JukeBoxBaby

[imhandicapableofmath]

╰┈➤ call me: chapter i (❝ you know how i feel ❞)

❝ your big mouth gets you into trouble once more, when one poorly timed comment turns you into tabloid fodder and catches the attention of the king of pop. ❞

⁀➴ ꒰ contents page ꒱

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ michael jackson x singer! reader

summary 𖹭 you can openly flirt with michael jackson in front of millions of people. actually talking to him? privately? is a completely different matter.

content 𖹭 bad! michael jackson, singer! reader, fem! reader, swearing, fluff, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst, friends to lovers, mutual pining, oh no miscommunication, eventual smut... (maybe, no promises) (IF I GROW BALLS BY THE END OF THE LAST CHAPTER SURE) 3.6k words

author's note 𖹭 im actually really excited about starting this longer more serialized fic! the plot popped into my head during one of my exams and uhhhh needless to say i probably failed that one ngl. oh well worth it, i'm happy with the outline of the structure of this one, hopefully you guys enjoy! man i really need to get some of these on ao3

summer of 1987 — several thousand miles, and one very impulsive gesture, apart.

⤹ i. the streets of new york — new york city, usa

the afternoon was flawless, serendipitously so. the heat was ideal — arid enough to avoid the uncomfortable sweatiness that came with humidity, yet gentle enough that it didn't leave your skin dry and flaking. the city hummed at exactly the right frequency to shut off your brain. your friends were being obnoxiously loud on either side of you — repeatedly bumping into your shoulders as they got progressively more impassioned with whatever they were arguing over — while the heels of your boots click clacked!  across the broken new york pavements.

for the first time in weeks, you felt like a real person rather than just a name on a marquee.

the last few hours had been spent doing nothing of any real consequence: coffee, window shopping, treating your girls to whatever happened to catch their eye. somewhere in the middle of it all, a spirited debate had broken out over whether the diner around the corner had actually gotten worse, or if you'd all simply developed more discerning tastes as you'd gotten older. it was the kind of afternoon you would think back on when life got too loud again.

a constant smile plagued your lips as you revelled in the sun's kisses.

you were laughing at something — you’d forgotten what — when the first flashbulb sparked to life across the street like a bomb going off.

and just like that, you felt your mood sour.

right. the paparazzi.

you'd been naive to think you could make it back to the car without them. you always were. some stubborn optimistic part of you still believed, every single time, that today would be different — that you could just be a girl with a coffee cup and not a cover story waiting to happen.

they crossed toward you fast, cameras raised, questions flying before they'd even reached the curb.

"are the album rumors true?"

"are you touring next year?"

"who are you wearing?"

your friends — bless them — closed ranks instinctively around you, forming a tight barricade between your body and the ever-growing crowd. you lowered your sunglasses just enough for them to catch your eyes and the utter annoyance written across them. a small sigh slipped from your lips, followed by a muttered apology to your girls, which they waved off with a, "don't worry! i've been enjoying pissing these guys off."

you could've kissed them.

it was then that one voice managed to cut through the noise. maybe it was because they were louder than the others, or maybe it was simply the nature of the question itself, but somehow you heard it perfectly.

“how do you feel about michael jackson?”

in that instant — you stopped walking. your friends barrelled straight into your back, nearly falling over each other into one giant meat pile. they stared at you in confusion, before bracing into a familiar realisation of dread.

the thing was, you did have thoughts about michael jackson. you had a lot of thoughts about michael jackson, actually — thoughts you'd managed to keep more or less to yourself through roughly three years of being a public figure, which had been a not-insignificant personal achievement.

you’d suddenly become aware that all three of them had turned to look at you; their expressions reflective of people who had known you long enough to understand that whatever came out of your mouth in the next five seconds was about to become their problem too.

"ah, shit," one of them said beside your ear.

"for fuck's sake," another breathed — hissing your name through their teeth — amused but nonetheless exasperated, “don't do it. you'll regret it."

the corner of your mouth twitched upward.

you bit the edge of your manicured finger — not for show, just because it was what you did when you were trying not to smile too wide — and gazed at the nearest camera over the frame of your sunglasses. 

"oh," you said, already stepping backwards towards the car with all the confidence of someone who definitely hadn't thought this through:

"i think you know how i feel about michael jackson."

and just like that the once-quiet street corner erupted. camera flashes blazed everywhere. simple questions turned into shouts that were hurled through the crisp summer air. behind you, your friends made a variety of noises ranging from hysterical laughter to a soft, resigned despair. you laughed too, helplessly, ducking your head as you reached the car door — and then, drunk on the spontaneity of the moment, you turned back one last time.

you found the nearest lens. pointed directly at it. then, dumb and deliberate, you lifted your hand to your cheek — pinky and thumb extended in a tiny telephone gesture — and mouthed, with perfect clarity, the two words you would soon continue to regret for the next seventy-two hours:

“call me.”

⤹ ii. the imperial hotel — tokyo, japan

michael jackson was not paying attention to his manager.

this was not, in itself, unusual. frank had been managing michael long enough to know that his attention operated according to its own internal logic, orbiting whatever had caught it most recently with a concentration most people reserved for things like surgery or defusing explosives. generally, you just had to wait it out. stay in his eyeline. keep talking. eventually, whatever had him occupied would let go, and he'd surface again — slightly apologetic, entirely present — and you could pick up where you'd left off.

though tonight, frank was beginning to suspect they were entering whole new territory.

it had started innocuously. they'd been going over the next leg of the tour — tokyo, osaka, yokohama — working through the precise logistical minutiae that kept operations of this size from collapsing into complete chaos: interview schedules, press appearances. the yokohama venue had changed its staging dimensions, which meant choreography adjustments, which meant a conversation with the team that neither of them particularly wanted to have. security wanted to reroute the airport transfer after the crowd incident in rotterdam. there were wardrobe decisions for osaka that couldn't be put off much longer.

standard. manageable. things michael was normally at least nominally engaged with.

except that somewhere in the middle of frank's briefing, michael had reached sideways and picked up that morning's newspaper from the coffee table — the hotel staff had left it by the door a few hours earlier — and had gone somewhere else.

frank had noticed but he'd assumed it was, as always, a momentary distraction. a photograph had caught his eye. he'd put it down in a minute.

but soon a minute passed; he did not put it down.

despite this, frank kept talking: tokyo. six o'clock rehearsal. two press junkets before noon. the security note about the airport.

“mhm,” michael said.

frank paused, put the planning folder down, and leaned over michael's shoulder at the newspaper — mostly to understand what he was currently losing to.

a singer.

he had heard of her. honestly, at this point, most of the industry had.

young, critically respected, she'd somehow managed to become attached to words like prodigy and generational within months of entering the public eye. she had arrived seemingly out of nowhere, released a number one single, collected enough glowing reviews to make veteran critics sound like infatuated fangirls, and then done something that was — from a publicity standpoint — completely unheard of:  become even more elusive after the success.

rare tours. rare interviews. a mystique that you couldn't quite manufacture, that came from someone who genuinely seemed to have no interest in being known.

she was a pretty girl. michael was hardly immune to the draw of a pretty girl. he just usually remembered when there was a conversation happening around them.

frank reached over and tilted the magazine to read the headline properly.

"CALL ME" — POP'S NEWEST SENSATION SENDS MESSAGE TO MICHAEL JACKSON

that made frank straighten up.

michael, having noticed the shift in the room's energy, looked up from the newspaper for the first time in several minutes. he wore the joyous astonishment of a child who had just discovered a secret.

"look — " he started.

"i can see it," frank said.

michael went back to reading.

the article had photographs, as most of them do. frank could only imagine the sheer frenzy on that street when they were taken. the sequence was stretched across a full spread: her laughing with her hand raised; that finger-to-mouth expression the caption described as coy, which — frank decided — was underselling it; the backwards walk toward the car; and then the final shot.

her, pointed directly at the lens. that unmistakable little telephone gesture. wearing the grin of someone who had just pleased herself tremendously.

he watched michael linger on that last photograph for a long moment. he'd known, in a vague way, that michael had been following her career. it was hard to miss: the magazine clippings that appeared backstage, the way he'd pause in hallways when her songs came on the radio, the absurdly too casual mention of her name once or twice in conversation. frank had filed it away under professional admiration. michael admired a great many artists, and it rarely amounted to anything. 

in hindsight, the signs had been embarrassingly obvious.

"the catering people still need your menu choices." frank tried again.

"uhuh."

"there’s a signing event for thursday."

"mhm."

"i promised the press you'd wrestle a bear."

"yep, sounds good."

frank closed his eyes, a dim frustration slowly creeping into his soul. he moved to cover his face with both hands, pressing the heels of his palms against his forehead — physically trying to stop the headache before it arrived.

michael turned a page. then he started reading the thing aloud. frank couldn't help but laugh at that. "'sources close to the singer claim she has quietly admired jackson since his jackson 5 days. '"

he turned towards him immediately, smile bright. "she likes me."

"yes, michael," frank said, the last of his resistance gradually ebbing away. "it would appear so." 

michael went back to reading. "'the songwriter has reportedly attended multiple jackson fan events over the years under aliases — '"

he jolted up in his seat.

"she went to fan club meetings..."

"michael — "

"she went to fan club meetings." he repeated, sounding genuinely and helplessly delighted by the discovery. as if it was the best thing anyone had told him in some time.

frank pursed his lips together, an attempt to hold onto the last threads of his dwindling sanity. then, because this was his job and he was a professional, he picked up his previously abandoned folder in a final act of war.

"you have choreography revisions tomorrow. the staging for — "

"'friends describe the singer as having an encyclopaedic knowledge of jackson's back catalogue, extending well beyond his commercial singles — '"

michael pointed at the page.

"she. knows. the. b-sides." every word was punctuated with an almost comical emphasis.

conversation left the room soon after, frank finally relinquished the ever-losing battle for michael's attention and let him continue reading the newspaper. it left for barely a minute, though it felt much longer, the only sounds filling the expansive suite were the steady ticking of the overly grandiose grandfather clock in the corner and frank rapping his fingers against the leather sofa. waiting for the moment michael returned to the world around him for air.

then, very softly: "she thinks i'm attractive."

the folder was set aside, never to be picked up again that evening. frank looked at michael — who was still looking at the photograph of the girl — and found something in his face that he hadn't seen there in a long while, boyishly hopeful.

he sighed. it came from somewhere deep, that sigh. tired and fond and already resigned to the amount of work this was about to create for him.

michael finally set the paper down. and turned to face him properly.

and then he did that thing. frank privately thought of it as the please routine — somehow both the most earnest and the most unfair weapon in michael jackson's repertoire.

"no," he said, out of principle.

michael blinked. "you didn’t even know what i was going to ask."

"you want her number."

his eyes drifted back to the photograph for just a second before returning to frank, carrying such transparent, optimistic guilt that frank genuinely wondered — not for the first time — how a man this famous had managed to stay this uncynical.

"…maybe."

frank couldn't even remember making the decision. one moment he was sitting there, determined to be sensible, and the next he was crossing the suite toward the desk, reaching for the telephone, and trying to track down the manager of a young singer who had made one very impulsive gesture on a new york street corner and was very certainly not expecting anyone to actually take her up on it.

⤹ iii. columbia records — new york city, usa

here was the thing about that paparazzi moment, in your defense: it had felt very different in the moment.

in the car, immediately afterwards, it had felt funny. a bit reckless, maybe, the way some things sometimes are when the afternoon was warm and your friends were there and the question caught you off guard and your mouth had simply — moved. faster than your brain. not the first time that’s happened, though usually the consequences were considerably more manageable than this.

you could still remember your friends playfully shoving your shoulders, telling you what a complete idiot you are. and, like the complete idiot you are, you'd simply giggled before taking another idle sip of your scalding hot caramel latte.

by that evening, when the first photograph had started circulating, it had felt approximately thirty percent less funny.

by the morning, when you'd seen the headline, it had dropped to around seventy percent less funny, helped along by the barrage of phone calls consisting mostly of "i told you so"s.

but then three days had passed, and the news cycle had moved on to something else, and you'd started breathing normally again. it had been a moment. a funny moment. it would become a story you told at dinner parties. remember that time i told michael jackson to call me in the papers? and that would be that.

you had, in this way, convinced yourself.

the columbia records conference room was the type of place that made you feel both pretentiously important and sleepy. floor-to-ceiling windows. expensive abstract paintings that you could guarantee nobody had ever actually looked at. a long table covered in the comfortable detritus of a working meeting: your demo tapes, legal pads, someone's abandoned coffee from an hour ago that nobody had bothered to remove, a fruit plate that had been picked over to the point of mostly just grapes.

the label's a&r team was in the middle of a fairly fervent conversation about the rollout strategy for your next album, which you were half-following while also doodling something shapeless in the margins of your notebook. it was either a landscape or a large dog. you hadn't decided.

sandra was on the other side of the table, flipping through papers with her phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear. she'd stepped into the call a minute ago without breaking stride, continuing to sort contracts and scribble notes as though multitasking at this level was simply her natural state.

you were starting to tune her out, too…

until a moment later, when sandra said, "...i'm sorry??" in a timbre that made you look up.

the room kept talking around you. you watched her face do something strange — the paperwork abruptly forgotten, her pen set down, her focus now fully redirected to the phone.

you mouthed noiselessly at her: what?

a shushing gesture was instantly sent your way. another pause.

she glanced across the table at you, and you knew, from twenty-two years of being alive and three years of working very closely with sandra, that whatever she was about to say had absolutely nothing to do with the album.

she pressed the receiver against her blazer, muffling the conversation. "the consequences of your own actions," she said discreetly, "are currently on the phone." 

your eyebrows drew together. "what does that even mean?"

around the table, the conversation had begun to trail off. people were listening now without looking like they were listening, a skill everyone in this industry had finely honed.

"this is the manager," sandra said. she stopped. you shrugged at her, still puzzled.

"...of michael jackson."

you felt the world freeze at that. the pigeons outside the window hung in the air. somebody halfway through reaching for a grape seemed to stay there indefinitely. even the old man currently suspended washing the windows seemed to pause halfway down the glass.

"he would like," sandra continued, watching the realisation crash through you in real time, "your phone number."

silence.

a total, comprehensive silence.

not from the room — the room still very much existed. people were still breathing. somebody's chair made a small noise as they shifted their weight. somewhere, a page turned. but from you, specifically.

 a silence that spread from the centre of your chest outward until it reached the tips of your fingers and your mouth, which had fallen open just enough to let flies in.

"what," you said. not actually a question. more like a stall for time.

several executives at the table were no longer pretending. one of them — david, from marketing, a man you'd always liked for his complete lack of subtlety — had set his pen down, eyebrows somewhere near his hairline (which was receding), watching you with an undisguised interest.

sandra released the phone from the confines of her blazer. on the other end of the line — and you were now acutely, horribly aware of the other end of the line — you could just about make out the voice of a man who sounded, even from where you were, profoundly unenthusiastic about the task he'd been assigned.

you almost felt sorry for him. almost.

you were slightly busy having your own internal, private crisis.

what you hadn't accounted for — what the warmth of the afternoon and your friends' laughter and the sheer improbable silliness of the moment had completely obscured — was that you were not actually like this.

the person on that street corner who bit her finger and said smooth things at cameras and made ditzy little telephone gestures at international superstars was a version of you that only really existed outdoors, in sunlight, when the adrenaline was high and the stakes seemed abstract.

the version of you sitting in this conference room right now was the one who got shy at parties. who rehearsed phone calls before making them. who had, on more than one occasion, refused to introduce herself to someone she admired because the embarrassment of a bad interaction seemed considerably more permanent than regret.

and that version of you had just been volunteered, by the other version of you, for a phone call with michael jackson.

"oh my god," you whinged in total incredulity.

"what do i tell them?" sandra hissed, shielding the receiver.

"why would he actually — " you started.

"you told him to."

"that was — " you stopped, both palms flying up, facing outward beside your head in immediate self-defence. "that was a joke."

"clearly,” she raised a brow at you, “he did not interpret it as one."

you dropped your head into your hands. the conference table was very solid and real under your elbows.

"what do i say?" sandra said again, urgent now, because the man on the other side was still waiting and his patience had clearly been thin to begin with.

a long moment.

you uncovered your face, only to find yourself clutching your cheeks, which were smoldering beneath your skin.

for a brief, deeply humiliating moment, you thought about being fifteen years old and spending all your allowance on bootleg concert tapes. about making your friends sit through lengthy arguments over why off the wall was the better album, regardless of thriller's overall commercial success. about hearing one of his songs on the radio and driving an extra three blocks just to hear the ending. 

you thought about that girl on the street corner — the one who had somehow managed to outrun your common sense.

you took a slow breath, smoothed your expression into something resembling composure, fixed your posture, and said, with as much dignity as you could salvage from the wreckage,

"...yeah. give him the number."

sandra stared at you for exactly one second, still somewhat unimpressed with your behaviour. then she turned back to the phone.

the room gradually resumed its normal rhythm, the a&r team once again descending into their argument, though a few suspiciously ill-timed coughs were now sprinkled throughout the discussion. in the corner of the office, the old man outside the window had resumed wiping the glass, blissfully unaware of the happenings going on inside.

you gathered your useless paper doodles into a neat pile, making a vague attempt at resembling someone who was doing something important and had her life under control.

it was, by any measure, an unconvincing performance. you pressed your fingers to your mouth.

"…oh my god."

across the room, sandra was already reading the number out, her voice perfectly steady, giving nothing away. she was a consummate professional and you were extraordinarily lucky to have her.

the man on the other end said something clipped and final.

the call ended.

sandra set the phone down and met your eyes across the table. "the album rollout," she said, picking her pen back up, "is still our most pressing concern."

"right," you said. "absolutely."

the meeting resumed.

you did not hear a single word of it.

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© imhandicapableofmath. 2026 ✦ please do not steal my work/use it to train ai ✦ reblogs are appreciated! ✦ with love, doobi <3

[idcwhattheuseris]

Okay this is everything !

[thedailymichael]

˗ˏˋ PAST EXPOSURE ˎˊ˗

synopsis. In the fresh modern age of 2026, the last thing you'd expect was to get thrown in a Back to the Future plot. You and your totally basic life go haywire during a moment of curiosity when you decide to test out a stubborn retro camera with mixed up dates. What happens when it wasn't just any old camera? What if it had taken you back to the 20th century? And what will you do when you find the chance to change his fate?

starring. multiple eras!michael jackson x time traveller!reader

content warnings. death, sexual content later in the story, tobacco, alcohol, mental and physical abuse, michael's childhood, and many more content labels yet to come! muahaha

MASTERLIST

(total episode count has not been determined yet)

—prologue | Say cheese!

—episode 2 | This is far out!

—episode 3 | Oh, dear child...

—episode 4 | Funky 21st century girl!

—episode 5 | ...

—episode 6 | ...

—episode 7 | ...

—episode 8 | ...

—episode 9 | ...

—episode 10 | ...

—episode 11 | ...

—episode 12 | ...

—episode 13 | ...

—episode 14 | ...

—episode 15 | ...

—episode 16 | ...

—episode 17 | ...

(Further episodes will be decided later on.)

If you would like to be tagged for this series or for my general taglist, please let me know!

©thedailymichael 2026. All works posted under my name belong to me. Please do not copy, claim, republish, or translate my work anywhere else.

[mrsm104]

Y/N’s interview after baby Prince - a love of a lifetime series.

Summary: Y/N gives an interview at Neverland after having baby Prince.

Authors note: As voted by the people! enjoy some baby bliss.

~~~~~~~~~

Neverland, 1997

The magazine interview was supposed to be simple.

A soft feature.

Photos at Neverland, a few questions about motherhood and maybe a mention of balancing life after Prince’s birth.

Instead it accidentally became one of the most talked-about celebrity interviews of the late nineties.

Because Y/N Jackson refused to sound apologetic about loving her family.

~~~~~~~~~<~

The reporter arrived midmorning.

Sunlight poured through the ranch house windows while staff quietly prepared coffee in the distance.

And there, curled barefoot on a cream sofa with Prince asleep against her chest, sat Y/N.

No dramatic styling.

No heavy glamour.

Just soft curls, minimal makeup and a tiredness around the eyes that somehow made her even more beautiful.

The photographer lowered his camera after the first few shots and quietly muttered

“Oh… wow.”

Because the atmosphere between Y/N and the baby felt intimate in a way that couldn’t be staged.

Protective.
Warm.
Safe.

And when Michael Jackson wandered sleepily through the room halfway through the shoot wearing black silk pajama pants and holding a glass of orange juice, the entire crew nearly lost their minds.

Michael blinked at the strangers.

“…Why are there so many people in my house?”

The room burst into laughter.

Y/N grinned. “Go back upstairs.”

Michael ignored her completely and walked straight over to Prince first.

Always Prince first.

His entire face softened instantly seeing the baby sleeping against Y/N’s chest.

“Ohhh” he whispered automatically. “Look at him…”

The photographer captured it before Michael noticed, the gentle hand brushing Prince’s cheek, the sleepy tenderness in his eyes, the instinctive kiss pressed to Y/N’s temple afterward.

Domestic.

Real.

The kind of moment fans rarely saw.

“Morning honey” Y/N smiled softly.

Michael leaned down beside her. “You okay, girl?”

“Mhm.”

“You eat?”

The reporter’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

Because Michael sounded genuinely concerned.
Not performative.

Y/N smiled knowingly. “Yes, husband.”

“I’m serious.”

“You asked me twenty minutes ago.”

“I forgot.”

The crew laughed again while Michael frowned thoughtfully down at the baby.

“I think he has my ears.”

“He’s four months old.”

“He definitely has my ears.”

~~~~~~~

The interview itself started gently enough.

Questions about motherhood.

About marriage.

About whether fame changed after becoming parents.

And Y/N answered honestly.

“I think becoming a mother rearranges your entire heart” she admitted quietly while adjusting Prince’s blanket. “Everything important shifts.”

The reporter smiled warmly. “Do you love this chapter of life?”

Y/N looked down at her son immediately.

Then toward the doorway where Michael lingered pretending not to eavesdrop.

Her entire expression softened.

“More than anything.”

Michael looked away instantly, emotional already.

The reporter continued carefully,
“There’s been speculation that you’re stepping away from your career to focus on being a wife and mother. Is that true?”

Michael stilled in the doorway.

Not visibly to others.

But Y/N noticed.

Because they’d argued about this quietly three nights earlier.

Michael worried constantly about taking things from her.

Time.
Freedom.
Privacy.
Her career.

He’d grown up watching fame consume people whole and the idea that Y/N might sacrifice pieces of herself for him genuinely haunted him.

She adjusted Prince carefully on her chest before answering.

“I don’t think women should have to speak about motherhood like it’s the death of their ambition.”

The reporter blinked slightly.

“I can do both” Y/N continued calmly. “I can be an artist and a mother. A wife and an individual.”

Michael’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

But Y/N wasn’t finished.

“However…”

The room quieted.

And Michael looked at her again.

“My greatest gift in this life isn’t fame.” Her voice softened. “It’s my family.”

Michael’s breath caught instantly.

Y/N smiled faintly.

“I love my work. I always will. But nothing on earth has ever mattered to me the way loving my husband and having our baby does.”

Silence filled the room.

Not awkward.

Emotional.

Because she sounded utterly certain.

No resentment.
No regret.

Just love.

“And nobody’s taking that away from me” she finished quietly.

In the doorway, Michael lowered his head suddenly.

Overwhelmed.

The reporter noticed immediately.

“You seem emotional hearing that.”

Michael laughed softly to himself before answering.

“I just…” He rubbed at his face quickly. “I don’t know what I did right for God to give me her.”

The photographer physically stopped shooting for a second.

Because nobody could fake that kind of love.

~~~~~~~~~~

The article exploded internationally.

Headlines everywhere:
Y/N JACKSON “MY FAMILY IS MY GREATEST GIFT”
THE PRIVATE LIFE OF POP ROYALTY
MICHAEL AND Y/N’S LOVE STORY CONTINUES

Fans lost their minds over the domestic details.
Michael carrying bottles around Neverland.
Late-night lullabies.
The revelation he checked if Y/N had eaten multiple times a day.

But one quote became infamous, “Nothing is taking my family away from me.”
It was quoted in magazines for years afterward.

And privately?

Michael cried reading it alone in their bedroom.

Because underneath all the glamour and fame and noise, Y/N had chosen him.

Openly.

Again.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Months later, the HIStory World Tour began.

And Michael hated leaving home.

Hated it.

No matter how spectacular the crowds were, touring had changed after becoming a husband and father.

The loneliness hit differently now.

Every hotel room without Y/N felt wrong.
Every city without Prince felt too quiet.

Which was exactly why they traveled with him whenever possible.

And tonight in Munich, the stadium already shook with nearly seventy thousand screaming fans before the show had even started.

Backstage was chaos.

Dancers rushing through cues.
Wardrobe assistants moving frantically.
Security struggling to control backstage entrances.

And hidden beneath a soft blanket in Y/N’s arms was Prince.

Tiny noise canceling headphones over his little ears while he blinked sleepily beneath the fluorescent lights.

Fans near the backstage corridors started screaming the second they noticed her.

“Oh my GOD THAT’S Y/N”

“IS THAT THE BABY?!”

People genuinely began crying.

Because Michael had guarded Prince so fiercely from the public that glimpses of their little family felt impossibly rare.

Y/N laughed softly, waving while adjusting the blanket carefully while hurrying toward the changing rooms.

One group of fans caught sight of tiny curls beneath the blanket and absolutely lost their minds.

“THAT’S HIS BABY!”

“I’M GONNA PASS OUT”

Security could barely contain the hysteria.

Inside the dressing room, Michael paced in full gold-and-black stage gear while vocal coaches hovered nearby.

He looked anxious already.

Touring exhausted him now in ways it never had before.

But the second Y/N entered carrying Prince?

Everything changed.

Michael’s face lit up so instantly it hurt to witness.

“There’s my babies” Y/N smiled softly.

Michael crossed the room immediately.

No hesitation.

No concern for makeup or costumes.

Just straight to them.

“Ohhh hi applehead” he whispered taking Prince carefully into his arms.

The transformation in him was immediate.

Shoulders relaxing.
Breathing evening out.
That softness returning to his eyes.

Prince grabbed clumsily at the glittering buckles on Michael’s costume.

Michael laughed quietly. “You like this, huh?”

Y/N watched them with exhausted fondness.

God.

She loved him like this.

Not performing.
Not superstar Michael.

Just Daddy.

Michael looked toward her suddenly. “You staying side stage?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world”

His expression softened again.

And quietly, so only she could hear, “Thank you for coming with me.”

That nearly broke her heart.

Because he sounded relieved.

Like having them there made the entire massive frightening machine of fame survivable.

~~~~~~~~~

The concert itself was explosive.

Fire.
Pyrotechnics.
Seventy thousand people screaming every lyric back at him.

And still, halfway through the show during a quieter moment between songs, Michael stood at center stage breathing heavily beneath the lights.

Sweat glistened along his hairline.
The crowd screamed endlessly.

Then unexpectedly, he smiled.

Shy suddenly.

Almost nervous.

The audience quieted slightly.

“You know…” Michael said softly into the microphone. “Touring gets very lonely sometimes.”

The stadium went silent.

Backstage, Y/N looked up immediately from staring at Prince’s little face.

Michael glanced briefly toward the wings.

Toward where she stood hidden.

And suddenly she knew.

Oh no.

“Especially after you become a father.”

The crowd erupted instantly.

Michael laughed bashfully, lowering his head.

“But I got lucky.”

His voice cracked slightly.

And backstage Y/N felt tears burn instantly.

“Because my wife and my son are here with me tonight.”

The stadium LOST ITS MIND.

Actual screaming chaos.

People crying.
Jumping.
Losing control completely.

Backstage crew froze in shock because Michael almost never spoke publicly about intimate family things during performances.

And yet there he stood beneath thousands of lights looking emotional and open and deeply in love.

“I just…” Michael smiled helplessly. “I wanna thank my wife for giving me the greatest gift I ever got.”

The crowd roared louder.

Fans started sobbing openly.

And then suddenly stuffed animals began raining toward the stage.

Teddy bears.
Baby gifts.
Tiny signs reading;
WE LOVE PRINCE
THANK YOU Y/N
WE LOVE YOUR FAMILY

Michael actually looked overwhelmed.

Truly overwhelmed.

He crouched to pick up one tiny teddy bear wearing a little sequined glove and laughed through visible emotion.

“Oh wow…”

Backstage Y/N covered her mouth crying quietly while Prince slept peacefully against her shoulder completely unaware his father was publicly unraveling over them in front of seventy thousand people.

Michael looked toward the wings one last time.

And even from a distance she knew that look.

The same one from years ago.
From their secret wedding.
From backstage kisses.
From barefoot kitchen dances at midnight.

Still her.

Always her.

“Take care of the people you love” he told the crowd softly. “That’s the most important thing.”

And for once, the King of Pop stood before the world not as a myth or an icon.

Just a husband infatuated with his wife and loving her loudly enough to tell the entire world.

~~~~~~~

[idcwhattheuseris]

Crying

[mikajensen58]

જ⁀➴ the trick

“ in which you (y/n) realize that your new boyfriend otw!michael will do literally anything for you, even without you asking. ”

ִ ᝰ word count: 1.9k

.ᐟ warnings & disclaimers: michael is a simp & a trick, manipulative and disapproving j*e, michael is terrified of him, y/n is a protective gf, y/n teaches him how to say no.

✐ a/n: just saw michael (2026) again and felt maternal toward otw era!michael…

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

michael was sitting on the edge of the couch, writing down lyrics that suddenly spawned into his mind. he scratched his head, thinking of the chorus as he quietly beatboxed to himself. his hair was styled into a neat, kinky afro with a flawless sheen. he was wearing a cream button-down shirt tucked into his dark wash levis that clung to his lean frame, and stark white socks that grooved beneath the table.

you walked into the living room carrying a bowl of freshly washed grapes. from a distance, anyone would look at you and assume you were just his sweet little girlfriend. you had a soft smile, soft curls, a graceful stride, and an aura that suggested you wouldn’t dare swat a fly. but michael knew better. behind that sweet exterior lived a fiercely independent, outspoken woman who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind or challenge him. in a world full of yes-men, he was enthralled by your assertive nature.

you sat down next to him, popping a grape into your mouth. michael instantly turned toward you, his sculpted dimples appearing as his face broke into that gorgeous, boyish smile. those huge, round eyes—looking exactly like two perfect boba pearls—blinked at you with an adoring warmth.

"hey, y/n," he murmured, putting his pencil down immediately, his voice extra soft when he was feeling particularly shy. "can i have one?"

you held the bowl out, watching him select a grape with his long, slender fingers. as you watched him, a thought that had been lingering in your mind for the past week began to take shape. lately, you had noticed a pattern in your new relationship. michael did whatever you told him, and his aversion to confrontation was so deeply ingrained that it manifested as total, unquestioning compliance whenever you spoke to him with even a shred of authority. he didn’t even like making tough business decisions and would rather make them through someone else.

it had started three days ago during a silly debate about a trivia question. he had been so confident in his incorrect answer, laughing and teasing you.

jokingly, you had rolled your eyes and said, "alright, michael, if you're wrong, you owe me three thousand dollars."

he had grinned, mindlessly smoothing his hair back, and then looked completely stunned when you proved him wrong. you had laughed it off and forgotten about it within five minutes. but the next morning, when you woke up, there was a neatly written personal check for exactly $3,000 lying on his nightstand, signed in his elegant, looping cursive. when you confronted him about it, completely baffled, he had just blinked those big eyes and said, "but you won the bet, y/n. i have to give it to you."

your car struggled to start up last month, and then two days later, it was mysteriously fixed. if you were crazy, you would’ve thought it was replaced with a new car. you later found out through jackie that michael got your car fixed after overhearing you complain about it to latoya.

then, yesterday, he had been pacing around the room, nervously rambling about a stressful phone call with his management.

without thinking, your feisty streak took over and you snapped, "ugh, shut up and sit down. you're making me dizzy."

instead of arguing back at you, michael had stopped dead in his tracks. his talking slowed to a halt, and he sat down on the nearest chair like a well-trained puppy.

sitting next to him now, looking at the man who was currently conquering the entire planet, a profound wave of protectiveness washed over you. michael was a multimillionaire and a global phenomenon, but behind closed doors, he was completely defenseless.

if i were a bad girlfriend, you thought to yourself, a chill running down your spine, i could completely drain him. i could ask for a house, a car, a million dollars, and he would just write the check and smile. he would just earn it right back anyway, treating his vast fortune like a never-ending supply of candy to spoil his loved ones. but you knew better. you had a moral compass, and you loved him for him, not his bank account.

but michael didn't know better—even at twenty two. he was entirely at your mercy.

"what are you thinkin’, minnie?" michael asked, breaking your train of thought. he started calling you by that adorable nickname when marlon referred to michael as the mickey to your minnie one day when your hair was styled in two puffs. he leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. "i wanna know.”

you turned your head to look at him, letting out a soft sigh. "mike, do you realize that you literally do anything i tell you to do?"

he blinked, looking genuinely confused. "what d’ya mean? i just want to make you happy."

"no, it's more than that," you said, your voice firming up as your outspoken nature took the driver's seat. "michael, you're a grown man. you can't just let people order you around. what if i was using you?"

michael let out a soft chuckle through his nose, and reached out to gently play with a strand of your hair. "but you're not using me. you're my girl. i know your heart."

"that's not the point!" you said, slapping his hand away playfully but keeping your expression serious.

"the point is that you don't know how to say no to me. you just capitulate to whatever I say.”

michael’s smile faltered slightly, his gaze dropping to his lap. his fingers aimlessly traced the seam of his jeans.

"i just wanna keep you happy…" he muttered fiddling with his fingers. you barely caught what he said, but you heard him faintly which softened your expression.

he swallowed hard, refusing your eye contact. even though you two were fresh into your relationship, you were well aware of the dynamic within the jackson clan. joseph jackson was always in his son's ear, a hovering, aggressive presence trying to dictate how michael should handle his money and his women.

"joseph was talking to me again this morning," michael admitted quietly, his voice dropping so low you had to lean in to hear him. "he told me i was being foolish. he said... well, he used some harsh words. he thinks everyone is out to take what i have."

“you see son, gettin’ all the broads ain’t the problem—no that ain’t the problem...” joe started unintentionally cornering michael in front of the kitchen fridge with a wicked grin plastered across his face.

michael internally cringed at the way he often described women—as if they were nothing.

“but you givin’ them yo’ money is. i done told you the jacksons don’t pay or beg for pussy. i know you doing both, boy!” he declared, his serpent eyes narrowing into michael’s. his voice boomed as michael shivered at his usage of vulgar words and close proximity.

he took a step closer with his mouth slightly ajar—a natural habit of his— as michael instinctively took a small, quick step back, and was now pressed against the fridge. he loathed being cornered.

he reached out to playfully hit michael’s shoulder causing the color to drain from the timid man’s face as he froze and tensed up immediately. as his infamous hand collided with michael’s shoulder, joe chuckled before scoffing at the way he reacted to his touch.

“for a minute, i thought you went sweet on me. you wouldn’t never talk about no girls like your brothers did.” he continued speaking lower this time. michael’s face hardened realizing what his father meant.

he chuckled before taking a step back and dusting off nonexistent lint on michael’s shirt. his neck was pushed forward and his shoulders slumped, indicating his old age, yet he still spoke to michael like how he did in his forties.

“keep that new girl of yours in check. she don’t want you for real no way.”

a fiery spark of anger ignited in your chest. you hated the way his father spoke to him, treating michael’s innate generosity like a weakness to be exploited or a sin to be ashamed of.

"well, your father can mind his own business," you said sharply, your voice cutting through the room with defensive heat. "first of all, i didn't ask for that money, and second of all, you are a twenty-two year old man who earns his own living. you can do whatever you want with your money."

michael looked up at you, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and profound admiration. he loved when you got riled up, especially when that energy was directed at protecting him. it was a feeling he had never experienced before—someone standing in front of him like a shield.

"you look so sweet, but you're like a little tiger." he murmured, a tiny, tentative dimple appearing on his cheek.

"i'm serious, michael," you said keeping your eyes locked onto his.

"your father is wrong about everything, but he's right about one thing: people will try to take advantage of you. you're too giving."

you reached out, cupping his jawline with your soft hand. his skin was warm, and he instinctively leaned his face into your palm, closing his eyes for a brief second.

"i need you to promise me something," you whispered.

he opened his eyes, looking at you with complete devotion. "anything, y/n. you know i will."

"don't say 'anything'!" you scolded gently, shaking your head.

"that's exactly what i'm talking about! if i ever tell you to do something that makes you uncomfortable, you will look me in the eye and tell me 'no.' can you do that?"

michael stared at you, the depth of your request settling into his mind. he was used to women asking him for jewelry, for clothes, for cars, for access to his fame. he was used to his father demanding his financial backing. but here you were, using your influence over him to demand that he build a wall against you.

"i... i'll try," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

"no, not try. promise me, michael.”

he swallowed, his chest rising and falling slowly. he looked at you, realizing how incredibly lucky he was to have found you.

"i promise, y/n. i'll tell you no if it's too much."

"good," you smiled, leaning forward to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips. his mouth was soft and welcoming, tasting faintly of the grapes you had been sharing.

when you pulled back, the emotional tension lifted, and the usual starry glint returned to his eyes. he let out a joyful chuckle, his large hands reaching out to wrap around yours. you giggled as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his soft afro tickling your skin.

"you're a wild thang," he teased, his voice muffled against your skin as he planted a string of butterfly kisses along your jawline. "my mother would say you wear the pants."

"somebody has to wear them around here," you shot back, looping your arms around his neck, leaning into the comfort of his embrace.

"since you wanna give away the world and stuff." you nudged his forearm playfully.

"i don't want to give away the world," michael murmured, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression turning incredibly sweet, his dimples cutting deep into his caramel cheeks.

"i just want t’give it to you. because you're the only one who doesn't want it, truly.”

you looked at him, your heart pumping with unwavering love and devotion. you knew the journey ahead of him was going to be long and complicated as his fame reached heights no human had ever seen before. but as long as you were by his side, you would be his voice and his protector.

[idcwhattheuseris]

Ahhhhh soft cutie baby Mike !!!

[actlikeyoudontknowthekid-deacti]

Okay one last post from me 🤭. Can I request a Michael Jackson x Plus size reader smut?. Reader is an assistant to the director on the set of "The way you make me feel" music video. Michael's love interest for the music video is late to set so they need a stand in for her. The director suggests reader and at first she disagrees and says something cheeky like "He can't handle me*. Michael overhears her and takes that as a challenge to prove her wrong...............

You Can’t Handle Me

A/N: You can definitely handle me ;)

Summary: While working as an assistant director on the set of The Way You Make Me Feel, you’re forced to step in as Michael’s stand-in love interest when the actress shows up late.

Taglist: @d3adlyclassrat ,@Weepingwillow12344, @perfectillusiontreasure , @islandsunning , @ivorydays , @sassenachmalfoy

The chaos was palpable. People hurried across the set with clipboards in hand, wires tangled across the uneven pavement, and blinding stage lights pressed hotly against your skin as someone in the background argued passionately about wardrobe changes. You leaned near the director, arms crossed tightly over your chest, already worn out before the shoot even truly began.

“Is the girl still not here?” you asked, your voice slightly strained.

The director groaned, rubbing his forehead as he glanced at his watch. “No. We’re falling behind schedule.”

A makeup artist muttered under her breath, smoothing powder over her model’s face, while an assistant nearly tripped over a camera dolly cluttered with cables and equipment. You shook your head and scribbled another note onto your clipboard.

Suddenly, someone called your name.

You looked up slowly, blood pounding in your ears.

The director pointed directly at you. “You’ll stand in for rehearsal.”

Blinking in surprise, you responded, “Absolutely not.”

“It’s just blocking,” he insisted, voice firm. “We need to get the camera angles right.”

You laughed sharply, disbelief coloring your tone. “For Michael Jackson?”

Nearby crew members glanced your way, curious.

“Come on,” the director begged, desperation evident. “Just until she gets here.”

Your eyes drifted across the set to Michael Jackson, dressed in fitted black pants and a bright blue shirt half-unbuttoned at the collar. Even from a distance, the glow of his charisma was unmistakable.

“Nope,” you said immediately. “He can’t handle me.”

A couple of crew members snorted behind you.

Suddenly, the set hushed, the hum of activity stilling in an instant.

Your stomach dropped.

Michael had clearly heard that.

He turned his head slowly, a sly smile playing on his lips.

There was amusement in his expression—none of it mocking, but genuine interest.

“Oh really?” he asked, voice smooth yet with a spark of challenge.

His tone was soft but sharp enough to make your cheeks flush with heat.

You straightened. “Really.”

The director clapped his hands, breaking the tension. “Perfect! Great energy. Let’s move.”

You shot him a betrayed look while everyone else stifled their laughter.

Michael approached, eyes assessing you with a confident glare that made your stomach tighten—not judgmental, not hesitant—simply appreciative.

That made it worse.

“You’re scared,” he teased quietly, once close enough, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You scoffed. “Of you? Please.”

“Mhm,” he murmured, smiling that dangerously charming little smile that could make women lose their composure.

The choreographer began explaining the scene while Michael stood beside you, close enough for you to smell his spicy, expensive cologne.

Your pulse throbbed uncontrollably.

“This part’s simple,” the director said. “Michael approaches her, gets in her space—tension, tension, tension—”

“Yeah, we got it,” you interrupted, voice edged with irritation.

Michael looked down, clearly trying not to laugh.

The cameras started rolling for rehearsal.

You told yourself you could handle this.

Then Michael stepped closer—and kept stepping.

His eyes stayed locked on yours, intensity building. The playful energy from earlier faded into something slow, deliberate, almost hypnotic. His hand lightly brushed your waist for positioning, and your breath caught.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You lifted your chin. “You wish I wasn’t.”

That smile again.

Lord help you.

Music echoed through the speakers as he moved around you with effortless grace, body close enough to spin your head. Every touch felt purposeful—his fingers grazing your hip, his chest nearly against yours, leaning down when he spoke.

It was clear he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

“You talk a lot for someone nervous,” he murmured.

“I’m not nervous,” you snapped.

“Your hands are shaking.”

Quickly, you hid them behind your clipboard, and he chuckled quietly.

Cocky, charming, irritating—the worst combination.

Suddenly, the director yelled, “Closer, Michael. I need more heat.”

His eyes darted back to yours before he obeyed.

One strong hand settled fully on your waist, pulling you into him enough to feel the heat of his body through your clothes. Your breath hitched.

“There,” he whispered, still staring. “That’s enough heat?”

Your mind blanked for a second.

The crew murmured, sensing the shift in chemistry. Even the choreographer looked entertained.

You swallowed hard. “Are you rehearsing or flirting?”

Michael leaned in closer. “Maybe both.”

Your face burned.

He noticed.

And looked entirely too pleased with himself.

By the time the director finally called cut, your heart hammered wildly, and Michael hadn’t moved away.

“See?” he said softly. “I can handle you just fine.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to play it cool. “Barely.”

He laughed warmly, giving your waist a final, gentle brush before letting go.

“Nah,” he said with a grin. “I think I could handle a lot more than you think.”

[svnnywrites]

By Your Side ⸻ Michael Jackson

pairing: michael jackson x actress!reader

synopis: You accompany Michael to the filming of the Pepsi commercial, but you have an interview to do and need to leave. A few hours later, Bill calls you to tell you that Michael is in the hospital, and you completely freak out.

warnings: angst with a happy ending, established relationship, too much drama, Michael is sad (sorry), the reader feels guilty, joseph.

The smell of hairspray and stage lights filled the Pepsi set while dozens of assistants rushed around backstage adjusting cables, cameras, and costumes. The noise should have been overwhelming, but somehow everything always faded into the background whenever Michael Jackson was beside you.

Especially when he was holding your hand the way he was now.

His fingers were loosely intertwined with yours while a makeup artist carefully retouched the curls falling around his face. Even distracted, even focused on rehearsal notes spread across his lap, he still refused to let go of you.

He had always been like that.

Ever since the day he met you, he constantly needed some form of contact. A hand around your waist. Fingers brushing yours. His head resting against your shoulder during long studio nights. Tiny gestures that slowly became second nature between you.

You smiled softly while watching the makeup artist dust powder across his cheekbones.

"You look beautiful."

Michael immediately glanced at you through the mirror.

That shy smile appeared instantly.

The one that still made your chest tighten after two years together.

"You think so?" he asked quietly.

"You know you do."

He ducked his head bashfully, trying to hide the grin forming on his lips.

Sometimes it amazed you that the biggest pop star in the world still got embarrassed when you complimented him.

Your mind briefly drifted back to the night everything started.

The Oscars. Two years ago.

You had won Best Supporting Actress and nearly tripped walking to the stage because your hands were shaking so badly. Later, Michael confessed he barely remembered the rest of the ceremony after seeing you walk up to accept your award.

According to him, it felt like the entire room disappeared.

Later that night, he convinced David Lynch, who had directed your latest movie, to introduce the two of you.

The chemistry was immediate. Dangerously immediate.

Dinner turned into another dinner. Then another.

Two weeks of late-night conversations, laughter, and Michael finding increasingly ridiculous excuses to see you again.

Until one Saturday night, when you arrived at his house for dinner and discovered your entire home covered in roses.

Hundreds of them.

Bill later admitted Michael had forced him to organize an entire truck delivery because "normal flowers weren’t enough."

That same night, Michael asked you to be his girlfriend.

And now, two years later, here you were.

Hopelessly in love. Ridiculously happy.

Michael looked at you through the mirror again while the makeup artist fixed the last details around his eyes.

"Isn’t she beautiful?" he asked her suddenly.

You laughed immediately.

"Michael."

The makeup artist smiled knowingly.

"Very."

You rolled your eyes playfully while Michael looked entirely too pleased with himself.

A few moments later, the makeup artist finally stepped away.

"Done."

Michael turned toward you immediately.

"How do I look?"

You stepped closer, gently adjusting the collar of his red shirt.

"Beautiful. As always."

His smile softened instantly. Then he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss against your lips.

Before you could tease him about it, another voice interrupted the moment.

"The lighting is wrong over there."

Your smile disappeared almost immediately.

Joseph Jackson walked onto the set while scolding one of the assistants before finally noticing the two of you standing together.

"Oh. You’re here."

"Joseph," you greeted politely.

Tense. Careful.

Your relationship with Joseph had never been good.

He thought you distracted Michael. Thought relationships made him "soft." Thought Michael spent too much time with you instead of working.

Michael never cared.

He stayed with you anyway.

But for Michael’s sake, you tried to remain respectful whenever Joseph was around.

Even when he clearly disliked you.

"We need to go," Joseph told Michael firmly.

Michael nodded slightly.

"I’m coming."

Joseph walked away again.

You let out a small sigh before forcing a smile toward Michael.

"It’s okay."

Michael looked unconvinced.

"I have to go," he murmured apologetically.

"Yeah… me too.

Your fingers slid gently through the side of his curls.

"I’ve got interviews for the movie today."

"I wish you’d stay."

His hands slipped around your waist while he gave you the dramatic pout he knew always worked on you.

That look.

Pure emotional manipulation.

You laughed softly and wrapped your arms around his neck.

"I want to, Mike. But I can’t."

"But it won’t take long."

His expression brightened slightly.

"When you’re done… wanna sleep over tonight?"

You smiled immediately.

"What’s the plan?"

"We’ll have dinner, eat ice cream, watch a movie." He grinned. "You pick."

"That sounds perfect."

Michael’s entire face lit up. Then he kissed you again. Longer this time.

Completely ignoring the fact that people were actively walking around the set nearby. You laughed against his lips and gently pushed his chest.

"Go before the general comes back."

Michael burst out laughing. He gave you one last quick kiss.

"See you later."

Then he disappeared toward the stage.

You grabbed your purse and headed toward your own obligations, completely unaware that your entire world was about to change.

Hours later, exhaustion was beginning to settle into your bones by the time your final interview ended.

You smiled politely at the journalist, thanked her, and stepped behind the cameras where your assistant was already waiting nervously.

The second she saw you, she hurried closer.

"Bill called."

You frowned immediately.

"Bill?"

"He said you need to call him back as soon as possible."

Confusion twisted in your stomach.

Usually Michael called you himself.

Your assistant handed you a slip of paper with the number scribbled across it.

Something suddenly felt wrong. Very wrong.

You quickly walked toward the nearest phone and dialed the number.

It rang several times before Bill answered.

"Hello?"

"Bill?" you asked quickly. "What happened? Did Michael finish filming already?"

Silence.

Your stomach dropped instantly.

"Bill?"

A long pause.

Then finally:

"There was an accident."

Your entire body went cold.

"What?"

"He’s at the hospital."

For one horrible second, your brain stopped functioning completely.

Your heartbeat slammed violently against your ribs while fear unlike anything you had ever known spread through your body.

Tears instantly filled your eyes.

"No—"

You struggled to breathe properly. Your hand tightened around the phone. Finally, somehow, you forced yourself to speak.

"What hospital?"

The hospital waiting room felt suffocating.

Bright white lights. The smell of antiseptic.

Doctors and nurses walking past while your heart threatened to beat straight out of your chest.

The second you arrived, your eyes immediately landed on Michael’s family gathered near the chairs.

Then you saw Joseph.

And something inside you snapped.

Before anyone could stop you, you stormed toward him.

"This is your fault!"

Bill immediately grabbed your arm.

"Hey— hey—"

"You knew he didn’t want to do that commercial!" you shouted. "You pushed him anyway!"

Joseph stayed silent. Just staring at you.

That made you even angrier.

You ripped yourself away from Bill and shoved Joseph hard against the wall.

"If something happens to him, it’s your fault!"

"Enough!"

Everyone froze.

Katherine stepped forward, visibly shaken.

"Please," she said firmly. "Let him go."

Your breathing was ragged. Hands trembling violently. But after a second, you released Joseph. The rage immediately collapsed into panic again.

You stumbled backward and dropped into one of the waiting room chairs while tears blurred your vision completely.

Bill sat beside you quietly.

Then gently squeezed your shoulder, trying to calm you down while you stared at the hospital doors, silently praying Michael would walk through them again.

Time seemed frozen inside that waiting room. Every second felt suffocating.

You kept staring at the hospital doors while your leg bounced anxiously without stopping. Your hands were shaking so badly that you had to lace your fingers together in your lap just to hide it.

Then finally, a doctor appeared. Everyone stood immediately. Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“Michael is stable.”

Air finally returned to your lungs.

You closed your eyes for a brief second, almost feeling your knees give out from relief.

“The fire caused second and third-degree burns to his scalp,” the doctor continued calmly. “But he’s awake and responding well.”

Katherine Jackson placed a hand against her chest, visibly emotional.

“Can I see him?” she asked quickly.

The doctor nodded.

“He asked for his mother… and Mr. Bill.”

Bill let out a heavy sigh beside you.

Katherine walked past you and gently squeezed your hand, silently trying to reassure you.

Bill did the same before following the doctor down the hallway.

You stood there watching them disappear.

Then your eyes landed on Joseph Jackson.

For the first time that night, he actually looked worried. But all you could feel when you looked at him was rage. Pure hatred.

Joseph held your stare for a few seconds before slowly lowering his head, unable to face the hatred in your eyes.

After that, silence took over the waiting room once again. The minutes felt endless.

You paced back and forth, sat down, stood up again, flipped through old magazines without actually reading them.

Until finally, Katherine and Bill returned. You stood immediately.

“Is he okay?” you asked quickly.

Katherine smiled softly.

“He is. He’s just in some pain.”

Relief rushed through your body instantly.

“Can I see him?”

Katherine and Bill exchanged a quick glance. Your stomach dropped immediately.

“Michael asked for you to go home,” Katherine answered carefully.

You frowned in confusion.

“What?”

“It’s going to be okay,” she assured gently. “You don’t need to worry.”

“But why?”

She hesitated. Bill looked away.

And suddenly, you understood something was wrong.

“He doesn’t want to see me?” Your voice came out quieter this time.

Katherine didn’t answer directly. Instead, she gently touched your arm.

“I’m going to ask Bill to pick up some clothes for him.”

Bill nodded silently and started walking toward the exit. You immediately followed him.

In the empty hallway, you grabbed his arm.

“Bill.”

He stopped.

“Why can’t I go into that room?”

Bill let out a tired sigh. Because he already knew this conversation would hurt.

“Michael doesn’t want you to see him like this.”

Your chest physically hurt.

“He thinks…” Bill hesitated. “That you’ll leave once you see the burns.”

That shattered you completely. Michael truly believed that. Even after two years. Even after everything.

Tears burned your eyes again. You needed to see him.

Needed to hear his voice. Needed to see that beautiful smile and know he was really okay. So you took a deep breath and quickly wiped your face.

“Then I’m not leaving.”

Bill raised an eyebrow slightly.

“Not until I see that he’s okay.”

For a second, Bill almost smiled. He knew you well enough to understand there was no point trying to change your mind.

“I’ll get some clothes for him,” he murmured. “And some for you too.”

Then he left.

You returned to the waiting room and sat down again. Katherine watched you quietly for a moment before smiling softly. Like she finally understood that you truly loved her son.

The entire night passed painfully slowly. You didn’t sleep for even a minute.

You wandered the hallways, flipped through old magazines, checked the clock every five minutes.

When the morning sunlight finally began filtering through the hospital windows, a nurse appeared pushing a breakfast cart.

“I’m taking this to Mr. Jackson.”

Bill immediately stood.

“I’ll take it.”

But before he could grab the cart, you were already holding it.

“I’ll do it.”

Bill barely had time to react. You were already pushing the cart through the restricted wing of the hospital.

Your heartbeat echoed loudly inside your chest. One of the nurses pointed you toward the correct room.

You took a deep breath. Then slowly opened the door.

Michael was awake. Sitting up in bed, quietly staring out the window.

Your heart tightened instantly. His hand was wrapped in bandages. Part of his hair too. You hated seeing him like that.

Even though you wanted to cry, you forced yourself to stay composed. Michael noticed the door opening and slowly turned his head.

His eyes widened slightly when he saw you. Then almost immediately dropped downward.

“Please… go away,” he said quietly. “You can’t see me like this.”

That shattered your heart.

“It’s okay.”

You placed the breakfast cart beside the bed and carefully sat on the edge of the mattress.

“You don’t have to act like this.”

“I look horrible.”

“You don’t.”

You gently took his hand. And finally, that made Michael lift his head enough to look into your eyes.

You could see the fear there. Real fear.

Insecurity.

Like he truly believed you would stop loving him because of this.

“You won me over two years ago,” you said softly. “And now I’m not going anywhere.”

Michael went completely still. His brown eyes searched yours like he was trying to figure out whether you truly meant it.

Because when it came to you, Michael never felt good enough. He constantly tried to be worthy of you. Perfect, beautiful, enough.

But now, seeing you sitting there holding his hand without hesitation, looking at him with the exact same love as always…

Something inside him finally relaxed.

“Thank you,” he whispered, smiling weakly for the first time since the accident.

Your heart nearly melted instantly.

“You’re going to be okay,” you promised. “And I’m staying here twenty-four hours a day to take care of you.”

That made Michael genuinely smile this time. Because between your impossible schedules and endless commitments, the two of you rarely got time like this together.

“Brought your breakfast,” you said, picking up the tray. “Including your favorite: orange juice.”

Michael let out a soft laugh. You placed the tray in his lap and immediately stole one of the cookies.

He watched you do it, clearly amused. Then his eyes softened completely.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

And you knew he meant it.

“So much.”

You smiled immediately.

“I love you more.”

Michael made a dramatic expression.

“I’d kiss you right now if it weren’t for these bandages.”

You burst out laughing.

“When I get better, we’ll fix that.”

“Definitely.”

And for the first time since receiving that phone call, you finally felt like everything was going to be okay.

The two of you spent the rest of the morning talking quietly and laughing between conversations while Michael finally seemed relaxed again.

On the other side of the door, Katherine and Bill watched discreetly. Then exchanged a quiet look.

Because it was painfully obvious how deeply the two of you loved each other.

And more than that…

How good you were for Michael.

[idcwhattheuseris]

My Shayla 😭😭😭

[teaprtys-deactivated20260811]

WRONG AISLE, RIGHT PERSON ╯

michaeljackson x fem!reader || wc 2.09k

seems like michael is interested you, but why a toy store?

i never thought i would end up writing something like this but michael has been on my mind non-stop so why the hell not it was a fun idea and it was fun to write!

cw : nothing too serious ! fluff, RPF, tooth rotting sweetness light slow burn and this is not proof read LMFAO thriller era mike, reader is a bit stubborn

The toy store was loud in the way only toy stores on a weekday afternoon could be, squealing wheels on linoleum, a demo radio somewhere in the back playing something tinny, a toddler three aisles over making his feelings known to the entire building. You navigated through it all with the focused energy of someone on a mission, list in hand, your little brother’s very specific instructions replaying in your head like a voice memo you unfortunately could not delete.

The red race car. The one with the yellow stripe. Not the orange one, not the blue one, the red one with the yellow stripe, and if you get the wrong one I’m not speaking to you.

He was seven. The threat was empty. You were getting the right one anyway.

You found the aisle, crouched down to the lower shelf where the die-cast vehicles lived, and scanned methodically. Blue. Blue. Orange. A green one that looked promising but wasn’t. And then — there. Red body, yellow stripe down the side, exactly as described. You reached for it.

Another hand got there at the same time.

You looked up.

He was tall. Dressed plainly enough, dark trousers, a simple jacket, unremarkable except for the wide-brimmed fedora pulled low and the sunglasses sitting on his face indoors, which you clocked immediately as the symbol of I believe I am someone important. He had a stillness about him, something gentle in the way he held himself, but he was also very clearly holding your brother’s race car.

“Oh,” he said. Soft voice. Genuinely surprised, like he hadn’t anticipated anyone else existing in this aisle.

“Yeah,” you said. “Oh.”

Neither of you moved.

He seemed to be waiting for something — maybe for you to step back, defer, let the moment resolve itself in his favor the way moments perhaps usually did for him. You tilted your head instead. He had good cheekbones, you noticed distantly. Didn’t change anything.

“My brother asked for this one,” you said, pleasantly, in the tone that meant this is a courtesy statement, not a negotiation.

“I was going to—” He stopped himself. Glanced briefly to his left.

A few steps behind him stood a large, broad-shouldered older man with watchful energy of someone who had stood behind this particular person through a great many situations. He had his arms loosely crossed and was studying a display of toy trucks with very deliberate interest.

The man in the hat looked back at you. Then, unhurriedly, he released the car.

You smiled at him — full, bright, just the slightest edge of triumph in it. “Thank you so much,” you said, already straightening up, already turning. “Very generous of you.”

You didn’t look back. You were almost to the end of the aisle when you heard, just barely beneath the store noise, the older man’s low voice: “She didn’t even blink.” And then something that sounded very much like a quiet, delighted laugh.

You were on your way to the checkout when you heard it — a hushed, rapid exchange near the front display.

“Did you see her?” The soft voice, quieter now, aimed at the older man.

“I saw.”

“She didn’t — she had no idea who I—”

“I know, Mike.”

A pause. “I want to talk to her again.”

The older man — Bill, Michael had called him once or twice quietly during the exchange, you’d caught it, made a sound that was half agreement, half something else. Amusement, maybe. The careful kind, from someone who knew better than to make it obvious.

You were already at the register. You didn’t think much of it.

He came back the following Tuesday. You weren’t there.

He came back Thursday.

You weren’t there either, but the woman at the register, who had worked the afternoon shift for years and had seen many things, noted the tall young man in the hat who walked one slow loop of the store and left without buying anything.

He came back the Tuesday after that.

You were there.

You were in the same aisle — not by any design, just because your neighbor had asked you to pick up a specific set of building blocks for her nephew’s birthday and the blocks were adjacent to the vehicles display and you’d paused to look at something on the lower shelf. You were crouched again, in the same spot, which in retrospect was a detail that would make you laugh later.

A tap on your shoulder. Light. Almost tentative.

You stood and turned.

The hat. The jacket. The sunglasses. The same man, and this time there was something different in his posture — a careful kind of hope, chin slightly ducked, like he’d decided to do this and was now fully committed but also fully aware it could go sideways.

“You,” you said.

“Me,” he agreed. The corner of his mouth moved upward, just slightly. “Do you remember me?”

You made a show of considering it. Looked at the hat. The sunglasses. Let your gaze drift to the lower shelf where the cars were.

“Hat,” you said. “Sunglasses indoors. Tried to take my brother’s toy.” You looked back at him. “The one who thought about arguing and then thought better of it.”

He laughed — a real one, open and a little breathless, tilting his head back with it — and from a few feet behind him, Bill pressed his lips together and looked very pointedly at a shelf of action figures.

“I wasn’t going to argue,” the man said, recovering.

“You had the face of someone considering it.”

He blinked innocently. “I don’t know what that means.”

“You do,” you said, amused despite yourself, “but that’s okay.” He was still smiling. It was a good smile — soft, a little shy around the edges, like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the fact that it was there. He extended his hand.

“I’m Michael.”

You shook it and told him your name. He said it back to himself quietly, deliberate, like he was making sure he had it right.

“So,” you said, shifting the building blocks under your arm. “You came back.”

He didn’t try to dress it up. “I wanted to see you again.”

Something about the directness of it caught you off guard — not aggressive, nothing like that, just simple and honest. You looked at him for a moment. He looked back, patient, waiting.

“Well,” you said, “you found me in the same aisle. That’s either fate or a concerning pattern.”

“I’m hoping fate.”

“I’m keeping my options open,” you told him pleasantly, and his smile widened.

You walked the aisle slowly, no real destination, and he fell into step beside you with the ease of someone who had been waiting for exactly this. He asked about your brother, the one the car was for — and you told him about the specificity of seven-year-old demands, the yellow stripe, the thirty-minute lecture you’d received about the difference between red-red and orange-red. He listened with full attention, genuinely charmed by it, asking small questions at the right moments. He was quiet in the way that felt considered rather than absent. Careful with what he said.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said at some point, not meaning to say it out loud.

He tilted his head. “What did you expect?”

“Someone who argues about toys.” He laughed again, softer this time. “I almost did.”

“I know,” you said. “I appreciated the restraint.” Bill, trailing at a respectful distance, was finding the educational games section deeply fascinating.

You’d been talking for a few minutes, easy and unguarded, when you stopped in front of a display and turned to him properly.

“Okay,” you said, “I have to ask. The hat, the glasses — are you hiding from someone or do you just really commit to a look?” He paused. Something shifted, a flicker of something that might have been amusement, might have been mild anxiety, might have been both.

“Little bit of both,” he said, carefully.

You studied him. He was still, watching you. And that’s when you actually looked — past the low brim and the tinted lenses, at the line of his jaw, the particular architecture of his face, the way his mouth was set.

Something tugged at the back of your mind. You frowned, not unkindly.

“Michael,” you said slowly.

“Yeah?”

“That’s funny. There’s a singer.” You tilted your head. “Michael Jackson. You kind of — your face is—” You stopped.

He went very, very still.

You looked at him. He looked back at you with the careful patience of someone who had been in this exact position and knew better than to rush it. “You kind of look exactly like him,” you finished, quieter now.

He said nothing.

Your eyes moved to the sunglasses. Back to the jaw. The cheekbones. The soft mouth. The hat, which now that you were thinking about it was a very particular kind of hat.

“Michael,” you said, differently this time.

“…Yes?”

“Michael Jackson.”

A beat. “Yes,” he said, gently.

You stared at him. He let you. You opened your mouth and closed it again. You were not — this was important — you were not the kind of person who lost composure. You were composed. You were always composed. You had been raised to be composed.

“In a toy store,” you said. The words came out very flat.

“I like toys,” he said, with complete and simple sincerity.

“You’re Michael Jackson and you’re in a toy store on a Tuesday afternoon—”

“It’s a good store—”

“With a hat,” you continued, gesturing at the fedora, “as a disguise—”

“It works more often than you’d think,” he offered.

You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth. The laugh came anyway — you couldn’t help it, it climbed up through your chest and out of you, and for a moment you were just standing in the building blocks aisle laughing with your hand over your face while Michael Jackson stood in front of you looking quietly, helplessly delighted.

From somewhere behind a display of board games, Bill made a sound that was technically a cough. It was not a cough.

“You didn’t say anything,” you said, when you had recovered some portion of your dignity. “When I — the first time, with the toy—”

“You didn’t recognize me,” he said, and there was that warmth again, that almost-relief in it. “It was nice. It’s been a while since someone just…” He searched for the word. “Didn’t.”

You looked at him. Took in the careful honesty of it, the way he meant it without performance.

“How long have you been coming back here?” you asked, though you suspected you knew.

He glanced, very briefly, at Bill. “A few times,” Michael said.

“A few.”

“A few,” he confirmed, and he had the grace to look slightly sheepish about it, ducking his chin in a way that was, against your better judgment, completely endearing.

You were quiet for a moment. He waited, unhurried, watching you with those dark eyes that were soft and steady and hadn’t looked anywhere else since you’d turned around.

“For the record,” you said finally, “the hat is not a disguise. You look exactly like yourself.”

He laughed — bright and real, head tilting back again. “You’re the first person to say that.”

“I’m not going to apologize for having eyes.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he said, and he was still smiling, that careful soft smile, and the afternoon light was coming through the storefront windows and catching the brim of his very insufficient hat, and your building blocks were getting heavy under your arm.

“Well, Michael Jackson,” you said, adjusting your grip on them, “you went to a lot of trouble to stand in a toy aisle again.”

“It was worth it,” he said simply.

You looked at him for one more moment. Then you nodded, once, acknowledging something unspoken, and started toward the register.

“You should pick better disguises,” you called back.

Behind you, you heard him laugh again, quiet and warm.

[idcwhattheuseris]

Ahhhhhh the michosis has got me ! Soft Michael moments 😭😭

[ytrhbz]

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ THE GIRL IS MINE

████████

— type : one-shot (requested)

— genre(s) : fluff

— pairing : michael x reader

— tags : offthewall!michael, reader is bill’s daugther and know the jacksons, friends to lovers, mike is so cute and so jealous.

— disclaimer : such a cute request that i had to share it with everyone ! i love seeing cheesy fluff with mike.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ michael doesn’t seems to enjoy the way his brothers flirt with you, especially when he’s to one who want to be yours…

████████

it started with the long nights at the studio and the quiet afternoons at the jackson estate. being the daughter of someone as loyal as bill meant your life was naturally woven into theirs. while your father was busy ensuring the family’s safety and logistics, you were usually tucked away in a corner of the living room with a book, or more often than not, trailing behind michael.

you two had been inseparable since the move to la. you were the one person who didn’t want anything from him other than his company, and for michael, that was everything. you knew him before the world truly claimed him—before the glitter of the off the wall era really took flight. to you, he was just mike: the boy who loved magic tricks, old movies, and feeding the deer on the property.

the dynamic was always lively, to say the least. living—or at least spending most of your waking hours—around five brothers meant there was never a dull moment. but lately, the air felt different.

jermaine would always find a reason to lean against the doorframe when you walked by, flashing a slow, charming smile that lingered just a bit too long. jackie started making jokes about how "stunning" you were becoming, playfully nudging you whenever you sat down for dinner. marlon was constantly "accidentally" brushing his shoulder against yours or finding excuses to hold your hand while showing you a new dance step.

you, being as oblivious as you were loyal, just brushed it off as them being their usual, boisterous selves. they were like family, right?

michael saw it all. he watched from the shadows of the hallway, his fingers nervously drumming against his thigh. he knew his brothers' "tactics" better than anyone, and seeing them turn that charm on you made his chest tighten in a way he couldn't quite explain yet.

you were sitting on the edge of the fountain out front, waiting for your father to finish up a meeting, when michael finally stepped out. he didn't look like a global superstar in his simple corduroy trousers and a soft sweater, but his eyes held a weight you hadn't seen before.

"they're doing it again, you know," he murmured, sitting down beside you, his voice barely a whisper above the sound of the splashing water.

"doing what, mike?" you asked, tilting your head.

he let out a soft, frustrated huff, looking at his shoes. "flirting with you. my brothers. they think they're being subtle, but they're not. and it's driving me crazy because they don't know you like i do."

you blinked, looking from michael back toward the house where the light was spilling out from the kitchen windows. you could see the shadows of his brothers moving around inside, laughing and jostling each other.

"mike, you’re overthinking it," you said softly, reaching out to pat his knee. "they’re just being playful. you know how they are—always joking, always trying to get a reaction. they don't mean anything by it. i'm just bill's daughter to them, the girl who’s always been around."

michael didn't look convinced. he shifted closer to you on the edge of the stone fountain, the sound of the water filling the silence between you. "it’s not just jokes, and you know it. when jermaine 'happens' to be in the hallway every time you leave the room, or when marlon tries to teach you those dance moves just so he can hold your waist... that’s not just being a family friend."

you laughed, a light sound that usually made him smile, but his expression stayed serious. "well, even if they are being a little extra lately, it doesn't matter. i don't see them that way at all. it’s actually kind of funny that you’re the one getting worked up about it. i’m fine, really. i can handle a few cheesy lines from jackie."

"i just don't like it," he muttered, his voice sounding small. he picked at a loose thread on his sweater, refusing to meet your eyes. "it feels different now. everything is changing so fast. the music, the move to la, the way people look at us... i just wanted one thing to stay the same. i wanted us to stay the same."

you tilted your head, trying to catch his gaze. "nothing is changing between us, mike. i'm still me, and you're still the only one i actually want to spend my afternoons with. who cares if your brothers are being flirty? they’ll get bored and move on to the next girl who actually falls for it."

michael finally looked up, his big brown eyes searching yours. he looked like he wanted to say something else—something much heavier—but he held it back. he just bit his lip and nodded slowly.

"i hope you're right," he whispered, though the way he was looking at you made it clear he didn't think his brothers were the only ones whose feelings were shifting. "just... be careful. they can be pretty persistent when they want something."

"i'll be fine, bodyguard jr.," you joked, trying to lighten the mood. "now come on, your dad is going to wonder where you disappeared to, and my father is probably looking for me to head home."

as you stood up to leave, you didn't notice the way michael lingered for a second, watching you walk away with a look of quiet longing that had absolutely nothing to do with being "just friends."

████████

the next few days at the estate only made things more tense. every time you walked into a room, it felt like a spotlight followed you, and not the kind michael was used to.

you were in the kitchen helping make some tea when jermaine walked in, leaning against the counter much closer than necessary. "you know," he started, his voice smooth like silk, "i was thinking of heading out to that new club later this week. a girl like you shouldn't be stuck in this house all the time. you need to see the city lights."

you gave him a polite smile, moving to the other side of the island to grab some sugar. "thanks, jermaine, but you know i usually stay back with my dad or hang out with mike. i’m not really a club person."

"maybe you just haven't gone with the right person yet," he countered, flashing that practiced grin.

from the doorway, you heard a sharp throat-clear. michael was standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, looking uncharacteristically annoyed. "don't you have a rehearsal to get to, jermaine?"

jermaine just laughed, putting his hands up in mock surrender before strolling out, throwing you one last wink. as soon as he was gone, michael stepped into the kitchen, his energy practically buzzing with frustration.

"see?" he said, his voice low. "that wasn't 'just being friendly.' he’s trying to take you out."

"he was just being nice, mike! he thinks i'm bored," you argued softly, stirring the tea. "why are you so on edge lately? you're usually the calmest person i know."

michael grabbed a glass but didn't fill it with anything. he just held it, his knuckles turning slightly white. "because it’s everywhere. even marlon was asking me yesterday if i thought you had a boyfriend back in gary. they’re circling you like you’re... like you’re something they can just win."

you sighed, setting the spoon down and stepping closer to him. "hey. look at me. i’m not a prize, and i’m not interested. i’ve told you a hundred times, i’m here for my work and for our friendship. why does it bother you so much if they’re being silly?"

he looked down at you, the golden kitchen light catching the curls falling over his forehead. he looked like he wanted to scream it—to tell you exactly why it hurt to see them look at you—but he just tightened his jaw.

"it just bothers me because you deserve better than their games," he managed to say, though his eyes were saying something completely different. "i just want you to be respected."

"i am respected," you insisted, giving his arm a playful squeeze. "now stop being so moody. we’re supposed to listen to those new demos tonight, remember? just you and me. no brothers allowed."

a tiny, reluctant smile finally broke across his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. "just us," he repeated, the words sounding like a promise he was desperately trying to keep to himself. "i like the sound of that."

████████

later that evening, the house had finally quieted down. the brothers had drifted off to different parts of the estate or gone out, leaving the recording room at the back of the house bathed in a dim, blueish light. the air smelled like expensive leather and the faint scent of the incense michael liked to burn when he was feeling creative.

michael was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the sofa with his eyes closed, listening to the raw track of a new song. you were perched right next to him, your shoulder brushing his every time you leaned in to check the lyrics written in his messy scrawl on the notepad between you.

"this part," you whispered, pointing to a line about dancing until the morning light. "it’s magic, mike. people are going to lose their minds when they hear this."

he opened his eyes and looked at you, a genuine, soft smile finally gracing his lips. for a moment, the tension from the kitchen was gone. "you really think so? i want it to feel like... like an escape. like nothing else in the world matters except the rhythm."

"it does," you assured him. "i can feel it."

the moment was perfect until the door swung open, and jackie walked in, still wearing his sunglasses even though it was night. "there she is," he joked, ignoring michael entirely and coming to sit on the other side of you. "i was wondering where you’d disappeared to. you’ve been hiding in here all night."

"we’re working, jackie," michael said, his voice clipped and cold.

jackie just chuckled, reaching over and playfully ruffling your hair. "working hard or hardly working? you know, i’m going for a drive tomorrow morning. thought you might want to come along, see the coast. get some fresh air away from mr. serious over here."

you felt michael stiffen beside you. his entire body went rigid. you quickly tried to smooth things over, giving jackie a small, awkward smile. "that’s sweet, jackie, but i promised mike i'd help him organize these tapes tomorrow. maybe another time?"

jackie shrugged, unfazed. "suit yourself. but the offer stands. you’re way too pretty to spend all your time in a dark room with dusty tapes." he leaned in close, his voice dropping to a theatrical stage whisper. "don't let him bore you to death, okay?"

once jackie finally left, the silence in the room felt heavy. michael didn't move. he just stared at the tape deck, his chest heaving slightly.

"mike?" you said softly, reaching out to touch his hand.

he pulled his hand away quickly, standing up and crossing the room to the window. "i can't do this," he muttered, his back to you. "i can't just sit here and watch them do it over and over again."

"he was just being jackie!" you stood up, feeling frustrated now. "why are you taking it so personally? i said no! i always say no. doesn't that tell you something?"

michael turned around, his face a mask of hurt and hidden anger. "no, it doesn't tell me enough! it tells me you’re nice and you’re loyal, but it doesn't stop them from trying. and it doesn't stop me from..." he choked off the words, shaking his head.

"from what?" you stepped closer, searching his face. "from what, michael?"

he looked like he was vibrating with the effort of holding it in. "from wishing i was the only one who had the right to be in your space. they treat it like a game, but for me... it’s not a game. it’s never been a game."

he looked away, his jaw tight. "forget it. let's just finish the demo."

████████

the rest of the session was quiet—too quiet. michael kept his head down, focusing intensely on the soundboard, his fingers moving over the sliders with a precision that felt almost robotic. you sat back on the sofa, watching him, but for the first time in years, you weren't actually listening to the music.

you were replaying his words in your head. for me... it’s not a game. it’s never been a game.

was he just being protective? or was it something deeper? you started thinking back over the last few months. the way he’d always save the seat next to him for you. the way he’d remember the most random details about your childhood in gary. the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't looking—not with the flashy, confident smirk jermaine gave you, but with a sort of soft, aching vulnerability.

your heart skipped a beat, and you suddenly felt very warm in the air-conditioned room.

"mike?" you whispered, your voice cracking just a little.

"yeah?" he didn't turn around. he was adjusting a dial that didn't really need adjusting.

"do you... do you really think i don't see what's happening? with everyone?" you stood up and walked over to him, stopping just a few feet away. "i mean, i know i act like it’s nothing, but... are you saying you think i should be taking it seriously?"

he finally let his hands drop from the board. he turned slowly, his face half-hidden in the shadows of the studio. "i'm saying that i don't like sharing your time with people who don't value you the way i do. they see a beautiful girl. i see... i see my everything."

he froze as soon as the words left his mouth. his eyes went wide, and he looked like he wanted to pull the air back into his lungs. you felt the world shift on its axis. everything. he didn't say "my friend." he didn't say "my sister."

"michael..." you breathed, taking a step closer.

the confusion that had been clouding your brain for weeks was starting to lift, replaced by a sudden, sharp realization. the reason you hadn't cared about jermaine's flirting or jackie's invitations wasn't because you were oblivious. it was because none of it felt real. none of it felt like this. the heat radiating off michael, the way his breath hitched when you got closer—this was real.

you reached out, your hand trembling slightly, and brushed your fingers against his wrist. his skin was burning.

"is that why you've been so upset?" you asked, your voice barely audible over the hum of the equipment. "not because of them... but because of you?"

michael looked down at your hand on his wrist, then back up at your eyes. the wall he’d built up all evening was crumbling. he didn't pull away this time. instead, he turned his hand over, interlacing his fingers with yours, his grip tight and desperate.

"i’ve been trying so hard to be the 'good friend,'" he admitted, his voice trembling. "i didn't want to push you. i didn't want to be another jackson brother trying to move in on you. but watching them... it was killing me. because i’ve waited so long, and i was so scared that if i didn't speak up, one of them would eventually convince you."

you looked at your joined hands, then up at him, a small, realization-filled smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "michael, you're so literal sometimes. you really thought i’d choose a club date with jermaine over a night in the studio with you?"

he let out a shaky, nervous laugh, his eyes never leaving yours. "i don't know. i’m not as smooth as they are. i just have my music... and i have you. and i really, really don't want to lose the second one."

the air in the room felt different now—thicker, sweeter. you realized you were leaning in, and he was too. the distance between you was disappearing, and for the first time, you weren't thinking about bill, or the brothers, or the off the wall release. you were just thinking about the boy who had been your best friend, and how much you wanted him to be so much more.

the silence in the studio was no longer heavy; it was warm, like a soft blanket wrapped around the both of you. you could hear the faint, rhythmic ticking of the tape reels spinning in the background, but everything else had faded away.

michael’s thumb traced small, nervous circles over the back of your hand. he looked down at your joined fingers, a shy smile finally tugging at his lips—the kind of smile he usually reserved for his most private moments.

"you're really serious?" he whispered, his voice sounding breathless. "about them not standing a chance? i mean, jermaine... he’s got that look, and jackie... he’s got the car, and the—"

"michael joseph jackson," you interrupted, stepping into his personal space until your chest was inches from his. you looked up at him, your heart doing a frantic dance of its own. "stop listing your brothers. they aren't you. they don't look at the stars the way you do, and they definitely don't make me feel like... like this."

"like what?" he asked, his voice dropping to a velvety hush. he leaned down just a fraction, his eyes flitting from your eyes to your lips and back again.

"like i'm the only person in the world who matters," you admitted, your own voice trembling now. "you’ve been looking out for me since the day we moved here. you’re the one i want to talk to at 3:00 am, and you’re the only one whose opinion i actually care about. it was always you, mike. i think i was just too scared to admit it because i didn't want to lose my best friend."

michael let out a long, shaky breath, as if he’d been holding it for years. "you could never lose me," he promised. "i'm stuck to you like glue. my brothers are going to be so annoyed when they find out."

you giggled, the tension finally breaking. "oh, they’re going to be unbearable. jermaine is going to try to give you 'advice' and marlon is going to tease us for the next ten years."

"let them," michael said, his confidence suddenly returning now that he knew where you stood. he reached up with his free hand, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your knees weak. his touch was light, but his gaze was intense. "let them talk. they can have the clubs and the cars. as long as i have this."

he didn't kiss you yet—it was michael, after all, and he lived for the quiet, soulful build-up—but he leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours. you could feel the warmth of his skin and the rapid beat of his heart through his sweater.

"just promise me one thing," he murmured, his eyes closing as he breathed in your scent.

"anything," you replied.

"don't tell bill yet," he joked, a hint of his old mischievous self peaking through. "i don't think your dad is ready to see me as anything other than the kid who follows you around."

you laughed softly, leaning into him, feeling more at home than you ever had in the giant mansion. "deal. but you’re going to have to be a better actor, mike. because the way you’re looking at me right now? the whole world is going to know."

he just hummed in response, pulling you into a proper hug, his arms locking around your waist as he pulled you tight against him. for the first time in weeks, the jealousy was gone, replaced by a quiet, steady glow that felt like the beginning of a whole new era.

████████

ughhh i love when michael is a shy cutie patootie who is crazy in love and jealous 🥹 my bbg frr !! xoxo

[sleepytopia-deactivated20260528]

Sunlight Between Leaves

luffy x gn reader (newly added to the straw hats + plant lover/researcher) Summary: You’re the newest member of the Straw Hat crew, more comfortable with leaves and soil than swords or storms. While you try to learn everything you can about plants aboard the Thousand Sunny, Luffy finds himself drawn to you in ways he doesn’t fully understand—until curiosity turns into something softer, warmer… and just a little bit possessive.

The first thing Luffy noticed about you wasn’t your strength.

It wasn’t your fighting style either—honestly, he couldn’t even explain it if someone asked.

It was the way you looked at plants.

You were kneeling on the deck of the Sunny, hands buried in a wooden planter box Usopp had helped you build. Dirt smudged your fingers, your cheek, even the edge of your shirt—but you didn’t seem to care.

“You talk to them?” Luffy asked suddenly, crouching down beside you.

You didn’t even flinch. “Sometimes. Helps me remember what they need.”

He tilted his head. “Do they talk back?”

You huffed a small laugh. “Not exactly.”

“…That’s kinda boring.”

You bumped your shoulder lightly into his. “Then why are you still here?”

Luffy grinned, wide and easy. “’Cause you’re interesting.”

Days turned into a routine.

You’d tend to your growing collection—herbs, small flowers, even a few experimental plants you were still figuring out—and Luffy would show up like clockwork.

Sometimes he’d just watch.

Sometimes he’d ask questions that made no sense.

Sometimes… he’d sit way too close.

“You smell different,” he said one afternoon, nose practically brushing your neck.

You froze.

“Luffy—”

“Like grass,” he continued, inhaling deeply. “And something sweet.”

Your face heated. “It’s probably just the plants.”

“No,” he said simply, leaning even closer. “It’s you.”

Your heart did something weird—something tight and fluttery all at once.

“…You’re being weird.”

He laughed like that was the funniest thing you’d ever said.

It wasn’t just that he hovered.

It was the way his attention stayed on you.

If Sanji handed you a drink, Luffy was suddenly right there.

If Zoro leaned too close while talking, Luffy would casually wedge himself between you.

At first, you thought it was coincidence.

Then you noticed the way his hand lingered at your waist.

The way his fingers brushed yours and didn’t pull away right away.

The way his eyes… stayed.

“You’re growing fast,” you murmured one evening, gently adjusting a vine that had started curling around its support.

“Like me,” Luffy said proudly.

You snorted. “You don’t count.”

“Hey!”

You smiled, soft. “You’re already grown.”

“…Not everything,” he muttered.

You blinked. “What?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, his hand slipped over yours—warm, firm, grounding.

You didn’t pull away.

The sun was setting, painting everything gold.

Your plants cast soft shadows across the deck.

And Luffy… Luffy was looking at you like you were something rare.

Something worth keeping.

“Can I try?” he asked suddenly.

“Try what?”

“This.” He reached out, clumsily mimicking how you handled one of the leaves.

You guided his hand gently. “Careful—don’t pull too hard.”

His fingers tightened slightly—on the plant, and on you.

“…Like this?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “That’s good.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Your hand was still over his.

His thumb brushed against your wrist.

Slow.

Curious.

Intent.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“…Yeah?”

“You won’t leave, right?”

The question caught you off guard.

“What?”

“You just got here,” he continued, eyes fixed on you. “So you’re staying.”

It didn’t sound like a question.

Your chest tightened—but not in a bad way.

“…I’m staying.”

His grin came back instantly—but it felt different this time.

Sharper.

Warmer.

Closer.

He leaned in.

You didn’t stop him.

The kiss was clumsy at first—Luffy always was—but there was something real in it.

Something warm.

Something hungry, but not overwhelming.

His hand found your waist again, pulling you just a little closer, like he was making sure you wouldn’t slip away.

Your fingers curled into his shirt.

And when you pulled back slightly, breath uneven, he followed without thinking.

“…You taste sweet too,” he murmured.

You laughed softly, a little breathless. “That’s not how that works.”

“Don’t care,” he said, already leaning in again.

The world melted into warmth.

Into sunlight.

Into the quiet rustle of leaves and the steady rhythm of something new growing between you.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized—

Luffy didn’t understand love the way other people did.

But whatever this was?

It was his.

And now…

…it was yours too.

© sleepytopia do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works

[sleepytopia-deactivated20260528]

I love how y’all ate this one up like omgmgmg I was originally gonna do this for usopp but changed it for luffy last minute 😭😭

[sleepytopia-deactivated20260528]

Lies That Turn Into Truth

Usopp x fem!reader Summary: Usopp is used to telling stories to impress people—but with you, he starts forgetting where the lies end and the truth begins. Especially when every “brave captain” tale slowly starts sounding like something he wants to actually become… for you.

The first time Usopp saw you, he was mid-story.

Not a true one, of course.

It involved a sea king the size of a mountain, a dramatic escape, and—somehow—him personally saving an entire village with nothing but a slingshot and “pure courage.”

It was going well.

Right up until you walked past.

You didn’t stop.

Didn’t even look impressed.

Just adjusted the strap of your bag and said, casually, “That’s statistically impossible.”

Usopp froze.

“…Huh?”

You paused then, finally glancing at him.

“I mean,” you added thoughtfully, “the physics of that claim don’t hold up unless the sea king was structurally hollow or suffering from severe skeletal degradation.”

Silence.

The small crowd around him went quiet.

Usopp stared at you like you’d just fired a cannon at his dignity.

Then—

“Y-YOU DON’T KNOW THAT IT WASN’T HOLLOW!!” he blurted.

That was the moment it started.

After that, he noticed you everywhere.

Not in a creepy way.

In a why is she always there when I’m trying to look cool way.

You were on the docks when he tried to demonstrate a “special explosive star.”

You were at the market when he tried to haggle dramatically.

You were leaning against a railing when he tried—very unsuccessfully—to impress someone else with a story about “Dark Island Snipers of the West Blue.”

And every time—

“You’re exaggerating again,” you’d say mildly.

And every time—

“I AM NOT!!” he’d insist, red-faced.

And somehow… you’d smile.

Just a little.

Like you didn’t believe him.

But didn’t mind listening anyway.

It wasn’t until the Straw Hats stayed in port for longer than expected that things changed.

Because Usopp ran out of stories.

Or more accurately—

He started running out of safe lies.

Because you kept listening.

Actually listening.

Not like people who laughed politely.

Not like people who cheered and forgot.

You listened like you were taking notes.

It made him nervous.

And… weirdly proud.

One evening, he found you alone on a wooden pier, sitting with your legs hanging over the water.

He almost didn’t approach.

Almost.

Then he tripped over absolutely nothing and cursed himself into existence.

You turned your head slightly.

“Oh. It’s you.”

“O-Of course it’s me!” he said, straightening up quickly. “Who else would it be?”

You hummed.

“Statistically? Anyone.”

Usopp huffed and sat a careful distance away.

The water below them shimmered gold in the sunset.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“You don’t believe my stories,” he said suddenly.

You tilted your head. “Not all of them.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

He groaned and flopped backward dramatically onto the pier.

“You’re impossible.”

You glanced at him.

“That’s not what I am.”

“…What are you then?” he muttered.

A pause.

Then you answered quietly:

“Curious.”

That made him stop.

Usopp didn’t notice when he started telling you different stories.

Smaller ones.

Less exaggerated ones.

Still dramatic—but… closer to something real.

About pirates he’d actually seen.

About fights that actually happened.

About fear.

About running.

About still standing up anyway.

And you… didn’t laugh.

Not once.

You just listened.

Like it mattered.

Like he mattered.

The first time he tried to impress you on purpose, it went horribly wrong.

Of course it did.

He was showing off a “new invention” that involved a spring-loaded net and “absolute foolproof engineering.”

It was neither new nor foolproof.

It launched him into a crate.

You stood over the mess.

There was a long silence.

Usopp peeked out from under splintered wood.

“…Say something,” he muttered.

You crouched slightly.

Then, very softly—

“That was the most predictable outcome.”

He groaned loudly.

But then—

You smiled.

Not teasing.

Not mocking.

Just… warm.

And you added, quieter:

“…but you’re okay.”

That did something to his chest he didn’t have a name for.

It wasn’t sudden after that.

It never was with Usopp.

It built.

Slowly.

Like a story that didn’t know where it was going yet.

He started showing up near you more often.

You started waiting for him without realizing it.

He started fixing things he didn’t break just so he had an excuse to stay nearby.

You started laughing at his lies before he finished them.

Which made him dramatically offended.

Which made you laugh more.

Which made him… want to keep going.

One night, the air on the Sunny was warm enough that no one really slept properly.

Usopp found you leaning against the railing, watching the ocean.

He hesitated.

Then approached.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

You shook your head slightly.

“Too quiet.”

He nodded like that made sense.

Then awkwardly leaned beside you.

“You know…” he started, then stopped.

You glanced at him.

“What?”

He scratched the back of his neck.

“…If I told you I was the bravest man in the world, would you believe me?”

You considered him for a long moment.

Then:

“No.”

He sputtered.

“Hey!!”

“But,” you added, eyes still on the sea, “I think you want to be.”

That shut him up completely.

The wind shifted.

Warm.

Close.

Too close, suddenly, in a way neither of you acknowledged out loud.

Usopp swallowed.

“…Is that bad?”

You shook your head.

“No.”

A pause.

Then quieter:

“It’s kind of admirable.”

That did it.

He went red so fast he nearly fell over the railing.

The shift was subtle after that.

He stopped exaggerating as much when you were around.

You stopped correcting him as often.

And sometimes—

When the night got too soft and too quiet and the stars were too bright—

You’d sit a little closer than before.

And so would he.

Until distance stopped meaning anything at all.

The first time he touched your hand was an accident.

Sort of.

You both reached for the same rope coil at the same time.

Fingers brushed.

Both of you froze.

Usopp immediately let go like it was on fire.

“—SORRY!!” he yelped.

You blinked.

Then, slowly, you took the rope anyway.

“…It’s fine.”

He stared at you like you’d just rewritten reality.

You didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

Later, much later, he would swear he didn’t plan it.

But when he finally worked up the courage to take your hand properly—

On purpose this time—

It felt less like a lie becoming truth…

And more like a story finally deciding it wanted to be real.

You glanced down at your hands together.

Then up at him.

“…You’re shaking,” you said softly.

“I’M NOT!!” he immediately denied.

But he didn’t let go.

And neither did you.

© sleepytopia do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works

[idcwhattheuseris]

I love Usopp, he doesn’t get enough love !

[oohgeminii]

you seem pretty happy for a girl so single?

steve harrington x reader

|| desc - steve is well and truly in love with you, he always has been, but you couldn't seem less interested in his eyes. this leads him to think you must just be immune to his charm (impossible) or fine being single. truth is you're neither of those things, your simply oblivious, as is he too apparently.

val speaks - get it get it i did a spin on 'you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love' haa so funny basically just excited for this album 😋😋 enjoy babas !! ++ this is another steve fic without much of the actual stranger things plot (as in the upside down) bc i loved the one i did like that the other day he he

basically a childhood friends to lovers even tho they've secretly always been lovers slowburn w some cluelessness 😁

word count: 8.3k

the first thing anyone ever knew about steve harrington was that he was loud.

not loud in volume, though he could be, especially when he laughed so hard milk came out of his nose at age eight because you told him the punchline to a joke wrong on purpose, but loud in presence.

even as a little boy, steve had always seemed to fill every room he walked into, every backyard he ran through, every sidewalk he skidded his bike tires across. he was all scraped knees and crooked grins, wild hair that never sat flat no matter how much water he slapped on it, and a habit of speaking before he thought, then somehow charming his way out of whatever trouble that got him into.

and somehow, from the very beginning, wherever steve was, you were too.

your mothers liked to joke that before either of you could even walk, you’d already claimed each other. two little babies in matching sun hats sitting in paddling pools in neighbouring gardens, grabbing at each other’s hands with sticky fingers and refusing to settle unless you were side by side. apparently, steve used to cry when your parents took you inside for naps, little fists clenched, cheeks red, angry at the universe for daring to separate him from his favourite person.

some things never really changed.

you grew up attached at the hip in the kind of way people only are when history roots itself so deep between them that pulling apart would feel like tearing skin.

you learned to ride bikes together, both of you wobbling dangerously down your street while your dads shouted instructions that neither of you listened to.

steve crashed first, straight into a hedge, and you laughed so hard you tipped over too. he came out with leaves in his hair and a branch caught in his shirt collar, grinning like an idiot, and before he even checked his own scraped elbow, he was kneeling beside you asking if you were okay.

that was steve.

always checking for you first.

there were summers spent so thoroughly tangled together they blurred into one endless golden memory.

afternoons in his parents’ pool until your fingers wrinkled and your skin smelled permanently of chlorine, competitions to see who could hold their breath longest underwater, cannonball contests that ended with his mother yelling because water splashed onto her expensive outdoor furniture.

nights where you slept over so often that both houses stopped asking questions, your toothbrush permanently living in the bathroom connected to steve’s bedroom, one of his old shirts becoming your designated pyjama top.

you built blanket forts in his room and swore they were castles. you made secret handshakes that changed every month. you whispered under covers with flashlights when thunderstorms rolled in, talking about stupid things and serious things and everything in between.

you saw every side of each other.

the ugly sides too.

you saw steve cry the first time his dad called him a disappointment.

you saw him go quiet after, quieter than should’ve been possible for a boy like him, shoulders tense and eyes glassy as he sat on your bedroom floor staring at nothing.

you sat beside him and said nothing at all, just leaned your shoulder against his until he leaned back.

that became your thing.

when his parents fought, he came to your house.

when his father got cruel, he came to your house.

when business trips left that giant empty house colder than winter, he stayed at your house, eating dinner at your table and laughing with your parents like he belonged there, because he did.

your mother kissed the top of his head when he looked especially worn down, your father taught him how to fix things in the garage.

your home became the place he exhaled and you became the person he always looked for first.

always.

through bad haircuts and braces and acne and awkward limbs that grew too fast for your bodies to catch up, you stayed constant.

until high school came and suddenly, painfully, neither of you were awkward anymore.

you grew into yourself quietly, like spring unfolding. pretty in a way that didn’t scream for attention, but stole it anyway.

soft eyes that noticed everything. a laugh that was rarer now, but warm enough to make people chase it. intelligence that shone bright and effortless. kindness that lived in every small thing you did. helping someone pick up dropped books, remembering birthdays nobody else did, always offering your notes to the kids who missed class.

you were beautiful in the sort of way people didn’t fully understand until they looked twice.

steve understood immediately.

and steve, god, steve grew into himself like he’d been handcrafted for trouble.

broad shoulders. soft brown eyes hidden behind ridiculous lashes. hair that somehow always looked perfect. that stupid smile capable of making half the female population of hawkins forget their own names.

and steve knew it.

or at least, his ego did.

king steve, they called him.

captain of popularity.

girls hanging off his arm, boys desperate for his approval, parties every weekend. loud music, expensive beer stolen from his parents’ liquor cabinet, people packed into his house hoping to breathe the same air as him.

he played the part beautifully.

cocky grin, easy charm, careless laughter, pretty girls, empty conversations. but there were things everyone noticed that nobody understood.

how steve only went to parties if you were invited too, even when you almost never came. how he always looked around rooms like he was searching for someone. how if anybody talked badly about you, even as a joke, his entire face changed. how he got mean.

how no girl, no matter how gorgeous, ever lasted long.

how every relationship seemed flimsy compared to the quiet girl who sat beside him in class helping him pass english, who rolled her eyes at his jokes but smiled anyway, who knew where he kept spare house keys and which scar on his knee came from which childhood disaster.

what nobody knew was that steve harrington loved you so badly it ached.

it lived in him like breathing. natural, constant, unavoidable. it was in the way he memorised everything about you.

how you tucked your hair behind your ear when concentrating. how you chewed on pen caps while studying. how you always gave him the marshmallows from your hot chocolate because you hated them and he loved them. how your nose scrunched when you laughed for real. how you never noticed when boys stared because you were too busy living inside your own head.

it killed him a little, that obliviousness.

because steve flirted constantly.

he tested waters in stupid ways.

telling you about girls he hooked up with, watching your face for any crack in your expression.

there never was one.

just your soft, distracted little hums. sometimes a wrinkled nose if the girl sounded awful. sometimes advice.

advice.

jesus christ.

he’d stare at you, really stare, eyes warm and helpless and completely gone for you, and you’d blink back like he was just steve.

just your steve.

your best friend.

meanwhile, he was halfway to insanity.

what steve never saw were all the quiet ways you loved him back.

how you kept every note he’d ever scribbled you. how no boy ever compared, which was why you’d only dated twice and barely liked either of them. how every time he brought a girl around, something sharp and sour twisted in your chest. how you knew the exact shade of hazel his eyes turned in sunlight.

how you sometimes laid awake at night, staring at your ceiling, replaying the way he smiled at you that day or how his hand rested warm on your back guiding you through crowds.

how your mother’s teasing words looped endlessly in your head.

you and stevie were made for each other.

you’d laugh it off, call her crazy, then spend hours wondering if maybe she wasn’t. wondering if steve could ever look at you and see more.

wondering what it would feel like if he kissed you. wondering if kissing steve would ruin everything, or finally make sense of everything that already existed between you.

and every morning after, you’d wake up and slip right back into your place beside him like those thoughts had never happened at all.

best friends.

always.

completely blind to the fact that the boy beside you was one heartbeat away from loving you out loud.

and equally blind to the fact that you already loved him too.

-

life carried on the way it always had.

which was strange, really, considering there was this constant thing sitting between you and steve. neither of you touched it, neither of you spoke it aloud, but it lived there all the same. tucked into glances that lingered too long, into hugs that held just a second more than necessary, into the easy way your lives folded around each other like they were built to fit.

more days turned into more weeks, more weeks into more months, and everything stayed beautifully, painfully normal.

you still sat with him while he copied your homework answers in that messy handwriting of his, tongue poking slightly into his cheek in concentration like he was actually trying, even though half the time he was writing complete nonsense because he was too busy talking to focus.

you still spent lunches together. sometimes alone, sometimes with your few close friends, sometimes with whatever crowd steve had orbiting him that week, but even in a room full of people, his attention always drifted back to you.

always.

you were still the first number he called. still the person he showed up for without asking. still the person he looked for in every crowded room.

and he was still yours in all the ways that mattered, without ever actually being yours at all.

one night after dinner at your house, your mother insisting steve stay because she’d made too much food, as if she hadn’t been cooking with him in mind from the start, the two of you found yourselves in your bedroom, exactly where you always ended up.

lying on the floor.

side by side.

staring at the ceiling.

it was a strange little ritual you’d created years ago, one that somehow stuck. whenever something weighed heavy on either of you, whenever thoughts got too loud or life got too complicated, you ended up here. flat on your backs, shoulders nearly touching, eyes aimed upward like answers might be written in the cracks of your ceiling paint.

this was where the real conversations happened.

not the casual chatter, not gossip, not jokes, this was where truths lived. the ugly ones, the tender ones, the ones neither of you gave anybody else.

steve let out a long breath beside you, one hand resting on his stomach, the other tucked behind his head.

“he’s doing it again.”

you turned your head slightly toward him.

“your dad?”

he laughed once, humourless.

“who else?”

his jaw tightened, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“he’s on this whole thing about how i need to start learning the business now, so when he retires i can just… step in.” his voice hardened around the words. “like it’s some fucking honour.”

you stayed quiet.

you’d learned years ago that steve needed space to unravel before he needed comfort.

“he talks about it like he’s handing me a kingdom,” he muttered. “when really he’s handing me a prison sentence.”

your chest tightened.

because underneath the bitterness, underneath the anger, you heard what steve wasn’t saying.

he was scared, scared of becoming him. scared of looking in the mirror one day and seeing his father staring back.

steve scrubbed a hand over his face.

“i swear to god, i’d rather work in some shitty grocery store for the rest of my life than do what he does.”

that made you smile softly.

not because it was funny, though the dramatic way he said it was very steve, but because you knew him.

you knew this wasn’t about business being boring this was about morality. about goodness. about the way steve, despite all his pretending and ego and polished king-of-hawkins image, had the softest heart of anybody you knew.

he wanted to be kind, gentle. different. nothing like the man who’d raised him.

you reached your hand out between you, your pinky brushing lightly against his.

“what do you actually want?” you asked quietly.

“what?”

“after high school.” you looked back up at the ceiling. “college. life. what do you want, stevie?”

the room went quiet for a second, then two. then he laughed softly under his breath. not a happy laugh, the sad kind.

the self-deprecating kind.

“college?” he scoffed. “c’mon.”

you frowned instantly.

“don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“act like you’re stupid.”

he turned his head to look at you then, brown eyes soft in the dim lamp light.

“i’m not exactly ivy league material.”

“you’re smarter than you think.”

“i’m really not.”

“you are.”

there was firmness in your voice now, the kind that always made him listen.

“you just don’t try because somewhere along the line, somebody convinced you there was no point.”

his expression shifted. small, almost wounded, because you always saw right through him.

always.

you kept going, softer now.

“you’re smart, steve. genuinely smart. not even just academically, you read people better than anyone i know. you remember everything that matters. you’re creative. funny. emotionally intelligent, even if you pretend you aren’t.” you nudged his shoulder gently. “and if i have to spend the rest of my life reminding you of that, i will.”

steve stared at you and god, there was that look again. that look that made your stomach turn over.

warm, completely devastating. then, because he was steve, he ruined the moment on purpose.

“well,” he sighed dramatically, “in that case, i’ll just follow you wherever you go.”

you snorted.

“oh yeah?”

“absolutely.” he folded his hands over his chest. “be your little house wife.”

that made you laugh properly.

bright and sudden.

the kind of laugh that always made him smile like he’d won something.

“house wife?”

“yeah.”

“you?”

“i’d be incredible at it.”

“you can’t cook.”

“i can make toast.”

“you burn toast.”

“crispy toast.”

you laughed harder and soon he was laughing too, that big, warm laugh that filled your whole room.

then the laughter settled into something softer. comfortable quiet. and somewhere in that quiet, the strange truth of it hung there,

every version of the future either of you had ever imagined always included the other. always.

sometimes you were neighbours with houses connected by a garden gate. sometimes coworkers. sometimes roommates in a big city. sometimes pen pals, a ridiculous idea born from sixteen-year-old steve drunkenly declaring he was moving to italy after eating pasta he called religious.

you still teased him for that.

but every dream, every joke, every passing thought about what came next, included us.

never 'me'. never 'you'. always us.

neither of you spoke about the deeper version of that dream.

the one with shared mornings. shared beds. children with messy hair and stubborn attitudes. a home that belonged equally to both of you.

but somewhere, buried deep, you’d both imagined it.

more than once.

steve swallowed hard against that thought.

then casually, too casually, he asked,

“how come you’re still single?”

you turned your head.

“you’re single too.”

a slow smirk spread across his mouth.

“yeah, but i haven’t always been.”

you rolled your eyes.

“neither have i.”

“middle school boyfriends don’t count.”

you laughed.

“according to who?”

“according to me.”

you shook your head, smiling, then shrugged.

“i don’t know.”

and that answer sat strangely warm in steve’s chest.

because maybe, maybe you liked being single. maybe there was nobody. maybe it wasn’t that you didn’t want him specifically.

weirdly, that hurt less.

he smiled faintly, staring back up at the ceiling.

then you asked quietly,

“why haven’t you settled down with anyone?”

his chest tightened because there were a thousand truths he could say. because i’m in love with my best friend. because nobody feels like you. because every girl i kiss isn’t you.

instead, he shrugged.

“i don’t know.”

and selfishly, your heart liked that answer far more than the possibility of him loving somebody else.

silence settled again.

then steve spoke, voice quieter than before, serious,

“promise me something.”

“anything.”

he turned his head toward you.

there was vulnerability there, raw and boyish and achingly honest.

“don’t forget me.”

your brows pulled together instantly.

“steve-”

“i mean it.” he swallowed. “when all this ends. when college happens, life happens… if we end up in different places…” his voice got softer. “don’t forget about me.”

your whole chest ached because forgetting steve harrington would be like forgetting your own name.

impossible.

you reached across the floor and took his hand fully. fingers threading together like second nature. like instinct. like home.

you squeezed once.

“never” you whispered.

and steve squeezed back, holding your hand in the dark like it was something precious.

something worth keeping.

“promise?”

you smiled softly.

“i promise.”

neither of you realised then just how much that promise would come to mean.

-

by the time prom season rolled around, steve was losing his goddamn mind.

he sat at the edge of his bed one night, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the carpet while every thought in his head somehow circled back to you.

which, admittedly, wasn’t unusual. most roads in steve’s mind led to you, had for years.

but this was different, this was bigger.

this was prom.

the last school dance.

the final stupid, sweaty gymnasium decorated with cheap streamers and glitter and songs that would probably suck and punch that tasted vaguely like chemicals.

and steve wanted one thing.

just one.

you.

not in the way he’d had you before. showing up together because that’s what you always did, wandering in side by side because steve bringing you was as natural as breathing, dancing stupidly together in between him getting dragged off by friends and you laughing at him from the sidelines.

not as best friends.

not as what everyone already assumed you were.

he wanted to take you, really take you.

wanted to stand on your doorstep with flowers and nerves and sweaty palms. wanted to tell you you looked beautiful and mean it so hard it hurt. wanted to dance with his hands on your waist and know it meant something different.

wanted one night where he could pretend, or maybe, if he got lucky, not pretend at all.

so he came up with a plan.

a stupid plan. a deeply embarrassing plan. a plan that, in hindsight, made him want to throw himself directly into traffic.

he was going to make it obvious.

not say it, because apparently despite being steve harrington, king of confidence, he became a complete coward when it came to you, but obvious enough.

obvious enough that if you smiled a little wider than usual, blushed even slightly, acted flustered in any way he’d ask you.

simple. easy. foolproof.

except it was none of those things.

because monday morning, the second he pulled into your driveway, he already started acting insane.

normally, steve would pull up, lean dramatically on the horn once, and wait while you came out rolling your eyes.

his logic always being, your house is right there, you can hear the horn when i get in the car.

instead, that morning, he got out. walked to your front door. and knocked. actually knocked.

when you opened it, bag over your shoulder, hair still slightly messy from rushing around getting ready, he nearly forgot every coherent thought in his head.

you blinked at him then squinted suspiciously.

“…why are you at my door?”

he immediately panicked internally.

say something cool.

say something normal.

“felt like it.”

idiot.

your eyes narrowed further, mouth twitching like you were fighting a smile.

“okay…”

you kept looking at him funny all the way to the car, and honestly, fair enough.

but then he made it worse.

because when you reached the passenger side, he darted ahead and opened your door for you.

you stopped dead.

“what are you doing?”

steve leaned against the open door casually, like he wasn’t having a full body crisis.

“being nice?”

you laughed softly, confused and amused all at once.

“you are nice.”

“being nicer.”

you stared at him for a second then shook your head, smiling to yourself as you got in. that smile hit him like a truck.

holy shit.

was that wider than normal? was that flirty? was that polite?

what did that mean-

and thus began the longest week of steve harrington’s life.

because once he started, he couldn’t stop.

every class you didn’t share, he was waiting outside when the bell rang.

leaning against lockers trying to look casual, heart kicking up every time your face lit up when you saw him.

he carried your books.

your bag.

once, your stupid heavy history textbook that you always complained about.

he held doors open.

walked you to every class.

blew off tommy and half his friend group every lunch just to sit with you.

actually did his half of your joint assignment, not copied, not barely attempted, actually did it, and when you looked at him like he’d grown another head, he just shrugged like it was no big deal while internally screaming notice me.

he bought you lunch monday.

again on wednesday.

again on thursday.

sat in the library with you after school willingly.

willingly. the library.

for hours.

and every single thing you did made his brain short circuit.

because you just accepted it. completely. you didn’t question him much, didn’t pull away, didn’t act weird, didn’t reject any of it. you simply smiled that sweet little smile and let him fuss over you.

let him carry your things. let him buy your lunch. let him walk you around school like you were something precious.

and worst of all you looked happy about it. which should’ve been good. right? that should’ve been good.

except now steve was spiralling because what the hell did happy mean?

did you know what he was doing? were you oblivious? were you pitying him? were you just enjoying the attention?

meanwhile, you were living in your own version of insanity.

because steve had always made you feel special.

always.

from childhood to now, there had never been a moment where you doubted your place in his life.

but this?

this was different. this was soft, intentional. sweet in ways that made your stomach flip.

it felt suspiciously like being courted. like being wanted. like being his girl.

and god you liked it. liked it so much it scared you. so no, you didn’t question it. because if you asked, what if it stopped? what if he laughed and said he was just messing around? what if this tenderness disappeared?

so instead, you quietly soaked it in.

let yourself pretend just for a little while. let yourself imagine this was what loving steve openly might feel like.

which meant steve’s giant, ridiculous plan was failing spectacularly for one very simple reason-

the both of you were idiots.

by friday, steve was at breaking point.

he sat in his last class barely hearing a word the teacher said, knee bouncing under the desk.

what the hell was happening? surely by now, if you liked him, you would’ve said something. asked him what all this meant. given him something obvious back.

right?

unless you didn’t like him. unless you just thought he was being nice. unless this was normal to you because he’d always treated you well and you saw no difference.

jesus christ.

he’d spent an entire week acting like a lovesick freak and somehow ended up more confused than when he started.

the final bell rang and steve made a decision.

enough.

no more weird signals, no more spiralling, no more stupid plans.

he was asking you tonight.

flat out.

whatever happened, happened because he was absolutely not surviving another week of this.

what steve didn’t know was that at that exact same moment, sitting in class chewing the end of your pen and smiling stupidly to yourself remembering how he tucked your hair behind your ear at lunch you were thinking,

please don’t stop whatever this is.

please let me keep having this version of you.

even if it’s not real.

even if it’s only for a little while.

-

steve waited outside your last class.

again.

at this point, it had become routine. somewhere in his ridiculous attempt at flirting came a habit he’d accidentally fallen in love with.

there was just something about it.

the way your face always softened the second you spotted him leaning against the lockers. the little smile you never seemed able to hold back. the way you automatically walked toward him, like your feet knew where they belonged before your brain caught up.

it made something warm settle in his chest every single time.

so yes, even if his original reasons for waiting outside your classes had been pathetic and embarrassingly romantic, now he did it simply because he liked it.

liked being the person you looked for, liked walking beside you through crowded halls, liked carrying your books even when you insisted they “weren’t heavy.”

liked the feeling of everyone seeing you together.

he liked it far too much.

that friday, though, he was restless.

you noticed almost immediately.

the way his fingers tapped against his leg. the way his jaw kept tightening. the way he kept opening his mouth like he wanted to say something, only to close it again.

still, you didn’t ask.

if there was one thing years of knowing steve harrington had taught you, it was that when he was ready to talk, he would.

until then, you let silence be comfortable.

and it always was with him.

the drive home was dipped in golden evening light, quiet except for the radio humming softly in the background and the occasional sound of steve drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel.

when he took a corner too fast his hand instinctively shot out, catching your thigh for a second to steady you.

warm, solid, gone too quickly.

neither of you said anything but your stomach flipped anyway.

when he pulled up between your houses, you reached for the door handle-

“wait.”

your hand froze.

you turned back.

steve looked terrified, actually terrified.

your heart immediately started hammering.

oh my god.

oh my god.

was he-

this was it. this had to be it.

the weird week, the sweet gestures, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he’d been hovering close like he couldn’t help himself-

this was him asking you to prom.

your whole body went warm.

steve swallowed hard. right. just say it.

say prom.

“do you wanna go prom-”

your breath caught.

his heart launched into his throat.

“-dress shopping with me?”

silence.

steve internally punched himself in the face.

coward. absolute coward.

you blinked.

then laughed softly, trying to ignore how quickly hope had risen and crashed in your chest.

“are you getting a dress this year too, stevie?”

he huffed a little laugh, looking down, shaking his head.

“no, i mean…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “y’know, i’ll drive us to the city. we can get all fancy and buy expensive shit we probably don’t need. get ice cream on the way home.”

he looked up at you then.

hopeful. boyish.

impossibly handsome.

you smiled, a real one.

“that sounds nice.”

his shoulders loosened instantly.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

you opened the door, stepping out, then turned back with a grin.

“it’s a date.”

and walked away.

steve sat frozen in his car.

date.

date?

did you mean date date?

or date as in phrase?

people said that all the time.

right?

right??

he smacked his forehead gently against the steering wheel.

meanwhile, halfway to your front door, you were spiralling too.

why would you say it’s a date? why would you say that?

that sounds romantic. that sounds intentional. he’s going to think you meant it romantically.

except he doesn’t like you.

probably.

so now you sound insane.

great.

perfect.

wonderful.

still, somehow, both of you went to bed smiling because stupid was easier when it felt this good.

-

nice and early the next morning, steve was at your door.

knocking.

again.

except this time when you opened it, you were very much not ready.

hair wild, sleep still heavy in your eyes, oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder, soft pyjama shorts, bare legs and sleepy confusion.

steve forgot how breathing worked.

you frowned at him.

“why are you here?”

his brain completely short circuited.

“…shopping.”

you groaned.

“shit.”

you looked over your shoulder at the clock and winced.

“i overslept.”

steve finally recovered enough to shrug casually.

“i’ll wait.”

he walked past you like he belonged there, because he did, headed straight to your room, kicked off his shoes, and threw himself face down onto your bed.

dramatically, arms spread, muffled voice immediately rambling into your duvet.

“had the weirdest dream last night.”

you stood at your mirror trying to brush your hair while pulling on jeans.

“what?”

more muffled nonsense.

something about a shark. your third grade teacher. a ferrari. possibly italy.

you laughed.

“i understood none of that.”

he lifted his face slightly, cheek squished against your pillow.

“it made sense in dream logic.”

“sure.”

then face planted again, continuing to ramble while you got ready, his voice muffled into your blankets.

it was domestic in a way neither of you thought too hard about.

easy, dangerously easy.

soon enough, you were in the car headed toward the city.

the windows down, music loud. summer warmth creeping in. you stopped at a roadside place for breakfast sandwiches, then got back on the road. where steve immediately became unbearable.

“bite.”

you looked at him.

“…what?”

“feed me.”

“you have hands.”

“i’m driving. i need to concentrate.”

you stared.

he opened his mouth expectantly.

“bite.”

your eyes narrowed, he looked ridiculous.

you hated how cute it was.

with a sigh, you held the sandwich up for him. he leaned over dramatically, taking a huge bite, cheeks full like a chipmunk.

you laughed despite yourself.

“you’re such an idiot.”

secretly, steve loved the little annoyed crease between your brows. loved making you roll your eyes. loved that you always indulged him anyway.

shopping somehow started with your dress.

steve had expected torture. hours of standing around, fabric talk, waiting, boredom.

instead he got to watch you try on dresses, which was apparently heaven. every single dress had him losing his mind quietly.

blue. green. white. sparkly. simple. dramatic.

even the absolutely hideous monstrosity he tossed into your pile as a joke, some bright orange ruffled nightmare, looked unfairly cute because you came out striking poses and making ridiculous model faces until he laughed so hard he nearly cried.

“that one?” you asked, spinning.

“burn it.”

you grinned.

but then you stepped out wearing soft baby pink.

simple, elegant, gentle, completely you, and steve forgot how to speak.

you looked beautiful.

not pretty, not cute, beautiful. the kind that hurt to look at because it made wanting feel too big inside his chest.

you smiled shyly at your reflection.

“i kinda love this one.”

steve could only nod.

because if he opened his mouth, he’d probably propose.

when you disappeared back into the changing room after trying on the final dress, leaving the pink dress hanging outside, steve moved instantly.

straight to the register.

money down.

done.

easy.

when the cashier smiled warmly and said, “that’s sweet- paying for your girlfriend’s prom dress”

steve didn’t even think, didn’t correct her, just smiled softly.

“yeah.”

the word slipped out naturally like truth. he walked back holding the dress bag proudly. when you emerged and saw it, your face scrunched instantly.

“steve harrington-”

“don’t start.”

“i told you i was buying it-”

he shrugged, smiling.

“it’s our last prom, princess. gotta treat you right.”

princess. that stupid nickname. it hit you exactly where it always did.

that awful lovely feeling.

but you’d become very good at hiding it so you only rolled your eyes.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“and generous.”

“annoyingly generous.”

“you love me.”

you smiled softly.

“yeah.”

the quiet honesty of it made his chest tighten because you meant it one way and he heard it another.

then he grinned, standing.

“c’mon.”

you looped your arm through his without thinking.

“your turn.”

shopping for steve’s suit was, thankfully, much quicker.

mostly because he cared significantly less than you did.

he tried on maybe three jackets, two pairs of trousers, one shirt, then stood in front of the mirror shrugging like, yeah, this one’s fine, while you looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

“fine?” you repeated.

steve adjusted the collar lazily. “yeah.”

“fine is your final prom outfit?”

he looked down at himself.

navy suit. clean lines, fitted enough to make his shoulders look unfairly broad. white shirt, sleeves rolled halfway while he changed ties.

hair slightly messy from pulling shirts over his head.

beautiful, unfortunately.

he shrugged again.

“looks good enough.”

you stared.

“good enough” you echoed flatly.

his grin only widened “mhm.”

but then, then he did something so stupidly sweet that your entire brain briefly stopped functioning.

the woman helping fit him asked what colour tie he wanted, before she could even list options, steve answered immediately.

“baby pink.”

you blinked.

he looked over at you casually.

“to match your dress.”

simple, matter-of-fact. like it was obvious. like there was never another option.

to match your dress.

your heart practically punched through your ribs because it was little things. always little things with steve. the details, the quiet thoughtfulness, the instinctive way he always included you in everything.

the way matching your dress mattered to him.

not because it was prom, not because it was fashion, but because it was yours.

you stood there smiling like an idiot while he tried on ties, your mind spiralling somewhere far, far away.

and honestly?

you barely paid attention to anything else after that.

just him.

his hands fixing his cuffs, his soft smile when he caught you staring, the way he kept glancing toward you for approval.

god.

you were in trouble. deep trouble.

when you guys got in the car both taking a deep breath, pausing before the long drive home, you stopped him.

“steve?”

his hand froze on the key.

“yeah?”

your heart hammered.

this was insane, absolutely insane but suddenly you couldn’t keep waiting, couldn’t keep wondering. couldn’t keep pretending every soft thing between you didn’t mean something.

so you looked at him and did exactly what he’d been trying to do all week.

“do you wanna go to prom with me?”

steve blinked.

once.

twice.

“…what?”

you smiled nervously.

“prom.”

he laughed softly, confused.

“we always go together.”

you swallowed then forced yourself to say it.

“i mean… properly with me, steve.”

his entire body went still, heart pounding so hard he could hear it.

“what?”

god.

he looked so confused, so beautiful.

and suddenly courage, reckless, terrifying courage, grabbed hold of you. you leaned forward and kissed him.

soft, quick.

the second your lips touched his, your whole body lit up like lightning.

then panic immediately followed.

oh god.

what did you just do?

you pulled back instantly, mouth already opening to explain, apologise, ramble, but steve’s hand came up, cupping your cheek.

warm, gentle, and he pulled you right back in.

kissed you properly.

like he’d been starving. like he knew exactly what your lips would feel like because he’d imagined it a thousand times, but somehow it was still better.

so much better.

you could actually feel him melt, his whole body softened into it and then, that little sound.

a quiet sigh against your mouth.

soft, content, completely helpless. it shot straight into your chest. your new favourite sound. absolutely.

when he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard, smiling in complete disbelief.

then he said-

“i hate you.”

your eyes flew open.

“…what?”

he laughed breathlessly.

“i have been waiting my whole life for you to show literally any sign that you liked me.” he pulled back enough to look at you, eyes wide with mock offence. “and the one week i actually decide to try and something about it, you beat me to it.”

you burst out laughing then he did too, forehead dropping back against yours. then suddenly he leaned back fully, staring at you like you were insane.

“no, seriously- what?”

you blinked.

“what?”

“why now?”

you shrugged, cheeks warm.

“i’ve always liked you, stevie.”

steve’s jaw actually dropped.

“what?”

you laughed.

“i’ve always liked you.”

“then why didn’t you say anything?!”

you gave him a look.

“why didn’t you?”

he stared at you like the answer was obvious.

“because you never acted like you wanted me back. ever.”

you frowned.

“maybe you’re oblivious.”

steve scoffed so hard it was almost offensive then gave you the most irritated look imaginable.

“i do not wanna hear you call anybody oblivious. you are the most oblivious person alive.”

you gasped.

“no i’m not.”

“yes, you are.”

“i’m cautious.”

“cautious of what?”

you went quieter then.

honest.

“reading too far into things.” your fingers picked at your sleeve. “you could’ve just been being nice, y’know? i didn’t wanna lose you.”

steve’s whole face softened instantly.

his hand found yours.

squeezed.

“in no world do you lose me, idiot.”

your eyes rolled automatically, mostly because if you looked at him too long you might cry.

then, lighter, you said,

“been waiting your whole life?” you smiled. “dramatic ass.”

he laughed then shook his head.

“no, i’m serious.”

“right.”

“i am.”

“okay, sure-”

before you could argue, he grabbed your face again and kissed you hard. full of grin and relief and years of built-up wanting.

when he pulled back, he was smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

“and yeah,” he murmured. “i’ll go to prom with you.”

he winked.

“it’s a date.”

you groaned, laughing.

“that line was awful.”

“worked the first time.”

you shoved his shoulder.

he caught your hand, kissed your knuckles and then finally started the car.

the drive home was spent sharing ice cream, stealing kisses at red lights, and smiling so much both your faces hurt.

and when he parked between your houses that evening for the first time going home next door didn’t feel like enough.

because now, finally, you knew exactly where home was.

and it was sitting in the driver’s seat, smiling at you like he’d found his whole world.

-

the week leading up to prom was, quite possibly, the happiest either of you had ever been.

which was saying something, considering you and steve had spent your whole lives making happiness out of ordinary things.

bike rides and late-night talks. pool days and movie nights. studying together, even when steve mostly just distracted you.

shared dinners. inside jokes.

the quiet comfort of simply existing side by side.

you had already built a life around each other long before romance ever entered the picture.

but now there was kissing. and, quite frankly, that improved everything.

the strange thing was, almost nothing about your relationship changed, and somehow, everything changed.

you still woke up most mornings to the sound of steve’s car horn, or, more recently, to the sound of him knocking on your front door because apparently now he liked seeing your sleepy face. you still rode to school together, still shared lunches, still studied in the library after classes, still spent evenings draped across each other’s bedroom floors talking about life until one of you fell asleep mid-conversation.

you were still you.

he was still steve.

best friends in every way that mattered.

except now, when he saw you, his face immediately softened into the most helpless smile. except now, his hand naturally found yours every chance it got. except now, when he dropped you off at home, you kissed him goodnight. except now, when he made you laugh, he looked at your mouth afterwards like he couldn’t help himself.

except now, he kissed you whenever the urge struck him, which was often.

very often.

because steve had apparently been suppressing years of affection, and now that he was allowed to touch you the way he’d always wanted he simply never stopped.

a kiss on your forehead when he saw you in the morning. a kiss on your cheek while waiting in line for lunch. a kiss against your temple while you studied.

a quick peck when he passed you in the hallway. a longer one when nobody was looking.

soft kisses, laughing kisses, hungry kisses that left you breathless, lazy kisses that happened just because you were standing close.

sometimes he’d stop mid-sentence, stare at you for a second, then kiss you like he’d just remembered he could.

when you’d laugh and ask what that was for, he’d just grin.

“been wanting to for years.”

as if that explained everything. as if that wasn’t enough to make your heart explode every single time.

steve, somehow, became even sweeter.

which you honestly hadn’t thought possible.

he was constantly touching you in little ways. fingers brushing yours, hand on the small of your back, absentmindedly tucking your hair behind your ear, resting his chin on your shoulder while reading over your work even though he wasn’t actually reading any of it.

he looked at you like you were his favourite thing on earth, like he still couldn’t quite believe this was real.

truthfully, he couldn’t.

steve had spent years loving you quietly, years convincing himself he was okay with just having you however he could get you.

best friend. neighbour. constant companion.

he had told himself that was enough.

it hadn’t been, not really.

and now he got to kiss you. hold your hand. hear you call him yours in little casual ways that made his brain completely short circuit.

my stevie.

mine.

god.

he’d never been happier.

and you felt exactly the same.

you weren’t even officially dating yet. somehow, neither of you had actually labelled whatever this was, but it didn’t matter.

you were his.

he was yours.

everyone knew it.

that was enough.

for now.

then prom night arrived.

you spent the afternoon at your friend’s house with your three closest girlfriends, all of you crowded around mirrors with makeup scattered everywhere, hairspray thick in the air, music playing too loudly in the background while laughter bounced off the walls.

it was chaos, beautiful chaos.

and, naturally, your friends spent most of it teasing you mercilessly.

“finally,” one of them said dramatically while curling your hair. “do you understand how painful it’s been watching you two circle each other for years?”

another snorted from where she was doing eyeliner.

“literally years.”

“it was embarrassing,” the third added. “for everyone involved.”

you laughed, shaking your head.

“we were not that obvious.”

three deadpan looks met your reflection in the mirror.

then all together-

“you were.”

one of them groaned dramatically.

“he looked at you like you hung the moon.”

you covered your face.

“okay, stop.”

they only laughed harder but beneath the teasing was genuine relief. everyone who loved you had been waiting for this, waiting for you both to finally stop being idiots, waiting for the inevitable.

because to everyone else you and steve had always been a love story waiting to happen.

later, after hugs and promises to meet at prom, you headed home to get dressed.

and when you finally stepped into your baby pink dress, the same one steve secretly bought for you, you stared at yourself for a long moment.

soft curls framing your face, makeup gentle and glowing, the pink bringing warmth to your skin.

for once, nerves hit.

not because of prom.

because of steve.

because you wanted him to look at you and feel what you always felt when you looked at him.

then, a knock at the door.

your stomach flipped instantly.

you carefully made your way downstairs, hand lightly gripping the banister so you wouldn’t trip over your own feet and halfway down, you froze.

your mother had already opened the door.

steve was standing inside.

flowers in hand, pink flowers, the exact shade of your dress, suit fitted perfectly, tie matching you exactly like he’d planned, hair done but still somehow perfectly messy, looking so unfairly handsome it almost knocked the breath from your lungs.

then he looked up and froze. completely.

his whole body went still, flowers slackening slightly in his hand. mouth parting, eyes wide.

you nearly froze too but you also nearly missed a step, so survival instincts forced you forward.

when you reached him, smiling shyly, steve still looked stunned.

then softly, so softly,

“you look so beautiful."

his voice full of awe.

you felt your cheeks warm.

“you look handsome.”

that snapped him into a grin.

your mother immediately started gushing.

“oh, look at you two-”

your father, already prepared, handed her the old camera.

same tradition every dance, same photo spot every year.

except this year felt different, this year felt important.

steve’s hand settled naturally on your waist.

firm, warm, possessive in the gentlest way. you tucked into his side and both of you smiled brighter than you ever had before.

click.

perfect.

the second you stepped outside and the front door shut behind you steve kissed you. immediately. like he physically couldn’t help it.

you laughed softly against his mouth when he pulled away.

“what was that for?”

he shrugged, smiling.

“sorry. i feel like i have to all the time now.”

you blinked.

he looked adorably sheepish.

“i waited too long before.”

your whole chest melted.

you stood on your toes and kissed his cheek.

“good job i don’t mind.”

his smile widened impossibly.

the drive there was perfect. madonna played loudly, steve complained-

“this song again?”

-while secretly singing every word.

badly. using one hand as a fake microphone. you laughed until your stomach hurt and when he caught you looking at him with that soft smile he winked.

god.

you were doomed.

prom itself was… nice.

crowded, hot, loud. friends dragged you apart almost immediately, his crowd calling him over, yours pulling you in. reluctantly, you separated. but only briefly. because, like always, you found your way back to each other.

effortlessly, like magnets, just in time for the slow dance.

his hands found your waist, yours looped around his neck. you swayed together beneath dim lights, forehead resting lightly against his, smiling softly at nothing and everything.

it was perfect, too perfect, too short. because when the song ended, steve frowned.

“that’s bullshit.”

you laughed.

“what?”

“not enough dancing.”

before you could ask what he meant, he grabbed your hand and started pulling you through the crowd.

out the doors, into the parking lot.

you were laughing the whole time.

“stevie- what are you doing?”

he just laughed breathlessly.

“trust me.”

he dragged you to his car, opened the door, turned the radio on, shoved in a cassette, then david bowie filled the warm night air.

steve dramatically bowed.

held out his hand.

“may i have this dance?”

you laughed so hard your cheeks hurt then placed your hand in his.

under stars, in a mostly empty parking lot, next to his car, you slow danced.

giggling, stepping on each other’s feet, swaying dramatically, kissing halfway through because neither of you could help yourselves.

it was perfect. better than prom itself.

afterwards, breathless and smiling, you both looked toward the building, then at each other and silently agreed-

fuck prom.

ice cream was mandatory, then home.

summer air still warm enough that sitting in his back garden felt perfect.

until suddenly steve gasped, shot upright and ran to the pool, crouching beside it staring in dramatically.

you followed quickly.

“what? what?”

he waved urgently.

“come look.”

you leaned closer and he shoved you in. cold water swallowed you whole. when you surfaced gasping, steve was doubled over laughing.

that little bitch.

fine.

game on.

you frowned dramatically.

“ow- steve-”

his laughter stopped instantly.

“…what?”

you grabbed your arm.

“i think i hurt it-”

panic overtook his face.

“shit- how?”

he reached down and his hand out.

the sweetest idiot alive.

you grabbed it and yanked.

he crashed in beside you with a loud splash. when he surfaced, hair plastered down, face full of betrayal, you were laughing hysterically.

he looked annoyed for exactly two seconds before pulling you into him, arms wrapping around your waist holding you close in the water.

laughing softly now too.

then he kissed you.

forehead resting against yours after, smiling wide.

then quietly, like truth he’d been carrying forever,

“i love you.”

your eyes opened.

you smiled.

“i love you too.”

his face softened so completely it almost broke you.

then he hugged you hard like he never wanted to let go.

later, dripping wet, climbing out of the pool steve paused. looked at you seriously, then “that means you’re my girlfriend now, by the way.”

you smiled.

nodded.

“okay.”

he frowned jokingly.

“…okay?”

you blinked.

“what?”

he shoved wet hair back.

“i always thought you were perfectly happy being single.”

you smiled softly.

shrugged.

“maybe i was just waiting for you.”

he rolled his eyes immediately, tugging you into his side as he walked you both inside.

his lips pressed briefly to your temple.

then quietly, certainly, “you always had me.”

his arm tightened around you.

“always.”

-

@prettyfortucker @harringtondarling @katsallthetime @thichnhathanhh @keepdrlving @beth-mirrorball @powerpuffedbjtch @itzeeeee @ddenniiee-729 @teheblue @frozenpeanutbutterr @coldalpsmcu @b0nzey @xceafh @hearts4steve @swirledyouintoallmypoems @saintlaurentdiva @joekeerylice @blurrygir1 @songkangslvr @keerymylove @foreverserving @cciessuzi @livingblythedoli @toopypoopy @ellieluvercentral @evies4ngels @lattewirl @wolfiee10 @maevebloom @drunkedniallh @girlwithkaleidoscopeeyes777 @mabsters @i-got-the-cinema @batmanssssss @bluehexagon8 @magnificentcitadelcrest @pleasecallmeunhinged @purplequeen64-stuff @inherdiary77 @whispersoflost @yikesdrama @chronicstevelover @horanlover7 @ann-aatn @xoxocelestial @isatchl

[azurewitchxx]

Jealous and possessive zoro pleaseeeeeee!!!! Pleaseeeeeeee!

Jealous + Possessive Zoro

The Sunny was docked at a lively port town, and you being your usual charming, radiant self had decided to wander off for a bit. Zoro had insisted he didn’t need to tag along, but now he was regretting that decision like hell.

Because when he finally found you?

You were laughing. Smiling. With some guy. Some swordsman, clearly a local bragging about his sword style and offering to “train” you sometime. Touching your shoulder like he had the right. Like he even stood a chance.

Zoro’s eye twitched. He didn’t approach at first. No. He just watched. Arms crossed. Back against a building. Seething quietly. His hand rested casually on Wado Ichimonji’s hilt, but every instinct in him screamed to draw it.

The man leaned closer. Zoro snapped. One second the stranger was mid-sentence, the next he was slammed against the wall with Zoro’s hand gripping his collar like a vice.

“You got a death wish?” Zoro growled, voice low, eyes burning with rage.

“Zoro!” you gasped, grabbing his arm, but he didn’t even flinch. His focus was locked.

“I don’t know what trash sword style you were spewing,” he hissed at the man, “but you don’t touch what’s mine.”

The guy stammered something, apology? Confusion? but Zoro already shoved him away, not enough to kill, just enough to knock him flat and make his point. The coward ran. You stood there stunned, cheeks warm with embarrassment and something else.

“You done throwing tantrums in the street?” you muttered, arms crossed.

Zoro stepped close. Closer. Until his shadow engulfed you. He gripped your chin gently, tilting your head to look him in the eye.

“Don’t test me,” he said, voice gravel and fire. “You think I didn’t notice the way he looked at you? You think I liked it?”

You blinked. “I can talk to people.”

“You can talk to me.”

“You don’t own me.”

His thumb brushed your bottom lip, possessive and slow.

“I don’t?” His eyes narrowed. “Then why do you keep coming back to me?”

Silence.

“Because you are mine, Y/N. I won’t say it twice.”

You knew he wasn’t bluffing. His jealousy wasn’t cute, it was dangerous, sharpened by the same intensity that made him a master swordsman. And yet, something inside you liked that danger. Liked him.

You finally smiled, soft and amused. “Next time, just tell me you’re jealous.”

Zoro scowled. “I’m not—”

“Possessive?”

He clicked his tongue and looked away. “Whatever.”

But as he walked ahead, he reached back and grabbed your hand roughly, tightly, fingers locked. He didn’t let go all the way back to the Sunny.

[idcwhattheuseris]

UPDATE:

It was found by an amazing commenter !!

Sapsorrow is the title !

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52540591

HELP FIND A FIC

I thought I liked it to come back and read later… turns out I’m stupid and didn’t. It was Dracule Mihawk and all I remember was that the OC puts on a ring or bangle that means she’s he’s destined mate ?! It looked really good and I’ve spent 3 days scrolling through the mihawk tag HELP PLEASE

[imagines-all-day-everyday]

revenge is a dish best served debutant

summary: you have always been content loving benedict from the shadows, comforted by the vow you both took in your youth to never wed. until one day you see him with lady arnold and decide it is time to take matters into your own hands

pairing: female reader x benedict bridgerton

warnings/tags: mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, reader and benedict are lowkey both dumb af but it makes it cute, fluff, angst, jealousy, jealousy & more jealousy

notes: inspired by request from @idaamalienie92 (thank you!!) benedict has always been my favourite brother so it is always so fun to write for him! enjoy!!

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍

masterlist

Jealousy was a disease.

A trait most unbecoming of a lady of the ton.

You’d had that value engrained into you since you could walk.

And as you'd grown up, you'd been most pleased with yourself to find never in need of such an emotion. You'd watched from the sidelines in amusement as girls flustered and muttered snarky remarks under their breath. When they'd cast longing glances at the Bridgerton brothers and glares at the Bridgerton sisters.

You'd been above all thought, you'd thought smugly. Only those with insecurities and pettiness danced with the sin of envy.

And yet there you stood, clinging to the walls like you always did at these events, watching him.

You were not sure of the exact moment when you fell in love with Benedict Bridgerton.

You had spent every summer in the countryside together growing up in that easy, dangerous way - your families so intertwined it was hard to believe you were not all related by blood or marriage. You could still remember it so vividly, the cool splash of the lake, the afternoons playing croquet and horse riding, the nights spent giggling in the drawing room.

As you'd grown older, Benedict had still always been there. Teasing you relentlessly, defending you when society belittled you, finding you in every crowded ballroom just to pull a face to make you laugh when society demanded posterity and dignity. You spent afternoons in the Bridgerton drawing room, arguing with him about art and poetry and laughing at the absurdity of society's expectations - much to your parents and Lady Bridgerton's chagrin.

It had happened so gradually, so naturally, your love blooming like a flower under that gentle summer sun. But now, now you felt like you were always meant to love him, like it was etched into your very bones.

Benedict had always been a 'free spirit'. You knew of his partying and debauchery, learnt of it through Lady Whistledown and your parents who shook their heads and tutted with a 'what is Lady Bridgerton ever going to do with that boy?'

But you'd never paid it much mind. Benedict still snuck out by the swings to meet you, indulged your parents by chaperoning you around the lake. Even though you would never say it out loud, you had always naively thought he was yours.

It helped that you had never met any of these people he was involved with. An out of sight, out of mind mentality was a commonly used coping mechanism in your brain.

That was until tonight.

Her name was Lady Arnold, Penelope had whispered to you and Eloise beside the champagne tower.

She arrived like a ripple through still water - new, intriguing, and effortlessly beautiful in a way that demanded attention rather than asked for it. She laughed loudly, spoke freely, and worst of all - she fascinated Benedict.

You noticed it before anyone else did. The way his gaze followed her across the room. The way his laughter changed when she spoke.

She was older than you, which made her all the more intimidating. She was more mature and sophisticated, and knew what she wanted. And right now, you could tell she wanted Benedict.

You watched as he leant down and whispered something in her ear. She laughed, tilting her head back perfectly, her hand brushing against his arm so fleetingly it almost looked unintentional.

Your chest ached with something unfamiliar, sharp and humiliating.

Jealousy was unbecoming.

Jealousy was foolish.

Jealousy had no place when you had never been his to begin with.

The realisation hit you like a landslide.

How gullible you had been, how cruel of you to sit up on your mighty tower of judgement and look down at other women for grappling with such an ugly feeling.

"Are you alright?"

Eloise's voice yanked you out of your spiral.

"Yes, quite." Your words came out strangled as you forced your slightly shaking hand to guide your glass of champagne to your lips.

"Are you sure? Because you've been staring at Benedict for a good five minutes like you want to tear his head clean off his shoulders."

You blinked, forcing yourself to keep your eyes locked on your closest friend.

"He promised to fetch me a drink, but as per usual it seems he's become distracted." The tone that flowed out of you was one of a disgruntled friend, the eye roll the cherry on top for your performance. You'd spent years perfecting it, so much so that you were convinced Eloise had no suspicion you were pining for her older brother.

Eloise followed your eyes to where Benedict and Lady Arnold stood in the corner. Her nose wrinkled up in disgust.

"Typical." She chortled.

"Do not fret, he will tire of her. She's just the new shiny thing to distract him from his downward spiral about art school and his inability to live up to mother's expectations"

You stifled a laugh at her matter-of-fact tone. "Never change, El."

Eloise's grin brightened at that. "Was never intending to."

But Benedict did not tire of her.

Weeks passed, and Benedict's presence in your life thinned like watered down honey. He was always busy now, sneaking out to see her.

Anger slowly began to build in you. You had helped him through his art school crisis, comforted him when he confessed he felt he was not good enough, listened when he bemoaned of his family's expectations. And yet, here he was, discarding you at the drop of a hat.

Jealousy and anger spread further, an idea born of both taking root in your mind.

"I am going to debut next season." You said before taking a bite of your apricot pastry.

The words fell into the breakfast room like a sugar cube dropping into a teacup. Your mother froze. Your father stared. Eloise choked outright.

“You what?” She exclaimed. "But... but the pact!"

"What pact?" Your mother asked sharply.

You shot Eloise a warning glare. "Nothing mama."

You had been fifteen when it was made - knees muddy from the game of croquet gone awry. Eloise sprawled dramatically on the grass insisting marriage was a ridiculous social construct. Benedict half-listening, sketchbook balanced on one knee. You, stuffing your face with plump raspberries fresh from the Bridgerton's garden.

"No marriage." Eloise had declared. "Spinsters and rakes until we depart this godforsaken earth."

"No marriage." Benedict agreed, flashing an amused grin at you that made your stomach flutter in ways you were yet to understand.

"Ever." You added on.

You hadn't really meant it, you were too young to, but you were eager to agree with the boy across from you.

"Unless our families threaten to disown us, then we will have no choice but to simply marry each other."

He was staring directly at you, that crooked smile still on his features.

"Ew, in your dreams brother." Eloise scoffed as she threw a raspberry at him. "You could never be so lucky."

You giggled, ducking your head to hide your flushed cheeks. Benedict faked an outraged gasp and tossed it right back, although his eyes never left you.

You’d clung to that little comment for an embarrassingly long time, that little shred of hope that maybe, if you just waited long enough, you and Benedict would wed.

But now, now you realised just how much of a fool you had been.

Later, you and Eloise said goodbye to your parents before piling into the awaiting carriage. You felt a thrill creep up your spine. You and Eloise were going to Scotland for the summer with Francesca and John to see his family home.

It was a chance for adventure, a chance for a fleeting escape until you returned to the gossip hungry ton.

You tried not to think about the fact that you had not said goodbye to Benedict.

"Are you debuting because of my brother?"

Eloise's words hit you about an hour into the journey, soft in the velvet padded interior. You startled, jerking your head away from the countryside to look at her.

"What?"

"I know."

The way she said your name so softly after was like a punch to your stomach.

"Know what?"

"That you love him."

You tried, and failed, to blink back tears that unexpectedly sprung into the corner of your eyes.

"I- I thought I was good at hiding it." You managed a half strangled laugh as you wiped away at your face.

"Oh-" Eloise moved to sit beside you.

"You are." She insisted, grabbing a hold of your hand. "I just know you so well. I do not believe that anyone else knows."

You let her wipe your tears away for you. "I am sorry Eloise."

She frowned. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because I- he's your brother and-"

"We cannot control who we love." She spoke with a maturity you had not heard before. “I have grown to realise that.”

You would have to pry behind those shrouded words later.

"Although, I am seriously questioning your taste."

That managed to get a real laugh out of you.

"If anything, it is Benedict who should be sorry."

This time, it was your turn to frown. "Why?"

"Because he does not know what he is missing out on."

"Oh, El." You wrapped her in a tight embrace, tears flowing down your cheeks once more.

"Are you sure you want to debut? Surely you do not intend to marry just to spite my brother." Eloise asked once you had pulled apart.

"That was the original plan." You confessed. "But I- the more I think about it, I have no siblings and my parents are getting older... I need to do what is right. For my family."

Eloise frowned, the speech she had said a thousand times about expectations on women dangling on the tip of her tongue. But when she saw the grief in your eyes, she resisted. You were a nuclear family of three, she was one of nine that was ever expanding. She could not dare to begin to imagine what that was like.

"Ok." She nodded. "If that is what you truly want, I will do all that I can to support you."

"It's what I truly want." You assured her.

"Well that settles it. We will have the summer of our lives in Scotland, our final summer of freedom, and think absolutely nothing about my dimwitted brother. And when we return, we will ensure the entire ton is at your door begging to call on you."

-

Scotland was beautiful, if not a little secluded. You were lucky that you had Eloise and Francesca to keep you company, and endless amounts of sheep.

You had almost pushed the older Bridgerton brother out of your thoughts entirely, until your handmaiden had arrived in your bedchamber one morning with a letter clasped firmly in her worked hands.

"For you, my lady."

She placed it in your outstretched palm.

You visibly flinched at the familiar looped penmanship on the envelope.

"That will be all Delilah, thank you." You murmured, your eyes never leaving the bomb that had just been placed in your hands.

She nodded, exchanging a look with the footman posted at your door before leaving you to your own devices.

You hesitated for a moment. You could just not read it, you could throw it into the crackling fire and pretend it never existed. But you knew yourself. And you knew that you would spend the rest of your life wondering what was in the prose hidden behind the envelope.

So with that, you delicately opened the wax seal to reveal Benedict's scrawling handwriting.

My darling,

How are you?

I cannot believe you failed to mention that you were galavanting off to Scotland with my dear sisters! I had to pry it out of mother one evening after plying her with a bottle of my finest champagne.

How are you? How is Scotland? I hope you have not had to resort to making friends with the sheep and that you are keeping warm, it gets dreadfully cold there, even in the summer.

The ton is quiet without you and El here. It makes me miss our times spent in the country, when our biggest dilemma was how best to irritate Anthony and Daphne.

Now with Anthony in India I have had to assume his viscount duties which I must say, has made me slightly more sympathetic towards my brother. Do you know how dreadfully boring it is making decisions about mending fences and repainting walls? Torture!

I am hoping you are having a glorious summer, but selfishly, I cannot wait for you to return. I really do miss you.

Please make haste in your reply, so I have tales of your travels to distract me from all of this paperwork.

Forever your partner in crime,

Benedict

You put the letter down, staring out at the Scottish highlands. You had no idea how to think or how to feel. It was a lovely letter, but Benedict had always had a way with words - the poet of the family.

He had failed to make mention of Lady Arnold, could it be because they were never that serious? Or because he did not want you to know of his affair with an older widow?

You grasped his letter and marched towards your desk. He could act like nothing was wrong all he liked, but he had failed to acknowledge his disappearing act he had pulled right before you had left.

You dipped your quill into the ink point and hovered over the parchment. You were angry, but it would not be right to make it clear in this letter, not when you were still away for so many weeks. With that in mind, you pressed your quill into the parchment.

Dear Benedict,

It is lovely to hear from you.

I am sorry I did not tell you of my summer plans, it happened so hastily I barely had time to pack my things, let alone tell others.

Scotland is beautiful. Yes, the winds here chill you to the bone, but it makes you feel as if you could fly on their tails.

The sheep are in abundance, but I do not mind them, they make better company than most of the ton to be frank!

I am sorry to hear your duties are dreary, although I am happy to hear Anthony and Kate are spending time in India.

My days are busy here, we are travelling to a neighbouring town tomorrow to explore, so I will probably not have time to write any further letters to you this summer.

I will see you when I return home. Try not to get into too much mischief while I am gone!

Warm regards,

You signed your name with a flourish and re-read your letter once, then twice, then a third time just to be sure. It was the perfect blend of friendliness and polite distance.

All you could do was hope you had done enough to prevent any further correspondence, so you could enjoy the rest of your summer in delusion, pretending that the man you loved did not exist.

-

"Warm regards." Benedict mumbled. "Warm regards?!" He stood from his desk in the Bridgerton study, pacing on the woven carpet.

Your letter was crumpling in his tight grasp as he re-read your delicate writing once more.

At a first glance, there was nothing wrong with it. It was friendly and cheeky and beautifully descriptive, as you always were. But if you looked a little further, squinted analytically at the swirls, Benedict could tell something was awry.

First of all, you never used 'warm regards'. That was a sign off reserved for acquaintances or business partners, or distant relatives you were forced to write to once a year for their birthday. Not for one of your closest friends.

Secondly, you had told him you were too busy to write letters. Never in your life had you been too busy for him. You were always the first to comfort him, to leap at the opportunity to rile his siblings up, to ditch social functions and create your own party, to spend hours debating eachother and helping the days pass.

And lastly, you had not told him that you had missed him too. That could not be right. How could you not miss him? How could you not be sitting there thinking that Scotland would be so much better if he was by your side, because that is all he had thought all summer.

The partying had been fun for a while, but it soon became mundane and tedious. He filled his nights gambling or sleeping with whoever he first locked eyes with, and his days nursing a foul headache - just to repeat the cycle all over again.

But all he wanted, he had realised, was to spend time with you.

He brought the paper up to his face and tentatively inhaled. He swore he could smell traces of you leaping off the page - a hint of vanilla and sandalwood, the jasmine soap you had used since you were a teenager.

He huffed and threw the letter onto the polished wood of the desk.

"Warm regards... bloody ridiculous." He grumbled.

"Are you quite alright brother?"

Benedict turned to see Colin at the doorway of the study, his brow arched in confusion. Penelope, never too far from her new husband, poked her head in beside him.

"I am fine I-" Benedict cut himself off as he pressed his fingers to his temple, rubbing circles in the hope it might relieve him of his symptoms.

"What does it mean if someone uses warm regards in their letters, do you think?"

"It means.... they are wishing you regards but... with warmth?" Colin suggested, making Benedict roll his eyes.

"But what if, hypothetically of course, they are one of your closest friends who has never used such a... mundane phrase in all their years of living."

Penelope and Colin exchanged glances.

"Maybe they are preoccupied?"

"They might as well have told me to sod off." He muttered, folding his arms across his chest as he stared out the window.

"Maybe you have done something to offend them?" Penelope suggested.

Benedict whipped around in a flourish, pointing accusatorily.

"Why? Has she said something to you?"

"You have not even said who you are talking about, brother.” Colin reminded him.

“But it does not take a genius to figure out who.” Penelope remarked, lips pursed in amusement.

Benedict paused, his mouth agape as he stared at his brother and sister-in-law. They could not possibly be insinuating what he thought they were, could they?

“Children! More letters have arrived!”

The scamper of Hyacinth and Gregory’s feet pounding on the staircase followed Violet Bridgerton’s voice, giving Benedict a reprieve from conjouring a response.

Benedict, Penelope and Colin followed suit, watching as the younger Bridgerton’s gathered around their mother eagerly as she rifled through the stack of envelopes.

“One from Eloise, one from Francesca oh! And another one from Miss Brighton.”

The sound of your family name made Benedict flinch.

“Another one?” Benedict blurted out.

Violet’s brow furrowed at the tone of his voice. "Yes?"

“Implying that she has sent more than one letter?”

Violet glanced at Colin and Penelope behind him who subtly shook their heads.

“Well no uh-“

“I have gotten four from her already this summer.” Hyacinth announced proudly.

Benedict blinked. “Four?” His voice squeaked.

“But she told me that she was too busy to write more letters and-“ He cut himself off when he realised how bad it sounded.

The rest of his family looked at him in shock.

“Oh Benedict.” Violet tutted. “What have you done now?”

He felt a wave of nausea hit him.

There must be some explanation, some mix up. All would be well, he just had to wait until you returned and everything would go back to normal.

You would have another season of shared giggles at the girls and their fretting mamas. Of sneaking out of balls to share a flask. Of afternoons swinging and discussing the best up and coming artists.

But oh, how wrong he would end up being.

-

The announcement in Lady Whistledown sent shockwaves through the ton.

You - the only daughter of one of the noblest families, famously uninterested in marriage - were to debut into society.

Rumours were on the tip of everyone’s tongue, but one thing was almost a certainty, you were no doubt going to be selected as the diamond of the season.

Your mother could scarcely contain her delight. The modiste was summoned. Dresses were selected. Jewels unearthed from velvet boxes long untouched.

And Benedict -

Benedict was blindsided.

He could scarcely believe what he was reading. There had to be a printing error, some sort of horrible prank gone too far.

He tried to talk to you, but it seemed fate intervened at every turn. You were always out at appointments, busy with the modiste, practicing your dance lessons.

Every night, he sat on his swing, staring at the empty one as if he might will you to appear on it. But you never came.

It seemed he would be attending his mother's ball after all.

-

The diamond encrusted mask clung to your face. You could hardly contain your nerves as you stepped out of your carriage and into the entryway of Bridgerton house.

The first ball of the season.

Voices hushed as you descended down the stairs. For the first time you had eyes glued on you at every turn. You knew then that you could not hide in the shadows any longer.

Even with your mask, Benedict could spot you from a mile away, he had stared at your mouth so many times he could sketch it from memory.

His eyes trailed down your figure, lilac silk shaping your body perfectly. Your hair was pulled back in an elegant but simple style. Your decolletage was bare, exposing your collarbones.

You were radiant. Devastating. A masterpiece not even Michael Angelo could replicate.

He stared, openly, forgetting himself entirely.

“Careful brother, you might catch a fly or two if you keep staring like that.”

Eloise smirked up at him.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Eloise watched in amusement as he snatched a flute off a passing tray and made a beeline for you without another word.

Your name falling from his lips made a shiver slide up your spine.

He looked unfairly handsome. Dressed in all black, the tie to his blouse hanging loosely, revealing his toned chest underneath. No sign of Lady Arnold.

“Looks like my attempts to conceal my identity have failed spectacularly.” You answered in greeting.

His eyes roamed your face freely. “I would recognise you anywhere.”

Your heart leapt at that, threatening to crack your ribs open.

“I like your costume.” Was all you could think to say.

“Thank you. I- you look-“ For once, Benedict was speechless. He had so much he wanted to say but no way of wording it.

“Miss Brighton.”

Benedict glared at the intruder.

“Lord Helmsley.” You curtseyed politely.

Lord Helmsley bowed in return, his eyes flitting to the man beside you.

“Benedict.”

“Edward.” He spat out.

Lord Helmsley glanced between the two of you. “I hope I am not intruding-

“Actually-“

“Not at all.” You cut Benedict off, shooting Lord Helmsley a radiant smile.

He blushed under your attention. Benedict’s grip on his glass tightened.

“I was hoping to steal you for the first dance of the evening?”

“I would be delighted, my Lord.” You answered, taking his hand.

You did not spare Benedict another glance.

That night unfolded like a perfectly choreographed performance. You smiled, batted your lashes, danced with the eligible suitors in order of your full dance card.

The rest of the ton watched on, transfixed. Who knew Miss Brighton could be so charming, they whispered amongst themselves.

Even the Queen preened at the sight of you.

And all the while, Benedict watched.

He lingered at the edges of the room, drink forgotten in his hand. Brushing off pestering mamas without his usual charm. His usual ease was gone, replaced by something restless, unsettled.

When another man’s hand settled at your waist during a waltz, Benedict’s jaw tightened. When you laughed at someone else’s joke, his fingers curled into a fist.

He had rarely encountered this emotion. Ever the starving, liberated artist - the prospect of jealousy was laughable. He was carefree, bound to no one, forever indulging in the pleasures of liberation from society's expectations of him that only a second born son could afford.

Until now.

He had always known that he had loved you. But he thought it was something he could keep boxed up. You were always adamant you were never going to marry, and he had his rake-ish ways of forgetting about you, at least for an hour or two at a time.

Watching you with other men unlocked something in him, like a dam wall finally bursting. All of his emotions flooded out with such intensity he could hardly stomach it.

Now all he wanted to do was to cave into social norms - to court you, to call upon you, to make it known to the world that you were his, as he was yours.

It was terrifying.

He finally caught you when another suitor went to grab you a refreshment.

"Surely you can spare a dance for me?" His voice was tinged with desperation.

You looked down at his extended hand, then back up at his eyes looking down at you through his mask.

"I- Lord Townsend is just going to go-"

"-fetch you a drink, yes I heard." Benedict shot you a grin that did not quite meet his eyes. "I will only steal you for a few minutes. I have hardly seen you."

You studied him for a moment. You knew that you could not say no. It was not the polite thing to do.

You nodded, "very well."

He took your hand in his and guided you to the dance floor, the two of you finding the rhythm with ease. From the side, your mother, Lady Danbury and Lady Bridgerton watched on with hawk-like eyes.

"You cannot possibly be enjoying this." His next words came low and urgent, throwing you completely off guard.

You tilted your head, ensuring to keep a smile on your features, "I do not know what you are implying."

"This is not you."

You muffled a scoff that threatened to slip past your lips. You were still in public, with eyes everywhere. Your smile pulled tighter, "Why? Because I have put more effort into how I dress?"

"I- no- that is not what I meant." Benedict panicked. "I just meant, well... since when do you care for society's approval?"

Your jaw clicked as you ground your teeth. "Maybe this is about me doing what I want, not about what society expects.”

"But the pact-"

"-was a childish fantasy."

"Best not tell Eloise that."

You nearly stilled in his arms, but forced yourself to keep twirling to the string quartet.

"Was this why you asked me to dance? So you could lecture me?"

Benedict's face hardened. "I asked you to dance because you do not talk to me. You barely wrote to me over the summer, although you seem more than happy to write the rest of my family. Have I done something to offend you?"

"No."

His eyes narrowed. "You are lying."

"I am not."

"You are."

"Do you not have better things to do than to pester me?" You hissed. "Surely Mrs Arnold is around here somewhere to entertain you."

You regretted the words the second they escaped your lips.

"Mrs Arnold?" Benedict's brow creased. Then it hit him.

“Oh, you mean Tilley?" He let out a bark of laughter.

"Good heavens no I have not seen Tilley since last season, she was just-" He cut himself off when he saw the look on your face. Realisation dawned.

"Is this what this has all been about? Because of Tilley?"

You felt a rush of blood to your face as humiliation coursed through you at the incredulousness in his tone. You suddenly felt childish, immature, like you had sunk to a level so low that someone like Tilley would never dare follow.

By some grace, the song finished before you had to formulate an answer.

"Good evening." You mumbled, curtseying quickly before making your escape.

"Wait-" Benedict reached to grab you but you were already swallowed up by the crowd, Lord Townsend waiting dutifully in the wings to hand you a glass of champagne.

Benedict stood on the dance floor, frozen. His mind raced as he tried to process this new information.

-

The dance did not finish there on the floor of the Bridgerton’s home. Not really. The painful dance between the two of you lasted nearly half the season.

You did everything in your power to avoid him. Not that you had to try too hard. You were so busy with callers that you barely had time to think.

Benedict thought of waiting in the line of suitors outside your home, but the possibility of other mamas getting wind that he might be looking for a wife this season was too much to bear. That was what he told himself anyway, the reality was that he was petrified.

Petrified to admit that he was not looking for a wife because he had found the one he wanted to wed already.

The whole Bridgerton family knew something was amiss. You stopped coming by to check in on Hyacinth’s lessons, or to browse the library with Eloise.

Benedict had begun to drink himself into a stupor more frequently, more family gatherings were missed, his usual cheeky grin absent from his features.

Violet Bridgerton is nosy, so nosy that one day she caves and searches through Benedict’s desk.

“Oh my dearest.” She breathed out when she pulled open the drawer to finds stacks and stacks of drawings. Actual real, complete works of art.

All of you.

-

“Something has to be done about that brother of yours.” Violet remarked one afternoon as she anxiously sipped her tea. “He cannot go on like this.”

Eloise peered over the top of her book.

“Are you trying to ask for my assistance?”

“I am not asking, I am just saying that I would… hypothetically look the other way if one were to… meddle.”

Eloise snapped her book shut triumphantly. “Meddle, I most certainly can do.”

-

You slipped through the hedges into the Bridgerton’s back garden.

You hoped Eloise had not been waiting too long. You had tried not to fret too much when you had received her note asking to meet her here tonight as a matter of urgency, something to do with a matter of the heart.

You could see a figure already sat on one of the swings.

A crunchy leaf snapped under your shoe, making them turn. Your stomach dropped.

“What are you doing here?” You blurted out.

If Benedict was surprised, he did not show it, shooting you a charming grin instead.

“I could ask you the same thing, you are indeed in my backyard after all.”

You stiffened up, cheeks flushing as you crossed your arms in front of your chest. “I will have you know I am meeting-“

“I am meeting my-“

You stopped as you both began to speak, eyeing each other as realisation dawned.

“Eloise.” You said simultaneously.

Despite everything, you both laughed.

“That girl I swear.” You muttered, resignedly taking a seat on the swing beside him.

“She has been hanging around us too long.”

You chuckled again at that, pushing your feet off the ground lightly. Benedict’s eyes tracked your every movement. You stole a glance at him, eyes darting away when you realised his eyes were already on you.

“I am sorry for abandoning you.”

A wry smile appeared on your lips. “You speak as if I am some helpless puppy waiting around to be pet.”

“That is not what I meant I-“ He cut himself, lips pursed. Why could he never say the right thing when it came to you? It was like his mouth was trying to play saboteur.

You skidded to a halt. "I am merely teasing you." You reassured him.

“Teasing or not, I am truly sorry for disregarding our friendship when I was….preoccupied. You did not deserve it and it was not my intention. Please forgive me.”

You sighed, studying the desperation etched on his features. You felt yourself melting at his puppy dog eyes, ones that you had seen a thousand times before.

“You are forgiven. And I am sorry for not telling you I was going to Scotland and not writing to you. I was angry.”

“Thank you.” A small smile appeared on his face. “And Tilley- Lady Arnold and I are finished. Truly. I meant that.”

You picked at the fraying rope of the swing.

“I am sorry to hear that.”

You were most definitely not sorry to hear that.

“Oh pffft no trust me it is fine.” Benedict waved his hand dismissively. “It was never anything serious. Well - she wanted it to be but you know how I am, I cannot be tied down and did not want to hurt her.”

Your stomach dropped at his words. Of course it had nothing to do with you, only his fear of commitment. You bowed your head, nodding stiffly.

“I see.”

He studied you expectantly for a moment, not noticing the change in your demeanour.

“So… we can go back to normal then?”

You finally looked up at him at that.

“What do you mean?”

“Well... you see I did not intend to break the pact so... you need not break it either.”

“I do not understand.”

“I just mean, there is no need for you to carry on with this facade.” His face was hopeful, egregiously naïve. “We can go back to being partners in crime, making fun of mamas and spiking the hideously sugary lemonade.”

You frowned as you stood up from your swing, the energy shifting between you two into something darker.

“It is not a facade, Benedict. I intend to marry.”

He looked up at you in shock.

“Why?”

“Because I am the only heir to my family name. I have an obligation to find a suitable husband. I was just too childish to realise it until now.”

“Well-“ He stood up with a start frantically. “You have time, you do not need to rush these things.”

"I have debuted, I must take a husband this season or risk becoming the laughing stock of the ton."

“But...why can we not go on as we were?” He almost sounded childlike in his question, his eyes brimming with confusion.

“What? Me clinging to walls, hanging around for your amusement whilst you go and bed whomever you like, whenever you like.”

His neutral features faltered. “That is not fair.”

“Is it not? You forgot I existed the second there was a woman you deemed more worthy of your attention."

“I thought you had forgiven me.”

“I thought I had too.” You fired back. “But clearly you do not understand what it means to be a friend.”

“A friend?” He asked quietly, the word rolling slowly off his tongue. “Is that really what this is about?”

His question made you dizzy. You were not ready for this confrontation, for the verbalisation of years of longing and resistance.

You straightened up and stiffly curtseyed. “It is getting late. I must bid you goodnight.”

His name fell from your lips, reaching for you as you stepped out of his reach.

His hand fell to his side as he watched you go. This time he did not try to chase you.

"How could you have possibly messed that up?"

Benedict whirled around to see Eloise marching across the lawn.

"Were you spying on me- ow!" He exclaimed as Eloise smacked him across the arm with a hardcover book.

"Honestly I always knew you were an idiot but I did not realise how much so."

"What are you talking about?"

"Judging by her reaction I am assuming that you did not tell her you loved her." Eloise spoke plainly.

Benedict balked. "I do not know what-"

"Oh brother please, enough. The two of you are so busy pining after one another it honestly makes me ill."

He stared at her, jaw slack.

"Well? Why did you not tell her?"

He let out a defeated sigh. "I do not know."

Eloise's features softened.

"I once told you that you would never be so lucky as to wed someone like her. But she loves you, I know it. I can see it. This is your chance to finally make her yours."

"I just...I just need more time."

"Time is the one thing I do not think you have brother."

The next morning, Lady Whistledown published that a proposal to Miss Brighton from Lord Helmsley was imminent.

Benedict knew then that Eloise was right. He was out of time.

-

The energy felt different at the next ball, charged with something electric - dangerous.

You felt his gaze the moment you entered the ballroom, embossed in sequined silk.

His eyes never left you. Watching as you laughed perfectly, watching the way you tilted your head back, exposing your neck like you were begging for someone to kiss it, watching the way your lips gleamed in the candlelight.

He could not bear it any longer.

As usual, you were surrounded by suitors. Although this time, you'd had not one, not two, but three dances with Lord Helmsley.

You were on your fourth when you met Benedict's eye past Lord Helmsley's shoulder. He was clung to a pillar, looking at you as if you were a painting he had walked past a thousand times and was only now truly seeing you.

You could feel your defences crumbling. Your heart was racing. Your legs wobbled. Could you really go through with this?

Lord Helmsley seemed nice enough, and he had excellent social standing. But you most certainly did not love him. Could you bear to be surrounded by love matches like your parents and the Bridgerton siblings, knowing that you would forever be denied one?

"Are you alright my lady? You look quite palor."

"I-" You pulled away from Lord Helmsley’s grasp. "Yes I just think I need some air.”

"Wait here, I will fetch you a refreshment."

"Thank you, my lord." You watched him cross the room. The second he was out of view you raced for the door that spilled out onto the courtyard.

The summer night air hit you with dizzying intensity.

The sounds of the ballroom dulled instantly - the laughter, the music, the scrape of expectations - all muffled behind glass and velvet.

The estate was sprawling, perfectly pruned hedges as far as the eye could see. The cicadas seemed to quieten around you. Then, the faintest creak of the door opening behind you.

You did curse then, softly, the word lost to the open air as you straightened and smoothed your skirts, schooling your expression into something neutral.

You did not need to turn around to know who it was. You had known the cadence of his footsteps since childhood - the way Benedict Bridgerton walked like he was never quite bound to the ground.

Your name softly leaving his lips was nearly your undoing.

You twisted to meet his eyes. They were shining with an emotion you did not recognise. You gripped the stone balustrade, willing your hands to stop trembling.

"You should not be out here alone."

You laughed humorously. "I thought you liked me better when I did not care for society's rules."

He took a step toward you.

"The Queen could appoint you her royal rule writer and I would like you."

His confession took you off guard.

You took a step back.

Thunder rolled somewhere distant, low and ominous. The air grew heavy, charged. You glanced up just as the first drops of rain struck the stone at your feet.

"I wish to be alone right now."

“Just tell me one thing.”

He took your silence as permission to speak.

"Were you jealous of Tilley? Is this why you have been avoiding me?"

You forced a scoff from your lips. "Jealousy is unbecoming."

"Or it is a product of passion."

The sky split open. Rain bucketed down, drowning out the quiet hum of the ball inside.

You glanced across the garden to see a small pavillion, no more than a few hundred meters away.

“I do not wish to answer that.”

“Why? Because you do not want to admit to yourself the answer and what that means for us?”

Us.

"You cannot keep running from this."

Surely he would not follow you, not in weather like this. Something in you gave way, your senses tumbling out of your body.

You turned and bolted down the steps, straight into the storm. You were soaked in an instant, the cold water seeping into your skin as the heavy fabric of your dress clung to you like a second skin.

You could barely hear Benedict calling out your name through the downpour.

Your slippers slipped against wet stone, hair coming undone as rain plastered silk to skin. You did not care. You could not care. All you knew was that if you stopped, if you let him reach you, you would shatter.

The gazebo emerged through the rain like a pale sanctuary, its white marble columns glowed faintly in the dark. You stumbled beneath it, fingers curling around the railing as you gasped for air.

Benedict stood at the threshold, rain-soaked, panting, hair plastered to his brow. He looked undone - not the charming Bridgerton, but the man who paced around his studio until dawn and destroyed canvases when they did not live up to the image in his head.

The man who had always been yours.

“Have you gone mad?” Alarm broke through his composure, his eyes wild with panic as he stepped into the sanctuary of the undercroft.

"You would seriously rather court death than speak with me. Do you really hate me so?"

"You know that I do not hate you." You snapped. "And that is precisely the problem."

He stepped toward you, his eyes boring into yours.

"Then do not marry Lord Helmsley.”

The words landed heavily between you.

"No." Your voice wavered. "You do not get to ask that of me."

You shook your head, angry tears spilling down your cheeks, mixing with the cold rain drops.

"I have always been there for you. I have been there while you drank yourself into a stupor and threw away all of your hard work, while you discarded our friendship to take lovers, all the while never asking for anything in return."

Your voice steadied as you spoke, your confidence growing as you watched him flinch at your words.

"And now you ask me to turn down a Lord? To throw a way a safe and secure future? And for what?"

A heartbeat passed between the two of you, your chests still heaving as you stared at one another.

“You are right.” He conceded after a few moments.

“But I will be selfish, like I always have been, and ask you for one more thing. Let me say my piece. You do not even have to listen if you do not wish. But just let me speak these words that I cannot carry around any longer. After that, you may go marry Lord Helmsley, and you never have to speak to me or see me again."

You studied him as the cold began to cement itself in you.

"Please." His voice was barely above a whisper, like if he spoke any louder he would come undone.

Your restraint unravelled, pooling in the pit of your stomach. Your lower lip quivered.

"Very well."

"You are my constant." He began. "My safe space. My best friend. My champion. You are everything but the one thing I have always wanted most. It is cowardice I know. I thought… I thought with our pact that I could have the luxury of being surrounded by you without ever risking losing you. But I know now that is not enough."

Your breath stuttered.

"I told myself you did not need me. That you were too bright to tether yourself to someone who did not know who he was meant to be. How could you believe that I could ever offer you a lifetime of commitment? That I was capable of being the man you deserved to call your husband?"

Thunder cracked overhead.

“I tried to quell it, to drown myself in art and drink and women and men, but I was a fool for thinking that I could try to contain such an integral part of my being."

Rain crept across the tiled floor of the pavilion, pooling at your feet. The world beyond it ceased to exist as he spoke.

"I was afraid. Afraid that if I named it, if I looked at you the way I wanted to, I would ruin it, like I always do."

He crossed the space between you in two strides, stopping only inches away, hands fisted at his sides as if afraid to touch you.

You watched in shock as he reached into his suit jacket, producing a faded yellow piece of paper with trembling hands.

Tears streaked your face as he extended it out for you to take.

You hesitated before delicately taking it out of his hand, scared that it might disintegrate.

It was a sketch. The graphite swirls depicted bright eyes, a wide smile, a berry being plucked. A silhouette of a gown that you had worn to death when you were younger.

"I drew this the day we were lying in our garden, when we made that pact."

You remembered, of course you remembered.

"When I made that joke and looked at you, I realised that there was only one person on this earth whom I would ever want to marry. I have kept it with me everyday since."

You stared at him completely dumfounded, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.

"You are in every sketch I have ever drawn, every line of poetry I have ever written."

He threw his arms up in defeat. "I love you. I have always loved you."

The words settled between you, heavy and irreversible.

He sniffled, pulling his hands behind his back, glancing down at his feet as if he could not bear to meet your gaze.

"I will go now." He spoke more to himself than to you. "I will leave you and Lord-"

"No." You said adamantly as you wiped fat tears off your cheeks.

You let out a strangled huff as you failed to stem your tears. "For goodness sake, what is it with you Bridgertons and having such a penchant for the dramatic."

He stared at you, trying to decipher your words, not risking even the faintest of smiles in case you were about to unleash hell upon him.

The smallest up curve of your mouth gave him the courage to say his next words.

"Did I misremember the fact that you just ran out into a storm to avoid me?"

You could not fight the smile this time, shaking your head in disbelief.

"I wanted to think I could marry someone like Lord Helmsley, prove that I could unravel myself from a joke made to me when I was a teenager that I had convinced myself to be true."

Your heart hammered viciously behind your ribs.

"But the truth is, I love you Benedict. I have always loved you. Loving you is much a part of me as breathing is. I have loved you from my walls and my shadows and I will love you from the centre of any room we are in. I could not bear to ever be with anyone else, I can admit that now."

He took a step closer, so close to you now that you could feel the heat of his body radiating through your soaked dress.

“Not even someone as rich and gentlemenly as Lord Helmsley?"

You bit your lip. “Not even someone as rich and gentlemenly as Lord Helmsley.”

He laughed breathlessly, relieved.

He reached for you at last, hands trembling as they cradled your face, reverent as if you were something holy. His eyes flickered down to your lips.

“Can I-“

“-Yes.” You breathed out. A wry smile twists up on his lips.

“You do not even know what I was going to say.”

You smiled up at him. “I have always said yes when it comes to you and I always will.”

“Now who is the dramatic one?”

“Just kiss me Benedict.”

Never one to deny you anything, his head finally dipped down at your demand. You let out a small gasp as his lips meet yours and his hands pulled you flush against his chest.

His warmth radiated into you from every direction, making your head spin. Your hand clumsily dragged through his wet hair, pulling him somehow even closer. Your other hand still clung gently to the sketch, not willing to risk letting go.

The two of you only broke apart to finally come up for air, chests heaving and cheeks flushed.

His thumb traced your bottom lip, his pupils blown as he greedily soaks in the sight of your swollen lips.

“Would it be improper of me to say you have the most perfect lips I have ever laid eyes upon?”

You giggled at that, “I think we have gone past improper already.”

His smile widened, suddenly turning mischevious. “Well in that case-“

“Beni!” You shrieked, his childhood nickname accidentally slipping out as he whisked you off your feet and twirled you around.

He chuckled, pressing his lips clumsily against yours again.

“Also, jealousy is not unbecoming." His smirk widened. "In fact, I think it suits you rather well.”

Your eyes flashed up at him playfully.

"Do not get any ideas Mr Bridgerton. That was enough jealously to last me a life time."

Benedict smiled down at you as he placed you back down onto your feet. For the first time all evening, the restless energy that had always seemed to live inside him was quiet.

"I vow that you will never have a reason to be jealous ever again Miss Brighton." He said lightly, brushing a rain-soaked curl from your cheek.

Thunder murmured softly in the distance, but the storm was already beginning to ease, the rain softening to a gentle patter around the pavilion.

"You do also realise." He continued after a moment, his voice low, "that the entire ton will think we have indeed lost our minds if they see us like this."

For the first time, you properly looked at the state of the two of you - soaked to the bone, hair a mess, cheeks flushed.

You shrugged.

"I think they held that view of us long before tonight."

A laugh escaped him then - warm, breathless and utterly boyish. The sound made your chest ache in the most wonderful way.

"Good." He drew you closer, his arms tightening around you as if he feared you might vanish if he loosened his grip. "Then I wish to take you back inside and dance with you."

His smile was not the easy, careless grin he so often wore at social functions, but something softer. Quieter. As though a weight he had carried for years had finally slipped from his shoulders.

"So you can show Lord Helmsley that a proposal would be unwise?"

"No, although that is a perk."

He lifted your hand to his lips. His kiss was soft this time, lingering against your knuckles.

"So I may spend the first evening of the rest of my life dancing with the woman I love."

You looked up at him, heart full in a way that felt almost overwhelming.

"Well then, Mr Bridgerton." Your hand slipped into his, squeezing firmly as you guided him back toward the garden path.

"You had better keep up."

As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍

[idcwhattheuseris]

Yeah that was perfect

[atlabeth]

wishbones and clovers

masterlist

pairing: spencer reid x fem!gideon reader

summary: forced to sequester in spencer's apartment, the two of you finally make some progress in the right direction.

a/n: so this was gonna go a completely different way and then i had my brilliant writer epiphany and i know how the whole rest of this series is gonna go lol. i think ill be able to wrap it all up in 11 chapters but dont kill me if it ends up being more lol. anyways enjoy sorry it's been forever!! this is a bit of a slower chapter but it has a lot of sweet moments between r and spence, and you get to see more of r’s softer side :))) title from eleven eleven by conan gray

wc: 5.9k

warning(s): hurt/comfort, spence and r are cute and talk a lot, surprisingly fluffy!

You’re in Spencer’s living room. 

The thought hasn’t really left your mind since you got here three hours ago—spine ramrod straight as you stood in the kitchen, duffle straps wrapped around your hands tight enough to cut off your circulation as Spencer checked every nook and cranny of his apartment one last time with a gun you’re not sure you trust him to use. 

Since the moment you stepped foot into this building, you’ve spent most of your brainpower just trying to keep your breathing calm, steady, even, but it isn’t really working—even now, when you’re sitting inches away from an FBI agent meant to protect you from anything and everything. 

But that’s the problem. It’s not the fact that you’re playing Scrabble with an FBI agent because you’re using his apartment as a safehouse while his team tries to catch your stalker ex-boyfriend who might want to kill you. 

It’s the fact that Spencer Reid stuck his neck out for you for absolutely no reason—again—and now you can’t seem to think straight. 

It’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. 

There are much bigger things at stake here—namely your life. You’ve been looking over your shoulder every minute since you were forced into hiding. There is absolutely no reason for that to not be your primary focus. Instead, you’re playing Scrabble with Spencer and thinking about what it would feel like to kiss him. 

His lips are soft. His skin, too. His hazel eyes dart back and forth across the tile rack, likely putting together a whole dictionary of words he can make from his letters. He hasn’t taken the usual care to straighten his hair for the past few days of isolation, so his natural curls are starting to show more. 

You like it this way, you realize—the curls and the glasses over the straight hair and contacts. He still wears button-ups and trousers and dress shoes, dressed like he’s still on the job because he is still on the job, but it feels like you’re starting to get a different side of him than everyone else.

These feelings are even more dangerous here. You and Spencer were on equal ground back in the safe house, but now you’re in his apartment—his home base. Your only image of Spencer Reid for most of your life has been the golden child with the perfect life who has more of your father’s love than you do. 

Since this case started, he’s proven you wrong time and time again. And now you have the chance to learn just what makes him tick. You even promised yourself to be as nice as possible because he was doing you such a huge favor. That was a step in the right direction. Right?

But honestly, you’re surprised your dad even allowed it. On such short notice, though, it’s probably the best option. Spencer guarded Lila Archer in her own house, so this can’t be too different. 

You bite the inside of your cheek as you try to push that name out of your head. You don’t even know why she keeps popping up. You blame Elle for telling you about it in the first place—you could’ve happily lived the rest of your life without knowing Spencer Reid made out with a famous actress. 

Ugh. Why does it bother you this much? Why does it bother you at all? 

“You’ve gotta be coming up with a really good word,” Spencer says. 

You blink a few times as those thoughts dissipate like smoke, then look over at him. 

“What?” 

“You’ve been quiet for a long time,” he says, gesturing at the board with his head. “I either stumped you or you’re coming up with a really good word.” 

You sigh. More like you’ve been mentally torturing yourself over the most confusing feelings you’ve had since high school. Instead of ruining everything and saying it, though, you just push your tiles together on your holder and purse your lips. You’ve barely glanced at them since Spencer took his turn. 

“I wouldn’t blame you,” Spencer continues. “Not to brag, but I’ve won every Scrabble game I’ve ever played.”

“I bet it’s pretty easy when you’ve literally memorized the dictionary,” you say absently. 

“There’s actually only 472,814 words in the unabridged version of the Merriam Webster International Dictionary,” he says. “I know far more words than that.”

You raise an eyebrow as you look back up at him. “You know the exact number?”

“Of course.”

“What, did you count while you were reading it?”

He shrugs. “It happens automatically. I can tell you the word count of every book I’ve ever read.”

“War and Peace?” 

“587,287.”

“Les Mis?” 

“512,887.”

“Anna Karenina.” 

“349,736.”

He gives you every number without faltering, without even blinking. You just shake your head. 

“You’re insane. Has anyone ever told you that?” 

You see Spencer’s eyes gleam out of your peripherals. “You have.”

You huff and look back at your tiles. “There’s no way I’m gonna win.” 

“You don’t know that.”

You huff again and finally place down your letters, turning END into TENDER. You finally look up at him fully. “Is there any chance for me to win?”

Spencer bites back a smile. “No.”

He’s right, obviously. He beats you without even trying and demands another round. You accept on the condition that he makes you popcorn. 

“Okay,” Spencer says as he stands, “but you can’t look at my tiles.”

“Even if I did, you would still beat me,” you say.

“It’s about the principle,” Spencer insists on his way to the kitchen. “You don’t cheat at Scrabble.”

You hum. “Elle said you cheat at cards on the plane all the time.”

The cabinet shuts a little too abruptly, making you flinch. He tears the plastic off and crumples it up in his hand before he speaks again. 

“It sounds like you and Elle have gotten pretty close.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” You resist the urge to look at his tiles as you divide them up. “She was just… really nice to me. At the time I needed it the most.”

Spencer goes silent again. Your throat feels too dry. 

“You helped too. In— in a different way.” You pick at your cuticles, desperately in need of a trim. “I appreciate both of you more than you know.”

“I think I have some idea,” Spencer says. The microwave beeps then starts up. He comes back over a few seconds later and looks at you. “Did you look at my letters?” 

“You’re the FBI profiler,” you say. “You tell me.” 

He looks you up and down—narrows his eyes just slightly—then nods, apparently satisfied. 

“You didn’t,” he says, and he starts setting his tiles on the rack. 

“You got that just from looking at me?” you ask. 

“Of course not,” he says. “You’re so loud handling the tiles that you couldn’t hide cheating even if you wanted to. I got it the second I walked away.” 

You huff yet again. He really seems to bring it out of you. “Why does the rest of the team ever play cards with you if you’re like this?” 

Spencer shrugs. “We take so many flights. Losing to me is more interesting than doing nothing.” He smiles inwardly, and you unconsciously do the same. “Besides, they should expect me to count cards. I’m from Vegas.” 

You shake your head. “You’re impossible.” 

“At least we’re making progress from insane,” he says. 

You lose again. And again. The popcorn makes up for it, at least—you don’t admit that it is, in fact, better than the safehouse popcorn. 

After the fourth round of Spencer Reid Scrabble domination, you call it quits. You’ve been losing for six hours straight and you can’t take it anymore. You think you’ve exhausted your whole vocabulary, honestly. 

“What should we play instead?” he asks. “I’ve got a beautiful chess board here.”

“I am absolutely not playing chess against you,” you say affirmatively. 

“Could that have anything to do with you not knowing how to play?”

You scoff. “Of course not.”

“I can teach you,” Spencer says, his eyes lighting up. “I’d love to teach you!”

“Oh, no,” you shake your head. “I couldn’t ask you to waste your time like that.”

“How could I possibly be wasting my time?” he marvels. “We literally have nothing else to do.” 

There’s a part of you resistant to any kind of change, even something as small as learning a new game like chess. If you try something new and you’re not immediately good at it, you usually end up dropping it—it saves you from the shame of naivety, of asking for help or admitting you don’t know something or being painfully human. 

With Spencer, it turns into a whole new type of vulnerability. He forces anyone around him to either humble themselves before his endless amounts of knowledge, or admonish him for his intelligence in the hopes it boosts their own. It’s pretty obvious what most people choose. 

You’re trying to be better than everyone else around Spencer, though. The realization you had this morning, that you’d never deserve someone like him no matter what kind of person you tried to be, shook you more than you care to admit. 

It’s easy to hate Spencer. It’s harder to realize you like him. It’s terrifying to admit you want him to like you back. 

“...Fine,” you eventually say. “But you’re not allowed to make fun of me for how bad I am.” 

He’s already shaking his head. “Of course not. I’d never make fun of someone for wanting to learn something new.” 

Your lips quirk despite yourself. “You’d make a good teacher.”

Spencer smiles at that too. It’s a sweet, boyish thing—the sort of look that makes you forget he’s an FBI agent, that he’s seen horrors you could never imagine. How anyone stays as kind as him after all he’s been through, you don’t know. 

“You think?” 

“Definitely,” you nod. “Having everything you’ve ever read on call definitely helps, but you’ve got a curious spirit. You’d do well with high schoolers.” 

“I’ve never done well with high schoolers,” Spencer says wryly. “I graduated at 12. Part of the reason I buried myself in books was because I got bullied every waking moment.” 

You bite your lip. Case in point on how he ended up so kind. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

He shrugs and he starts off to find his chess set. 

“It’s just how life is.” His apartment is so small that you can still hear him talking as he rummages through his things. “I have two doctorate degrees with a third in progress, and I make the world a better place every day. I don’t think a single person who bullied me can say that.” 

“And that just means you can forget it all?” 

“Never,” he admits. “But it helps.” 

Spencer finds his chess board a few seconds later. He’s a very messy genius that somehow knows the exact position of everything. You haven’t dared to touch most anything since you’ve gotten here out of fear of ruining his orderly disorder. 

You stay silent as he sets the board up, explaining each piece’s name and function to you. You at least know the names, but not much else. It doesn’t bode well for a potential victory, but you’ve already given up on that possibility. 

He assigns you the white pieces and your first game goes at snail speed as Spencer explains practically every single move to you. You didn’t really plan to listen, honestly, but you can’t help it. 

Over your weeks of joint isolation, you’ve learned you adore his voice. He has a specific lilt when he’s explaining something—it’s the perfect teacher voice. 

Besides, there’s something so intimate about someone who knows practically everything taking the time to teach you about something, and being so gentle the entire time. 

Spencer never makes you feel stupid or slow when you ask him to clarify something—in fact, his eyes light up when you ask questions. He commends you every time you make a smart move without his help. You like it a little more than you should. 

You sigh, pushing that thought out of your head as you move your rook. You glance up at Spencer when you do, expecting him to tell you how bad of a move it was, but he nods instead. 

“Good move.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re already getting better, already learning how to read the board.” 

“I don’t think there’s much reading going on,” you say. “You’re going easy on me.” 

“I would never go easy on you.” 

“You’re totally going easy on me.” Spencer smiles the slightest bit as he breaks, and you grin at the sight. “I knew it.” 

“It’s just to help you learn,” he insists. “I wouldn’t be a very good teacher if I was just showing off the whole time.” His eyes flick up to you. “You don’t spend every class telling your students how much smarter you are than them, do you?” 

You chuckle. “No. I think some of those kids are smarter than me, though. I’ve written a couple of rec letters for some of them, and I won’t be surprised if they get into some Ivys.” 

“I hope you don’t take it lightly,” he says. “I asked my favorite teachers for letters of recommendation. I bet those kids are too.” 

Your smile grows more sentimental. Your students are what’s gotten you through the last couple of years—past the reminders of some of your worst mistakes, past your slip into alcoholism that nearly got you kicked out of your student teaching program, past your idle insistence on ruining your life in the name of hating your father and everything he stands for. 

Your science teachers are the ones that saved you in high school, after all. If you’re able to pay it forward and save even one kid like you, then it all will have been worth it. 

“Thank you,” you say softly. “That’s been one of the hardest parts about all this, honestly. Being away from my students.” You glance away with a sigh. “I keep worrying about them—about the whole school. That somehow I’ll drag them into this mess.” 

“You don’t need to,” Spencer promises. “The whole BAU is on this. They won’t let anything happen to you, and they certainly won’t let anything happen to your school.” 

“...Thank you,” you repeat. “I know you’re probably tired of reassuring me.” 

“Why do you think of me like that?” he asks. You weren’t expecting the question, and you look up to see his wholly earnest gaze, his creased brows. He’s hurt. 

For a moment, you don’t know what to say. You manage to stammer out a, “what do you mean?” 

“Every time I do something nice for you, or say something nice, you’re always surprised by it,” he says. “You always say that I probably hate doing it, or I wish I didn’t have to. You think of me as someone who just barely tolerates you, when that couldn’t be further from the truth.” 

Spencer’s rambling by now. You let him. 

“You— you’re incredible, and you don’t even realize it. You’re smart and passionate and witty and caring, but you never see it because you think everyone must hate you as much as you hate yourself.” He shakes his head. “Or you try to make them hate you once they start seeing the real you, because you think it’s only a matter of time until you disappoint them.” 

“That might work with other people, but it’s not gonna work with me.” Spencer meets your eyes and you feel like he can see right through you. You fight the urge to shift beneath his gaze. “You can’t make me stop caring about you. You can try, but it’s not going to work. Understand?” 

You’re reminded with big, neon flashing lights that Spencer is an FBI profiler who could probably write the book on the daddy issues you both share. It’s pretty hard to fool someone who’s been through it all before. 

“Who gave you all this nerve?” you mumble instead, because you’re not used to someone laying your whole playbook out in front of you. Why’d you have to catch feelings for the smartest guy on the planet? 

“Your dad,” he says. “And the hundreds of books I’ve read on human psychology.” 

That gets a faint laugh out of you. You suddenly feel very warm, your throat impossibly dry. 

“I’m going to get some water,” you say as you stand up. “Do you want any?” 

“Please,” he nods. At least you didn’t make anything awkward between you and Spencer—he just spouts what anyone else would consider a declaration of love on the daily. 

Love in relation to Spencer. Now that’s an unwelcome thought. The cold fridge air hits your face when you open it and helps it disappear a bit. 

“Where are your cups?” you call. 

“The cabinet next to the fridge.” 

“Thanks.” You glance back as you start filling them. “You’re not cheating, are you?” 

“How could I possibly cheat at chess?” 

“You can’t say that when I know you know all the possible ways to do it,” you say. 

“Of course I do,” Spencer agrees, “but there’s no point in cheating if I’m not trying to win. I’m just trying to teach you.” 

“Just wanted to make sure,” you chuckle. A red light blinks back at you as you start filling the water container up again. “Your Brita filter needs to be replaced.”

Spencer huffs. “I’ve been meaning to get a new one. I’ll put it on our grocery list if we’re in here long enough to need another delivery.”

“Do you think we will be?” you ask casually. You don’t want him to know your exact thoughts on being stuck here with him for longer than the safehouse. At least that place was twice the size of Spencer’s apartment. 

“...I don’t know,” he admits. 

“C’mon,” you say. You put the Brita back in the fridge and start walking back to the living room. Spencer accepts his glass with a quiet thank you as you sit back down across from him. “You’ve already been on one stalking case— I bet you’ve read about a whole lot more. What are my odds?” 

“Well, we have a suspect,” he says. “That already puts us in better territory than most stalking cases.” 

You take a sip of water, hydrating your dry throat. “Do you think it’s Mike?” 

Spencer looks at you, obviously taking immense care with his word selection. He probably can’t share every intimate detail of the investigation, but it’s more than that—he doesn’t want to upset you.

“I think he’s our best shot right now,” he says. “And I think he’s a coward of a man going up against the brightest, bravest people I know. If he is the one doing this to you, he doesn’t stand a chance.”  

Your throat is dry again. It feels like cottonmouth. You move your pawn without thinking too much about the move—you just have to do something. It’s too easy to forget about your true circumstances when you’re with Spencer. 

Spencer watches you for another few seconds, fully aware of what you’re doing. (He’s too good to forget his assignment over any sort of feelings for you, but a sick part of you wonders.) Mercifully, he doesn’t comment on it, just moves his own piece to capture the pawn you just used.  

“You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs. “You said you didn’t want me going easy on you.”

“So that means you were going easy?”

“I was helping you learn,” he says. “I think you’ve learned enough now.” 

“Fatal mistake,” you say wryly. “You never stop learning.” 

Spencer chuckles, and the air settles back into something mostly comfortable. You play the rest of the game in silence. 

-

Night comes quicker than you imagine.

You break for lunch after a few games of chess, and the conversation slowly gets back to normal. Spencer insists he can cook for you, but you decide you want to avoid the fire alarm going off on the first day. Instead, he claims a barstool and talks nonstop about everything and everything. 

He tells you who invented various kitchen utensils and devices. He explains everything you could possibly want to know about a refrigerator. He lets you know all the dangers of undercooking chicken, and you let him know you are not going to overcook it into rubber to make him happy. 

Eventually, when you’re both sitting at his kitchen bar eating, Spencer’s phone rings. He flips open his phone and presses it to his ear. 

“Spencer Reid.” His eyes flit over to you. “Hey, Gideon.” 

Your breath lodges in your throat. Every time your dad calls, it’s been an update in the case. Could it already be over? 

“Yes, she’s sitting next to me.” Spencer nods and looks at you. “I’m putting it on speaker.” 

You nod and he holds the phone in between the two of you. “You’re on speaker now, Gideon.” 

He says your name and you edge closer, practically hanging off your seat. 

“I’m here, Dad,” you say. “Do you have good news for us?” 

“I have news,” he clarifies, and your heart sinks. You didn’t realize how high your hopes had risen in such little time. “Hotch and Morgan didn’t get anything from Terrence Stevens. He claims his son hasn’t spoken to him in a decade, and Garcia’s dug up some records that corroborate it.” 

“What about Mike?” you ask. “I know Age— Elle and JJ were going to find him.” 

“They’re working on it,” your dad says. “That’s all I can tell you.” 

Your fork clatters against your plate as you haphazardly drop it and wrap your arms around your midsection. All of a sudden, it’s very cold in Spencer’s apartment. 

“So things don’t look good,” you translate. You try to keep your voice from shaking. 

“We’re making progress on everything,” he corrects. “Garcia is tracking him on all fronts, and from what we can tell, he’s nowhere near the two of you. You’re perfectly safe.” 

Somehow, that doesn’t make you feel any better. You’re too comfortable here with Spencer, to be able to forget the threat on your life constantly looming over you. You don’t know whether that says more about him or you. 

“I’m gonna shower,” you say to Spencer. “Let me know if there are any other crazy updates.”

“Yeah,” he says faintly. He hits another button on the phone and holds it back up to his ear. “It’s just me again, Gideon.” 

You scrape your leftovers into a tupperware container and put it in the fridge—and think about the newfound knowledge that the first electric refrigerator for domestic use was invented in 1913 by Fred Wolf, but ancient Iranians used what was called a yakhchāl centuries before that. Another side effect of your joint isolation is that your repertoire of fun facts has grown significantly bigger, courtesy of Spencer. 

You hear him talking on the phone distantly in the background—when you look up, you see he’s watching you. He takes the phone away from his ear for a moment. 

“There are towels in the linen closet,” he says. “Use whichever ones you like.”

You nod with a slight smile. “Thank you.” 

He mirrors the motion and goes back to talking with your father. When you walk past him, though, he catches your hand. You stop in your tracks to stare at him with slightly wide eyes, but he just squeezes your hand. It’s surprisingly comforting. 

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” Spencer says. It sounds like a vow coming from him. 

You nod shakily and squeeze back. 

“Thank you,” you repeat, words little more than a whisper. You let go and hurry off, your face burning. You can’t bring yourself to say it, but you hope he knows you believe him.  

You take a much colder shower than necessary. 

-

“Are you still there, Spencer?” 

He blinks a few times as he watches you walk off, then nods to no one in particular. 

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s going to take a shower.” 

“How is she doing?”

“Good,” Spencer says. “A-as good as she can be, in the circumstances.” 

He’s painfully aware of what Gideon’s probably thinking. Their last conversation about you didn’t go too well, and Spencer was very careful to not admit to anything—but knowing Gideon, it doesn’t matter. There’s very little you can hide from a profiler like him. 

“Good,” he echoes. “Nothing else matters if we can’t keep her safe.”

“I agree,” Spencer says. That much, at least, he doesn’t have to hide. He can’t even if he wants to—it’s far too obvious. “How are things on your end?”

“Elle and JJ went to Stevens’ address, and no one was home except for his very confused girlfriend. They searched the house and brought her in for questioning, but got nowhere.”

He has a girlfriend and he’s still tormenting you like this. Spencer is not a violent person, but he’s found himself wishing all kinds of awful things on Michael Stevens since he first heard his name. 

“They need to talk to more people,” Spencer says. “Any relatives around the area, or— or any friends or coworkers or acquaintances. This is our biggest lead, they should—”

“Stay the night?” Gideon guesses. “They’re checking into a hotel right now.”

“…Good,” he says. The sooner you get your life back, the better. 

“How are you doing?” Spencer asks after a beat of silence. “I know it can’t be easy leading this case.”

“I’m fine,” Gideon says, but Spencer isn’t sure how true it is. “It’s a weight off my shoulders knowing she’s safe with you.”

Just another reminder of the huge responsibility Spencer’s undertaken, and how much of a mess it’s become—there was probably some poorly-written romance novel out there with the exact same plot as Spencer’s life right now. 

He shakes his head to get rid of those thoughts. Now’s not the time. It’s never the time, actually—he needs to get that through his head. Just because you’re becoming friends doesn’t mean you see him like that. 

“Anything I can do to help,” Spencer says. He’s been going back and forth on Gideon since all this started, torn between his feelings for you and his loyalty to your father. He doesn’t know how he got himself caught up in something so complicated. 

“Everything is still quiet on your end?” he asks. 

Spencer nods, then remembers he’s on the phone. 

“Yes,” he says. “We haven’t even argued once.”

“Just don’t get too friendly.”

His face flushes, and he is very glad he’s on the phone. 

“Of course, sir.”

“I’ll call you back the second I know more,” Gideon says. He almost sounds pleased—apparently even a seasoned agent like Jason Gideon isn’t immune to thinly veiled, fatherly threats. “Have an uneventful night.”

“You too,” Spencer says, and then he hangs up. He takes a deep breath as he looks over at his bathroom door, the shower still running. He hopes you’re doing okay. 

Honestly, you’re handling this pretty well considering everything you’re going through. The unflinching veneer you’ve insisted on has been slowly chipped away at since the first day of this case, and Spencer’s doing all he can to help you replace it with something softer. 

He’s not just doing it because he likes you, even though that’s playing a factor in most of his erratic decisions of late. He genuinely cares about you, and he sees far too much of himself in you to ignore it—the parts that he’s been working on for years. He didn’t have to go through it alone, and he won’t let you go through it alone either. 

Spencer didn’t lie to your dad—everything doesn’t feel like a fight anymore. If anything, your numerous games of Scrabble were a peace offering. It’s all progress. 

He hears the shower turn off and he clears his throat as he stands up from the barstool. He decides to busy himself with cleaning up the kitchen—he’s read that it’s common in successful relationships to divide chores up like this. 

Any kind of relationship, he tells himself, including friendship—including bodyguard and protectee. It’s all perfectly normal. 

Spencer frowns. The thought of him as a bodyguard is still a little absurd. He still doesn’t really know why he got trusted with Lila, but it all did work out in the end. He just hopes it doesn’t come to that. 

Spencer doesn’t really want to think about what he would do if he ends up face to face with the man who’s been terrorizing you for months. 

-

“Spencer?” 

He starts, blinking a few times as he looks up from his array of DVDs at the sound of your voice. You’re leaning against the wall, clad in sweatpants and your usual GMU hoodie, and you give him the slightest smile. Even still, butterflies erupt in his chest. 

“There you are,” you say. “You were completely zoned out. Not really what you want from your FBI bodyguard.” 

He feels himself flush. “I was fully aware of my surroundings.” 

“Sure,” you say, but there’s a playful lilt to it. You wander over and sit down on the couch beside him. Spencer hopes you don’t sense the way his breath hitches for the barest second. “What are we watching?” 

“One of Garcia’s movies,” he sighs. “We did promise her to go through them. I just don’t know where to start. They’re all so… her.”

You laugh and pick up one of the DVDs—Legally Blonde—leaning over him to reach it. It’s almost comical how he has to make a conscious effort not to react any time you do literally anything around him these days. At least you’re not a profiler who can pick up on every miniscule action—it only makes him wonder if he was this obvious about Elle and JJ. 

“I watched Legally Blonde every night for a month my first year of college,” you muse. “I considered a pre-law track because of Elle Woods.” 

“Do you regret not going down that path?” he asks. 

“God, no,” you chuckle. “I would be the worst lawyer in the world. Teaching is one of the only things in my life that has felt right.”

“I don’t know,” Spencer says. “I think you’d make a decent lawyer. You’re pretty good at arguing.” 

 “I’m good at arguing when it doesn’t matter,” you say wryly. “All I’ve done these past few weeks is make your job harder. It’s why I’m so surprised you’re letting me stay here.” 

“It was the best choice for your safety,” he says.

“But I’m sure they could’ve found other places,” you say. “I wasn’t lying when I said I would sleep in a conference room. That’s preferable to going back to my apartment.” 

He shrugs. “We started this case together. We might as well end it together too.” 

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said since I met you,” you say with a smile. 

You smile again, and Spencer is reminded of the day Gideon assigned him to guard you. That was really the beginning of the end. 

Spencer fell for you the moment you smiled at him. He’s a fool to think anything different. 

You get through Legally Blonde with no problems. Spencer can’t help himself from spewing legal facts or going on about the accuracy of the court scenes, but surprisingly, you don’t seem to mind. It’s night and day compared to your first movie night. 

You make it through a few more movies on Garcia’s list before Spencer starts yawning. 

“Wow,” you say with a laugh. “All that info dumping tire you out?”

“It’s 1 in the morning,” Spencer defends. “We shouldn’t be up this late anyway. It’s going to mess with your circadian rhythm.”

You stare at him, and then you laugh. 

“There’s nothing funny about disrupting your sleep schedule,” Spencer says. 

“It’s not that,” you say wryly. “You just said the exact same thing when I was drinking my sorrows away in the safe house.”

Spencer remembers. He brought you down from the edge of a panic attack, you shared a bed, you buried the hatchet. Mostly. 

Of course Spencer remembers. He remembers everything. He’s more shocked that you do. 

“It was true then, and it’s true now.” 

“I had bigger problems then, and I have bigger problems now,” you say wryly, but you still stand up. “How are we getting through the night, then?”

Spencer frowns. “By sleeping?”

“I mean where.” You cross your arms, shifting in place. “I’m fine with taking the couch, as long as—”

“You’re not taking the couch,” he says almost immediately. The thought is absurd to him, especially when it’s already worked once. “We’ve already shared a bed once and it went perfectly fine.”

“I— I know.” You sigh as you scratch the back of your neck. “It’s just— you’re already doing me a huge favor by letting me stay here. I don’t want to impose more.”

“You’re not imposing,” Spencer promises. “Honestly, it’s safer for you. If anything does happen, I’ll be there to protect you.”

You stare at him for a second, then you nod a few times. 

“Okay,” you say. “Okay. Yeah. That makes sense.”

Of course it does, he wants to say. I always make sense. Somehow, he manages to bite his tongue. 

Spencer triple checks the locks on the door and windows while you go through your nightly routine. He would never forgive himself if something happened to you in general, but especially in his own apartment. He’s done enough geographical profiles to know he’s got the advantage on his home turf. 

He’s smoothing out the window drapes in his room when he hears your footsteps, and he turns around to see you standing there, spine just as rigid as when you first stepped into his apartment.

“You don’t have to feel uncomfortable here,” Spencer says. “I’m not lying about anything. You’re not imposing in any way, and I am genuinely okay with sharing a bed.”

Your lips twitch momentarily. “How do you always know exactly what I’m thinking?”

“I’m a profiler,” he says. “It’s my job.”

“Right,” you say. You graciously don’t state the more obvious reason. 

There’s another beat of silence before you both get in bed, careful to leave a significant amount of space between you. Spencer is more thankful than ever that he upgraded from a twin last year. 

He removes his glasses and turns the lamp off, leaving him keenly aware of your presence. You have the usual pillow barrier, but it might as well not be there with how crazy Spencer drives himself every time he’s this close to you. He would tell anyone else acting like this to get it together, but he’s apparently his own exception. 

“Good night,” Spencer says. He doesn’t speak louder than a whisper, worried of ruining the unspoken sanctity of darkness. 

“Good night,” you echo, so softly that Spencer aches. "And thank you. For everything."

"...Don't mention it," he murmurs.

There are so many things he wants to say to you, so many parts of his soul he thinks he could bare to you—but he can’t. He’s still not even fully sure you like him, not sure if you’re just tired of arguing and placating him. 

Spencer pushes all of that out of his mind with a long, shaky exhale. None of it matters, not when their unsub is still active. 

Turns out logic doesn’t always win out in his mind, though, because Spencer falls asleep to the soft sounds of your steady breathing—wondering if you think about him the same way he thinks about you. 

[idcwhattheuseris]

Yayayayayyayayayayay fab update !!!! Ugh I just want baby Gideon to stop stopping herself from living and loving !

[catbayunthestoryteller]

The Wrong Man’s Wife

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x f!reader

Summary: The Justice League members think Batman is in love with Bruce Wayne's wife.

Pretense was part of the uniform, one of the many accessories that came with being married to Bruce Wayne. There was the public smile, the attentive nod, the light laugh at jokes that were more networking than humor. There was the practiced patience of standing beside Gotham’s favorite billionaire philanthropist while donors praised his generosity and reporters angled for the most flattering shot.

Central City was no different.

The exhibition hall glittered with glass, an architectural marvel overlooking the bay. Artifacts rotated slowly under museum lights, historical pieces saved from war zones, sculptures donated by impossibly wealthy patrons. All of it in the name of charity. All of it surrounded by security that looked impressive enough to reassure civilians, but flimsy enough that you felt Bruce’s hand rest a fraction more firmly at the small of your back as you walked.

You leaned slightly toward him. “You look tense.”

Bruce’s smile didn’t falter. His eyes, however, tracked the exits, the balconies, the structural beams overhead. “Occupational hazard.”

“You’re not on duty tonight,” you murmured. “You’re allowed to relax.”

His mouth curved, barely. “I’ll try.”

He looked unfairly handsome in his tailored black suit, hair brushed back, cufflinks catching the light. The tabloids had long since moved on from calling him Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. A couple of years married, and the narrative had softened. Settled. Reformed. Lucky.

They were not wrong about the lucky part.

You accepted a glass of champagne from a passing server and turned to watch a small knot of people arguing amiably near a display case.

Bruce squeezed your hand once, quick and grounding, before letting go as someone approached to greet him. You listened to the polite exchange with half an ear, already cataloging the room the way Bruce had taught you, without ever meaning to. Old habit.

You were reaching for another sip of champagne when the lights went out.

For half a heartbeat, there was only confusion. A collective intake of breath. Then the alarms screamed to life, harsh and metallic, and the floor shuddered beneath your feet as something heavy struck the far end of the hall.

People began to panic.

“Bruce...” you started, already turning toward him.

He was gone.

Not vanished in a puff of smoke or a blur of motion but absent nonetheless. The space beside you where he had been was suddenly empty, and your pulse spiked with a familiar mix of irritation and resignation.

Of course.

You didn’t have time to dwell on it. The display cases along the walls shattered as masked figures dropped in from the ceiling, weapons humming with energy you very much did not want to be near. Someone screamed. Security scattered like startled birds.

You set your champagne down carefully on a nearby table and straightened your spine.

Fine. Showtime.

You moved the way Bruce had taught you, calm and efficient, guiding people toward the exits, keeping your voice low and steady. “This way. No running. Watch your step.”

The air crackled, and suddenly there was a red blur tearing through the hall, lightning snapping at his heels.

“Okay!” Barry Allen’s voice echoed, far too cheerful for the circumstances. “Everyone stay calm, we’ve got this under control...whoa!”

A green construct slammed into the floor, blocking a blast aimed at a cluster of civilians. Hal Jordan hovered above them, jaw set. “You guys pick the worst places to rob.”

The villains snarled back, emboldened but clearly unprepared for two members of the Justice League.

You allowed yourself a brief exhale. Good. Backup.

Then the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

It wasn’t literal. It was presence.

A shadow detached itself from the far wall, resolving into something tall and armored and unmistakable. The cape unfurled like a living thing, and suddenly Batman was there, moving through the chaos with terrifying precision.

Barry skidded to a stop mid-run. “Uh. Hi?”

Hal’s eyes widened. “What the hell is he doing here?”

Batman didn’t answer. He never did, not when it wasn’t strictly necessary. He disarmed one attacker with brutal efficiency, sending them sprawling, then pivoted seamlessly to shield a group of fleeing civilians.

Your heart did a small, treacherous flip.

There he was. In his other skin. Cold, unyielding, myth made flesh.

And then his head turned, and the white slits of his cowl locked onto you.

Everything else receded.

He crossed the distance between you in seconds. He stopped just close enough that you could see the faint scuff marks on his armor, the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

“Are you injured?” he asked.

The voice was different. Deeper. Filtered. But you heard what lay beneath it all the same.

Concern.

You shook your head. “I’m fine.”

He scanned you anyway, gaze flicking over you with a thoroughness that would have looked invasive if anyone else had been watching closely enough. His gloved hand hovered near your elbow—not touching, not quite, but ready.

Behind him, you could practically feel Barry and Hal’s eyes widen.

Batman nodded once. “Stay behind me.”

“As if I wouldn’t,” you murmured, just for him.

Something in his posture eased. Just a fraction.

He guided you toward the nearest secure exit, positioning himself so that his body blocked you from the worst of the chaos. A blast went off somewhere to your left, and he shifted instinctively, cape flaring to shield you.

Barry’s jaw dropped. “Is...is he…being gentle?”

Hal squinted. “Is that Bruce Wayne’s wife?”

Barry blinked. “Yeah?”

Batman stopped at the edge of the hall, where emergency lighting cast everything in stark red shadows. He turned to face you fully.

“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll clear the rest.”

You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing his armored forearm. The contact was brief, easily missed, but his hand closed over yours for a heartbeat.

“Be careful,” you said softly.

His thumb pressed once against your knuckles, hidden from view. “Always.”

Then he was gone again, swallowed by smoke, vengeance personified as he tore back into the fray.

You leaned against the wall and let yourself breathe.

From your vantage point, you watched Barry and Hal regroup, their expressions oscillating between focus and bafflement as they fought alongside Gotham’s Dark Knight. The villains were subdued quickly after that, no one was stupid enough to stick around once Batman had joined the party.

Within minutes, the hall was secure.

Emergency responders flooded in. Civilians were escorted out. The adrenaline drained from your system, leaving you pleasantly tired.

Batman reappeared at your side as if summoned by the thought alone.

“Still all right?” he asked.

You smiled. “Told you. Hard to scare me.”

A huff of something like amusement escaped him before he could stop it.

Barry stared.

Hal stared harder.

Batman inclined his head to you. “You should rejoin your husband.” Then he straightened, already retreating behind the mask. “Excuse me.”

He disappeared into the night as efficiently as he’d arrived.

The moment he was gone, Barry rounded on Hal, eyes bright with excitement. “Did you see that?”

Hal crossed his arms. “Oh, I saw it.”

“You think...”

“I think,” Hal said slowly, “that Batman has a thing for Bruce Wayne’s wife.”

Barry made a face. “No way. He’s not...he wouldn’t...she’s married.”

“So?” Hal shot back. “Since when does having principles mean you don’t have feelings? Did you hear his voice? He sounded like he was one bad day away from writing poetry.”

Barry snorted despite himself. “Batman doesn’t write poetry.”

“In the Batcave,” Hal said darkly. “Crying. Surrounded by bats.”

Barry hesitated. “He does always get weird when Bruce Wayne comes up.”

“Exactly!” Hal jabbed a finger in the air. “Brooding vigilante hates billionaire playboy who somehow landed a smart, self-made woman and settled down. Classic.”

Barry glanced toward you, then back at Hal. “You think he’s been pining?”

“I think he sees her face on billboards and charity galas and tells himself it’s fine,” Hal said. “It’s not fine. Look how miserable he is all the time. I've always wondered what's wrong with him.”

Barry winced. “That’s…kind of sad.”

“Juicy, though.”

You returned to Bruce Wayne not long after, finding him emerging from a different corridor, tie loosened, expression carefully arranged into concern.

The night ended the way these things always did: with sirens fading into the distance, reporters swarming like carrion birds, and Bruce Wayne reappearing at your side with a perfectly calibrated expression of concern.

You took his arm as cameras flashed.

“Mr. Wayne,” someone called, breathless with excitement. “Can you tell us how it felt to have Batman personally assist in evacuating your wife?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His hand rested warm and steady over yours.

“We’re grateful no one was seriously injured,” he said smoothly. “That’s all that matters.”

You smiled on cue, letting the attention roll off you. Somewhere behind the press barricade, you caught a glimpse of red and green disappearing into the night.

You didn’t see the looks they exchanged.

Barry Allen had replayed the footage in his head at least a dozen times by the time he and Hal Jordan regrouped on the Watchtower.

Not the fight. Not the villains.

The way Batman had moved toward you.

“Tell me you noticed it too,” Barry said, pacing. “Because I feel like I hallucinated that.”

Hal leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “I noticed.”

“He didn’t even hesitate.”

“Nope.”

“And the voice...”

“Way too soft.”

Barry grimaced. “It was…intimate.”

Hal scoffed. “Don’t say intimate.”

“I’m saying intimate.”

Hal’s jaw clenched. “He had his hand on her elbow like...like he was afraid she’d disappear.”

Barry stopped pacing. “Okay, now you’re making me sad.”

“I’m making me angry,” Hal shot back. “He’s always lecturing us about boundaries and civilians and keeping emotion out of the job, and then he pulls that?”

“Maybe it was just...” Barry hesitated. “Concern?”

Hal stared at him. “For one specific civilian. Who happens to be Bruce Wayne’s wife.”

Barry rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean…Batman doesn’t exactly like Bruce Wayne.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Hal said. “Every time Bruce Wayne’s name comes up, he shuts down like someone insulted his mother.”

Hal leaned forward. “He hates him.”

“Because...”

“Because Bruce Wayne has everything he can’t,” Hal said flatly. “Charm. A public life. A wife who looks at him like that.”

Barry swallowed. “You really think he’s in love with her.”

Hal didn’t answer immediately.

Then: “I think he’s been in love with her for a long time.”

They decided, very reasonably, they thought, to investigate.

Not in a creepy way.

In a professional way.

Batman didn’t appreciate it.

They found him in the Batcave satellite hub on the Watchtower, reviewing holographic schematics with his usual grim focus.

“Hey, Bats,” Barry said brightly. “Got a minute?”

Batman didn’t look up. “Make it quick.”

Hal exchanged a glance with Barry. Showtime.

“We were just curious,” Hal began, casual to the point of falsehood, “about why you were in Central City.”

Batman’s fingers paused over the controls. Just for a fraction of a second. “Unrelated investigation.”

“Right,” Barry said. “Totally. Makes sense.”

Silence stretched.

Barry pressed on, gently. “So, uh…Bruce Wayne.”

Batman’s shoulders went rigid.

“What about him?” Batman asked, voice cool.

“You’ve worked with him before,” Barry said. “Charity stuff. Gotham initiatives. Just wondered what you think of him.”

Batman turned slowly, cape whispering against the floor.

“Why.”

It wasn’t a question.

Hal raised his hands. “No reason. Just small talk.”

Batman’s gaze flicked between them, sharp and assessing. For one awful moment, he wondered if this was it, if Superman had finally said something, if the walls were closing in.

“Bruce Wayne is irrelevant,” he said briskly. “And his personal life is none of my concern.”

Barry blinked.

Hal’s mouth twitched.

“Got it,” Barry said quickly. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

“Then don’t,” Batman snapped. “Focus on the mission.”

He turned back to his work, dismissing them.

They left.

The moment the doors sealed behind them, Hal let out a low whistle.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “He hates Bruce Wayne.”

Barry winced. “Or he’s jealous.”

Hal shot him a look. “That’s worse.”

The final nail went in a week later.

Batman was supposed to be reviewing mission reports, metahuman sightings, arms trafficking, things that mattered.

Instead, when Barry breezed by unannounced, he found Batman standing utterly still in front of a floating screen.

On it: you.

You were mid-interview, seated elegantly at a Gotham charity luncheon, hands folded in your lap as you spoke about education reform and community rebuilding. You smiled when the interviewer laughed, eyes bright, posture composed.

Batman hadn’t realized anyone was behind him.

Barry followed his line of sight, then froze.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

Batman shut the screen down instantly. “This is not what it looks like.”

Barry didn’t move. “You were watching Bruce Wayne’s wife.”

Batman’s jaw tightened. “I was monitoring public coverage.”

“Of…her?”

“She is frequently present at high-risk events,” Batman said, defensive now. “Awareness is prudent.”

Barry’s voice softened. “You don’t watch anyone else like that.”

Batman said nothing.

Barry left without another word.

That night, he found Hal.

“He watches her interviews,” Barry said.

Hal’s eyes went dark. “Of course he does.”

Barry sank onto the couch. “That’s…that’s really rough, man.”

“Rough?” Hal scoffed. “It’s inappropriate.”

Barry frowned. “I think it’s just sad.”

Hal rounded on him. “He’s Batman. He’s always on us about professionalism. And now he’s pining over a married civilian?”

“Unrequited love isn’t a crime.”

“It’s a scandal waiting to happen,” Hal snapped. “Bruce Wayne’s wife? You know what the media would do if they even suspected something?”

Barry hesitated. “He’d never act on it.”

Hal crossed his arms. “You sure about that?”

Barry looked down. “I just think…being Batman in Gotham is already hell. Loving someone you can never have on top of that?”

Hal didn’t soften. “He doesn’t get a pass just because he’s miserable.”

They cornered Red Robin a few days later.

Tim Drake landed lightly on the Watchtower platform, mask still on, clearly expecting a briefing, not an interrogation.

“Hey,” Barry said, trying to sound friendly. “Got a question for you.”

Tim stiffened immediately. “About what?”

Hal smiled in a way that made Tim’s instincts scream. “Bruce Wayne’s wife.”

Tim’s head snapped up. “What about her?”

Barry raised his hands. “Easy. We were just wondering...have you ever met her?”

Tim’s spine went rigid.

You flashed through his mind instantly: the way you’d insisted he eat more, the way you’d sat with him after nightmares, the hand on his shoulder that had felt safe when nothing else did.

“She’s a great woman,” Tim said sharply.

Hal’s brows shot up. “So you do know her.”

Tim realized his mistake too late. “I mean...I don’t know her well.”

Barry tilted his head. “But Batman does.”

Tim hesitated.

Batman’s orders rang loud and clear in his head.

Protect the mission. Protect the secret.

“I’m still pretty young,” Tim said finally, carefully. “Batman…knows her better than I do.”

Hal’s eyes gleamed.

Barry’s mouth fell open. “He talks about her to you?”

Tim bristled. “That’s not what I said.”

But it was too late.

Hal laughed, sharp and triumphant. “Oh, he pines.”

Barry groaned. “Oh my god, he pines so hard he’s briefing his sidekick about her.”

Tim stared at them, baffled and increasingly alarmed. “You’re reading way too much into this.”

Hal clapped him on the shoulder. “Kid, you’ll understand when you’re older.”

Tim watched them walk away, unease curling in his stomach.

Somehow, impossibly, they had come closer to the truth, and still missed it entirely.

Back in Gotham, you poured Bruce a cup of tea and kissed his temple as he passed you, already slipping into shadow.

“You look tense,” you murmured.

“Just work,” he said.

You smiled, unaware that half the Justice League was currently convinced your husband spent his nights in the Batcave, brooding over you from afar: a tragic, noble fool in love with Bruce Wayne’s wife.

The universe had an impeccable sense of timing.

On the one day the Justice League was away, negotiating a fragile ceasefire on a red-skied planet whose sun hummed wrong in human bones, you were scheduled to speak in Metropolis.

Bruce hadn’t argued. That alone should have warned you.

“You’ll be fine,” he’d said, calm in the way that always meant he was anything but. “Metropolis is one of the safest cities on the planet.”

You’d smiled, adjusted his tie, kissed him. “I’ll be surrounded by reporters and security. What could possibly happen?”

He hadn’t smiled back.

Lex Luthor struck fifteen minutes into your panel.

It started with the lights.

They dimmed, not out, just low enough to make people uneasy. The massive screen behind you flickered, your face fracturing into static before resolving into a familiar, smug expression.

Lex’s.

The audience gasped. Security surged forward.

You didn’t move.

“Good evening, Metropolis,” Lex purred, his voice amplified and everywhere at once. “And good evening to Gotham’s most beloved philanthropist by marriage.”

Your jaw tightened.

Somewhere across the galaxy, Bruce Wayne felt his blood turn to ice when he received a distress message.

Batman didn’t hesitate.

Protocols shattered. Priorities reordered with brutal clarity.

He fired off encrypted signals faster than conscious thought.

Nightwing. Red Robin. Batgirl.

Immediate response. Metropolis. Luthor. She’s there.

The reply pings came back almost instantly.

On my way. Already en route. I’m five minutes out.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

By the time a jet tore through Metropolis airspace, the city was already in chaos. Lex’s private security, augmented, armored, overconfident, had locked down the perimeter around the conference center.

Nightwing dropped in from above, escrima sticks flashing. Batgirl disabled the building’s internal systems. Red Robin coordinated evac routes, his voice steady even as his eyes scanned for you.

For one suspended second, the world narrowed to the sight of you standing there: unhurt, furious, very much alive.

His shoulders sagged, just barely.

“You all right?” he asked.

You nodded. “Lex talks too much.”

Lex was apprehended within the hour.

The aftermath, however, was messier.

Hal Jordan arrived late.

Too late to be useful. Too late to feel anything but sidelined.

Lex was cuffed, the civilians safe, and Gotham’s vigilante family standing shoulder to shoulder like they’d planned this for weeks.

Hal hovered above the scene, incandescent with irritation.

“Oh, come on,” he snapped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He called the League so they could watch it live.

Batman didn’t look at him, only at the footage.

“…Okay,” Barry said slowly. “That feels excessive.”

Hal descended, fists clenched. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.”

Batman finally stepped into the camera's view. “If you have something to say...”

“You called your entire crew,” Hal cut in. “For one civilian.”

Barry frowned. “A very important civilian.”

Hal shot him a look. “She’s not League. She’s not military. She’s not even in Gotham.”

Batman’s voice went cold. “Watch your tone.”

“Oh, so now you care about tone?” Hal snapped. “You’re always lecturing us about professionalism, about emotional distance. And then you pull this? This is getting out of hand.”

Batman didn’t argue.

That only made it worse.

They didn’t confront him that night.

They started following him instead.

Hal didn’t even feel bad about it.

Batman thought he was alone, back in the Watchtower’s auxiliary hangar, exhaustion finally settling into his bones.

He activated a secure line.

Hal slowed his breathing. Barry stilled time just enough to listen.

Batman’s voice, unguarded and low, carried easily.

“I just needed to hear your voice.”

Barry could not believe his ears.

“I know it’s late. I won’t keep you.”

A pause. Softer.

“I wish I could see you.”

Hal’s jaw clenched.

Another pause. A faint exhale.

“Who cares about that. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Barry swallowed. “Oh no.”

Batman closed his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he said quietly. “I just…missed you.”

The line disconnected.

Silence slammed down.

Barry stared at Hal, horrified. “That’s…that’s really bad, right?”

Hal’s face was thunderous. “He’s trying to seduce her.”

Barry’s voice wobbled. “What if she doesn’t know?”

“Then it’s worse.”

They argued until morning.

The intervention was a disaster.

They cornered Batman in the briefing room the next day, both of them grim, resolved, utterly convinced of their moral high ground.

“This stops now,” Hal said without preamble.

Batman stared. “Excuse me?”

Barry folded his arms, clearly uncomfortable. “We heard the call.”

Batman froze.

The blood drained from his face so fast Hal nearly missed it.

“You were listening,” Batman said carefully.

Hal took that as confirmation. “So you admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That you’re emotionally compromised,” Hal snapped. “That you’re pursuing a married civilian.”

Batman stared at them.

Actually stared.

“…Are you insane?”

Barry winced. “He’s not denying it.”

Batman’s voice dropped to something lethal. “Explain. Slowly.”

Hal launched into it: every look, every moment, the call, the words. The imagined affair. The impending scandal.

Batman listened in silence.

Then he laughed.

Once. Sharp. Disbelieving.

“You think,” he said slowly, “that I’m trying to get Bruce Wayne’s wife to cheat on him.”

Hal crossed his arms. “You said ‘I miss you’.”

“I did say that.”

Barry’s eyes widened. “You...”

Batman pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because she’s my wife.”

Dead silence.

Barry’s mouth fell open.

Hal stared. “No.”

Batman looked up, eyes blazing. “Yes.”

Barry whispered, “Oh my god.”

Hal shook his head. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s not a joke.”

Barry’s brain visibly rebooted. “You’re…Bruce Wayne.”

Batman didn’t confirm it.

He didn’t have to.

The room tilted.

Hal sank into a chair. “So all of that...”

“...was me,” Batman said flatly. “Being worried about my spouse.”

Barry groaned, hands over his face. “We thought you were a tragic creep.”

Hal stared at the floor.

Batman’s mouth twitched despite himself. “I noticed.”

a/n: Divider credit to @strangergraphics-archive

[mindfulmesses]

THIS SHIT WAS FIREEE

i love being bruce wayne’s wife 🤗

[shirefantasies]

Hi!

Once you feel up to it, could you please write a oneshot of Fílí meeting a hobbit girl on his way to the Bag End and falling helplessly in love with her?

I have always imagined that Fílí and Kílí had arrived to Hobbiton a whole day early and spent it walking around - that, given how lost their uncle always was, Dís had sent them on the road earlier than necessary to ensure that they arrived in time.

So when they arrive to Hobbiton, the brothers are left to explore the market - and that’s when the coup de foudre happens - Fílí sees a hobbit (with strawberry blonde hair, please, if you don’t want to do reader-insert) selling all kinds of flour and has very short conversation with her. To his utter disappointment and annoyance, Kílí is responsible enough to talk him out of buying the huge bag of flour.

And, to be honest, that’s the reason behind Kílí’s grin and Fílí’s smirk we see when Bilbo opens the door.

Thank you soo much!

Please, take your time and care!

🪻🌸🪻🌸🪻

‘Cuz’ of Death- Fili x F!Hobbit!Reader

This is so long in the making 😅 but yay, brain finally brained! Enjoy some Fili fluff 🥰

Warnings: one suggestive comment

Hobbiton’s rolling hills are green as ever as you struggle to pull the wheelbarrow along the path to the market. Your wares are your charge, of course, but that does not stop you in the slightest from wishing you had someone to share in your burdens. And your victories. Not that some great many victories are won in the illustrious world of flour salesmanship, but the thought still stood.

Thoughts. Such are yours for the remaining duration of the trip, flitting about your mind in fancy until you enter the bustle of tents being raised and tables being lain with all manner of honeys, meats, fishers' catches, freshly baked bread, and so many more colorful and tantalizing offerings of your great land. A smile fills your face at the sight. For some, they are overwhelming. For you? Your livelihood. Livelihood and the secret charm of possibility that you might meet someone you do not know, someone from some far reaches of the Shire. Or beyond.

Snorting at that particular notion, you heft bags of flour onto the table your neighbor was kind enough to set up for you, sorting them once all of them are up there for a moment of muscle rest. You hang your sign, a wooden piece carved for you by your father, and take up your helm of sale.

~

Sunlight has fallen such that it casts into your eyes; cursing your short form, you shade yourself with an arm as two shapes enter your line of vision. Tall shapes. Men? Dwarves? Dwarves, judging by their garb, which appears to be that of mountain folk. Heavy tunics, fur linings, heavy boots and beaded braids. They also are not so towering as the men you’d met on a trip to Bree once.

The blonde one's eyes slide between your wares and you, alternating until you break into a smile.

"Could I interest you in any of these fine flours, sirs?"

"Sirs," the black-haired one snickers, though completely without malice, only humor.

"What's this one?" Pushing his neighbor aside, Blonde points at a medium-sized sack.

“Buckwheat flour,” you answer with a smile, “Good way to make your cookies tender if you don’t use too much. That is, if you make cookies much. I’m not sure what you like.”

“I have been wanting to get into baking.”

“What are you doing?” Black Hair hisses, a whisper just loud enough for you to hear. “We’ve got the party!”

“Yes,” Blonde agrees jovially, glancing back to you, “It is prudent to bring a gift, isn’t it? What about a nice bag of-”

“We’ve got a while yet! I’m not carrying that around for an hour! Are you?”

“Well-”

“Come on, Brother.”

“Brother?” You burst out before you could stop yourself. The pair doesn't look so much alike- perhaps they each look like one parent.

“Oh, my apologies, madam,” Blonde whips around and gives a bow, spinning his hand as he folds, “Fili, at your service, alongside my little brother here.”

Giving your name, you accept Fili’s proffered hand and giggle as he presses a kiss to the back of yours.

"Kili," the little brother pushes in, offering his hand, too, "And we were just leaving."

"What about the buckwheat?" Fili turns from Kili back to you, leaning on your table. "I'm quite interested in the...tender cookies? What on earth does that mean? Does that make them firmer or less firm? Or more...chewy?"

"You don't bake." Kili again, this time with less urgency and a great deal more amusement.

Fili must have made some disastrous attempts, you think, unable to stop the amusement that begins creeping across your lips. You picture him hunched with a look of dramatized defeat over a pan of crumbled, blackened cookies with smoke spiraling off them.

"I could learn," the elder retorts in a surprisingly determined tone.

Something about it moves your heart, loosens it further, speeds it even. These dwarves are nothing like you expected- not in appearance, manner, or of course location there at your table traveling some humble Shire market.

"I could teach you," you tell him, running a hand through your hair.

"I'd like that," he replies, "We aren't here much longer, but this place is very beautiful. I think we'll be back."

Kili looks between you two, jiggling his eyebrows up and down as Fili suddenly kneels to the ground, rising again with a little pink flower pinched gingerly between his thumb and index finger.

"At least I will be for those baking lessons. Speaking of which..." He chuckles to himself. "A flower for a flour?"

After you accept the flower, Fili reaches for your sack of buckwheat flower yet again, only for Kili to knock his hand away, initiating a comical skirmish of slaps that finally cements in your eyes that these two are undoubtedly brothers. Your gaze bounces between each volley as you twirl your baby bloom, heart leaping at the feeling of it, at the imprint of Fili's mischievous smile and gleaming blue eyes upon the back of your brain.

"Ignore him," Kili finally says, breaking you from your flower-induced, pollen-dusted golden reverie, "He's looking for an entirely different set of goodies."

The confusion you feel at that last comment as you watch the younger dwarf physically drag his brother away from your flour assortment lasts all the way through the rest of the market, all your actual purchases, and even up to your trip to your cousin's house to deliver a loaf of bread your mother had made him.

The hearth is warm and the kitchen scented of the herbs he's preparing for supper and calming tea. He welcomes your steaming parcel of sourdough with open arms and puts a second fish and helping of vegetables on to roast while you chat about your day. Your unusual day.

A tale of your dwarf-filled day...interrupted by a dwarf. This one exactly what you've always pictured, even taller than the brothers and more imposing, complete with a long beard, tattoos, and an intimidating stare. He is quite blunt about the fact that he isn't familiar with you or Bilbo, but gracious as your cousin is he shoots you a look of sympathy and quickly slides you his other helping. His look quickly melts into frustration the more the dwarf goes on and takes from him and rearranges, sharing with you an exasperated glare that has you giggling.

"Dwarves," he shakes his head before opening the door to another, older one, "What is it with today and dwarves?"

"I don't know," you reply quietly, reaching up to gently caress Fili's flower, which you have tucked behind your ear.

The second dwarf, Balin, is surprised to see you there, but then, so are you to see him. He chuckles at that and asks you for direction, which you shyly give; when he asks about chairs, you lead him around the corner into Bag End's larger dining room, where the long table rests under a chandelier's cozy yellow light. Bilbo follows soon behind, peering skeptically at your little congregation with furrowed brows and muttered questions. The sound of the bell ringing yet again, however, distracts you from the hearty laughter of this new set of dwarf brothers. Tapping across Bag End's hardwood floor, you cross your cousin's home once more, slowly opening the great round door. Voices sound behind it, voices that increase in volume as Bag End opens wider to welcome them.

"I can't stop thinking about her. I tell you, Kee, she's going to be the death of me-"

"Ah!"

Perking up with a wide smile that quickly melts into more of a smirk and gets directed at his brother, there stands Kili before you.

“Well now, brother, look who it is!” Kili exclaims your name, still looking right at his elder sibling as he sticks a hand out your way. “Can you believe our good fortune?”

“No,” Fili answers with a smile, blue eyes never falling upon his brother from their gaze into yours, “I cannot.”

His eyes trace over from yours, catch sight of his flower still tucked up by your tresses, and he stumbles into your cousin’s home with parted, wordless lips. He stands so close to you you’d collide with a single step from either of you, finally darting his eyes away and surveying the warm light of Bag End.

“So this is the fabled hobbits’ home?”

“It is,” you agree.

“I love it,” he breathes, a glow of awe coloring his expression, “It suits you just like that flower. It’s cozy. Sweet. I can definitely foresee myself upon many a return visit here.”

“So are you Mister Boggins’s wife?” Kili interrupts, tone bordering on urgent.

“No,” you shake your head, “He’s my cousin. I’ve come to deliver him a loaf of bread, but what of travelers like yourselves? Why have you come to a party Bilbo was not even aware of hosting?”

Inching a wee bit closer, just a tad, Fili extends his hand just like before. Just like before you take it. Instead of pressing a kiss to it, though, this time he holds it fast, his grip strong and warm and sure. The hearth’s warmth feels much closer despite you standing at a door open to the night on the end farthest from it you could be.

“Could I interest you,” Fili asks, leaning so close as to almost whisper in your ear, “In an adventure?”

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