tell the difference anymore. Your mind goes blank, your senses consumed by him, by the way he’s filling you, stretching you, pushing you past every limit you thought you had.

“I know it’s too much,” he whispers again, his lips against your ear, his voice a soft command. “But you can take it. You’re mine, and I want all of you.”

Your vision goes white, then black, the edges of your consciousness fading as the overstimulation hits its peak. The pleasure is so sharp it hurts, a throbbing, pulsing ache that sends your mind spiraling. You can’t see, can’t think, can’t breathe properly. The world tilts, and for a moment, everything disappears — the room, the bed, Charles, all of it swallowed by the overwhelming sensation crashing through you.

It’s like drowning in fire and light, your body suspended in a haze of overstimulation that blurs the line between pleasure and pain. You’re lost in it, your body convulsing as he pushes you further, deeper, until you break.

And then, nothing.

The world goes black.

***

You come back slowly, your body heavy and limp, the overwhelming sensation fading into a dull hum. Your eyelids flutter open, the room coming back into focus, the soft light filtering through the curtains casting shadows across the sheets. Everything feels distant, like you’re floating just outside of yourself, disconnected but still aware.

Charles’ arms are wrapped around you, his chest pressed against your back, his breath steady and warm against your neck. He’s holding you close, his fingers brushing lightly over your arm, grounding you, pulling you back from wherever you had gone. His touch is soft now, gentle, as if he knows you’ve already given him everything, as if he’s calming the storm he unleashed.

“Hey,” his voice is soft, barely above a whisper, but it’s the sound that pulls you fully back, anchoring you in the present. “You with me?”

You nod weakly, though your body still feels like it’s not entirely your own, like you’ve been hollowed out and filled with something entirely different. You’re trembling slightly, your breath coming in shallow, shaky inhales, but you’re here. You’re with him.

Charles shifts slightly, pulling you even closer, his arms tightening around you in a protective embrace. His lips brush the side of your neck, and you feel the warmth of his breath, the tenderness in the way he’s holding you now. It’s such a stark contrast to the intensity from before, and you cling to it, to him, as you try to gather yourself.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, his voice soothing, filled with a deep, quiet pride that makes your heart flutter weakly in your chest. “You’re perfect.”

You can’t speak yet, can’t form the words, so you just nod again, your eyes slipping shut as you let yourself sink into the comfort of his arms. The aftershocks are still rippling through you, small tremors that make you shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the storm that had torn through you moments ago.

He’s stroking your hair now, his fingers gentle as they thread through the strands, his movements slow, comforting. “I’ve got you,” he says, as if sensing the lingering haze in your mind. “Just breathe, okay? I’m here.”

You take a deep breath, the air filling your lungs slowly, and you feel your body start to relax, the tension ebbing away little by little. Charles’ presence is grounding, his steady touch bringing you back to yourself, and you’re grateful for it. For him. For the way he knows exactly how to take care of you, even when you’re completely undone.

“You scared me for a second,” he admits quietly, his voice soft, almost vulnerable, as if he’s sharing something he rarely lets anyone see. “You went somewhere else. I didn’t mean to push you that far.”

You swallow, your throat dry, but you manage to whisper, “I’m okay.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough so he can look at you, his eyes searching your face. “You sure?”

You meet his gaze, your body still weak, but your mind clearer now, and you nod. “Yeah … I’m sure.”

The concern in his eyes fades, replaced by that familiar intensity, the quiet possessiveness that’s always been there, lurking beneath the surface. But now it’s softer, tempered by the care he’s showing you in this moment, by the way he’s holding you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers, his hand coming up to cup your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. “You know that, right?”

You smile faintly, your heart swelling at the way he’s looking at you, like you’re everything. “You don’t make it easy,” you murmur, your voice still shaky, but there’s a hint of teasing in it.

Charles chuckles softly, the sound warm and low, and he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Wouldn’t be any fun if it was easy, mon amour.”

You let out a breathy laugh, the sound weak but real, and you close your eyes, leaning into him, letting the comfort of his presence wash over you. Your body is still recovering, still trembling slightly, but you’re safe here, in his arms. You’re okay.

Charles shifts again, settling back into the pillows with you still wrapped in his arms, his hand never leaving your skin, always touching, always grounding you. He holds you like that for a long time, the silence between you filled only with the sound of your breathing, the quiet intimacy of two people who understand each other on a level that words can’t reach.

And as you lie there, cocooned in his warmth, his arms around you like a shield, you hope he finally realizes that there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

[cheftsunoda]

hiiii i’ve got a request for lando + magui!!! i was thinking of a scenario where reader is the best friend of one of magui, but has hooked up with lando! Magui figured out and instead of being mad, she seduces reader and they all three end up together!! i love you work!! i haven’t seen anyone request magui and lando together so i thought it would be a nice little change!!

complicated — ln4 + magui

smau + blurbs

lando norris x reader x magui corceiro

yn was not supposed to see him that night. not in that club. not under those lights. but there he was—lando norris. smiling, golden, drunk off something that looked a lot like heartbreak. yn hadn’t seen him in months, not since the last very public breakup with her best friend, magui. and as far as she knew, it was over. again. so yn danced with him, laughed, let her walls down, let her guard slip. one drink turned into three. his hands found her waist. her lips found his. and somewhere between midnight and regret, yn let herself forget who he was to her. but in the morning—when the makeup smudged and silence settled—she figured it out and the guilt hit like a freight train. yn never meant to hurt her. she was her ride-or-die. her other half. but when yn showed up to confess, to beg for forgiveness, magui didn’t cry. she didn’t yell. she only smiled, slow and sharp. “you could’ve just told me you wanted him,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind yn’s ear. “i would’ve shared.” and just like that, their entire world turned upside down.

fc : lily rowland

(a/n) : as on my kelly post— please no hate. i am simply doing what was requested of me. everyone has their own opinions on magui and they are entitled to those. if she makes lando happy, that is all that matters.

also i suck at writing smut and i attempted to write some slightly in this so do not hate me if it is horrible.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,790,002 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Supermodel YN LN was spotted in a Monaco nightclub in the early hours with none other than F1’s own Lando Norris. The pair were seen getting very close inside before slipping out together through the back entrance. Sources say Lando and longtime on-again, off-again girlfriend Magui Corceiro (who is yn’s bff btw) were recently back on… so this little rendezvous is raising a lot of eyebrows 👀

—

view 175,002 other comments.

username00 : not this man speedrunning his way out of a relationship again 💀💀

username0 : yn??? as in supermodel, cover-of-every-magazine YN??? oh lando won fr

username1 : you lose them how you get them🤷🏻‍♀️

username5 : nah yn and magui have been best friends forever. yn would never just randomly do this to magui. something is up.

username7 : v confused bc after the latest breakup yn was in the press cursing this man’s name

username10 : nah if I was Magui I’d be flipping a table rn.

username11 : someone check if magui unfollowed her rn. I NEED LIVE UPDATES.

—

The bass was so loud I could feel it in my chest, every beat syncing with my pulse like my body couldn’t tell where the music ended and I began. I was two drinks past responsible, three smiles past exhausted, and somewhere between pretending I was fine and actually starting to believe it. And then I saw him.

I didn’t mean to. He just—appeared. Out of nowhere. Like the room shifted and suddenly there was Lando, standing across the club like some kind of glitch in my night. I blinked, thinking maybe it wasn’t him. But no—same curls, same smirk, same way of holding a drink like he couldn’t care less but also wanted to be watched. And his eyes—of course—landed on me.

Of course they did. I froze. For a second, I thought about turning around, disappearing into the crowd, pretending I hadn’t seen him. But then he smiled. And I was fucked.

He made his way toward me like he had all the time in the world. My heart shouldn’t have jumped the way it did. Not for him. Not when he was Magui’s. Or—was he?

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, low and smooth, like we were friends and not two people who definitely shouldn’t be talking.

“Didn’t expect you to still be breathing after what you did to Magui last time,” I shot back, arching a brow.

He laughed—really laughed. That easy, boyish kind of laugh that used to make Magui melt and make me roll my eyes.

“She forgave me,” he said with a shrug. “Or she said she did. It’s… complicated.”

I shouldn’t have cared. But my stomach twisted anyway. Because complicated, to me, always sounded like unfinished. Still, I didn’t walk away. I let him step closer. Close enough to smell that stupid expensive cologne I used to tease him about. Close enough to forget every reason I had to keep my distance.

“Let me get you a drink?” he asked, tilting his head just a little. Like he already knew I’d say yes.

And I did. God help me, I did. Because in that moment—with the lights too low and my brain too soft—I forgot who he was to her. Or maybe I just didn’t want to remember. He handed me the drink — something clear, cold, and expensive — and leaned in just enough to make it look casual. Just enough to make my skin prickle.

“You look different,” he said.

I sipped. “That’s what happens when you don’t see someone for five months. People change.”

He gave me that smug half-smile. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

I didn’t answer. I let the silence stretch between us, heavy with everything unsaid. I could’ve walked away right then. Could’ve rolled my eyes, handed him back the drink, said “Tell Magui I said hi.” But I didn’t. I just… stayed.

“Still modeling?” he asked, like he didn’t already know. Like my face wasn’t plastered on billboards and magazine covers he drove past on the way to every circuit.

I gave him a look. “Still racing?”

He grinned, then took a slow sip of his own drink. “Touché.”

The music shifted — something deeper, smoother, the kind of track that made people lean in and lose their morals. I felt it in my spine.

He stepped a little closer. Too close.

“You and Magui still talk?” he asked. His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp.

I nodded. “We talk every day.”

“Even about me?”

I tilted my head. “Why? Want to know what she says?”

“Only if it’s good,” he murmured, and I laughed despite myself.

He smiled at the sound like he’d won something. Like he knew how dangerous this was and didn’t care.

“You really think this is a good idea?” I asked, finally meeting his gaze head-on.

“I think you look like you needed a good idea tonight,” he said softly. “And I think I did too.”

God. He was trouble. He was Magui’s trouble. But in that moment, under those lights, with the crowd fading into a blur and my brain begging for a break from the pressure—I didn’t feel like the girl who made the right choices.

I felt like the girl who was one wrong move away from doing something she couldn’t take back.

And when he reached out, fingers brushing against my wrist, I didn’t pull away.

I let him.

—

The lights were lower on the dance floor — dim and smoky, pulsing red and violet like the whole room was breathing in sync. The music shifted again, slower now, deeper. A beat made for moving close. For making mistakes.

Lando looked at me like he was waiting for a sign. I didn’t give him one. I just turned and walked toward the crowd.

I didn’t look back to see if he followed.

I didn’t need to.

The moment I stepped onto the floor, the music swallowed me. Arms in the air, eyes closed, hips swaying like I hadn’t been overthinking everything since the second I saw him. And then — there he was. Behind me. A hand lightly grazing my hip, like a question mark.

I didn’t stop him.

We moved like that for a while — not speaking, not looking, just feeling. The heat of his body behind mine, his chest at my back, one of his hands trailing down my arm as if he wasn’t sure where he ended and I began. Every movement, every breath, felt like a warning I didn’t listen to.

And then he leaned in.

His lips brushed the shell of my ear as he said, “Tell me to stop.”

I didn’t.

Maybe I couldn’t.

I turned to face him instead. His eyes were darker now, searching, daring. And before I could think better of it, before I could even breathe—he kissed me.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was months of tension. Years of denial. A thousand unspoken what-ifs igniting in one split second. His hand tangled in my hair, mine fisting the front of his shirt. The world blurred around us. People danced, lights flickered, music pounded—and I didn’t care.

I kissed him like he belonged to no one. Like I wasn’t betraying my best friend. Like I didn’t already know this would ruin everything.

Because in that moment?

I just wanted to feel something.

And God, did I.

—

The kiss didn’t end so much as it broke. A breath, a beat, and then we were staring at each other like we didn’t recognize what we’d just done.

His lips were red, mine were tingling, and somewhere between the club lights and common sense, I let the words slip out:

“Let’s go.”

He didn’t ask where. He didn’t need to. We slipped out through the back — the same way all bad ideas leave clubs at 2 a.m. The air outside was cool and sharp against my flushed skin. A car was already waiting. Of course it was. Lando moved like a man who always expected the night to bend to him.

The taxi ride was quiet, except for the way his hand found mine between us. Not grabbing. Not pulling. Just there. Warm. Real. Dangerous.

He looked out the window. I looked at him.

“This is a bad idea,” I whispered.

“I know.”

I should’ve told the driver to turn around. I should’ve texted Magui. I should’ve said something that sounded like loyalty.

But instead, I followed him into the elevator, twenty-something floors up, heart in my throat and guilt already clawing at my ribs. He swiped his key. The doors opened.

The suite was sleek. Cold. Bigger than my apartment.

He shut the door behind us with a quiet click, and we stood there — still, silent — like if we didn’t move, the weight of what we were doing wouldn’t fall on us yet. Then he stepped forward. And so did I. It wasn’t rushed.

It was worse than that — slow. Careful. Reverent. His hands found my face, then my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek like he was trying to memorize the shape of regret.

“You don’t have to—” he started.

“I want to,” I said, before I could lie.

Clothes hit the floor like confessions we didn’t say out loud. Every touch felt wrong and right at the same time. His mouth was everywhere — my neck, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder — and I let him have it all. Not because I didn’t know better. But because for one night, I didn’t care.

His skin was warm, his voice soft when he whispered my name against my throat, and I let myself fall into the way his hands knew exactly how to undo me.

And in the quiet moments in between — when his forehead pressed to mine, when our breaths synced, when he kissed me like I was something more than a distraction — I tried to forget that this wasn’t mine to have. That I’d crossed a line I couldn’t uncross. And that the person I loved most would never see me the same again.

—

I woke up to sunlight bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows, sharp and unforgiving. My head was pounding, my mouth dry, and the unfamiliar sheets were tangled around my legs like consequences I couldn’t shake off.

It took me all of three seconds to remember.

Lando. His skin. His hands. His mouth.

Last night.

I bolted upright, heart in my throat. The hotel suite was quiet, eerily so, except for the soft rustle of sheets beside me. I glanced over.

He was still asleep.

Hair a mess. Arm thrown carelessly over the pillow where I’d just been. Peaceful. Innocent-looking. Like he hadn’t just helped me commit emotional treason twelve hours ago.

I stood up, grabbing the first oversized shirt I could find — his, obviously — and stumbled toward my phone on the marble counter. Bad idea. Worst idea.

I had five missed calls, three texts from my agent, and a flood of notifications. Instagram, Twitter, even WhatsApp was lit up like a Christmas tree.

I opened one of the DMs. Then another. Then my stomach sank. There it was. A photo of us. Him. Me. The back exit. His hand on my lower back. My head tipped toward him like I was seconds from kissing him again. Oh my god.

“Oh my god,” I said aloud, louder than I meant to.

Lando stirred behind me. “Mm?” he mumbled, voice hoarse, eyes still closed. “You okay?”

“No,” I snapped, spinning around. “No, Lando, I’m not okay.”

He blinked at me, trying to sit up. “What’s going on?”

I held the phone out like it was evidence in a murder trial. “Are you with her?”

He squinted. “What?”

“Magui. Are you and Magui back together?”

He was silent for a second too long.

That was all the answer I needed.

“Oh my god.” My voice cracked. “I thought you were done. You said it was complicated. You let me think—”

“I didn’t let you think anything,” he said quickly, rubbing a hand down his face. “I said it was complicated. It still is. She and I—we weren’t official, not really—”

“Not really?” I echoed. “Lando, she’s my best friend. I just slept with my best friend’s on-again-off-again boyfriend.”

He sat up fully now, panic creeping into his eyes. “Okay, okay. Breathe. Look—we’ll handle it. I’ll talk to her.”

“No,” I said, stepping back, pulse in my ears. “I have to talk to her. I have to fix this.”

I didn’t know if she’d scream or cry or never speak to me again. But I knew one thing with gut-wrenching certainty. Last night had been a mistake. And no matter how good it felt in the moment, I wasn’t the kind of girl who could sleep with someone and pretend the fallout didn’t matter. Especially not when the person I could lose was the one I never wanted to hurt.

—

I didn’t call. I couldn’t. Because if I heard her voice — if she sounded angry, or hurt, or disappointed — I knew I’d fall apart before I could even apologize. So I just got in the car and went. The ride over was a blur. My stomach twisted the whole way there, hands shaking in my lap. My brain kept replaying the headline. The photo. The kiss. The choice I made.

Her building was too familiar. I’d been here a thousand times — hungover brunches, girls’ nights in, crying on her couch after heartbreaks we swore we’d never repeat. And now I was the one who broke the rules. I didn’t know what to expect when she opened the door. Screaming? Crying? A slap in the face? But instead, Magui just… stared at me.

Hair in a messy bun. No makeup. An oversized hoodie and a mug of coffee in her hand like it was just another Sunday. Her eyes flicked down to my face, then my outfit — still half in last night’s regret — and something in her expression shifted. I swallowed hard.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, the words falling out of my mouth like they were on fire. “I didn’t know you were back together. I never would’ve—Magui, I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought you guys were done. I didn’t—”

“Stop,” she said, gently but firmly.

I froze.

She blinked at me. Then tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

I blinked back. “What?”

Magui stepped aside to let me in, shutting the door behind me like this was any other visit. Like I hadn’t just slept with the one person I was never supposed to touch.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” she added. “Did Lando freak out? Of course he did. Men are always worse at cleaning up messes they help make.”

I just stared at her.

“You’re not… mad?”

She let out a soft laugh. Not bitter. Not sharp. Just amused. “Mad? No. A little surprised you didn’t tell me? Maybe. But mad?” She shrugged. “I mean, I did say it was complicated. You’re not the first girl he’s kissed while we were technically on a break.”

I felt like the floor dropped out beneath me. “Magui, we didn’t just kiss…”

She smiled then — slow, sly, a little too knowing. “I figured.”

I stared at her, speechless. “Why are you being so calm about this?”

She took a sip of her coffee, then leaned against the kitchen counter, eyes locking with mine in a way that made something inside me buzz with nerves.

“Because,” she said simply, “if it had been anyone else, maybe I would’ve been pissed. But you?”

She stepped closer. Close enough to make my heart trip.

“You’re the only girl I’ve ever looked at and thought… maybe I wouldn’t mind sharing with.”

I forgot how to breathe.

“I’m serious,” she added, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “You think I didn’t notice the way he looks at you? Or the way you look at me? Come on. I’ve seen the way you stare when you think I’m not looking.”

My mouth opened, but no words came out.

She laughed again, softer this time. “You didn’t betray me, querida. You just… exposed something we’ve all been ignoring.”

She stepped even closer, and my back hit the wall.

“So, now the real question,” she whispered, fingertips lightly grazing my wrist.

“What do you want?”

—

yn_ln

liked by lando, lewishamilton, magui_corceiro and 10,007,002 others.

yn_ln : girls cum first!

tagged : magui_corceiro

—

view 727,014 other comments.

username00 : everyone SHUT UP. mothers r mothering together even after that MAN tried to ruin it.

liked by yn_ln and magui_corceiro

magui_corceiro : as they always should ;)

liked by yn_ln

franciscagomes : my girliesss ily

liked by yn_ln and magui_corceiro

username0 : why is lando in the likes?? get out.

↳ username1 : half the grid are in her likes tbh. don't blame them.

lando : cheeky 👀

liked by yn_ln and magui_corceiro

↳ alex_albon : i am so fucking confused.

liked by yn_ln and lando

↳ lilymhe : me too but yn is so hot that i am distracted

liked by yn_ln, magui_corceiro and lando

lewishamilton : Stunning as always, YN.

liked by yn_ln

↳ yn_ln : charming as always, mr. hamilton.

liked by lewishamilton

—

I left that conversation rather open...I wasn't sure what to say. And naturally, Magui texted me the next morning like nothing had changed.

Lunch? My treat. You owe me a story.

A winky face. A heart. And I guess… I went. Maybe because I owed her more than just a story. Or maybe because a part of me still hadn’t processed the night before — the way she looked at me, the way her hand grazed my wrist, how her words wrapped around my neck like a silk ribbon I didn’t know what to do with.

You’re the only girl I’d ever share with.

I hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. So I met her at this rooftop café she loved — the kind with overpriced salads, glittering glassware, and the best view of the city. She was already there when I arrived, tucked into a corner booth like a summer goddess in a tiny white dress and gold hoops that caught the sunlight like they had a grudge against everyone else trying to look good.

She looked up, smiled, and waved me over. “You’re late.”

I sat down, suddenly self-conscious in my little black tank and messy bun. “You’re insufferably early. What’s new?”

She laughed — this soft, lazy sound that made my skin buzz. “You look tired.”

“You look smug.”

“I slept better than you, apparently.”

I didn’t reply. She knew exactly why I hadn’t slept. And the fact that she was smiling about it made me dizzy. We ordered — iced coffees, ridiculous truffle fries, something green we wouldn’t finish — and the conversation drifted. Travel. Work. A red carpet she was skipping. A shoot I had next week in Milan. But then she leaned in, chin resting in her hand, eyes fixed on me like she was trying to peel me open.

“Are you still overthinking everything?” she asked, voice low.

I blinked. “I’m not overthinking.”

“You’re literally chewing your straw, meu amor.”

I dropped it instantly. She smiled, then slid her foot against mine under the table — gentle, deliberate.

“You do that thing when you’re nervous. Your shoulders get tight.” Her fingers brushed the top of my arm. “Like this.”

I swallowed. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re spiraling. And for what?” she said, sitting back, picking up a fry like we were talking about the weather. “You made one bad decision.”

“You mean sleeping with your boyfriend?”

Her brows lifted. “Ex-ish. On-again-off-again. Technicality territory. And don’t forget the part where I’m not mad about it.”

“Yeah, I still don’t get that part.”

She tilted her head, eyes glittering. “That’s because you keep thinking in black and white. But people��� we’re messy. And maybe I like messy.”

Her voice was soft, but her meaning hit sharp. She reached for my hand — just like that, like it was natural — and started tracing lazy circles over my knuckles with her thumb. It was… grounding and electric all at once. I stared at her, a thousand questions racing through me, none of them landing.

“I like you,” she said. “You know that, right?”

I nodded, because my voice had stopped working.

“And maybe this whole thing isn’t about me and Lando,” she added, eyes locked with mine. “Maybe it’s always been about you.”

I exhaled, shaky. She smiled again — that slow, dangerous kind of smile that made it very clear she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Come out with me tonight,” she said, casually, like it wasn’t a dare. “Just us. No cameras. No pressure. Just… me and you.”

And the way she looked at me — confident, knowing, patient — it made something inside me unravel.

“Okay,” I said, barely above a whisper.

She squeezed my hand. “Good girl.”

And just like that, I was spiraling again — but for an entirely different reason.

—

By the time I made it to the bar, my heart was already pounding. She was waiting for me near the back, in some dimly lit corner of the rooftop lounge. Black dress. Slicked-back hair. That familiar smile like she’d been watching me from the second I walked in.

“Hi, pretty girl,” she said as I slid into the seat next to her.

“Hi.”

She handed me a drink — something pink, bubbly, a little too sweet.

“Drink. Relax. You’ve been thinking too hard since Wednesday.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

We clinked glasses. She kept looking at me over the rim of hers like she could see every nerve firing inside my brain. And somehow, that didn’t scare me as much as it should’ve. We talked. Laughed. Shared fries and made fun of people’s shoes. It felt good. Too good, almost — too easy, too safe, like forgetting how complicated this all really was. But every time our knees brushed under the table, or our fingers touched reaching for the same thing, something tugged at me. Something warm. Something dangerous.

“Do you remember Milan?” she asked suddenly, swirling her straw in her drink.

I blinked. “Which part?”

“That night we stayed in, ordered pizza, and danced around in that ugly hotel robe you stole?”

I laughed. “It wasn’t ugly. It was iconic.”

“You wore it like a runway piece. Of course you did.” Her gaze dropped to my lips for just a second. “I wanted to kiss you that night.”

The air left my lungs. I opened my mouth, then closed it again, because I didn’t know what I was about to say — or whether I should say anything at all.

She leaned closer, her voice low. “Did you want me to?”

I couldn’t lie. Not to her. Not now.

“…Yeah,” I whispered. “I think I did.”

Her eyes softened. She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, her fingers brushing along my cheek. The city lights flickered around us, but everything else faded. She didn’t rush. She gave me space — the kind that feels like a question. And when I didn’t pull back… she kissed me. Soft at first. Intentional. Her lips warm, familiar, curious. Like she was asking permission even now — and I gave it to her without hesitation. The kiss deepened, just enough to make my fingers curl into the fabric of her dress. Just enough to feel it — not lust, not confusion, but something slower. Heavier. Real. When she pulled away, her forehead rested gently against mine.

“I’ve been waiting for you to catch up,” she whispered.

“I think I just did.”

She smiled, her thumb stroking my jaw. “Good. Because I’m not sharing you tonight.”

And for once — for the first time in days — my heart didn’t panic. It fluttered.

—

third person pov

Magui was already in his kitchen when he walked out, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, his hoodie hanging off one shoulder, and she was drinking his almond milk straight from the carton like she owned the place. She did that sometimes. Acted like the apartment was hers. Acted like he was.

"Morning," he mumbled.

"You’re out of coffee pods. Again."

He blinked at her. “Did you break in?”

“Spare key,” she said sweetly, setting the carton down. “And a very compelling reason.”

He raised a brow, stepping around her to pour a glass of water. “Let me guess. This has something to do with YN.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just gave him a look — the kind that meant yes, obviously and don’t play dumb, Norris.

Lando leaned back against the counter, glass in hand. “You kissed her, didn’t you?”

Magui tilted her head. “She kissed me back.”

That made his chest tighten. Not with jealousy — something softer. Something almost excited.

“Is she freaking out?” he asked.

“A little,” Magui admitted, walking toward him. “But not in a bad way. She’s thinking. Feeling. I can see it on her. She’s not confused about what she wants, just scared to admit she wants both.”

Lando smirked. “She’s not the only one who should be scared.”

Magui leaned against the counter beside him, shoulder brushing his. “We’re not dangerous, Lando. We’re just honest. For once.”

He looked down at her. “You think she’d go for it? Us. Together.”

Magui nodded without hesitation. “I think she already is. She just doesn’t know how to name it yet.”

He was quiet for a moment, replaying every second of that night with YN. The way she kissed like she didn’t know how to stop. The way she looked at him like she wanted something more, even if she didn’t dare ask for it. And now… she was looking at Magui the same way.

“We can’t push her,” he said carefully. “She’ll bolt.”

Magui smiled, slow and sharp. “Who said anything about pushing?”

Lando looked at her — her confidence, her calm, her certainty. The way she always made chaos feel like a controlled burn. He exhaled slowly.

“So what’s the plan then?”

She grinned. “We love her. Loudly. Softly. Patiently.”

“And if she runs?”

Magui shrugged. “We follow.”

She picked up her phone, tapping out a message with a knowing glint in her eye. “Let her think she’s in control.”

Lando raised a brow. “You’re scary.”

Magui winked. “You love it.”

Magui was already typing out a text to YN.

Drinks tonight? Our place? Bring your pretty mouth and better excuses this time. x

YN’s name lit up below it, typing. Lando didn’t have to read the reply to know she’d say yes. And this time, they wouldn’t let her slip away.

—

your pov

I wasn’t sure why I said yes. Maybe because I didn’t know how to say no. Maybe because a part of me wanted to test what the hell this even was. Or maybe… because deep down, I wanted it. Them. Both of them. I told myself it was just drinks. A casual hang. Something chill. But nothing about stepping into that apartment felt casual.

Lando opened the door with a smirk that was entirely too smug for someone wearing sweatpants and a tight black tee that should’ve been illegal.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, eyes doing a slow sweep of me like I was already undone. “You came.”

“Yeah, well… free alcohol is hard to turn down.”

He chuckled and stepped aside to let me in. The place smelled like something warm and expensive — wood, vanilla, him. The lights were low, music playing faintly from the speakers. Nothing too loud. Nothing that could distract from the fact that he was the only one here.

I glanced around. “Magui not here yet?”

“She’s… around,” he said cryptically. “She’ll be out soon.”

I frowned, but before I could question it, he handed me a glass. Something chilled. Bubbly. Of course.

He gestured toward the couch. “Sit with me.”

So I did. We sat close — not touching, but too near to pretend the tension wasn’t already thick in the air. His knee brushed mine when he shifted. His gaze kept dropping to my lips every time I sipped from my glass.

“You look good,” he said after a beat.

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything. Just telling the truth.”

I looked away, suddenly very aware of how warm my skin felt.

“You’ve been different lately,” he added, softer now. “Since… that night.”

“You mean the night we shouldn’t talk about?”

He tilted his head. “You regret it?”

I hesitated. Too long.

“I regret not knowing what it meant,” I admitted.

His eyes darkened, but there was something gentle behind it. “What if it didn’t have to mean one thing? What if it could mean something new?”

I swallowed, unsure what to say — and then I heard her voice.

“Stop hogging her, baby.”

I turned. Magui leaned against the hallway doorframe in a short silk robe and nothing underneath if my eyes were telling the truth. Her hair was loose, her makeup soft, but her smile was all bite. My heart skipped. She walked toward us slowly, like she had all the time in the world. Like this was normal. Like I was hers.

She dropped onto the couch on my other side, tucking herself in close so her thigh pressed against mine. Lando was already on the other side of me, his arm draped along the back of the couch. I was boxed in — not by force. By gravity. Magui reached for my hand, traced my knuckles like she had at lunch, and looked at me like she already knew how this ended.

“We want you,” she said simply. “No games. No secrets. No ‘what are we.’ Just truth.”

Lando leaned in closer, lips ghosting the curve of my shoulder. “Only if you want us too.”

The air felt electric. Like I’d been caught in the eye of a storm I didn’t even realize I walked into. Their hands were soft. Their eyes held no pressure — only promise. And for the first time since all of this started, I didn’t feel guilty. I felt wanted. I set my glass down slowly, heart racing.

And whispered, “Then show me.”

I didn’t say anything else. I didn’t need to.

Magui’s lips were on mine before I could take another breath — soft and certain, like she’d been waiting for that moment since the very first time we locked eyes. Her fingers slid up my neck, threading into my hair, pulling me closer like she wanted to taste every part of my hesitation and replace it with her own rhythm.

Lando’s hand brushed my thigh, grounding me. The contrast between them was dizzying — her kiss was honey and heat, while his touch was fire and restraint. He leaned in behind me, his mouth at my ear.

“Tell us if it’s too much,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “We’ll stop whenever you want.”

But I didn’t want to stop. I wanted more. I turned, catching Lando’s mouth with mine, my fingers clutching the front of his shirt. His kiss was hungrier — less patient than Magui’s, like he’d already had me once and had been thinking about it every night since. When Magui’s lips found the edge of my jaw, trailing kisses down to my throat, I let out a quiet sound I couldn’t hold back.

Their hands moved in tandem — hers on my waist, sliding beneath my top, and his slipping under the hem of my skirt, fingertips tracing just enough to make me shiver. I was caught between them, quite literally — all breath and skin and want. Every shift brought a new sensation: Lando’s lips hot on my collarbone, Magui’s nails grazing down my side, the press of their bodies against mine like they were rewriting me together.

“You’re a little excited,” Magui whispered, but she was smiling — not teasing, not cruel. “You feel everything, don’t you?”

I nodded, eyes fluttering shut as her hand slipped beneath my bra, cupping me in a way that made my breath hitch. Lando was behind me now, kissing the curve of my shoulder, sliding the straps of my top down with maddening control.

“Let us take care of you,” he said against my skin. “Let us have you.”

And I let them. They undressed me like they’d done it before — like they’d thought about this, dreamed about it. Every layer peeled away carefully. No rush. No shame. Just reverence. Magui laid me back on the couch, her mouth returning to mine while Lando’s hands parted my thighs, slow and sure. He kissed up the inside, murmuring things I couldn’t quite catch — words that vibrated against my skin and made my stomach clench. And when Magui trailed kisses down my chest, Lando’s mouth replaced her lips on mine, and I felt the rhythm of both of them, their energy folding over me, touching everywhere at once — I gave in.

To the sensation. To the safety. To them.

Hands and mouths, warmth and wetness, soft gasps and low groans — it all blurred together in a haze of pleasure and trust. Every time I cried out, Magui kissed it from my lips. Every time I arched, Lando held me steady. I wasn’t just wanted — I was worshipped. And when they finally brought me over the edge, both of them watching, touching, kissing, whispering my name like it was something holy — I realized this wasn’t about chaos or confusion anymore. It was about belonging. They didn’t just seduce me. They claimed me. Together.

—

I woke up warm. Not just from the sunlight slipping through half-drawn curtains or the lingering heat between my thighs, but from the weight of them — Magui curled against my back, Lando draped over my front, his arm looped around my waist like he wasn’t letting go anytime soon. For a moment, I didn’t move.

I just breathed. Let myself exist in the stillness of it. The calm after the storm. My skin still tingled, my lips were swollen, and my body ached in that delicious, heavy way that only came after being touched exactly how you needed.

Magui stirred behind me first, her nose brushing against the back of my neck.

“Mmm… you’re awake,” she murmured, her voice husky and warm with sleep.

I smiled into the pillow. “Barely.”

Lando made a soft sound of protest from the other side of me and nuzzled closer, his arm tightening around my waist. “Too early,” he mumbled. “Five more years.”

Magui giggled, her hand slipping up to rest gently over my heart. “You’re such a baby.”

“You wore me out,” he shot back, voice still heavy with sleep, but amused.

“You’re welcome,” I muttered, which earned a soft hum of approval from both of them.

We laid there for a while, tangled together in a silence that wasn’t awkward. It was… easy. Like we were exactly where we were supposed to be. It should’ve felt confusing. Maybe even wrong. Instead, it felt like peace.

Eventually, I turned onto my back, both of them shifting with me like we were connected by something invisible. Magui propped her head on her hand, looking down at me with that slow, unreadable smile of hers.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

I nodded, eyes flicking between them. “Yeah. Actually… I think I am.”

Lando stretched, looking far too pleased with himself for someone whose curls were a complete mess. “Told you we’d take care of you.”

“You also told me you wouldn’t fall asleep immediately after,” I teased.

“That’s slander.”

Magui laughed and leaned down, pressing the gentlest kiss to my shoulder. “We’re serious, you know.”

I looked up at her. “About…?”

“You,” she said. “Us.”

Lando’s fingers found mine beneath the sheets. “Only if you want it.”

I swallowed, staring at the ceiling for a moment — then at them. Their eyes, still soft. Their hands, still on me like I was something worth holding onto.

“I don’t know what this is,” I said honestly. “Or what it means yet.”

Magui nodded, unbothered. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Lando pressed a kiss to the back of my hand. “We’re not going anywhere.”

—

yn_ln

liked by magui_corceiro, lando, alexandrasaintmleux and 11,007,007 others.

yn_ln : no comment. just my recent chaos.

tagged : lando and magui_corceiro

—

view 777,213 other comments.

username00 : um are we ignoring the literal kiss with her and magui???

↳ username0 : i feel like they r just close like that. what we really are ignoring is lando making the dump and the last photo...that is clearly A MANS hand.

carlossainz55 : no entiendo nada pero me encanta

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↳ carlossainz55 : also choosing to ignore the fact that you are a barcelona fan 🤮

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↳ yn_ln : visca el barçaaaaaaaaaa baybeeeeeee

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username1 : this post has LORE and I’m here to decode it 🔍

magui_corceiro : your chaos is my favorite kind. 💋

liked by yn_ln

↳ yn_ln : need another kiss rn

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↳ magui_corceiro : on my way babes

↳ lando : ME TOOOOO WAIT FOR ME

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↳ username5 : officially so fucking confused

↳ alex_albon : get on the train. i've been confused for weeks and i know these people.

liked by lando, yn_ln and magui_corceiro

—

Magui and I boarded first, sunglasses on, coffee cups in hand, sliding into the plush cream leather seats like we did every time. She claimed the window seat immediately, like always. I stretched out beside her, barefoot already, and pulled a blanket over both our laps.

Lando arrived five minutes late, hoodie up, sleep in his eyes, and dragging a backpack he hadn’t even bothered to zip. He dropped into the seat across from us with a groan and zero grace.

“This was a mistake,” he muttered, muffled into the seat cushion.

“You begged to come with us,” Magui said, sipping her drink. “Don’t act like a hostage.”

“You’re both insufferable,” he mumbled.

“You’re lucky we let you sit near us,” I added sweetly.

He cracked one eye open and gave me a lazy smile. “You wouldn’t survive five minutes without me.”

“Is that a challenge?” Magui quipped, raising a brow.

Lando rolled his eyes, but didn’t move — just kicked his feet up, stretched his legs across the aisle, and left one hand lazily draped over the armrest… which “just happened” to brush against my leg.

The hum of the engines and soft clink of glassware blended into that peaceful kind of silence only private flights could give you — no strangers, no press, no noise except the occasional comment from Magui when she found something ridiculous on Pinterest.

“You two are freakishly coordinated,” Lando said at one point, glancing at our matching claw clips and identical socks. “It’s like watching a cult.”

“They’re bows,” Magui said without looking up. “And you’re just mad you can’t pull them off.”

“You’re terrifying,” he replied, sipping his orange juice. “Both of you.”

Magui reached across me to tug on his hoodie string. “Jealous you weren’t invited to the slumber party.”

“I was invited,” he said, smirking now. “I’m the emotional support.”

I grinned. “You’re just here for the snacks.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who ate three croissants before takeoff.”

“Self-care,” I said. “Don’t be a hater.”

Magui leaned her head on my shoulder and whispered, “He’s pouting. It’s kind of hot.”

Lando groaned. “I swear, one day I’m gonna walk off this jet mid-air.”

“Do a flip,” I whispered back.

We all fell asleep eventually — the kind of hazy, luxurious nap only a jet could grant you. Magui had her head in my lap, her hand loosely around my wrist. Lando had stretched out across two seats, one leg hanging off, one hand still brushing my ankle like even in his sleep he couldn’t help it. I woke up first. The cabin was warm and quiet, lit only by the afternoon sun pouring through the windows. I reached for my phone and opened my camera roll — scrolled through blurry selfies, Magui’s bare shoulder under hotel sheets, Lando kissing my cheek in a moment I didn’t even remember capturing. One photo stopped me: the three of us tangled on the bed, laughing, undone, us. I saved it to my favorites.

Lando stirred across from me, eyes half-lidded, voice thick with sleep. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said softly. “Just thinking.”

He smiled, slow and sleepy. “Still weird?”

I looked down at Magui’s face, peaceful in sleep, curled into me like she belonged there. My fingers grazed the side of her arm.

“No,” I said. “Not weird at all.”

He nodded like he already knew.

Then he muttered, “Still want snacks though.”

And just like that, we were back to normal — whatever our version of that was now.

—

The room was quiet, warm, filled with the kind of stillness that only happens when you’ve run out of words — not because there’s nothing to say, but because nothing needs to be said. Magui sat at the edge of the bed, brushing out her damp hair in one of Lando’s oversized t-shirts, legs bare, skin glowing from her evening skincare routine. Lando was on the couch by the window, hoodie pulled over his curls, legs stretched out, staring out over the lights of the city below like he was trying to slow the world down before race day hit him full force. I stood somewhere in the middle — between them, between sleep and thought, between this is happening and this is mine.

“You’re pacing,” Magui said softly, not looking up.

“I’m thinking,” I replied.

Lando didn’t move from the window, but I saw his smirk in the reflection. “Same thing, if you’re her.”

I rolled my eyes, finally making my way toward the bed. Magui reached for me instantly, like she was waiting. Her fingers curled around my wrist, pulling me down beside her, one leg draping lazily over mine.

“You’re allowed to just be,” she murmured.

“Hard habit to break.”

Lando joined us a minute later, dropping beside me with a sigh that sounded more like relief than exhaustion. He leaned his head on my shoulder, his hand reaching for Magui’s without a word. She laced her fingers through his, like they’d done it a thousand times. Like this had always been the plan.

“Big day tomorrow,” I said, even though none of us really needed to hear it aloud.

He hummed. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got my good luck charm.”

I raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

He looked up at me. Then at Magui. “Both of them.”

Something soft cracked open in my chest. Magui leaned in first, pressing a gentle kiss to my shoulder. Lando followed, brushing his lips just under my jaw — not rushed, not heated, just there. Warm and steady. Real. The three of us shifted until we were lying back on the bed, limbs overlapping, tangled in sheets and skin and something too new to name but too certain to ignore. Magui’s head rested over my heart. Lando’s arm wrapped around my waist, thumb tracing lazy patterns into my ribs. I stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of them both and the strange lightness they brought with them.

“I still don’t know what this is,” I whispered.

Lando kissed my collarbone. “It’s whatever we want it to be.”

“No rules,” Magui added sleepily, “just honesty.”

“And lots of kisses,” Lando said. “That’s non-negotiable.”

I laughed — a small, genuine sound that only came out when I felt safe.

Magui looked up at me, her lashes fluttering. “You feel safe now?”

I nodded, threading my fingers through her hair. “I think I’ve never felt safer.”

Lando kissed the top of my head. “Then we’re doing something right.”

We fell asleep like that — wrapped up in each other, quiet and full and whole in a way I hadn’t known I was missing until they gave it to me. And for the first time before a race weekend… I didn’t feel like I was waiting for something to fall apart. I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be.

—

f1gossipgirls

4,001,005 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Double Trouble? YN and Magui Corceiro Seen in the Paddock — Together — Supporting Lando Norris. If you thought one blonde beauty in the paddock was enough to raise eyebrows, try two. Spanish Supermodel YN and Portuguese starlet Magui Corceiro were both spotted at the Grand Prix this weekend — and let’s just say, the energy was not subtle. Fans captured photos of the two women chatting and laughing with Lando Norris’ mum, hinting at a comfort level that goes way beyond casual friends or supportive exes.

Even more interesting? Sources say YN was seen sharing a quick kiss with Norris just before he stepped into the garage — while Magui stood nearby, smiling like she was in on the secret. The trio haven’t commented on the growing speculation about their relationship dynamic, but between matching outfits, late-night Instagram stories, and now a cozy chat with Lando’s mother, the rumors practically write themselves. No confirmation yet — but the paddock tension? It’s giving poly-coded. Stay tuned.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

It started with a hand on my back. Light. Barely there. But unmistakably his. Lando didn’t say anything at first. Just stood behind me while I talked to one of the PR girls I’d met a few races ago, his hand grazing my lower back like a casual habit. Like he’d done it a hundred times. Like it didn’t make my entire body burn. Magui was a few feet away, talking animatedly to one of the McLaren engineers like she owned the place — laughing, gesturing, a vision in low-rise jeans and a vintage racing jacket that I swore she stole from Lando’s closet. She caught my eye mid-sentence. Winked. I nearly choked on my water.

People didn’t really question why I was here anymore. I was “friends with the team.” A face they’d gotten used to. But there was something different now. The way I moved between them — between him and her. The way Lando didn’t flinch when his hand slipped around my waist in front of the crew. The way Magui tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear while we waited by the garage, like it was just something she did. It all felt natural. Dangerous. Beautiful.

I stood next to Magui during quali, both of us in sunglasses and team colors, and didn’t miss the subtle glances from the photographers — the way lenses lingered, not quite sure what they were catching. Lando walked past at one point, suit half on, helmet in hand. He slowed just enough to tap my waist and press a kiss to my temple.

“You good?” he murmured.

“Always,” I whispered back.

He smiled, then turned to Magui. “You behaving?”

“Absolutely not,” she said, grinning.

He jogged off and left us both standing there, half-laughing and trying not to look too pleased with ourselves. Later, we found ourselves in hospitality, tucked in a quiet corner. Magui sat with her legs thrown over mine, her fingers brushing patterns into my knee while I scrolled through photos from the day. Lando slid into the booth beside us like he’d been summoned.

“Tired?” he asked, nudging his thigh against mine.

I nodded. “You race. I survive the chaos you cause.”

He smirked. “Same thing.”

Someone across the room was definitely taking pictures. I could feel it. But neither of them seemed to care. And somehow, for once, neither did I. Because this was ours. And whether the world knew or not…I did.

—

It was too hot to be drinking tea, but Lando’s mum had insisted — and honestly, when Cisca offered something, you didn’t say no. We were at the back of the McLaren hospitality unit, tucked away in a little lounge area with floral mugs, little lemon biscuits, and an aggressive air conditioning unit humming above us.

Magui was cross-legged beside me, one arm draped lazily over the back of the cushioned bench, her head tilted to watch Cisca with that familiar, amused fondness she reserved for only a handful of people. I stirred my tea, more for something to do with my hands than anything.

Cisca smiled at us both over the rim of her cup. “You girls travel more than he does. It’s impressive.”

Magui grinned. “We’re emotional support. Jet-lagged, over-caffeinated support.”

Cisca laughed — that kind of low, knowing laugh that made you feel like you were in on something.

“He’s been different,” she said, not looking at either of us directly. “Happier.”

My heart flipped. Magui reached for a biscuit, broke it in half, and offered me the bigger piece without thinking. “He’s got a lot to be happy about.”

Cisca gave us both a look — not suspicious, not surprised. Just observant. The way mothers are. And then, after a quiet beat: “I don’t need to ask questions,” she said, taking another sip. “I’ve been around long enough to know love when I see it.”

I blinked. My fingers tightened around the mug. Magui, as always, recovered first. “Is this the part where you say you’ll kill us if we break his heart?”

Cisca shook her head, smiling. “No, darling. This is the part where I say thank you — for looking after him. And each other.”

Something cracked open in my chest. All the nerves, all the quiet what-ifs I hadn’t even let myself voice, slipped a little further away. Because it wasn’t just approval. It was acceptance. Magui bumped her knee against mine under the table, and I felt her fingers brush mine softly, like she was checking if I was okay. I didn’t say anything. But I smiled — and squeezed back. And maybe for the first time in this whole strange, beautiful mess of a relationship… I let myself believe it was real.

—

lando

liked by yn_ln, magui_corceiro, carlossainz55 and 15,001,004 others.

lando : B-O-A-F. BOAF? BOAF.

love my girls

tagged : yn_ln and magui_corceiro

—

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username00 : we need a lando masterclass bc how did he pull them both????

↳ lando : my big d-

↳ yn_ln : what can i say? he is a charmer.

liked by lando and magui_corceiro

carlossainz55 : this is quite literally the most lando way to hard launch.

liked by lando, yn_ln and magui_corceiro

danielricciardo : i leave and suddenly you know how to talk to girls.

liked by lando, yn_ln and magui_corceiro

↳ lando : i know how to do more than talk

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↳ yn_ln : lando.

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↳ lando : sorry mom- mommy.

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oscarpiastri : the math still is not mathing on how you got even one of them let alone the both of them but i am...happy for you. slightly impressed even.

liked by lando, yn_ln and magui_corceiro

—

[keferon]

Eh okay so. My brain is absolutely cooked so you will probably just have to ignore the linguistic fuckups

Jazz and Prowl learning to communicate because language barrier is a thing >:D

Previous part

Jazz sometimes thinks that somewhere along his career path he lost the bar separating normal from...well...everything else.

After all he's seen, heard about, and done, he's not sure exactly how to measure what's weird and what's normal. He has..the general idea.

His own. And it's so convoluted and fucked up that he'd rather jump into a volcano than try to explain it to anyone else. Jazz thinks the little colorful aliens around him are weird as hell. He thinks they sound weird, he thinks they look weird, and he thinks he must be going crazy.

And then this big black and white robot catches his eye and Jazz's first thought is not "what the fuck??"

His first thought is

"Thank God! Someone's normal!"

Whoever this guy is, he sounds like he knows what he's doing. And most importantly, he looks just like Jazz. Well, not exactly. But close enough. After all, Jazz knows that his organization wasn't the only mech maker on the entire planet. Other countries were making Mechs too, and Jazz hadn't seen even half of them.

But he can recognize a giant robot when he sees one, okay?

The thought that another mech could be an alien doesn't even enter his mind.

So used to the constant presence of huge piloted robots around him, he looks at this one and clings to its appearance as something familiar and easily explainable. His brain says, we know how this works. There's a robot and inside the robot there's another person. It's the way it's always been. The sky is blue, the grass is green and the robots are human-piloted. It's that simple.

The guy takes him to the far corner of the room and says something. Jazz…doesn't understand..

The mech's face contorts in a surprisingly believable display of concentration. How...who built this robot? How could they make it frown?

He hears something else being said to him but again can't understand a word. Why won't this pilot get out of the mech to talk to him? Jazz doesn't have his communication frequency but surely they could at least shake hands. There must be some reason. Maybe something wrong with the air? Is it dangerous to be outside? This guy should know better, he's been here longer than Jazz, it seems.

(Damn it, whose idea was it to make a mech with a face, it's so distracting)

He rushes to activate the external speakers, because he and this guy obviously speak different languages, but it never hurts to try, right?

"So uh, I don't think you can understand English?"

Mech frowns again, trying to pick up on something familiar in a language that's apparently new to him. But finds nothing. Jazz lowers his horns sadly.

Oh well. Fuck. As if being stuck in an unknown place with unknown creatures wasn't enough, he can't even talk to anyone! How is he supposed to get out of here? Which way should he even go?

The mech waves his hand to get his attention and then pulls out a tablet and a stylus from..where ?

Jazz somehow manages to overlook the fact that the tablet is made to fit the mech's size. His head is still feels a bit…off..after that portal thingie.

"Charades it is then."

____________________

An hour and a half later, Jazz finds himself staring intensely at the screen in front of him with a surprisingly neatly drawn chart on it.

"So uh. Motion."

The other guy nods and starts drawing a walking mech. Then something that looks like a very unusual car. Then a submarine. Jazz gets a little lost looking at how skillful he is with the stylus.

Honestly, he's a good artist!

The guy points to the sketch of a walking mech and says

" Motion."

Then points to the drawing of a car driving and the columns of the chart.

"Motion-rotation" he points to the car again.

That must mean "driving" huh? Jazz nods understandingly.

Mech moves his finger to the submarine.

"Motion-Water."

Ah, it must mean swimming. Jazz nods once more, feeling like a wind-up dummy repeating the same motion a dozen times.

The mech makes a quiet humming noise and then points to the chart

"Motion. Sky."

And then gives Jazz the stylus?

Uh, what is he... Oh, he wants Jazz to figure out what it means.

"Motion" and "sky," right?

Jazz takes the stylus? Pencil? Thingie.. and very carefully draws out a crooked scribble of something only remotely resembling an airplane. The mech arches an eyebrow and looks like he wants to laugh.

Jazz shrugs awkwardly and tries to add windows to the airplane, but ends up making it look more like a severely fucked up caterpillar.

Mech snorts.

Jazz kicks him in the leg.

The airplane begs for a merciful death.

Jazz didn't really expect to get into a language class but he has to admit that whatever language he's learning now is a surprisingly easy one. It only took the other dude half an hour to show him the basic concept and from there it became a game of associations.

There were simple definitions. Like size, quantity, speed, emotion and so on.

There were signs that automatically turned the whole sentence into a question or a statement.

There were modifiers that Jazz defined in his head as positive and negative.

Positive speed - fast.

Positive size - large.

Positive direction - forward.

Positive time - future.

There were also basic words for senses, emotions and whatnot, also with modifiers.

Mouth-positive - to speak

Brain-positive - to think, but negative-brain-do-positive - to learn.

Huh.

And it's so neatly organized that Jazz wondered if this language was designed specifically to be easy to learn.

Let's see....

Mouth - positive, effort - negative.

"Easy to speak."

The guy nods contentedly and starts talking back, while pointing to the appropriate columns of the chart to make it easier for Jazz to understand.

"Creation-positive. Purpose. Person-negative-knowledge. memory-positive-effort-negative."

Jazz frowns, concentrating on his finger.

Oh. Created. For those who don't know it. Easy to learn.

He was right. The whole thing is waaaay too awkward to write poetry but learning it is a delight.

Jazz leans over the chart.

All right, well, let's see.

“Name. You. Question?”

The other guy smiles and pokes at the chart

"Me.Motion-sound-negative.Negative-eyes-positive-someone."

Walk quietly. searching?… Sneaking?

Oh, it's not "to sneak" it's "to prowl"

"Prowl" nods affirmatively. Jazz smiles at him and looks at the chart again. Okay. How to say “music”?..

“word-knowledge-negative.”

He stops to make a gesture with his hands, as if playing an invisible piano while humming a tune.

Prowl nods

“Sound-positive-positive-hearing.”

Jazz chuckles

“A whole two positives eh? Okay then. Uh. You don't look like you listen to jazz....so..”

“Me. Name. Sound-positive-positive-listening.”

Prowl raises his eyebrows. (Jazz is jealous, he wishes he had eyebrows too.)

“You're a musician?"

Jazz quickly shakes his head while simultaneously muting the outside speakers to a barely audible level and turning on one of the songs on his playlist.

Prowl twitches in surprise when he hears the melody.

Jazz waits for the intro to finish playing and then points to himself

“Creation-negative..uh..Sound-positive-positive-hearing. Jazz. This...”

He pats himself lightly on the chest.

"..is me. Jazz."

Prowl straightens up slightly

“Oh, you're not a musician, you're the music.”

Jazz nods cheerfully

“Yes yes!”

“Jaaz?”

“No no. Jazz.”

“Ah. Jazz?”

“That's right.”

Prowl draws a portal on the screen.

“You teleported here. What happened?”

Jazz hangs back, trying to construct an answer in his head. Good thing Prowl seems to have infinite patience

“So, I uh. What was 'fight'? Movement-pain-positive? I fought these things...”

He takes the tablet from Prowl and draws a crooked blot with a bunch of tentacles on it. Then thinks for a bit and adds big teeth and a lot of eyes. He's not really sure how to draw those eyes properly, so he just scatters them randomly around the monster area.

Prowl doesn't seem to be that amused by Jazz's drawings anymore, in fact, he suddenly becomes very somber.

“Quintessons.”

He pokes at the monster

“Name-Quintessons. Number-question.”

How many?

Jazz scratches the back of his head

“So uh...a lot?....number-positive-positive-positive-positive-positi...you get the idea.”

To be convincing, he dramatically spreads his arms out to the sides depicting something very large.

Prowl looks alarmed.

And unconvinced.

“How did you survive?”

Jazz laughs pretentiously

“Ask them how they survived.”

Prowl makes the “you can't be serious” face. Jazz isn't quite sure what exactly is confusing him. Mechs are designed to kill Quintessons, aren't they? Judging by his movements, this pilot must be damn good at controlling his mech, and that kind of guys usually fight on the front lines.

He decides to put that thought aside for later. There are more important things right now, like...oh shit, where is he even going??

Jazz leans over the chart again

“Uh. Right. Question-we-move-up-place” Man, how to specify... “Knowledge-negative?”

Prowl, linguistic gods bless him, understands him and starts gesturing over the chart in response

Okay. Ah. I-move-up. Planet-creation-positive.

'I'm heading home' or 'my home planet'.”

Jazz instantly perks up.

“Oh that's great, I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to go there too.”

Prowl is speaking in a language he's unfamiliar with, so he's definitely from another country, but hey, who cares as long as it's on Earth, right? He just needs to get there and he'll find his own way from there.

He watches the space debris flicker by outside the window. Even the stars are unfamiliar, Jazz can't find any constellations he knows.

One of the little purple creatures says something and Prowl steps aside to chat with them. Jazz leans back and settles into a more or less stable position. Then does the same thing, but with his real, human body. Hell, his head still feels really fucking weird after that teleportation.

He opens the comm channel and just listens to the static for a couple minutes in the faint hope that the engineering department will find a way to contact him.

Nothing.

He sighs.

“1061 on the com. In case there's any way you can hear me...ah shit. You guys won't believe what happened...”

___________

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