#And I know if anyone there saw this they’d go

[love-quinn]

— PHONE LINES

summary — when the city’s under fire, your coworkers' first priority is breaking the story. you, however, have more pressing issues. like finding your boyfriend, clark.

warnings — i haven't consumed a single other piece of superman media in the last 10 years so this is entirely based off the 2025 movie, i made lois a girlkisser because look at her (w supergirl because i shipped it at 7) , SPOILERS for the plot of 'superman (2025)'

pairing — clark kent x daily planet!reader

pronouns — she/hers

featuring — clark kent, lois lane, jimmy olsen, cat grant, perry white

word count — 2746

note — if this is innacurate to the Greater Superman Lore i do apologise i'm very much like,, dc adjacent i've been getting into more of the superhero genre over the past year and had the vague idea that i'd tackle marvel first but i went to the cinema to watch this and literally haven't stopped thinking about him since, again this will have spoilers for the movie read at your own risk. also the dialogue probably isn't right because i'm writing this from memory for a movie i saw two days ago.

There were times when you wondered why the hell you still lived in Metropolis. Why didn't you pack up your one bedroom apartment and high tail it out of there. The two recent attacks on the city lately, combined with the fact that Superman was allegedly on Earth to lord over everybody. You’d always thought Superman was kind of cool, and with everything that had happened lately, you were still hoping with a small part of yourself that he was who he said he was. 

California probably had enough news to keep you busy, probably had warmer weather too. You didn’t even do serious journalism, you worked the entertainment column. If anything, California would be better for your career. 

Sure, there were more earthquakes on average there, but you were pretty sure that none of the tectonic plates ever split to create an interdimensional void. At least, that’s what you thought was happening, based on the fact that the ground was coming apart and the chasm was glowing a bright purple. 

You’d been at work when it hit, sitting at your desk and staring blankly at the empty copy on your screen, your list of events for the week scrawled neatly on the front page of your notepad, knowing all you had to do was zhuzh it up a little. You were only procrastinating it because it felt like the only thing of substance you got to do that day, knowing that the second it was over you were going to have to launch directly into the important news that a hollywood actor and his wife had announced their divorce a few hours prior. Maybe if you got that done fast enough you could talk to Penny and ask if she wanted help thinking of crossword clues. 

Now, almost everyone had evacuated except you and a few of your coworkers. Lois was explaining the scandal to Perry, who sat in his chair smoking his cigar, something about Lex Luthor trying to buy a country. You couldn’t hear it over the yelling from the street and your phone pressed to your ear. 

Hey, you’ve reached Clark Kent of the Daily Planet, leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

You didn’t bother leaving a message, there was no way he didn’t know about this. You hadn’t seen him in almost two days, he’d answered your texts sporadically, apologising for taking off so suddenly. Stomach flu, he’d warned you when you’d offered to go to his apartment. Highly contagious. 

“And you have a spaceship?” Terry asked. You weren’t sure what conversation they’d been having, but maybe the stress was getting to your head. 

You dialled the number again. Hey, you’ve reached Cla-

“Shit,” you hissed. You and Clark had only been dating for a few months, it wasn’t even anything serious. You hadn’t even told anyone, that was how casual it was. He’d take you out on dates after work, make you dinner, sing your praises when you told him you didn’t feel like a real journalist. He was the sweetest guy you’d ever been with, and if things didn’t work out you weren’t sure what you would do. 

Because that’s what kept you tied to the Planet, you knew. Your lovely coworker sitting just two desks down from you, turned to your adoring friend who would smile at you over yesterday’s paper and tell you he knew you’d helped with the crossword. And now, Clark. Not quite your boyfriend, not quite not your boyfriend. 

You suspected Lois knew because there wasn’t a lot that woman didn’t know, and Cat seemed to have a sixth sense for that sort of thing. Jimmy you weren’t able to read as well, you guys weren’t as close, but he was always kind to you when the two of you found yourselves at the coffee pot together.

You hadn’t told anyone, but if Clark had you wouldn’t be angry. A glow bloomed in your chest at the idea that the two of you were important enough to be worth speaking of. 

“Hey,” Jimmy’s hand was on your shoulder. You glared down at your texts to Clark, unanswered, unread. “You coming? We’re going.”

“We’re just gonna-” you watched Jimmy heft Lois’s clue board – equipped with red string and a concerning amount of selfies from a pretty blonde – “We can’t just leave!”

“‘Course we can,” Jimmy said, struggling under the weight of the board and the baby-talk he was trying to cajole you with. “Come on, let’s go. We’re in a rush.”

You looked around desperately. You didn’t know where Clark lived, what side of town, if he’d been in the rip’s path yet or not. Your apartment was East, it’d hold for a little while longer. If Clark was looking for you, he’d come here. 

Still no sign of him. He’d left his suit jacket hung over the back of his chair the last time he’d come in. The Planet was mostly business casual, but you liked him in a suit, so you weren’t going to complain. 

Even Steve had grabbed his stuff to follow the group. You were the only one still standing there. “But what about Clark?”

Lois stopped in her tracks, for just a moment, turning around to face you. “I know where he is. Come on.”

She’d known what to say to you, alright. Lois had been the first person Clark had told about his budding relationship with you, or more accurately she’d asked him about it once and he’d caved without any pressure. 

She was also the only person in the world aside from his parents who knew his identity, and Lois knew if he’d told you, there was no way you’d still be standing there. 

You grabbed your stuff as quickly as you could, albeit clumsily, following the group. You weren’t sure what you were expecting as Lois hurried you along onto the building’s roof, Lois and Jimmy spewing all the information they had on Lex Luthor being behind the vicious decline in popularity that had befallen Superman lately, but a literal spaceship being parked there wasn’t it.

“I don’t understand-” you said, moving out of the way for Jimmy to load the board onto the ship. “Lois, where’s Clark?”

She looked at you from the other side of the doorway. “Last I heard, Kansas. At his parents’ place.”

Clark had gone to Kansas? He’d only been sick a few days. He hadn’t said anything, his last text to you simply reading: The second I’m better, you can expect a night in to make up for this. 

You’d sent back: can’t wait. He’d liked the message. 

“Why didn’t…” you couldn’t ask that, not when you were standing at the door of a literal spaceship. You clambered on, reaching behind you to pull Cat up with you. The two of you claimed the last available seats, with Lois at the helm. 

Perhaps you should have been listening earlier. Lois got Jimmy to transcribe with his pen between his teeth, talking about Lex Luthor’s big master plan to profit from the war, but you were still staring down at your phone. 

Hey, this is Cl-

Why hadn’t Clark told you he was going to Kansas? It had been two days since you’d last seen him, sure, but that message had been sent last night. Lois, in between trying to figure out the controls and verbalising her article for Jimmy to type, was looking back at you in your seat as much as she could. 

She couldn’t ease your worries, not now, not in front of everyone at work. You just stared down at your phone like it would suddenly will Clark to appear. Though, now you were in the sky, you weren’t sure that’s what you wanted anymore. 

You’d really liked him, maybe even enough to ask him to be your boyfriend. You weren’t very good at making the first move, and, to his fairness, neither had he. But he’d bitten that bullet for you, asking you out and spending countless nights making you feel special. 

Jimmy’s leg stretched over to kick you. He was sitting too far away for it to be unintentional, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the laptop for longer than a second, and with his pen in his mouth it was hard to ask what he wanted to. 

You nodded, and when you realised he didn’t catch it, spoke gently. “Yeah, Jim.” 

Jimmy handed his laptop off to Perry, who read the article. Within minutes, your phone was lit up with an alert. 

The Daily Planet — BREAKING: Billionaire Lex Luthor Colludes with Boravian Government to Invade Jarhanpur - by Lois Lane. 

Okay, that made sense, you supposed. Lois had mentioned something about Mr Terrific on the way up, so she’d clearly been speaking to the Justice Gang (crew? you could never remember their name), but you still weren’t aware of why Lois had one of their spaceships. 

There was a lot of stuff that you probably should have been paying attention to but you couldn’t take your focus off of Clark. The only thing you could think about were all the worst possible things. What if his stomach flu had knocked him out so he didn’t even know what was happening?

Why had he gone to Kansas if he wasn’t feeling well, and why hadn’t he told you? He’d told you about his parents, how he’d been adopted as a kid, how he grew up on a farm in Smallville. You weren’t sure if he’d mentioned you to his mom and dad, but that didn’t bother you. 

You would’ve appreciated a text, though.

The hurt was second only to the worry. This was common in Metropolis, world-ending cataclysms were what drove your career, if you were ever able to get it off the ground. There was the time that the library got hit with a huge ice monster while Clark was there and he’d dropped his phone somewhere in the stacks, hiding there while Superman dealt with the monster. That had been four days after your first date with Clark, and you’d kissed him right there in the break room, with no regard for who could have seen. 

You just wanted to make sure he was okay, gripping your phone in both hands until your knuckles turned white. 

“He’s okay,” Lois was keeping the ship steady. She turned to you for a moment before looking back out the front window. “I know you’re worried.”

“Why did he,” you had to pause to wet your lips, so dry they were cracking. “Why did he go to Kansas?” Your cheeks felt wet. You didn’t want to cry in front of your coworkers. 

Lois seemed to be very conscious of what she was saying in front of the rest of them. Steve was shakily trying to down a probiotic, Jimmy was texting frantically, pen still in his mouth, Cat seemed unbothered, Perry had a cigar in his mouth. “His glasses,” she said finally, tone even. “He had an issue with them - the glasses - and had to go see his parents.”

You’d never seen Clark without his glasses, not even the one time he’d slept over. You’d fallen asleep on him while watching a movie, and then the next morning he’d woke you with a soothing hand on your back, already dressed for work in yesterday’s clothing. 

But you had. It had been late one night, Clark had turned away from you to wipe them on his shirt and when he turned back, they were only mostly on. His face looked different from the split second, still familiar, still loving and comforting, but not quite like your Clark.

But perfectly like the man who had been plastered on the front page of the newspaper as recently as that morning. 

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Lois knew you weren’t talking about Kansas. 

“He wanted to,” she said. “He wanted you to be the first person he told. I… figured it out,” she glanced behind at you. “He…” she swallowed, looking back. “He… they closed the rift.”

You, despite your better judgement, unbuckled. Lois was already standing, gripping onto you tightly. Jimmy was at your other side, and he pressed a triumphant kiss to your hairline. Cat screamed in your ear but you didn’t even care.

As Lois landed the ship, the six of you poured out, all desperately looking for your loved ones. Jimmy was practically tackled by a gorgeous woman who ran at him so hard he had to lift her off the ground to avoid falling over. Lois was wrapped in a hug by a pretty blonde girl wearing a fur coat and red boots, looking more at peace than you’d ever seen her during the year you’d been coworkers. 

You stood there, beside the spaceship, clutching your phone and watching the sky. They’d fixed the rift, surely if Clark was dead it would’ve been major news. You’d already gotten eight more google alerts about Luthor since the Planet had broken the story. Surely a casualty like that would make for front page news.

“It’s Superman!”

And there he was, high in the sky above the now destroyed Luthorcorp building. He didn’t stop, though, heading straight west until he eventually went out of sight. Lois clapped you on the shoulder, still wrapped up by the blonde girl who looked slightly hungover and also apparently freezing by the way she clutched her coat close. “It’s obvious once you see it.” She muttered. 

You nodded, still gazing at the spot you’d last seen him.

“What is?”

His voice was different, now that you noticed. Clark’s voice went deeper when he was in costume, or perhaps out of costume, whichever he considered true really. But you didn’t turn for Superman, you turned for Clark. 

He caught you when you reached him, a strong hand on your back and the other on your hip. “Hi, honey.” Neither of you cared that your coworkers were right there. 

“I love you,” were the first words out of your mouth, terrified that you wouldn’t get a chance to say them. Not after the day you’d had.

Clark clutched you tighter. “I love you,” he said warmly, voice breaking like pancake batter spilling over a pan. Like a cup overflowing. “I love you.” Not too, not as well. Independent from yours.

He kissed you, after two full days without you, it made him feel better than the glow of the yellow sun, beginning to set but still high in the sky. “I wanted to tell you,” he urged against your mouth. “Every time I looked at you it felt harder. I love you, I didn’t want this to have to be something you deal with. Didn’t want you to know too much.”

You pulled away, chest heaving, one hand clenched around that tie he was wearing. Home and back in five minutes and he’d taken the time to put his tie back on. “I could know everything in the world about you and I’d still want more,” you said gently. 

“You’re not angry?”

You almost looked offended. “That my boyfriend stopped a geopolitical conflict? Or that my boyfriend has a second house I haven’t seen?”

Clark said your name, low on his lips and heavy in his throat. “I am sorry,” he was sincere, not apologising for either of the things you’d just brought up. The sidewalk was put together, but there was still a crack down the middle. 

“I believe I was promised a night in,” you said. “You can make it up to me then. Because I don’t care about this stuff, I never have, you know that. It’s not me. I care about you, about Clark Kent, who once tried to make me a birthday cake and ended up almost burning his apartment down. Who would hold my hand on the way to work like we had some huge secret, that lugged my couch up four flights of stairs because it didn’t fit in the elevator. That once told me he hopes people think of him as highly as they think of me.”

Your face was warm under the pad of his thumb. “I’m your boyfriend now?” He felt you get warmer. 

“I said that for dramatics,” you said, “You want it, you gotta earn it.” Clark laughed, the warmest sound you had ever heard. You continued. “Just like you earned all those interviews with Superman.”

[assortedcriminality]

snippet #9 - Unmasked

Hero lay in bed with their eyes closed, traces of tears clearly visible on their face. They hadn’t bothered to take their hair out of its now-messy braid, too tired to do anything but rest on top of the neatly folded covers. Today had been horrible, a slip on Hero’s part, bad enough that Superhero had benched them for the next week. Villain had almost taken their mask off. Their identity had been so close to being revealed, something that would have instantly placed them in incredible danger.

Thank the gods for Other Hero, who had managed to get the criminal off of Hero before that could happen. They were still shaken, and on top of that, their powers were malfunctioning. No one knew why—one minute Hero could summon any type of weather, an ability they were feared and respected for, and the next, they could barely make it drizzle. It was infuriating, especially with the way the rest of the heroes were treating them because of it. But… not Other Hero. They understood. They were so kind, so empathetic. Hero was glad to have them as a friend. 

They heard the creak of the door as it opened slowly, padded footsteps making their way over to where Hero was lying. Usually, Hero would have turned around, or at least said something, but they just didn’t have the energy. Besides, whoever would dare to enter their room had to be someone Hero wouldn’t mind being in there. They were known for their viciously guarded need for privacy. It was known that thunder would rumble through Headquarters if an unwanted visitor entered Hero’s room without permission. 

“Other Hero?” They asked carefully, tensing as feather-light fingers traced their skin. They felt a tiny pressure on their scalp, and a tangle of hair curled around their neck. Other Hero must have taken out the braid. “Thank you,” Hero said softly, relaxing into their friend’s touch. The crimefighter was warm, so warm, threading through the knotted strands of Hero’s hair with gentle hands. Hero wanted to just bathe in the affection forever, but they knew they had to acknowledge the elephant in the room. “I’m so grateful that you were there today,” they began in a quiet voice. “You saw how close Villain was to taking off my mask, I…I can’t let them or anyone else know my identity. Superhero would be furious… I don’t know if I’d be fired, or if they’d help me, I’m sure people would come after me, I can’t-“

Their shaky rambling was cut off by Other Hero brushing Hero’s hair out of the way and pressing a kiss to their neck. They stilled, closing their eyes again and letting out a trembling breath. It felt so comforting, as if even though Other Hero hadn’t said anything, they were telling Hero it would all be okay. And that was what they needed most right now, really. It was nice that Other Hero seemed to know that.

“I know I’m spiraling. It’s just that—I’ve never been afraid of Villain before. I’ve been afraid of what they’ll do, I mean, you have a nemesis, you know what it’s like. But earlier… I was scared. I was terrified. And I can’t stop replaying that moment in my head up to the point where you stepped in—going over my mistakes again and again. You tell me not to dwell, and I know I should just do better next time, but what I was so afraid of was the possibility that there would never be a next time. I love this city so much, and if I couldn’t fight for it or protect it anymore, I’d go crazy.” Hero bit their lip, feeling like they’d said too much. “Does that… do you understand?” 

“Of course,” said a horribly familiar voice that did not belong to Other Hero. 

Hero whipped around, their hands coming up instinctively to cover their bare face. Before they could, the intruder caught both of their wrists, pinning them to either side of their head. Hero’s shock rendered them frozen in place, unable to move as every inch of their features was suddenly on display. Any sounds or words they could muster died in their throat the moment that eye contact locked. They felt more exposed than they ever had before, as if the whole city was outside looking in through their window.

Hero would have preferred to be struck by the lightning they had once called on so easily rather than lie there for one more second, but there was nothing they could do. Tears formed in the corner of their wide eyes as they stared up into the others’ gaze. One escaped, trailing down their cheek to the corner of their mouth. They could taste the salt, sharp and acrid like the feeling in their chest; inescapably strong, unrelentingly painful. 

“Don’t cry,” Villain said softly. “You’re beautiful.” 

@sausages-things @chaotic-orphan @watermelonrandom

(ask to be added/removed)

[lauvsamara]

────⟢ SANJI VINSMOKE: Don’t make me regret this

⊹ Fluff

⊹ Sanji Vinsmoke x Fem!Reader

⊹ Word count: 684

જ⁀➴ In which, you finally decide to give him a chance, Despite his whore reputation.

You shouldn’t have come.

You knew better. Knew what people said about Vinsmoke Sanji—that he’d flirt with a cloud if it looked soft enough. That his loyalty scattered the second a skirt swayed near. That girls who got too close always left looking a little more bitter than they’d arrived.

And yet here you were. On the deck. At night. Waiting.

The sea was quiet for once. Moonlight glossed the waves like paint, and the Going Merry swayed just enough to remind you this wasn’t solid ground. Maybe that was fitting.

You heard the soft scrape of shoes before you saw him.

“I knew you’d come,” Sanji said behind you, voice warm and irritatingly smug.

You didn’t turn around. “Barely. You’re late.”

“I was making something,” he said. “Something special.” A pause. “Well. Someone special.”

You turned to look at him then. He held out a small plate like a peace offering—perfectly plated, two delicate slices of strawberry mille-feuille dusted with sugar.

“You made this for me?” you asked, eyeing it.

“I’ve never made this for anyone else,” he said, dead serious. “Not even for Nami!!”

That caught your attention.

“No offense,” you said, narrowing your eyes, “but your track record with the truth when women are involved isn’t exactly spotless.”

His smile faltered for a second, but he didn’t look away.

“I know,” he said. “But this isn’t a line.”

You stared at him. The wind caught his hair just enough to blow a strand over his eyes. He didn’t brush it away—just waited, offering you the plate like it was more than just dessert.

You took it.

He relaxed.

“Still a flirt,” you muttered.

“I can’t help it,” he replied smoothly. “It’s muscle memory at this point. Like breathing.”

You sat down on one of the wooden crates near the railing, picking up the little silver fork tucked beside the plate. “Then what’s stopping you from flirting with me right now?”

He gave you a look. A deep one. The kind that went past your skin and landed somewhere stupid in your chest.

“I am flirting with you,” he said quietly. “But not the way I used to.”

You paused. That stung a little more than it should’ve.

“You mean with actual effort?”

“I mean with actual intention.”

You looked at him. His hands weren’t in his pockets. He wasn’t fidgeting or glancing toward the door like he had somewhere better to be.

“You said you’d change,” you said.

“I’m trying to.”

“For me?”

“For myself,” he said. “But yeah. You’re the reason I started.”

You poked your fork through the pastry, watching the cream spill slightly between the layers. “You don’t even know if this is going anywhere.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I’m okay taking it slow.”

You glanced up. “Slow doesn’t really seem like your style.”

His grin returned, sharp and boyish. “I’m adaptable. Especially for a beautiful woman with dangerously high standards.”

You scoffed. “There it is.”

“What?” he asked, all fake innocence. “You want me to stop calling you beautiful?”

You arched a brow. “You want me to leave?”

He laughed. It was soft, real.

Then, quietly, “I’ll work on it.”

You let a beat pass. Then took a bite.

Silence again—except now he was watching you like your opinion could make or break him.

You didn’t give him anything. Just chewed slowly and swallowed.

“…It’s good,” you said at last. “Really good.”

His shoulders eased. “Then I’m already winning.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t leave. Didn’t push him away when he stepped beside you and leaned against the railing, close enough to feel the heat coming off his jacket.

“You’re not gonna try to kiss me, are you?” you asked dryly.

“Only if you ask nicely,” he said, and then added quickly—“But no. I won’t. Not tonight.”

You glanced at him.

He met your gaze, serious beneath the flirt.

“I meant it,” he said. “One chance. I’m not blowing it.”

You sighed.

And when you passed him the other half of the pastry, you didn’t say anything.

But you didn’t take it back, either.

[overangel]

I've been thinking about this for awhile but what would happen if y/n as rapture was fighting with the batfamily and in the battle one of the guys they were fighting ends up accidentally (or purposely, whatever u want hehe) ripping y/n's suit or melting it with acid causing it to expose her entire body in the middle of their fight?

Would this cause the batboys to get even more pissed and feel even more overprotective cause some thugs and a bitch in some goofy ass outfit saw their beloveds bare body before they even had the opportunity to see her themselves??

-🦇

(Imagine Alfred's face when the family comes back to the Batcave and finds out some worthless bitches caused his baby girl to fight while basically naked and causing her to get more bruises and cuts than usual cuz of her being forced to fight naked and cold😾)

NONNIEEEEE, I’VE HAD THIS IDEA FOR A WHILE BEFORE I EVEN STARTED THE SERIES OMGGGG,

At first, I always thought Starling’s clothes would get ripped to shreds during a daytime fight where several members of the JL would also be (maybe the JL were calling in anyone who could help or she happened to be in Metropolis and she would’ve looked like an ass if she just left Kara and the others to fight crime while she was enjoying a smoothie in her street clothes lol), but having it a more intimate event with just the Batfam present would be better since this is an ask!

Your MIND

ALL OF YOU ARE IN MY HEAD THIS IS ACTUALLY REALLY SCARY

You preferred to work alone and it wasn’t because you were taking a page out of Captain Underpants’s playbook. Deep inside, you already knew before you donned your suit that having partners or being part of a team would be too stressful for you.

If someone else was hurt because you didn’t have their backs it’d definitely gut you, and your way of doing things was so unorthodox that it was best to not be in a position where you had to explain yourself. And look at Batman, for instance. Something about partners and sidekicks always disgusted you.

You kept a solemn pledge that if something went terribly wrong, you’d be the one to take the brunt and that gave you peace during particularly hard missions.

Well…

Another benefit of notoriously flying solo was supposedly not being bothered by certain idiots.

It was supposed to be.

You had been tailing this small group—fledging grunts who wanted to make names for themselves—for a couple of weeks. They were small time but were already gaining local media coverage and they were definitely specialized enough with some skilled fighters and sadistic methods that would probably see them with VIP seating at the Iceberg Lounge in a year if you didn’t get them now.

They made a big splash and you couldn’t let them go.

Artistically elaborate knife assaults where victims were left unrecognizable, and actual acid being splashed into innocent people’s faces garnered immediate attention. Some worried it was a rising hate group, but you weren’t worried. They’d all be dead before ‘Good Morning Gotham’ tomorrow.

You had all of them on the ropes, screaming at each other and dazed as you used one of your techniques “Fade” where you nearly teleported from one place to the next as you faded out of sight. 

You held serrated blades in both hands and waved them about as you appeared behind a gurgling rogue—delirious from some blunt force trauma you inflicted earlier, but somehow still standing—and reached around him to slit his throat. Blood gushed from his neck like a fire hydrant and splashed onto his former allies as they all screamed. 

You didn’t let yourself feel bad about playing with your food. You remember all of the victims' photos and grinned knowing you’d make these crooks look much worse.

And then, the cavalry arrived. 

Damian kicked down the boiler room’s door, the 3 inch thick metal slab popping off its hinges. His eyes found you immediately behind his domino mask. “She’s here!”

‘Son of a—’

Nightwing basically flew into the room and landed behind a rogue to your right. He delivered a clean hit that made their head slam to one side and he smiled at you like it was a pleasant coincidence you both shopped at the same grocery store.

“Evening, Rapture. I hope you don’t mind a little company.”

“So, here’s the thing—” An unfamiliar rogue who you were sure wasn't part of the team you were fighting, was kicked through the open door and Red Robin walked in after and stood atop the metal slab.

“We happened to chase some henchmen down to this exact location just when you were busy with your own guys. Might as well team up.” 

You made a face under your colombina mask and frowned. He doesn’t even try with his lies anymore.

A man cried out as he crashed through the skylight above and fell down on the concrete floor below. He wouldn’t be getting up any time soon. You all looked up to see Batman looking down from the skylight with a displeased frown, “Robin, Red Robin, get to work.” You could feel a pointed glare aimed at Dick, “Nightwing, if you’re going to chitchat, you can do it back at Bludhaven.”

Dick’s mouth formed a flat, restrained line and you could feel electricity between the former teacher and pupil.

A gunshot sounded behind you and you all turned to see Red Hood who had just shot a crook in the face. “Good, now that I have your attention,” he lowered his gun away from the crook he hadn’t even bothered to look at to shoot in the face, his body facing you the entire time. “It wasn’t very nice of you to intercept Rapture’s message to me, but I’ll forgive you on account of you all being blueballed every other day. See, I’m being the bigger person here, Rapture.” He turned to you expectantly like he wanted a cookie. Or more like, your cookie.

While you were distracted, a bad guy who’d had enough of being toyed with, ripped out a hidden pouch of acid akin to a water balloon. 

He whipped around towards Damian who was wide open and hurled it at the unsuspecting Robin, “Eat this, you little shit!”

It almost grazed him before you used the Fade walk and slipped from your spot beside Dick to Damian’s side where you shoved him out of the way.

The pouch burst and splattered lesser corrosive acid all over your suit, causing it and your accessories to come apart like wet paper.  “Shh!” you hissed as the acid burned through your clothes and sizzled on your skin. You could feel the thinnest topmost layer burning under the liquid, and would definitely need medical attention soon. 

Damian was stunned by the sudden push and had to catch himself against a boiler. His mouth dropped when he saw you. Like, really saw you. Your pants legs dissolved higher and higher until—he couldn’t look away.

Your top’s sleeves and straps disintegrated before their eyes, and that included your bra as you hurriedly raised your arms to catch your chest. 

You clenched your thighs together as you felt the cloth between your legs dissolve too. 

The boiler room suddenly felt a lot colder.

“Everything was just fine until you showed up!” Fuck it! They all knew what a woman looked like anyways and it’s not like someone you respected (Alfred, Superman, a small few really) was here so you’d just power through. But damn, you had to have at least one arm covering your chest because it hurt moving around without the support.

You swung out and backhanded the nearest criminal to you and slashed his chest before he could drop. You grabbed him by the collar, refusing to let him know peace. “I’ll show you a bit of god, before I send you straight to hell.” You grinned. He stared hard at your chest but couldn’t remark while he choked on his own blood. 

The Rapture herself being rendered naked and perceived as weak somehow incentivized every criminal in the place. You weren’t a nightmare brought to life anymore. You were a woman. Scum like them saw you as prey and suddenly they thought they could hurt you.

You fought hard, not caring who saw and how much of you they did. Unfortunately, fighting with one hand left you open to hits you would’ve avoided any other time, and you were unable to dodge. Your skin was hot and you could hear the top layer sizzling. You couldn’t counter like usual with all 5 senses overwhelmed. 

The slightest graze from another’s clothes felt like your skin was being ripped off, and every punch felt personal. Everything hurt so much but you could never let a bad guy see you sweat.

If the crooks were fighting like they were reenergized, everyone else fought like it was a suicide mission. Batman and everyone joined the fray with a solid understanding that anyone who saw you naked couldn’t be left alive.

Dick was furious! You’d never shown all of yourself to him (willingly) before and it had to be because of some asshole with an edgy water balloon! You fought like he wasn’t there, but you were taking more hits than ever. You fought hard though impaired to his keen eye and he joined the fray. He jumped in front of you and took the crook down in a second. Looking over his shoulder to you, he smiled his charming smile, “I’ve got you, Y/n.”

He’s got you. He’s got your back now. He’ll always have it in the future. And once this is all done, he plans to tend to your wounds personally.

Jason fought like he was born for it. He threw crooks around like ragdolls and ripped bones from sockets with a grip alone. He riddled skulls with bullets and was the personification of the god of war. 

He was frenzied. He was supposed to be the only one. He was the only one you trusted enough to see all of you, IT WAS HIS PRIVILEGE, but some bastard’s accident ruined it all. The special moments you shared weren’t just for him anymore, and he needed to kill every last one of them and if Dick or Tim happened to step in front of one of his bullets, friendly fire happened sometimes. “I knew this bitch—!” Jason grabbed hold of the crook’s lower jaw with one hand and the upper with the other and pulled apart, ripping his jaw off before he could even finish the slur. The man will suffer.

Jason makes his way to you and gently places his leather jacket around your shoulders. It all goes quiet when you’re near each other and he’s careful about aggravating your burns. “I’m here now, Y/n. God, I’m so sorry I was late.” He’d never let this happen again.

Damian fought like a man possessed. He almost let you continue fighting while he was dazed by the sight of you. He was mesmerized by your curves and the flex of your muscles under supple skin and the way you ignored convention to do what needed to be done. However, you were his beloved and you would never need to fight so hard when he was here for you.

He swooped in and quickly dispatched the crooks around you before they could touch a hair on your head. Not even a drop of blood reached you. He turned around to face you and pulled you into his arms. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Tim stood on the sidelines recording it all. He tapped the side of his domino mask and began recording your fighting in 4k for his private records, and he was so focused on you and getting every possible angle of certain places as he could, that he didn’t even notice the crooks fighting around you. “Oh, no…” He calls out with none of the urgency, “Behind you.” You turn around in time and give a high kick to someone’s throat and disabled them immediately. Your leg raised so high gave Tim all he needed as he zoomed in the lenses.

“Perfect.” 

He knew you’d be safe and sound. It’s not like he was only thinking with his little head; he knew the others would protect you and now he’d have more material for his special Y/n files. He was so glad he intercepted your message and location from Jason.

Bruce ignored the code. He fought like justice was at the end of his fists, and a batarang ripping them to shreds was the source to salvation. These strangers, these scum, these wastes of oxygen, dared to see his little girl. None of them wanted to live anymore! He stalked the one who initially threw the acid bomb and grabbed them by the throat.

The color left the crook’s face when their eyes recognized the vigilante before them. He wasn’t getting the Dark Knight who fought crime and let the bad guys get taken away to Arkham or prison afterwards. The crook knew that he wouldn’t be going anywhere from now on.

Damian and Jason had been fighting too hard over who got to carry you and you decided to walk on your own two feet even if that was slower. At least you weren’t getting your wounds tugged at.

“Hi, Mr. Pennyworth.” You tried to smile sweetly but a sharp sting made you wince. Alfred noticed your nakedness under Jason's leather jacket and the burns and abrasions on your skin and dropped the dishtowel he had been holding.

“Are you,” Alfred took a moment to breathe, “Are you all serious?” Alfred had just finished treating you and stood with the five men scattered around the Batcave who didn’t want to meet his gaze. 

“It was my fault.” Damian offered valiantly, but was immediately shot down.

“It’s all of your faults! None of you should’ve been there! I saw you steer your own criminals towards her location and mixed them with her own.”

He turned to Tim, “‘Happened to chase some henchmen,’ my entire arse, Master Drake. I saw the cameras and heard everything.”

He dragged all of them! Absolutely raved at them for hours about compromising your dignity, causing you unnecessary bodily and mental harm, and on and on. Once you got Alfred going he really was on the warpath and Bruce wished he hadn’t come back tonight.

You get to enjoy the next few days in peace while you heal and none of the fatal five bother you because they’re too afraid of Alfred.

[vampimich]

About Lea and her apprentices

----- LIES OF P OVERTURE SPOILERS -----

I remember when the first impressions of the DLC came out (alongside the early spoilers), I saw a few comments saying that Lea only cared about Romeo as her apprentice and that basically that she didn’t actually care about Carlo.

And I’m ngl, as I played through Overture, I was dying inside because she barely mentioned Carlo at all. But after the ending, oh, that painful ending, I saw just how deeply she loved him.

And I just wanted to yap about that.

Just hearing Lea’s recollection from her room in the Eventide Hotel was enough for me to understand the depth of her love for him.

She talks about how much she appreciated the company of both of them; the happy moments they shared together. But I’m sure that after she broke ties with the Monad family, everything became pitch black for her.

She left them, thinking that by doing so, they’d be safe from the abyss she herself had fallen into… only to find Carlo dead soon after.

From everything Neowiz gave us, the letters, the voice lines, the recollections, the Record , it’s clear just how much she loved them both.

I can only imagine the devastation she felt when she found Carlo’s lifeless, pale body. The guilt. The anger. The grief.

Her depression after leaving the Monad family was so strong that she pushed away the people who had become her found family. But losing Carlo was a different kind of pain. So unbearable and crushing that she could no longer isolate herself. She had to come back. She had to protect Romeo from suffering the same fate as her youngest apprentice.

These were her children. Her feisty, hyperactive, kind, and silly children. Because that’s what they were to her,  just as she once was to Valentinus.

“The feelings inside me as I watch my apprentices grow make me wonder if you felt the same way gazing at me.”

I don’t know if she saw herself as their mother, but she took them in. Trained them. Fed them. Gave them a roof over their heads. And the three of them shared so many wonderful moments, not just as stalkers or teacher and students, but as friends. As family.

She watched them grow. She felt happiness and pride at their progress. They were both so, so dear to her.

And if I may theorize a little, maybe Carlo accepted the Alchemists’ invitation to the Devil’s Pit in hopes of helping Lea. Maybe he wanted to find out what was really going on between the Alchemists and Valentinus.

If Lea was so depressed that she distanced herself from both her families, then something bad must’ve been happening. And Carlo, with his likely abandonment issues, wouldn’t have stood by and done nothing.

He wasn’t going to lose anyone else.

And that determination led him straight to his death.

So now Lea was afraid. Terrified. She was struck with the realization that she hadn’t made the most of her time with Carlo. And if she wasn’t careful, she was going to lose Romeo too.

She couldn’t let that happen again.

That’s why she was so overprotective of her last remaining apprentice. Her need to find and save Romeo almost felt like an obsession, but how can we blame her, after losing Carlo like that?

After losing him in such a terrible, cruel way?

And of course she mourned him, and continued to do so. She said every time she played Survivor, she thought of him.

It must have been painful just to look at the picture of the three of them. Or the painting. But she had to keep going. Because Romeo was still alive. He needed her, now more than ever, because he too had lost Carlo and was devastated.

Carlo couldn’t be saved anymore. But Romeo could. And if there was anything Lea could do to avoid having her heart broken like that again, she would do it, even if it meant giving her life away.

Besides, I think she was more at peace because she knew she was dying. She’d be able to see Carlo soon. So it’s not that she didn’t miss him, or only cared about Romeo, but things were already in motion. Romeo could still live, and she would soon be reunited with Carlo and make up for the time she couldn’t be by his side.

They really were a family. And it hurts so much that the three of them ended the way they did. But if anything, P was able to give them closure in his own way. Because in the end, they all got to meet one last time under the dawn. ���

[quibbs126]

Also a semi-related thing, so the whole “Bumblebee making a joke out of one of Soundwave’s Cassettes exploding” clip was making the rounds on Twitter a few days ago or so, and I saw some people explain that apparently, exploding cassettes were an actual thing, which is basically just (from what I understand) the film inside “exploding”, but the cassette could be wound up again and fixed

And based on that, the more likely explanation is that the joke here was that Bumblebee was explaining the Cassette “exploding”, but because the kids don’t understand how cassettes work, they think he means that Cassette literally exploded

So most likely, assuming this was the intention of the line, that Cassette was fine, though probably incapacitated for the fight and had to be fixed (probably more like that one episode of g1 where all the bots got loopy due to their depleted Cybertonium, silly robot antics), but nothing too serious. Rumble probably didn’t die, at least not at this moment, it was just a silly thing that happened on the battlefield once

But now my main question is, who did the writers think was gonna get that joke? Like sure, they make another joke that the kids don’t really know about cassette tapes, that’s where the joke stems from, but like, who in their audience did they think would get the joke?

The other cassette joke I understand because I know what it is, and the joke is that the kids don’t because of how old they are, and by extension how dated the Cassettes in basic concept are. But like, this one you have to know this is a thing cassettes apparently did to get the joke, and I’m pretty sure you’d have to grow up at latest in the 80s or 90s to have that knowledge, at least not without elaboration on what Bumblebee meant, which we didn’t get

I mean, children aren’t going to get it, and I think anyone up to their 20s wouldn’t get it either. I’m 21 (even if that’s probably the middle of the spectrum) and I had no clue this was a thing they did, it wasn’t until reading those comments online that I heard about this. Are the parents supposed to be the ones who get it? Because while I can’t verify this, I’m pretty sure parents aren’t all watching this with their children, kids are probably watching it on their iPads or something, and probably wouldn’t ask about this joke anyways because they’d assume it’s the normal kind of explosion, wouldn’t they? Like sure, some parents would be watching it and getting it, but that’s likely a very small percentage of the audience

I don’t know, I’m aware this is a weird thing to get stuck on, it’s just that this is new information to me and now I’m confused as to who the joke was for. Also, I wanted to share this information because it recontextualizes the interpretation of that clip I’ve seen around, and that assuming that was the joke, Soundwave likely didn’t have a Cassette horribly die while he was starved of Energon

[astral-catastrophe]

Angry at specific people? Mhm! Posts on November 14th for context

[electric-plants]

i was thinking again about that peak cyno lore in his briefcase’s description of how he likes to trip people up by carrying it around when he’s not working sometimes and now i feel like he would absolutely randomly ask alhaitham to be snippy with him in public just to try and make criminals think he was off his game from a fake spousal argument

[foldingfittedsheets]

There was this park near where I grew up. I remember we’d just moved to the area so I was around six and we drove past and saw this waterfront area. My parents decided to check it out so we went for a walk. It was a lovely park, there’s a lazy slough, lots of trees, extremely picturesque. My parents ambled along the trail enjoying the nature while my siblings and I ranged around in their orbit like excitable moons.

Then I saw something odd. Something vibrantly alive down by the water that was entirely the wrong color. I called back my vital scouting info and my family gathered around me. We looked down the steep verge toward the slough, screened by underbrush. We couldn’t quite make out what it was. The only thing we could agree was that it certainly wasn’t a duck. However it was about duck sized and roughly duck shaped. It just wasn’t a duck.

This led to some heated debate amongst my siblings and I but we were forbidden to scramble down the muddy hill to harass the mystery animal. Reluctantly we continued down the trail, speculating wildly when a chicken popped out of a bush in front of us with a train of several chicks.

We froze. The chicken did not. She placidly herded her little puffs across the trail, pecking happily for seeds, unbothered by our proximity. My family had not yet delved into farming and this was the first time any of us kids had seen a chicken up close. It was like a fairytale thing, a creature we had seen over and over in books was suddenly here in the wilderness of the park. We all realized the mystery creature had likewise been a chicken.

Another couple came up the trail and saw us staring.

“Is this your first time at the park?” They asked?

We nodded.

They informed us that this park had become a dumping ground for unwanted chickens. Once the chickens were dumped they were park property and the locals didn’t mind the eccentric additions at all. No one looked after the chickens, but they got on surprisingly well.

As the years went by we visited the park regularly. Signs were added to warn people not to dump off chickens or they’d be fined. They were also excluded from snatching the existing chickens. The hope was that the chickens would eventually run their course and the park would go back to normal.

It did not.

Instead the menagerie grew. Peacocks cropped up occasionally, turkeys; and one visit we saw guinea fowl. But there were always chickens. Eventually feed dispenser were installed so park goers could pay a quarter to enjoy the motley flocks.

Because we’d moved into a house with land my mom started up a chicken coop and we got our very own chickens at the feed store like proper folks. The first rooster we had was a gentleman, politely clucking at us when came into the coop, but the second proved troublesome a year later. He either adored or hated me. Every time I entered the coop he’d dance and flounce and brandish his spurs.

My mom didn’t want to off him frankly she didn’t know how at that point but his fascination ended with him flying at me and the rooster was sentenced to banishment.

We drove to the park.

We saw him there for years afterward, clucking dutifully around a small flock of hens. He did pretty well in exile.

Anyone who’s kept chickens knows that eventually there’s always a tragedy. Ours happened when a neighbors dog broke into our coop and slaughtered the flock. I was absolutely distraught, my lovingly hand reared chicks all decimated in a flurry of senseless bloodlust. I have not loved a chicken since. They are too fragile to bear it.

After a few days of mourning my mom offered that she knew where to find some more chickens. To make up for the massacre she planned a night raid with us. We stayed up past our bedtime and drove to the park with tarp covered kennels in the back of the truck.

We crept down along the gravel parking lot, looking up into the trees, spotting the telltale lumps of shadows that meant chickens. We quickly developed a strategy. We picked a chicken branch, creeping close underneath. Then we reached the end of the branch and gave it a good shake until the roosting chicken glided down to the ground in confusion. It was easy to scoop them up and we went home the proud new owner of a handsome flock of chickens.

The Take a Chicken Leave a Chicken park is still a beloved feature of its neighborhood to this day.

[seungisms]

( skz reaction ) threesome with another member .ᐟ

🖇️📂 who your skz boyfriend would like to have a threesome with/how they’d act during it

genre: smut, minors dni, warnings: unprotected sex, public sex, threesome, double penetration, creampies, degradation, voyeurism, humiliation kink, polyamorous/sharing implications, note: more inexperienced!jeongin cause i clearly have some sort of a problem now 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

방찬. BANG CHAN

(minho)

chan would be the first to admit that he loves watching you get yourself off, something about you struggling to cum and begging for his cock as your fingers pitifully pump into your pussy just makes his dick so full. but what he won’t admit is how much he wants to see you get fucked by someone else. can definitely see him turning to one of the older members and with how close he is with minho he would be his first choice. so when you made an offhanded comment about how attractive you found minho he saw it as the perfect opportunity to finally get his bandmates cock into you. which is how you found yourself sandwiched between the two in some empty supply closet in the middle of a set, the muffled voice of their backstage manger ringing faintly in your ear and going ignored by the two - minho far too busy with working your cunt open on long fingers, curling them deep and slow against your cervix, muttering the filthiest shit in your ear, “always knew you wanted me, could practically feel you fucking me with your eyes everytime i came around.” an utter contrast to the way chan was simply pressing his cock into the curve of your ass from behind you, pressing you even further into his friends chest, burying his nose into your neck as he watches over you shoulder how minho flips up your skirt to get a better look at your cute cunt, groaning when it greedily eats his digits up.

“you like that baby? like minho taking care of you?” and you can only respond with a pathetic whimper - wanting, needing, something longer and thicker to fill your pussy up with. and you hate the way minho knows this, chuckling at your eagerness as your eyes follow his slow movements of unbuckling his belt, chan propping your back up against his chest and spreading your thighs, giving his bandmate full access to his girlfriends cunt. and you would’ve almost forgot about your boyfriends presence if it weren’t for the hot press of his cock prodding against your backside. minho fucks you like he’s waited his entire life to, cock bullying its way into your pussy, stretching you out with every full inch that nudges into you. doesn’t even give you time to adjust to his size, pumping himself into your small cunt and forcing you to take everything he gives you, no matter how much you struggle. but chan is guiding you through the whole time, with pretty words and sweet praises, keeping you steady on strong arms while minho feeds load after load of cum into you. “c’mon, take it pretty girl. i know you can.” and chan is cumming with you both, making a mess of his briefs when he watches minho pull his dick from you - the sight of his girlfriends pussy ruined and dripping in another mans cum going straight to his cock. can definitely see chan having minho join you both again, even just to watch - he’ll just never let on how quickly he came from watching another mans dick find home in your pussy.

리노. LEE MINHO 

(seungmin)

minho always had a friendly rivalry with seungmin that you constantly seem to have to break up. they couldn’t help themselves from bickering over trivial things - who’s the better dancer, who’s funnier, who’s better looking. they love getting a rise out of eachother. until it’s not so friendly anymore, seungmin swearing one day he could get a girl off better than anyone. and minho sees it as nothing short of a challenge. so you can’t say you’re surprised when you find yourself pressed into the small worn out sofa in your apartment, your group movie night suddenly flipped on it’s head and now seungmin had his buried between your legs. and he won’t let up for a second, determined to make a liar out of your boyfriend as he slobbers, and licks and groans into your pussy - your little bud almost raw and swollen from his incessant stimulation. and minho can do nothing but watch from the other end of your couch, stroking your hair from where your head lay on his thighs, shushing your cute whimpers when his friend nudges a long finger past your folds, fucking in and out of your cunt to coax more of those pretty whines out of you. “that’s it sweetheart, let seungminnie look after you.” it doesn’t take long for seungmin to force an orgasm out of you, lapping up your sweet cum with a satisfied hum, giving a final pinch to your sore pussy before pulling away with a smug grin. and minho doesn’t give you a minute to recover, wanting nothing more than to wipe that fuckass smirk off his bandmates face, pressing his tongue hot against your sensitive clit - not giving a shit his friends salvia was dripping with your cum past your bud. 

somewhere along the way they forget about their stupid competition, focused more on stuffing all your holes full to the brim with cum. they’re not shy about it either, taking turns to fuck your throat and pussy - getting to the point where you can’t tell who’s who and what cock was currently abusing your poor cunt. and you’re left feeling so powerless between them, going limp somewhere along the way with the help of minho’s strong arms keeping you up right, back pressed against his sweaty chest as he fucked into from behind - cock curved and kissing impossibly deep - seungmin propped between your spread legs, dick forcing it’s way into you everytime your boyfriend pulled out, determined to not leave you feeling empty for a second. and it’s almost too much, having two dicks fuck you at once going straight to your head, pussy pulsing and begging for a break. but they won’t let up until you’ve been fucked throughly, dripping in cum and unable to hold anymore. and it seems like their silly rivalry didn’t even matter to the both of either of them anymore.  

창빈. SEO CHANGBIN

(felix)

you were constantly fighting for your boyfriends attention. it felt like he always had an excuse to hang out with felix instead. oh, you wanted me to go shopping with you today? sorry, i already went with felix. you want to go out for dinner later? can felix join? babe, felix showed me this new movie that’s out! oh, you want to come? we only got two tickets. everywhere your boyfriend was felix seemed to follow. it got to the point that changbin couldn’t ignore the tension between you both anymore - he wanted nothing more than for his two favourite people to get a long - so what better way to get rid of tension than to fuck it away? i mean, he does everything with felix, why not let him do you too? you had reluctantly agreed when you heard how eager felix was, not expecting much from the younger boy - but god, were you glad you did. especially with the way your boyfriends groupmate was doing everything in his power to prove himself to you, pressing into you from behind until he was buried to the hilt inside your pussy - struggling to hide his soft whimpers when you clench down and press around him like a vice, determined to milk him for all he’s got. and he can barely keep up with the pair of you, locking eyes with changbin who couldn’t care less about his younger friends slipping composure, settled against the headboard of your bed with you propped between his spread legs, licking and suckling away at his veiny cock - forced to hit the back of your throat everytime felix can’t help himself but nudge himself deeper into your cunt - thrusting you forward onto your boyfriends dick. 

felix can’t help himself but get so carried away, still fucking himself into you when you’ve long since tapped out, so drunk on the feeling of your pussy sucking him in that he can’t even think straight, only with his dick. and he’s so apologetic too :( “I’m sorry, sorrysorrysorry. just wanna fuck you so bad, wanted to fuck you for so long.” but his constant chants for forgiveness fall on deaf ears as he just continues to nudge into you even deeper and faster than before, eager to paint your pretty pussy in his cum like he’s always wanted to. and you don’t have the strength to stop him, looking up at your boyfriend through tired eyes as he shushes your whimpers, having abandoned his cock long ago while his friend bullies your cunt. but he supposes he can forgiev you just this once, you look so sweet getting dicked down :(

현진. HWANG HYUNJIN

(jeongin)

jeongin was never subtle about his crush on you. he felt like a teenager again whenever he was around you - stumbling over his words when you made the simplest of conversations with him, eyes lingering a little too long anytime you showed the slightest flash of skin, popping a boner whenever you greeted him with a hug - he always seemed to think with his dick with you around, so he thought it easier to start ignoring you, and your boyfriend definitely noticed. hyunjin could hear the youngest whimpering your name at night, closing himself off to the other members cause he just felt so guilty for being so attracted to his hyungs girlfriend. but if anything your boyfriend found it cute, sweet even - so he was more than happy to share you with his maknae. poor boy couldn’t believe his ears at first, thinking it was some sort of sick joke but that was too mean even for hyunjin, and he couldn’t possibly let the opportunity of finally finding out how tight your little pussy really is pass. he’s so awkward the whole time, not knowing exactly what to do with his hands, looking up at you so sweetly from between your legs begging for some sort of guidance, whimpering into your greedy kisses and getting too excited that he forgets how big his dick is - fucking so deep inside of you it’s almost painful. 

but hyunjin is there to keep him right, telling him how you like to be fucked, reminding him to keep stimulating your clit while pushing his dick into you, not to be afraid to slap you around a little - and jeongin is addicted to the way your body seems to respond to all of this. lets you use him in anyway you like, sitting yourself down onto his thick cock and using it to get yourself off, forcing your fingers into his mouth and making him suckle on them while he stares at you through big eyes, not believing he really had you here, fucking your tight cunt on his cock. it was better than any wet dream he’s ever had. as much as hyunjin loves his younger friend, he loves your pussy even more. and he’s soso impatient, especially as he watches you struggle to cum, it has him actually feeling jealous that he wasn’t the one buried inside of you right then. and he can’t help but to settle himself behind you, positioning your body until your chest was pressed tightly against jeongins’, cunt still stuffed full of cock before your boyfriend is forcing his own in, stretching your pussy around two dicks and for a second you fear they’re gonna rip you in half with the way they’re abusing your poor cunt. but hyunjin simply pushes your little whines, smoothing a hand over the arch of your back as you struggle and gasp on both their dicks. “it’s okay sweetheart, i know you can take the both of us. isn’t that right innie?” and jeongin can only manage a whine in response, brows furrowed as he thrusts his cock into you in time with hyunjin, hoping, praying, that this will never end. 

한. HAN JISUNG

(changbin)

jisung shares everything with changbin, his food, his studio, his girl. more than once you’ve found yourself sat on changbin’s cock, fucking the stress out of his muscles as jisung reclined on the studio sofa, hand wrapped tightly and pumping around his swollen cock as he watches you get his bandmate off. changbin was addicted to your pussy, he swears you’ve ruined every other one for him and he’s more than grateful that jisung lets him lose himself in the heat of your warm cunt. and your boyfriend simply responds with, “what are bros for?” but you can’t complain, not when you have two men stimulating your cunt day in and day out, the other busying themselves with work or simply watching from the corner of the room while fisting their dick. but they’ve never fucked you at the same time. not until you’ve begged them prettily enough. jisung loves the thought of you filled to the brim with two cocks, and he’s more than happy to give into your sweet begs - but changbin claims he doesn’t want everything becoming too messy, despite having already made a mess by having filled your pussy up with cum more times than he can possibly count. and he doesn’t give in, not until you already have him too weak and pussy whipped to care. “please bin, need you so bad. just want my two boys to make me feel good,” and he’s cracking.

changbin wonders what the hell he was thinking holding out on you for so long, sweat gathering at the base of his neck as he struggles to fit his cock past your folds, you were already so tight to begin with - but with jisung already bottomed out inside of you long before, your little hole couldn’t take much more with the way it was twitching and fluttering with every inch of cock that was pressing into you. god he didn’t think you could be any hotter. but you were so cock hungry and greedy that even though your pussy was struggling to take them both you were still begging for more, taking anything and everything they’re willing to give you. jisung is so sweet to you too, thumbs keeping your folds spread so that his friend could push into you easier, leaving soft kisses against the flushed skin of your neck and muttering sweet praises in your ear as you gasp and close in around both their cocks. “shhh baby, that’s it. just open up a little more for us.” and when they finally both bury themselves inside of you they’re completely ruining your poor cunt, painting it with cum again and again until you’re sore and dripping in it, fucking your little hole until it’s memorised every curve and vein of both their dicks. yeah, jisung is more than happy to share with changbin. 

필릭스. LEE FELIX 

(hyunjin) 

felix is a pushover. he knows how hyunjin feels about you and vice versa, and he’s such a people pleaser that he wants nothing more than to give you what you want - he just didn’t think you would want his friend. he tries to convince himself he’s only doing it to shut you up, to stop you pining over his goddamn bandmate but as he sits there and watches his friend fuck you, there’s no ignoring the slight twitch of his cock when you whimper and grind down on hyunjins’ dick. he tries reminding himself how wrong all of this really is - but he can’t help from slipping into his briefs, fisting a hand around his slick cock and pumping around it in time with his friends slow ruts into your cute pussy. getting a perfect view of your cunt struggling to stretch around a cock was almost worth the agony of seeing you with another man - and then you look over to him, pretty lips parted and eyes completely unfocused and fucked out, yet begging for even more. “lixie, please. want the both of you so bad.” felix just can’t find it in himself to not give his baby what she wants.

he’s unsure at first, fingers pressing down on your clit as hyunjin nudges himself even deeper into you, coaxing small whimpers past your lips when his fat cockhead kisses the deepest cervices of your pussy, your boyfriend continuing to rub slow circles on your bud, barely getting you off with the nasty way his friend was fucking you. “c’mon felix, she wants your dick. aren’t you gonna give it to her?” and hyunjins’ mocking tone is all he needs to finally give in, slipping his cock out of his briefs to finally find comfort in the warm heat of your cunt, pushing to the hilt inside of you everytime hyunjin pulls out. and felix is ashamed to admit it’s the hardest he’s ever came, watching as your pussy struggles to eat up all the cum that was being forced into it, milking both their dicks until it’s dribbling out past your folds and onto your thighs. he’s so attentive and careful with you after too, kissing you on the forehead after cleaning you up, but not before reminding you - “hope you had fun, cause nothing like that is gonna happen again.” poor boy just isn’t ready to confront how much he enjoyed watching you get fucked by his friend. 

승민. KIM SEUNGMIN

(jisung)

seungmin just wants jisung to shut up for once. he’s easily irritable and jisung just seems to know how to push all the wrong buttons. he almost found it funny how quiet his groupmate became around you, words drying up on his tongue and for once he has nothing to say, too busy following the seam of your little skirt and wondering what kind of pretty pussy was hidden underneath to join in on the conversations happening around him. seungmin is more than happy to let you play with jisung as long as it keeps his mouth busy, and with the way he was greedily suckling and lapping at your clit he didn’t have much to say - whimpering and groaning into the heat of your pussy while grinding his needy cock down against the mattress of the bed, desperate for some form of stimulation that only your cute cunt could provide. and seungmin is just there to mock him the whole time, gripping the back of his head to pull his face away from your pussy, cutting his pathetic whine off with a tut. “look at you, don’t have much to say now huh?” jisung can’t even find it in himself to fight back like he normally would, not when your cunt is looking so sad and abandoned without his face buried in it. 

seungmin loves breaking his hyungs spirit, not allowing him fuck you until he’s proven to him that he actually deserves it - letting you fuck yourself and grind down onto his face until it’s dripping in your cum and all he can feel, taste, see is you. forcing him to drag the length of his dick through your folds, but never actually allowing him to dip in past your greedy little hole. only eventually lets him fuck you after your boyfriend has already fucked you full of cum and your pussy is left all ruined and sticky by him, spreading your pussy open to let his friend sink his bare cock into you. and all jisung can manage is a soft whimper and a string of thankyouthankyouthankyou falling from his lips, eyes blown and hyper focused on your messy cunt looking so inviting. he barely lasts more than a few minutes once he finally sinks into you, the tightness of your pussy all wet and warm immediately suffocating around him and and milking load after load into it until it’s unable to take anymore of him. 

아이엔. YANG JEONGIN 

(chan)

you love jeongin, you really do - you just wish he was better at using his cock. it wasn’t like he was horrible, he was just so hesitant with everything - looking at you for permission before touching you where you need it most, always holding himself back from fucking you too rough even though you’re practically begging for it, only fucking into you with shallow thrusts cause he doesn’t wanna break your little pussy with how big his cock is. and he knows he isn’t giving everything you need, he’s just far too lost in his own head, stressed about accidentally making everything awkward if he completely loses himself in the feeling of your plush walls squeezing down on him like a vice, and god it’s so easy for him with how pussy whipped you have him too. chan is more than shocked when the youngest comes asking him to fuck his girlfriend, but you’re a pretty little thing and he can’t pass up the opportunity of breaking in your sweet cunt. 

“go on baby, thought you were begging for a big cock to fuck you right. what, so now that it’s happening you don’t know how to act?” chan would be so smug with how fast he’s able to fuck you dumb on his dick, pumping into you real deep and slow until you’re left slack jawed and arching into him, desperate to feel even more of him despite struggling to take what he’s given you so far. and all jeongin can do is stare, stare at the way you turn into complete putty on his hyungs dick, how your cunt struggles to swallow his cock up, how you whimper pathetically when the older boy leaves your cunt, pussy suddenly feeling so empty and cold without something filling it up. but as soon as chan beckons jeongin over to settle between your spread legs that empty void leaves, your boyfriends cock kissing impossibly deep against your dripping walls, fucking you the way you so desperately craved him to. jeongin won’t stop until he’s coaxed orgasm after orgasm out of your little cunt, until you’re left swollen and raw and crying out for relief. and chan stays with you the whole time, keeping you grounded with sweet words as you get every coherent thought fucked out of your pretty little head.

© seungisms - all rights reserved. reposting/modification of any kind is not tolerated. 

[sunni-stuff]

Part 1 This is part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

With the train ride now over, the sergeants ran, scouring the market for two familiar faces. Their footsteps in sync, crunching delicate mounds of white snow. Soap broke through the crowd first, then Gaz and Gary were right with him.

“Where the hell are they?” Gaz pants out, his breaths misting in the cold air.

“You said the marketplace,” Soap huffs.

“Yeah, I said the marketplace, but it's not like I know exactly where they went!” Gaz snaps back.

While the two sergeants bicker, Roach quietly breaks away, scanning the area until he spots the familiar figures they’d been hunting for. Price and Ghost stand outside a cigar shop, deep in conversation. The satisfied grin on Price's face tells Roach everything—he got what he was after.

“They’re over there!” Roach exclaims, snapping his partners out of their lovers' quarrel.

Gaz and Soap go silent, their eyes following Roach’s line of sight until they, too, spot their Lieutenant and Captain.

In a heartbeat, the three of them are sprinting toward their unsuspecting targets. Soap grins like a madman, practically buzzing with mischief, while Gaz shakes his head, both amused and slightly wary of what might unfold. Roach, meanwhile, is simply thrilled to be along for the ride.

They skid to a stop right in front of the two men, chests heaving as they catch their breath in the biting winter air.

“The hell is wrong with you lot?” Price’s voice cuts through, laced with a mix of annoyance and bemusement as he shifts his attention from Ghost to the winded sergeants.

Ghost, arms crossed, eyes them with quiet scrutiny. His winter coat does little to conceal his bulky frame, a silent reminder of his imposing presence as he stands beside Price.

Price and Ghost waited for an explanation, knowing well everytime those three got together, they were definitely up to no good.

Like how they put semi-permanent green dye in Ghost's shampoo for Halloween.

“We… we saw. A kid with your face,” Gaz manages, still catching his breath, pointing straight at Ghost.

Ghost raises a brow, baffled. A kid with his face? What the hell did that mean? Did they think he looked like a baby?

Soap huffs in mock disappointment, shooting a playful glare at Gaz. “Oi, I wanted to say it!”

Predictably, the two dive into another back-and-forth. Gaz isn’t one to shout, but Soap has a talent for riling anyone up.

Price lets their little show go on for only a moment before his stern voice cuts in, slicing through their bickering. “One of you properly explain, or you'll be walking back to base.”

Roach steps up, eager to clarify. “There’s a kid, probably about two, and she looks exactly like the Lt. Scowl, glare, and all!”

Price and Ghost pause, their expressions twisting as they both try—and fail—to imagine a little girl with Simon’s permanent scowl.

Price shudders, shaking the thought from his head. “That is not a face a kid should have.”

“That’s exactly what I said,” Gaz chimes in, nodding emphatically.

Ghost throws him an offended look, his usually hardened eyes showing a glimmer of hurt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing!” they all exclaim in unison, even Price, who quickly averts his gaze as Ghost’s glare narrows on him.

Ghost huffs, then crosses his arms. “Did you take a picture?”

Soap snorts, leaning against the wall with a smirk. “Aye, right, 'cause that wouldnae be creepy at all.”

Ghost stares daggers Into Soap, rolling his eyes and pushing himself off the wall. “Okay, then where is she?”

The three stooges lead the charge once again, this time with their Captain and Lieutenant in tow. They weave through the crowd toward the train park, where Soap eagerly scans for the woman and kid he’d spotted earlier. But the line they were in is empty, the pair nowhere to be found.

“Shite. I think they’re gone,” Soap mutters, his Scottish accent thickening in his frustration, the words rolling out with a clipped bite. 

“So the imaginary woman and kid don’t actually exist,” Ghost deadpans, unimpressed.

“They exist!” Gaz insists, voice edging on exasperation.

“Sure,” Ghost replies, his tone flat and thoroughly unconvinced.

Roach snickers, then glances over at Price—only to see him staring slack-jawed through the window of a nearby café, his cigar dangling from his mouth, forgotten.

“Cap?” Roach says, touching the older man’s shoulder.

Price doesn’t look away, nodding toward the café. “Found them.”

Everyone turns toward the café, eyes landing on you and Adira. The little girl is happily weaving between your legs, her tiny hands gripping your coat as she entertains herself, all while you order hot chocolates to fend off the winter chill. A soft smile touches your lips as you watch her play, blissfully unaware of the audience gathering just outside.

The barista, with a warm smile, hands over two cups, one with a little extra marshmallows for Adira, her voice bright as she wishes you both a merry Christmas. You take the cups with a grateful nod, handing one to Adira. She immediately takes her drink, sipping eagerly, her small feet bouncing on her heels from the sugar rush.

“Yummy?” You ask, glancing down at her with a soft smile, a wave of motherly pride swelling in your chest as you watch her delight in the simple joy of her drink.

Adira nods eagerly, her eyes lighting up as she pulls away from her straw with a satisfied sigh. “Yummy.”

With a soft chuckle, you both leave the warmth of the shop, stepping out into the crisp air. Hand in hand, you walk back toward the park, the world around you feeling peaceful despite the cold. As you reach the crosswalk, you stop, waiting for the light to turn. Adira looks up at you, her little face filled with contentment as she swings your joined hands back and forth, her sugary energy still buzzing.

Across the way, the team stood frozen, unable to look away from the scene unfolding before them. Everyone but Ghost was struck by how much Adira looked like him—her features unmistakably mirroring his, save for the color of her hair and skin. The resemblance was uncanny, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world had stopped around them.

“She looks nothing like me,” Ghost stated plainly, his voice cutting through the stillness as though it were fact. His expression was unmoving, a wall of stubbornness in his eyes. He was ready to die on that hill.

Then, as fate would have it, a woman walking her dog passed by, and Adira’s cherub-like face hardened into a cold, calculating stare. It was subtle, but unmistakable. 

“Nevermind,” Ghost muttered, his earlier conviction faltering as he watched her shift before his eyes.

“So… you’ve been having fun these past years?” Roach asked, his gaze flicking between Adira and Ghost, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Not that I know of,” Ghost grunted, his eyes still locked on you and Adira, a mix of unease and something else flickering across his face. He couldn’t pull himself away.

“Let’s get closer,” Price commanded, already making his move. Soap and Roach exchanged a shrug, falling in line without hesitation.

“Excuse me?” Gaz sputtered, though his body had already begun moving before his brain could catch up, unable to defy the Captain’s order.

Ghost fell silent, teeth gritted. This wasn’t a situation he was used to, especially not one where he was forced to go in blind. He stood stiffly at the crosswalk, trying to hide his glances, his focus split between the team and you.

Soap ended up the closest, standing just next to Adira. The little girl paused, her big, doe-like eyes lifting from her drink to catch sight of him. The recognition was instant. Her lips pursed into a small line, and her gaze grew heavy with annoyance. 

“Ugee…” she whispered, scooting closer to you.

Soap froze, his mind stuttering for a moment. Did she just—? Did she call me ugly?

Gaz, standing behind him, couldn’t contain himself. A muffled laugh broke through as Soap turned to look at the others, wide-eyed and speechless, completely taken aback.

“Do ye lot think I'm ugly?” Soap asked, his voice thick with disbelief, clearly thrown off by the little girl's words.

“Not the time, Mctavish,” Price said, a tiny laugh tugging at the corner of his lips despite the situation.

The streetlight flickered green, signaling it was time to move. You adjusted yourself, ready to cross the street. Each member of the team started mentally preparing, unsure of how—or even if—they should approach you. Ghost, however, was the first to make a move, determined to intercept you. But Soap, ever the opportunist, beat him to it.

Ghost wasn’t exactly subtle, and having him try anything would probably send you running in the opposite direction.

“Excuse me, aren’t you the lady from the train?” Soap called out, his voice light, though his intentions were clear.

You paused at his interruption, recognition flickering in your eyes. You remembered the man who bumped into you earlier. “Yes? Is something the matter?”

“Do you happen to know where I could find Leslies?” Soap asked, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice, though he tried to mask it.

“The pub?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Soap confirmed, his face lighting up with a mix of relief and surprise at your easy response.

You look around for a moment, trying to remember and see the street names of your current location. “Uh…it should be about a couple blocks south from here. They have a big sign, you can't miss it.”

Thank God for Soap, because that one question was all he needed to keep you trapped in a conversation, his charm working its magic as you giggled and chatted away easily, the awkwardness of the situation melting away.

Meanwhile, Ghost’s attention shifted to Adira. He looked down at her, and she, almost instinctively, looked up at him. Their eyes locked in a silent staring contest, each of them studying the other. The intensity in their gaze was undeniable, both sets of eyes reflecting the same quiet, unwavering strength. It was like looking in a mirror—a mirror that mirrored back his own hardened stare and no-nonsense attitude.

Adira was, quite literally, his mini me. The resemblance was impossible to ignore.

“How old are you?” Ghost asked bluntly, his voice low as he kneeled down to Adira’s height, his gaze intense but trying to soften.

Adira paused for a moment, glancing up at you for help, but you were still caught up in conversation with Soap. She turned her focus back to Ghost, her small fingers fidgeting with the hem of her coat as she murmured shyly, “Two…”

She was two. Two. Ghost’s mind raced, trying to piece together the details, but nothing clicked. Nearly three years ago… what had he done three years ago? He kept everything categorized, stored in his mind like a well-organized file system, but this was something that didn’t fit.

Then, Soap’s voice broke through his thoughts. 

“You don’t seem like the type of lass to frequent Leslies.”

You giggled, a soft blush creeping up your cheeks at Soap’s question. He wasn’t wrong… at least, not entirely. “I’ve only been to Leslie’s once, and, well… it’s how I ended up with my little blessing.” You glanced down at Adira, the warmth of your smile radiating as you spoke.

Everything shattered in that moment. Ghost’s stomach twisted painfully, his heart skipping a beat as the realization slammed into him like a freight train. Leslie's. Almost three years ago, during that stupid holiday.

His mind began to piece it together, the hazy memories from that night slowly coming into focus. He remembered the bar, the laughter, the way you had caught his attention. You were easy on the eyes, easy to make laugh, and most importantly—unlike everyone else. You didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry, you just let him lead, let him slip into the night with no strings attached.

But now, as he looked at Adira, everything fell into place. The way she stared at him, those familiar eyes, the resemblance he couldn’t ignore. His breath hitched, and the weight of the truth crushed him—she was his daughter.

A knot formed in his throat as he tried to process the fact. Adira. His daughter. The little girl standing before him was his flesh and blood, the result of a moment he'd long since buried in the depths of his mind.

---

Taglist: @auradaniela98-blog-blog @cumsluut @unstqblecvrses @moraxnomora @serafina-nyx @sage-burrow @skylarmitchell @xx-wal1flower-xx @n-y-x04 @gluttonybiscuits @imahugenerdlol @wehrgabriel @blackhawkfanatic @tazuduck @soxocs @jingyuansspouse @cutiecusp @sleepyoriana @forgottensomewhere @puppylikethedog @spongelistener @caged-birdies-blog @bubblegirll26 @misscaller06 @fuckbananas03 @watu2ka @yukisdelusional @redroserabbit

[lilacsxlavender]

? am i malnourished again….. fuck </3

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: angst, toxic traits, somewhat bullying, breakup

♡ FEM reader

You’re his first girlfriend. He’d never bothered with anything serious before—it seemed too messy to trifle with. He doesn’t know why he suddenly decided. Suppose he’d been feeling a little bored, and something within him saw you as a fool-proof opportunity.

It wasn’t because you were anything special. Actually, it was more the opposite. You didn’t seem like too big of a risk. You were just a normal, honest, nice person—a bit of a loser, too, if he was being honest. He could do a lot better and pick someone of the same caliber as him, someone with a cooler style and presence, but then he’d only get caught up in the competition.

You were more to his appetite—a dorky, blushy lil’ nerd who giggled nervously at everything he said. In other words, no competition at all. You’d never dare break his heart because you frankly couldn’t afford it. And he found solace in that imbalance—knowing he held all the cards and that you could only be grateful he’d chosen you.

At least, that had been what he’d thought. But then, here you are, holding his hands from across the table in a cute little sundae café, telling him how this just can’t work anymore.

He’s confused for a whole minute before it sinks in.

You’re breaking up with him.

He’s confused afterward, too.

You’re breaking up with him?

That can’t be right. You must be joking. He almost laughs, almost cackles, but ends up staying completely silent. Something about that pitiful look in your eye makes his throat tight, and he almost thinks he’s going to cry instead. 

You’re breaking up with him. You, with him. His foot starts to tap. Have you hit your head or something? You’re dressed in a hoodie, for crying out loud, with not an ounce of make-up on—effortless, as if his perception of you wasn’t any of your concern while you’re fucking breaking up with him.

No way. There’s just no way. You must be confused about something, is all. There’s absolutely no way you’re doing this.

“What are you talking about?” It comes angry. Louder than he’d intended, enough to make you jolt in your seat. A couple of heads even turn your way. You wait for them to turn back before answering.

“I just think we’re a bit too different. And… I don’t know…” You were trying to find ways of telling him you weren’t in love with him but ended up deciding it was unnecessary—it wasn’t exactly something he needed to hear even though you had a lot you could say.

You’re rude and arrogant and treat me like some rescue pet you’ve nurtured back to health. You act like you’re embarrassed to be with me even though you’re the one without any friends. You’re selfish and spoiled and—

“If you don’t know, then there’s nothing to talk about. Quit being silly.” He has a furrow between his brows as he picks up the pink menu between the two of you, scanning the different types of milkshakes you could share and forget all about it. After all, you weren’t breaking up with him—that would just be absurd. “Let’s get strawberry.”

“No—”

“Guess we could get mango if you want that instead—”

“I’m not sharing drinks with you—”

“What? You tryna lose weight or something? Not like anyone but me is gonna see you when all you wear are those baggy hoodies all the time. Speaking of which, you should wear mine instead, they’d suit you better—”

“Listen.” You stop his rambling. “I’m not sharing drinks, and I’m not wearing your clothes. I’m not being silly, either. I’m being serious. It’s over—”

“No, it’s not.” His fist bangs against the table—the look in his eye on edge and twitchy. “I asked you why, and you had no good reason—so it’s not, not until you convince me.”

You had wanted to avoid it, but it seems he wouldn’t allow you the grace to spare him. That being said, you hadn’t meant to be so brutally honest…

“You’re a narcissist. You don’t treat me like a girlfriend. I’m more like a charity case or some type of experiment to you. Half the time, it feels as though you’re just playing a game with everyone in your life like pawns for you to shuffle around the board as you see fit.” You’re the one with the furrowed brows now, unable to bite your tongue as you’d kept it in all this time. “I think you should seek help and get your controlling tendencies straightened out before having any type of relationship. Or don’t. In any case, I don’t think I’m the right girl for you.”

There’s a silence. The chatter of the café seems distant. You feel half inclined to apologize as you look at him and stare down the glassy tabletop as if trying to find his reflection for comfort—but then he beats you to the punch.

“You’re right…” he starts softly, mustering the words, and you’re almost proud to see him take it so well, but then there’s a viscousness to his next words. “You’re not the right girl for me.”

When he looks up again, his face is warped—callous and seemingly disgusted by the sight of you. Something about it even seems to lash out at you, seeking revenge.

“I can’t believe I thought I saw something in you,” he sighs. “Turns out you’re exactly what everyone warned me you would be—just a plane-boring old Jane. What a joke���wasting so much time on something so worthless. Forget breaking up with me, I should have broken up with you a long time ago.”

He gets up in a rush and bears over the table, both palms laid flat upon the surface.

“Charity case?” he seethes, then conjures a fake laugh and an even faker grin. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. Enjoy sitting here alone like the loser you are.”

And even though you’re the one watching him walk away while ordering a chocolate sundae for yourself, you can’t help but feel sorry for the poor guy… 

That had been the most emotion you’d ever witnessed come from him.

Obviously, he doesn’t take it very well, stumbling through the café before bursting out the door, but even he’s surprised by how disheveled it had made him. He’s hyperventilating when the fresh air hits him, almost sprinting to his car so that he can lock himself inside it.

But the car only makes it worse as he’s far from alone in there. You’re everywhere. On the hood, waiting for him with a smile. In the rearview mirror, waving at him. In the seat next to him with a pout, asking if you can stay over. In the backseat, naked with a coy twinkle in your eye.

He knows! He has some of your underwear at home—he’ll threaten to pass them around campus unless you beg him to take you back. No, what’s he thinking!? You’ll never come back to him that way. Fuck, what can he do, what’s he supposed to do!? He just called you worthless—what that fuck was he thinking?!

The tears startle him as they drip down and splash upon his whitening knuckles, where he grips the wheel for dear life even as the car stays completely still—safe and sound in the same plot.

There’s a light pink lip balm on the dash. Yours. You must have left it there—maybe on purpose? No… you don’t play games like that. You’d been honest in the café. The fact terrifies him—his heart seems to want to reject it at all costs, the way it tears in his chest.

He picks the slim pink stick up and rolls it around in his hand, which can’t seem to stop shaking. You’d sat on his lap in this very seat, laughing at something dumb he’d said while applying the very same balm on his lip—kissing his forehead while saying something sweet. He knows it wasn’t, but he imagines you’d whispered that you loved him.

When he smears the balm around his lips this time, he imagines kissing you and your soft lips and that everpresent smile he never bothered telling you was pretty.

He’s such an idiot. The birds in the parking lot take flight at the jostling of his car, but no one hears the roar.

And as he sits there in the following silence, wallowing in his own self-pity and regret, he can’t help but feel like the lead of some angsty teen romance.

And like the lead in an angsty teen romance, he swears… whatever it takes… he will win you back.

You will be his again.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks ♡ JJK – Gojo, Naoya, some young type of Sukuna, or Toji ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Oikawa, Sakusa, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Reo ♡ AOT – Eren

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[verstappenverse]

Give Me a Chance

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max has always been a playboy, fast cars, faster flings. You’ve always been his best friend. Falling for him was risky… but loving him? That’s where it gets dangerous. Because what if you’re just the next chapter in a story that always ends the same?

12.1k words / Masterlist

You didn’t mean to fall in love with him.

In fact you had tried for most of your life really hard not to.

Because Max Verstappen was the kind of boy mothers warned you about, fast cars and faster flings, cocky grins and charming stories. He lived like he raced, pedal down, never looking back, always chasing the next high. Everyone knew what Max was like off-track. He was beautiful, reckless, magnetic. The kind of man who could have anyone, and often did.

The kind of man who didn’t pause to consider consequences, only cared about momentum. About the next thrill, the next win, the next warm body to fall asleep beside and leave before dawn.

There was always someone new.

Models, influencers, heiresses, you’d seen them all. Blonde, brunette, redheads, tall, short, sultry, polished. Faces blurred together after a while, barely distinguishable from one another in the parade of photo ops and club exits. They came and went like pit stops, momentary distractions before the real race resumed. They wore his hoodie for a week, posted cryptic captions with champagne emojis, and disappeared just as quickly. You knew the pattern. You watched it play out like clockwork.

Headlines followed him like smoke, inevitable, choking, impossible to ignore. Paparazzi shots of him slipping into back doors of nightclubs, lip-locked with someone who’d be labeled a “mystery woman” for twelve hours until internet sleuths figured it out. Tabloids loved him. “F1’s Wild Child.” “Heartbreaker Verstappen Strikes Again.” And he never denied it. Never corrected the record. In interviews he wore that playboy reputation like armour. Let them believe what they wanted. Flashed that sly, sideways grin and shrugged when asked about the girl from the weekend before.

“Just friends,” he’d say. Or, “I don’t remember,” with that maddening smirk that made people want to slap him or kiss him or both.

He walked into a room and the air changed. People noticed him. Women wanted him. Men envied him. He didn’t have to try, and maybe that was the most dangerous part he never had to try. He craved connection the same way he craved speed, intense and immediate, but never built to last.

He broke hearts without meaning to. Gave people memories they’d replay for years while he forgot their names. He wasn’t malicious. Just... restless. Always moving. Always wanting. Always leaving.

And still, people fell for him. Hard. Like you did.

Even when you swore you wouldn’t.

You saw it all up close in the shadows of his chaos, tucked just behind the cameras and the curated smiles. The one he called when things inevitably crashed and burned. When the sparkle wore off and the girls realised they were nothing more than another fleeting thrill. The one who waited outside hotel rooms, keys in hand, while he cleaned up another mistake with tired eyes and a muttered, “Can we go now?”

You knew the rhythm. You lived it. The cycle. The drama. The aftermath. You told yourself it didn’t hurt. That being the best friend was better than being temporary.

But Max made it hard. He always made it hard.

With you there was no performance, no pretending. With you he was real. Raw. Honest in ways he never showed anyone else. You saw it in the quiet moments, when the world wasn’t watching. The nights in his Monaco apartment when the lights were low and his voice went soft. When you asked each other questions about things no one else cared to know, dreams, fears, family. When he looked at you like you mattered.

He learned your moods, your silences, your tells and knew exactly when to make you laugh or when to sit beside you and say nothing at all. Once when you got sick he flew back as quick as could and stocked your freezer with your favourite soup and sat on the floor of your apartment watching old movies with you, refusing to leave until you promised you felt better.

He laughed with you in a way he didn’t with anyone else, loud, unguarded, tears in his eyes as he doubled over at some stupid inside joke that would’ve made no sense to anyone else. He remembered the names of your cousins. Your favourite flower. The way you always tapped your fingers twice before answering a hardi question.

It happened slowly, then all at once.

One smile at a time. One stupid smirk, one inside joke, one sleepy “goodnight” over the phone. Until one day you looked at him and realised you were completely and utterly ruined. Heart gone.

You buried it deep with sharp-edged sarcasm and playful teasing. You clapped for him on podiums, rolled your eyes at his bravado, kept your late-night talks locked up tight like something fragile.

Lately however, it’s been harder to breathe around him. Harder to ignore the way his hand lingers when he touches you. The way his voice dips low when he says your name. The way he looks at you like he knows. Like he’s been watching you just as long, and he’s finally seeing it too.

Still, you don’t let yourself believe.

Because you remember the girls. The flings. The ones who thought they were different. You remember the rumours, the morning-afters, the hungover apologies. You don’t want to be another girl on a list he swears he never made. You don't want to become just another story Max forgets when the next race comes.

You want to matter, and that’s the scariest part of all.

It happens one rainy night in Monaco.

The rain taps gently against Max’s floor-to-ceiling windows, streaking down the glass like it’s too tired to fall properly. The world outside is blurred, soft around the edges like maybe even Monaco is holding its breath.

You’re curled up on the corner of his massive sectional, legs tucked beneath you, his hoodie swallowing you whole. It smells like him, something sharp and expensive and faintly like motor oil. Familiar in a way that hurts if you think too hard about it.

Max moves through the space like he owns it, barefoot on hardwood, quiet in a way he rarely is. He hands you a drink without asking, the same one he makes you every time you're here. Like clockwork. Like ritual. He settles in beside you with a soft exhale, the kind he only lets out when it’s late and you're the only person in the room. He doesn’t sit on the other end, he never does, he sits close and his thigh brushing yours.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says, low and careful, like he’s easing into a conversation he’s rehearsed in his head a hundred times and still isn’t sure he’s brave enough to have.

You keep your eyes on the rain. “I’m just tired.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just lets the silence stretch, broken only by the steady hum of the storm outside and the soft clink of ice in your glass.

Then, flat and certain. “Bullshit.”

You blink. Look at him.

He’s already watching you with that frown he only gets when something’s wrong, but this one’s different, more confused.

You force a shrug, weak and defensive. “You’ve been busy too. With your… dates.”

It comes out sharper than you meant. You hate the way it sounds, like an accusation, betraying how much it hurts.

You sip your drink quickly, like maybe that can swallow the truth down before he notices it.

“I haven’t been seeing anyone,” he says eventually, and there’s a strange tension in his voice, as if the words are uncomfortable on his tongue. Not because they’re a lie, but because they’re heavier than he expected them to be once said aloud.

You scoff before you can stop yourself. “Since when?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You glance over, prepared to catch him in some vague half-truth, but he’s not squirming or flinching. He’s just… still. He’s choosing his next words carefully, whatever he says next matters more than he knows how to explain.

“For a while now.” He swallows, eyes fixed ahead. “Since I realised no one else is you.”

You blink.

“I don’t know the exact moment,” he says slowly. “It wasn’t one thing.”

He turns toward you, gaze steady despite the nerves thrumming beneath the surface.

“I think it started after that night in Austin,” he murmurs.

You blink. “What night?”

“You don’t remember? We stayed up talking until 4 a.m. You were ranting about FIA inconsistencies, and I—” He cuts himself off, smiling faintly. “I looked at you and for some reason, it hit me like a fucking truck. That none one else has ever made me feel the way you do. Like you always do… without even trying.”

He shakes his head, almost like he’s embarrassed. “Every room I walked into I was just looking for you. Every conversation I had I’d compare their laugh to yours, their eyes, their timing. And it never matched. Nothing does.”

Your heart stutters. Just once, but enough to make you feel dizzy. You blink down at your glass like maybe the answer’s there, maybe if you hold still enough this moment will pass.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t do this, Max.”

“This isn’t a joke.” His voice is steady now. “I’m not drunk or confused. I’m just… done pretending.”

“You’ve always pretended,” you say, retreating emotionally even though your body hasn’t moved an inch. “That’s your thing. Fast flings, fast cars, fast goodbyes. You know exactly how to make someone feel wanted… for a night. For a weekend. And then it’s over.”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You’re good at it,” you add, voice brittle. “You don’t even look twice Max. You never have. One weekend, one story, and then it’s on to the next.”

You breathe out shakily, eyes falling to your lap. “I’m sorry if I’m being harsh, but that’s what I’ve always seen.”

“That’s who I was,” he corrects, and now there’s something sharp in his voice. Not angry but wounded. “I didn’t know what I wanted. Not really. So I kept trying to fill the gap with anything else, with people. With things that didn’t mean anything, I was... trying to outrun something.”

Your voice shakes. “And what were you running from?”

He looks at you like the answer should be obvious. “You.”

Silence crackles between you like static.

“You’re it,” he says, softer now, the words catching on the edge of his breath. “Every race. Every late-night call. And I—I never saw it until I couldn’t not see it. I didn’t know how to look at you and not want more, and then it was everywhere. You were everywhere.”

“I’ve ignored it for years, I shoved it down so deep I forgot where I’d buried it. I told myself I didn’t need you like that. That I couldn’t afford to need anyone like that, but I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to spend another day without you.”

“Max…” Your voice breaks on his name.

“I’m in love with you.”

He says it like it costs him something. Like it’s been sitting just behind his teeth for years and this is the first time he’s let it out.

You meet his eyes and it’s a mistake, it always is, because he’s not guarded. Not this time. He’s wide open, bare, like he’s laid every version of himself on the table and is just waiting for you to decide whether he’s enough.

Your voice is a whisper. Shaking. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You think you do,” you say quickly, desperate to stop the ground from shifting beneath you. “But this, this is just timing Max. It’s proximity, you’re lonely and I’m here, and we’re comfortable, and you’re—”

“No.” His voice cuts clean through your spiral. It’s sharp, but not cruel. “That’s not what this is.”

He leans forward slightly, and you can feel the heat off his body now. He’s close enough to touch, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t push.

“Don’t do that,” he says, quieter now. “Don’t make it smaller than it is just so you can walk away without feeling guilty.”

You inhale sharply, chest tight, vision blurring just a little at the edges, because he knows. Of course he knows. He always sees straight through you.

You look away, blinking hard, willing the tears not to come. “You’ve never looked at a girl twice,” you murmur. “I can’t—I won’t be the next one you get bored of.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, his whole body tenses. His jaw clenches like you’ve struck something soft inside him.

“Is that really what you think of me?” he asks, and this time the hurt is impossible to miss. It lingers between syllables, bruised and bleeding.

You swallow. “No. It’s what I think of your history Max.”

And then the words tumble out faster than you can stop them. Words you’ve been biting down on for years.

“I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. I’ve watched you stumble out of beds with girls whose names you couldn’t remember. I’ve sat outside hotel rooms while you cleaned up your mess. I’ve looked them in the eye and told them they were going to be okay when they were clearly not.”

You shake your head. “So no it’s not just me being insecure. It’s me knowing exactly how this story ends.”

Max drops his head into his hands, rubbing his fingers roughly through his hair like he wants to tear the frustration out by the roots.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers threading through his hair in frustration. “I was a fucking idiot alright? I didn’t know how to handle the one thing I actually wanted and so that’s what I did instead. I kept hooking up with girls I didn’t care about, letting them believe I did just to keep myself from thinking about you. It wasn’t fair to them. I know that. They didn’t deserve to be placeholders.” He shakes his head, almost to himself. “But I couldn’t open up to them even if I tried, because deep down I knew none of them would ever be you.”

Max shifts toward you again, slower this time, gentler, like one wrong move might send you bolting for the door.

“I would never hurt you,” he says softly.

This time, it isn’t just a promise, it’s a plea. A desperate truth pulled straight from the core of him.

There’s no bravado in his voice, no charm.

You close your eyes. “You can’t be sure of that.”

“I am sure,” he replies instantly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You open your eyes slowly.

“I’m done pretending I don’t need you,” he continues. “I do. I need you like air, and I’m tired of suffocating.”

“I don’t want to be a phase,” you whisper, eyes burning. “I don’t want to be something you look back on one day and realise was just a detour. A lesson. Some girl you had to lose to grow up.”

“You’re not a mistake,” he says, voice hoarse. “And you’ll never be a lesson.”

You try to look away, but his hand follows, gently guiding your face back to his. He’s so close now, and yet everything in you feels like it’s bracing for impact.

“I’ve messed up a lot,” he continues, breath unsteady. “I’ve hurt people. I've pushed away every good thing that came near me. But this, you, I swear to God, I’ve never wanted anything like this before.”

You say nothing, but your silence isn’t empty. It’s heavy. It’s waiting.

Max swallows hard, his thumb brushing just below your jaw as his forehead tips to yours.

“Give me a chance,” he breathes. “Please.”

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s quiet. Honest. The sound of a man who’s never begged before, but would drop to his knees if you asked.

He cups your jaw gently, his palm warm and steady against your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. Like he’s trying to soothe a bruise that hasn’t even formed.

“You’re it for me,” he says.

His voice falters at the end, not from doubt, but emotion. Like the confession is still too big for his chest. Like he’s still surprised he got it out at all.

There’s a beat. A heartbeat.

Then slowly, cautiously, you lean forward. Just enough to bridge the space between you, to show him you’re not running. That the weight of everything he’s said hasn’t crushed you. That you’re still here.

Your lips brush his, tentative and trembling, and it feels like exhaling after years of holding your breath.

The kiss is soft and shaky. Full of everything you’ve both been holding back. Regret. Hope. Love that’s been simmering quietly for years beneath shared laughter and almosts.

For a moment, the world stills.

Even the rain outside seems to hush.

He doesn’t move at first stunned that you’re actually here, kissing him back, but then something shifts in him.

Whens he kisses you back, really kisses you, it feels like the one thing he’s been waiting for his whole damn life. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in with a confidence that makes your chest ache. His mouth moves slowly, carefully, but with the urgency of someone who finally knows what he wants and is terrified it might slip away.

When you finally pull apart, barely inches away, you stay close. Foreheads almost touching. Breathing the same air.

Your voice comes out as little more than a breath. “If you break my heart Max…”

He doesn't hesitate.

“I won’t,” he whispers.

In this moment you believe him, because this doesn’t feel like a game it feels like a beginning.

You don’t tell anyone at first.

Not because you’re hiding, but because there’s something special about having him to yourself. Something about the way Max looks at you when no one else is around, the quiet awe, the unguarded affection, that makes it feel like a secret too precious to share.

The world knows him in noise. In flashes. In fire and fury and front pages. But you get the quiet version. The early-morning version. The one who kisses your shoulder before you’re even awake. The one who rests his palm on your stomach at night like he needs to feel you breathing to sleep properly.

He holds your hand under the table at dinner with friends, thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. He presses kisses into your hair when you lean into him, murmurs little things under his breath just for you, things that make you smile when you’re supposed to be paying attention to someone else talking.

And he looks at you.

God, he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. Like everything else is just background noise. Like he’s memorising your face in case he ever wakes up and finds this was all a dream.

He’s softer with you now.

Gentler than the world gives him credit for. He still moves like a storm, still yells at the TV during football matches, still throws his gloves down when a race weekend doesn’t go to plan, still mutters sharp Dutch curses under his breath when the sim doesn’t respond the way he wants it to, but when you’re nearby something in him eases.

It’s like you’re the only thing that quiets his engine.

You start noticing the smaller things. The way he brings you your drink in your favourite mug, even though it’s chipped. The way he pulls you onto his lap during movie nights, hands on your waist like he just needs you close. The way he checks to make sure you’re covered by the blanket before he lets himself fall asleep.

One morning you wake up tangled in his sheets, your leg draped over his hip, his arm slung heavy around your waist. The sun is just beginning to spill into the room, pale and sleepy.

You blink yourself awake and find him already watching you, head propped lazily on one arm, his other hand tracing light shapes into your spine.

“What?” you mumble, voice hoarse and sleepy.

He grins, slow and fond. “You drool.”

You slap his chest, groaning through a laugh. “Asshole.”

But he just laughs quietly, eyes still on you like you hung the stars. “Yeah, but I’m your asshole.”

He tugs you closer, pressing a kiss to your hair, then your temple, then your jaw. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.

“Still cute though.”

That’s when it hits you, how simple it is being loved by him in moments like this. How all the noise of the world disappears when it’s just him and you, and the warmth of something real.

Three weeks later and you’re perched on his kitchen counter in nothing but one of his oversized shirts, bare legs swinging, a half-eaten punnet of strawberries in your lap. The sleeves hang past your hands, stained faintly with syrup from earlier, but Max doesn’t mind. If anything, he looks at you like that hoodie belongs there.

He’s standing by the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand, barefoot and half-distracted, the other hand sweeping his hair back off his forehead.

“Did you just flip that pancake with your fingers?” you ask, incredulous.

Max shrugs without looking, unbothered. “Hands of a champion.”

You snort, grinning as you reach forward and steal one before it even hits the plate.

He narrows his eyes, swats at you with the spatula. “Thief.”

You just giggle and take a dramatic bite, swinging your legs like you’re immune to consequences.

When he slides the final plate in front of you, he leans in and kisses your temple, soft, instinctive, and then he leans back against the counter with a sigh.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had breakfast with someone before you,” he says quietly.

You blink, looking up from your fork. “Seriously?”

He nods, eyes distant for a second. “They never stayed the night. Or if they did I left before the sun came up.”

“Oh,” you say, and it’s small, because you’ve seen that version of him. The messy morning-afters. The goodbyes he never struggled to say. But then he glances back at you.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

The air stills, and you know he doesn’t just mean in his bed or in the morning. He means in his life. You didn’t come and go. You didn’t stay for the night and disappear with the morning light. You’re still here, you always were.

You look down, heart thudding. “Well… I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Max steps closer. His hand lifts to tilt your chin up with quiet care, and when he looks at you, there’s nothing left to doubt.

“I love you,” he says.

Your smile is soft. “Good, because I’m in love with you too.”

Early next month he kisses you in the garage, quick, sharp, just behind a monitor while no one’s looking. It’s reckless and brief and completely perfect.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Christian walks past, giving Max a suspicious glance.

Without missing a beat, Max blurts something about, “tyre strategy” with the panic of someone who’s just been caught stealing state secrets. You double over laughing, one hand on your stomach, the other covering your mouth. “You are the worst liar.”

“I panicked!”

“Am I gonna get you fined?” You tease, pulling him in again.

He grins, smug. “Worth it.”

You roll your eyes and steal one more kiss before shoving him back toward the car. “Now go get that win.”

He winks over his shoulder. “See you at the podium.”

When he lifts the trophy that afternoon, face flushed with adrenaline and champagne, he doesn’t look at the crowd. He looks for you.

Two months in and it’s raining again in Monaco, lazy, unhurried raindrops tapping against the windows as Max drops his keys on the kitchen counter and kicks off his shoes.

“Let’s just stay in,” he mutters, stretching like a cat. “Order pizza, I’ll pretend to care about rom-coms.”

You snort. “You love rom-coms.”

He squints. “I tolerate rom-coms.”

“Max you cried during The Notebook.”

He collapses beside you on the couch with a groan. You’re both laughing by the time you’ve curled into each other, limbs tangled, your hand lazily threading through his hair while his arm wraps around your waist like a promise.

“I like this,” you whisper into the quiet. “Us.”

He hums in agreement, forehead pressed to yours. “Me too.”

Later that week you’re brushing your teeth in his bathroom, bare feet against the cool tile, sleep still clinging to your skin.

He appears behind you in the mirror, sleep-mussed and shirtless, one hand rubbing at his eyes. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, presses a kiss to the back of your neck.

“You know…” he mumbles, voice still gravel-rough from sleep, “You can leave a toothbrush here… permanently I mean.”

You turn in his arms, brushing your nose against his. “You sure?”

His eyes are heavy-lidded but clear.

“I’m sure,” he says.

And when you smile at him, he smiles back like it’s the easiest thing in the world, because loving each other is.

You fall in love with Max again and again in the quiet moments. Not during the grand gestures or the champagne-soaked victories, but in the stillness. The ones that aren’t meant to be romantic but somehow end up that way because he’s in them.

When he rolls over in the middle of the night, still half-asleep, and starts rubbing your back with slow, lazy circles like his body just knows where to find you, even in his dreams.

When he texts you ‘How you feeling?’ before every race, like you’re the one about to climb into the car. Like your nerves matter more than his own. Like his day doesn’t fully start until he hears from you.

When he sends you voice notes while traveling, some mundane, some ridiculous, just because he wants to hear you laugh at them later. You’ll be alone in your kitchen, earbuds in, grinning like an idiot because he’s making some terrible impression of some influencer he met in the paddock just to make you smile.

You never knew this version of him existed.

Not fully.

The Max you knew was fast and loud and untouchable. Reckless, impatient, always moving. But this Max, this one is quiet. Present. Soft in a way the world never gets to see. He lets you in without even realising he’s doing it. A hand on your thigh while he’s on a call. A glance across the room that says there you are. A small smile when you walk through the door, like the storm in his chest settles just from seeing you.

That’s what scares you most, because this kind of love, this steady, real, fragile kind, it feels too good. Too rare.

You know somewhere deep down in that quiet anxious part of your mind that happiness like this usually doesn’t come without cost, but you let yourself fall anyway. Over and over again.

The first crack doesn’t shatter.

It hums. Soft. Subtle. A tremor beneath the surface. A splinter in glass you don’t notice until the light hits it just right and suddenly it’s everywhere.

It starts after Silverstone.

Nothing dramatic. Just a silence.

He doesn’t text you goodnight after press. Doesn’t call when he lands back in Monaco. Doesn’t tell you he’s safe, or tired, or that the car felt like shit in the corners today.

You only find out he’s home when you see a blurry photo on Twitter, sunglasses on, walking alone.

Your stomach knots because he always calls. Even if it’s just a two-minute check-in. Even if he’s exhausted.

You wait.

Tell yourself not to spiral. He’s probably tired. Jet lagged. Burned out from the media.

But the second day passes.

And the third.

And the fourth.

Your texts go unread.

And you feel it, the ache creeping in through the cracks. That old fear, the one you buried deep under love and laughter and whispered confessions in the dark. The fear that this was always too good to be true.

When you finally show up at his apartment, heart hammering, throat dry, he looks… surprised.

Not angry.

Not guilty.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t expect you.”

You force a smile that feels too tight. “Yeah. I kinda figured.”

The apartment is a mess.

Not Max-messy. Not the usual clutter of a man who lives in fast lanes and hotel rooms. This is off. Empty Red Bull cans crowding the counter. Dishes in the sink. His sim rig sits abandoned, paused mid-race, one corner frozen on-screen like he just walked away.

Everything looks… unfinished.

You glance around. Then back at him.

He won’t meet your eyes.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

His jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”

You sit down slowly on the edge of the couch, his couch. Your usual spot, but somehow it feels different now, like you don’t belong in it anymore.

“I didn’t hear from you,” you say after a long silence. The words are gentle. Not accusatory. Quiet enough that they tremble a little in the air.

Max exhales hard, standing a few feet away, arms folded tightly across his chest. “Yeah. I just… I needed some space.”

You don’t react right away because the words take a second to land. You nod slowly, swallowing hard. “Okay.”

He still won’t look at you.

You glance down at your hands. “Do you not want me here?”

That finally makes him look up.

There’s something in his eyes, something fractured. Regret? Fear? Shame? You don’t know. You can’t tell anymore.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Max paces a little, dragging a hand through his hair like it’s suddenly too heavy on his head. “I don’t know alright? It’s just been… a lot latley. The races. The press. Everything’s moving so fast, you, us…”

He says the last part quieter. Barely audible.

You flinch, chest tightening. “Do you regret it? Us?”

“No.” His answer is immediate. Too quick, almost. “God, no. I just… I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“Feel like what?” you whisper.

Max looks at you, finally, really looks, and the fear there knocks the wind out of you.

“Like I could lose you.”

That silences you for a beat, but you still angry at his silence.

“So your solution to that is pushing me away?”

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “I know it makes no sense. I know I sound like an asshole. I just… I needed space to figures things out.”

You laugh bitterly. “Of course.”

“I’m scared,” he chokes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I just—I panicked”

You stare at him, your throat raw. “I’m scared too,” you whisper. “But I didn’t run, I didn’t shut you out, I chose to trust you.”

Max blinks hard, tears slipping out despite his best efforts. “I don’t know what to do. I just… I’m confused, I fucked it up.”

You nod, chest heaving, the ache in your throat threatening to choke you, and maybe that’s what finally makes the decision for you, because he still hasn’t apologised. Not really. Not in the way that counts. Not in the way you need.

You take a shaky breath and step back, and for the first time since this started he doesn’t stop you from walking toward the door.

You try to move past it.

You tell yourself it was just a bad week. A rough patch. Pressure from the championship. Jet lag. Burnout. Anything but what it really was, him pulling away.

So you adjust.

You stop staying over every night. You give him space like he asked for. You sleep in your own bed again, wake up alone again, try not to flinch when you roll over in the morning and your phone is still empty.

You keep texting. Short things. Safe things. "Good luck tomorrow." "Need anything from the store?" You try to keep it light. Try not to ask for too much. Try not to make him feel cornered, and for a while, you convince yourself it’s working.

But things don’t go back to normal.

He doesn’t touch you the same way, doesn’t reach for your hand when you’re walking side by side. Doesn’t lean in to kiss your cheek at red lights anymore. He still holds you when you’re in his bed, but it feels different now.

He misses your cousin’s birthday dinner and when you finally ask him to come with you to a wedding one of your best friend’s, someone who’s known him for years, he hesitates.

“Do I have to?”

You freeze. The question knocks the breath from your chest like a slap.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you say slowly. “But I thought you’d want to.”

Max sighs, rubbing at his jaw like the conversation is hurting him. “It’s just… a lot. Weddings. People. All the questions.”

You frown. “What questions?”

He hesitates.

“You know people will assume things,” he says not looking up.

You blink. “Like what?”

“That we’re serious.” he says too quickly.

Your heart stutters. “We’re not?”

He looks up at you now, and you watch the realisation of what he’s said dawn on his face.

“Fuck, that’s not. That’s not what I meant—”

“No,” you cut in, voice tight. “I think it is.”

You step back without meaning to. Just a few inches, but it feels like miles.

“You love me,” you whisper. “But you don’t want people to know we’re serious?”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m just scared alright? I’ve never done this before. I’ve never been this with anyone. I don’t know the rules.”

“I’m not asking for rules,” you say, trying so hard not to cry. “I’m not asking for perfection. I’m asking you to show up. To stand next to me and let people know I matter to you.”

“You do matter—”

“Then why are you acting like being with me is something to hide?”

He doesn’t answer. He looks down, jaw clenched, shoulders tight.

“So what?” you ask, voice cracking. “I’m just supposed to wait until you figure it out? Until you decide if I’m worth claiming in daylight?”

He flinches like the word physically hits him.

“That’s not fair—” he starts, voice rough, eyes red.

“And you think all of this is. I told you I was scared too,” you whisper, your hands now clenched tightly in your lap. “I told you from the beginning I didn’t want to be another girl you hurt.”

“You’re not—”

“But you are hurting me Max.” Your voice shatters, and you hate the way it sounds. Like begging. Like heartbreak. “You said you wouldn’t do this to me. You promised you wouldn’t.”

He winces, stepping toward you, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You promised,” you cry. “You said, ‘I would never hurt you. Give me a chance.’ And I did. I gave you everything. And now you’re backing off because it’s real? Because it scares you?”

He looks wrecked. Eyes glassy, jaw clenched, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you but knows he has no right. Silence falls between you, sharp and immediate. A pause that drags one second too long.

That’s all it takes to know.

“I need time,” he says again.

It sounds like a door clicking shut.

You nod, barely holding yourself together. “Then take it.”

You grab your bag off the floor, your fingers numb, your throat burning.

He doesn’t stop you.

You don’t speak for two weeks.

When he finally texts, it’s short.

Can we talk?

You type three different responses before you settle on:

I don’t know what else there is to say.

No reply.

Two days later he shows up at your door and you’re still not sure if it was the right decision to let him up. You see his shadow before you see his face. The shape of him through the peephole. The weight of him in your hallway.

You don’t open it right away. Instead you press your forehead against the door, eyes shut, your hand hovering near the handle, heart thudding painfully against your ribs. Then softly, almost broken, he says,

“Please.”

You open it.

He looks like hell. His hoodie is wrinkled, like he’s been sleeping in it for days. There are shadows under his eyes that no amount of good lighting could hide. His posture is all wrong slumped, guarded, but still reaching, like guilt has wrapped itself around him like a second skin.

He looks at you like he doesn’t deserve to be standing there and he knows it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”

You nod once, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “For what?”

“For freezing. For being a coward. For everything.”

You step aside, wordless, and let him in.

He paces at first, back and forth like he’s trying to burn off nerves he can’t outrun. You don’t speak.

“I didn’t know how to hold onto something I was so terrified to lose,” he says finally. His voice is uneven.

You sink onto the edge of the couch, arms wrapped tightly around your knees. “You made me feel like I was too much.”

His eyes snap to yours. “You aren’t.”

“You aren’t,” he says again. “You’re everything. I know that. I knew it then too, but I was so fucking scared. I thought if I kept you at a distance… if I didn’t let myself want it too much… then maybe it wouldn’t hurt if it ended.”

His voice breaks, just slightly. “I know the logic is messed up. I know it’s selfish. But I didn’t know how to get out of my own head and all I did was ruin the best thing I’ve ever had anyway.”

You turn your head slowly. “And what do we have now?”

Max hesitates. His fingers twitch in his lap.

“I guess it depends,” he says quietly.

“On what?”

He meets your eyes. “On if you can give me another chance.”

He’s not hiding now. There’s no mask, no ego. Just Max. Completely exposed. Heart on his sleeve. Hands trembling slightly like he’s terrified of your answer.

“Max…” you whisper.

“I love you,” he says, voice low and trembling. “I love you more than I know how to say. More than I ever thought I could. And I know—” he swallows hard, eyes glassy, “I know I fucked up. I know I shut you out, and I hurt you when you trusted me not to. That’s on me. All of it.”

He takes a step closer, hands shaking slightly at his sides. “But you have to know it was never because I didn’t care. It was the opposite. You scare the hell out of me. What I felt—what I feel it’s real in a way nothing else has ever been, and I didn’t know how to handle that. I panicked. I pushed you away because I thought that would make the risk of losing you hurt less.”

His voice cracks then, and he looks down, like he can’t bear to see your face.

“I was wrong about everything. Because I can’t—” he looks back up, desperate now. “I can’t do this without you. You’re the only thing that’s ever made any of this make sense.”

He takes a breath like he’s steadying himself before the fall.

“I don’t deserve to ask I know that, but I’m asking anyway, because if there’s even the smallest part of you that still believes in me, still wants us, then I swear I will spend every single day proving how much I love you. Not just in words. In every way I know how. Please... give me a chance again.”

Your heart splinters all over again.

Because it hurts to love someone who’s scared of loving you back properly.

Because that first chance was already hard enough to give.

And you don’t know if you can survive handing him your heart again.

“I can’t… at least not now… I need to think,” you say, voice cracking like glass.

He nods.

“I’ll wait,” he whispers. “As long as you need.”

Then he leaves and this time, you’re the one who doesn’t stop him.

The days bleed into weeks.

You keep telling people you're fine, you say it so often it almost sounds believable.

You go to work. You answer texts. You show up to dinners and birthdays and work events you wish you could cancel. You smile in the right places. Laugh at the right jokes. Drink just enough to dull the ache but not enough to let the truth spill out.

But you’re not living, you’re just existing.

Floating. Fragile. Half-hollow.

He texts you still. Cautiously. One or two spaced out over days like he’s testing the water. Then more. They’re never demanding. Never pushy. Just… him.

Hope you had a good day today.

I saw your favourite cafe changed owners. Made me sad.

You’d laugh if you saw what I cooked for dinner. Burned half of it. Still ate it.

Do you remember the time we got lost in Belgium and you swore Google Maps was gaslighting us?

I miss you.

I miss us.

Each one lands like a pebble in your chest, small, but shifting everything underneath.

You don’t respond. You can’t. Because replying would mean reopening the door, and after everything, staying broken feels safer than risking being shattered all over again.

Still, he keeps trying.

He sends you flowers, simple, beautiful, no name on the card, but you know. Of course you know. A few days later, his friend drops off one of his hoodies. Clean. Folded. The faintest trace of his cologne still clinging to the fabric. You hold it in your hands longer than you mean to. Almost bring it to your face. Almost give in.

Then comes the book, your favourite book. You find it on your doorstep, wrapped in plain brown paper. Inside, the page is dog-eared to your favourite quote. You sit on the floor of your hallway and nearly cry. Not because it’s romantic, but because it hurts, because you know he remembers, because a part of you wants to let him back in.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Meanwhile, Max is not fine.

He tells the world he’s focused. Locked in. Gearing up for the next race.

But the truth is uglier.

He doesn’t go out. Doesn’t answer most calls. He cancels plans with with his friends, ignores texts from his engineers. He spends hours in the sim, running the same laps on the same track until the lines blur and his fingers ache from gripping the wheel too tight.

He stays up past 3 a.m., staring at the ceiling, heart racing from things that have nothing to do with speed. Replaying everything he said to you. Everything he didn’t.

He keeps your contact pinned at the top of his messages. Reads the last thing you ever sent him on a loop like maybe if he stares hard enough, you’ll text him back.

Christian asks what’s wrong.

Lando asks if he’s dying.

Even Helmut frowns and tells him to "sort it out before he drives like that again."

He’s so tired. Tired of the silence. Tired of the way his apartment still smells faintly like you even after he’s finally changed the sheets.

He’s tired of being without you.

Two weeks before Zandvoort, Max does an interview.

The reporter asks about his mindset. His focus. How he’s changed over the last few months. He hesitates. Then, for once, he lets a little truth slip through the cracks.

“I think real connection can change the way you drive,” he says softly. “Makes you sharper. Calmer. When you’ve got something real to come home to.”

The quote goes viral.

People call it poetic. A sign of maturity.

Your fingers hover over your phone for nearly an hour after you see it.

You type a reply.

Delete it.

Type it again.

Delete it again.

In the end you say nothing because you’re still not sure if wanting him back is the same as trusting him again, and love, you’re learning, isn’t always enough.

Then it happens.

It gets worse before it gets better.

The photo.

You’re scrolling idly one afternoon, trying to feel normal, trying to feel anything and then suddenly there it is.

Blurry, looks like it’s been taken from the inside of a car, somewhere in Monaco. Probably by a fan who didn’t realise they were about to ruin your entire day. Max, outside a restaurant. Laughing. With a girl.

You freeze mid-scroll. Your body goes still before your mind can catch up. Your breath catches, sharp and ugly in your throat, and your stomach twists into something dark and acidic, nausea rising fast.

She’s beautiful. Of course she is. She’s touching him. One hand on his arm, casually, she looks comfortable. You swear she’s wearing his jacket. The one that used to smell like you. The one that used to be folded on your side of the bed.

You blink. Once. Twice. But the image doesn’t change. If anything, it burns itself in deeper.

You click it open. Then you open Twitter. Then Instagram.

It’s all there.

The girl posted something on her story, nothing blatant, nothing tagging him, but it doesn’t need to be. A selfie, smiley and sun-kissed, and in the blurred background there he is. Max. In the corner of the frame. Head turned, not looking at the camera, but it’s him. Clear as day. Clear enough to hurt.

Your phone slips from your hands and hits the floor with a dull, lifeless thud.

You don’t move to pick it up.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t call a friend or throw something or give into the heartbreak clawing at your ribs.

You just sit there.

Staring at nothing.

Frozen in place like your body doesn’t know how to function now that your heart’s short-circuited.

You lie in bed, eyes wide open, the ceiling a blur as your mind replays every word he ever said to you in that low, steady voice that used to sound like safety. “You’re it for me.” “I’d never hurt you.” “I’ll wait.”

He didn’t wait. Of course he didn’t. Of course he went back to what was easy. What was familiar.

Maybe that’s what hurts the most, knowing deep down in the quietest part of you that this was always going to happen. That you knew. That something in your gut warned you, and you still believed, still hoped anyway.

When Max texts the next morning, your heart stutters in that horrible, traitorous way it always does when his name lights up your screen.

Can I see you today? I’ve got something for you it’s stupid but I think you’ll smile.

You read it three times in disbelief.

You see the photo again in your head, her hand on his arm and something in you snaps. Your hands are shaking as you type back, but your fingers don’t hesitate.

Don’t bother. I saw the photos. You don’t have to lie. I don’t want to hear from you anymore.

There’s a full minute of silence.

Then—

What are you talking about?

Almost a minute passes.

Then a second message.

Please let me explain.

You can see the dots, he’s typing, but you don’t wait to read the rest.

You block his number.

And this time, you do cry.

Not just because he hurt you. Not just because you lost him. Not even because it hurts to know he moved on so easily, but because deep down you’re terrified that you never really had him at all.

You don’t get out of bed for two days.

The curtains stay drawn, your room dim even in the middle of the afternoon, like the light itself knows it isn’t welcome. Your phone sits face-down on your dresser, untouched except for the few times you glance at it, only to glance away again. The hoodie Max returned lies at the foot of your bed, folded too neatly, as if it doesn’t belong to the chaos he left behind. You tell yourself you’ll throw it out. Burn it, maybe. But instead, you bring it to your nose, just once, just to see and when it still smells like him, like cologne and warmth and the memory of every quiet morning you spent wrapped up in his arms, you hate yourself a little for checking.

The world, predictably, keeps spinning. Cars pass by outside. The neighbour’s dog barks. On Monday you go to work because your boss would notice if you didn’t. You lie to your friends on autopilot, tell them you’re just “tired,” just “burned out,” that work’s been “crazy,” and no, you’re fine, you swear.

You don’t mention the photo. You don’t mention the way it knocked the air out of your lungs or the way your stomach twisted so hard you had to sit down or the way you still see it in your mind every time you close your eyes.

You try not to look at the tab you left open. “Max Verstappen Monaco mystery girl.”

You don’t click any links. You don’t read the comments. You don’t want to know what people are saying about him, or about her, or think about the way your chest still aches like a bruise that won’t heal.

Still, the images play on an endless loop in your mind.

Your best friend shows up three days later, uninvited but not unwelcome, letting herself into your apartment with the spare key you gave her years ago for emergencies. You’re curled up on your couch, legs under a blanket, the TV playing something you’re not even pretending to watch. You haven’t told her anything, but she just… knows.

“What happened?” she asks gently, lowering herself onto the couch beside you.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t look at her either. You’re too tired to lie, too hollow to make it sound okay. So instead, you pick up your phone for the first time in hours. You unlock it and hand it to her.

The photo.

The messages.

The last thing you sent him before you blocked his number.

She reads it in silence. Once. Then again. Her brows pull together. She lets out a slow exhale.

“Okay,” she says carefully, “but… this doesn’t make sense.”

You blink. “What?”

“I mean—I’m not saying he didn’t fuck up, I’m on your side. But this girl? I’ve seen her around. She’s one of those Monaco hanger-ons. She posted that same selfie with like five other drivers. Always around the “hot-spots”. Always tagging locations, trying to be seen.”

You shift on the couch. “So?”

“So… maybe you saw what you thought was happening. Not what actually was.”

You shake your head, heart pounding. “She was wearing his jacket. She had her hand on him.”

“And? Max lends stuff out all the time, maybe he lent it to her outside like the gentleman he weirdly is sometimes. Maybe it was someone else’s and it looked similar. Maybe she grabbed his arm for two seconds and the photo caught it at the worst possible moment. You don’t know.”

You sit up straighter. “But he didn’t deny it.”

She looks at you then. Really looks.

“To be fair,” she says slowly, “you blocked him before he could.”

You go quiet. The guilt creeps in like cold water seeping through cracks in the floor.

“What if I didn’t want to hear his explanation?” you whisper.

She gives you a look that’s too knowing to be comfortable. “Then you have to ask yourself something.”

You already know what she’s going to say. You hear it before she even says it.

“Do you want to stay angry or do you still love him?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because you want to say it doesn’t matter. That you’re done. That it’s too late.

But the truth is louder than your pride.

You still love him.

You always have.

Meanwhile Max is pacing like a storm in a bottle. Restless energy coiled in his spine, unspooling with every step across the hardwood floor. His phone is clutched in his hand like it might break if he squeezes any harder, his face flushed not just with frustration but with something closer to panic.

“She blocked me,” he says again, like saying it aloud will make it sound less insane. “She actually blocked me. I was on my way to surprise her with her favourite flowers and that stupid stuffed koala she laughs at in the airport gift shop every time we see it and then boom gone. Just cut off.”

Lando is sitting on the edge of Max’s sofa, legs spread, elbows on his knees, watching his friend spiral with the wide-eyed expression of someone who’s been dropped in the middle of a house fire with a plastic spoon. “Alright. Breathe. Start from the beginning. What happened?”

Max swipes angrily at his phone, pulls up the blurry photo that’s been circulating for the past few days. “That’s Julia,” he snaps. “She’s my trainer’s girlfriend’s friend or something. I barely even know her. She showed up out of nowhere while I was grabbing lunch with him, said she was meeting someone else, asked if she could wait there for a minute. She sat down, we made small talk, and then hug goodbye. Five minutes. Tops. Flash of a camera.”

He runs both hands through his hair, yanking the roots like he could force the shame out of his head. “I didn’t even see the camera it looks, it looks bad. The jacket, the arm, it’s the worst possible moment.”

Daniel, who had arrived five minutes ago and already regrets it, scrolls through the messages Max had sent in the days before everything blew up. He lets out a low whistle, his face pinched in sympathy. “Shit. These are… a lot.”

Max grabs the phone back. “She thinks I’m lying. She thinks I went back to being that guy. The one who says what he needs to get what he wants and then disappears when it gets real. She thinks everything I said was just noise.”

“And do you blame her?” Daniel says carefully. “I mean, not to kick you when you’re already bleeding out here, but… you did disappear on her for a while.”

Max looks like he’s been slapped. “I know that. I know. I handled it like a fucking coward and I’ve been trying to make it right ever since.”

Lando leans back on the couch. “So what now? You just sit around and mope?”

Max glares at him. “What do you want me to do, force it? I already made her feel like shit. The last thing she needs is me showing up uninvited.”

“Maybe,” Daniel says. “But she also needs to see that you care. That you’re not just sending sad little texts and hoping she forgets.”

“I’ve been trying!” Max snaps. Then lowers his voice. “I’ve been trying. But everything I do feels too late.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Daniel tilts his head. “What about her best friend?”

Max looks up. “What about her?”

“Talk to her,” Daniel says. “Not to get the friend to do your dirty work, just… find out if there’s anything you can do that wouldn’t make things worse, or maybe she can suggest a way in, wouldn’t hurt to try and get someone in her corner to understand your side.”

Max hesitates.

Lando shrugs. “It’s better than sitting here waiting for her to magically unblock you.”

Max nods slowly, like something clicks into place. “Alright I’ll try. I’m not giving up on this. On her.”

Daniel smirks. “Good. Because it’s about time you started acting like it.”

The next morning Max makes a call he’s been dreading. It’s awkward as hell, and the conversation doesn’t go the way he practiced in his head, but he owns it. He tells the truth.

And somehow, it’s enough.

Because a day later he’s standing outside your building in the shadows of early evening, hoodie pulled tight, cap low, heart pounding harder than it ever has behind the wheel of an F1 car.

Your best friend lets him up without a word and then disappears.

You don’t even know she’s done it until you hear the knock, three quiet raps against your door, hesitant, almost like he’s not sure he deserves to be heard. When you open it, he’s standing there, his eyes are bloodshot and his hair is a mess, flattened from the cap. His mouth opens, then closes again before he finally finds the words.

“Before you slam the door,” he says, voice shaking, “just let me explain. Please.”

You freeze. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the door. You don’t move, don’t speak, but you don’t close it.

So he keeps going.

“She’s not someone I’m seeing,” he blurts, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “I barely know her. She’s my trainer’s girlfriend’s friend, I didn’t invite her, I didn’t ask her to sit with us. She showed up at the restaurant, said she was waiting for someone else. We made awkward small talk for five minutes. I didn’t even realise how close she was sitting until I saw the photo. And the jacket—” He pauses, swallows hard. “She said she was cold. It was draped over the back of my chair. I didn’t think. I just—” His voice cracks. “I was trying to be nice.”

You blink at him, vision going blurry. “Then why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you come here earlier?”

“Because you blocked me, and I didn’t think you wanted to see me.” he says softly.

“I thought you gave up,” you say, arms folding over your chest to keep from falling apart. “I thought you moved on. That it was just easy for you.”

“I would never,” Max says, and it’s not a plea, it’s a vow. He steps forward, carefully, like he’s afraid to spook you. “You have no idea how hard it was not to show up every day. How many times I sat in the car ready to drive here, wondering if I had any right to knock. I only stayed away because you asked me to, because I thought you needed time.”

“I did.”

“And I wanted to to give that to you,” he says. “But it’s been killing me.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He’s not holding it together anymore. Not even close.

“I didn’t want anyone else,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I don’t want anyone else. Not now. Not ever. You’re it. You always were.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the flood building behind your eyes. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper now, cracked and shaking as tears trail slowly down his cheeks. “I know I hurt you. I let the fear win. I let my past, my pride, my bullshit get louder than everything we had, and I hate myself for it.”

He swallows hard. “But if you give me another shot… if you ever could I would spend every single day earning it. Proving I’m not the same coward who let you walk away. I’d show you what I should’ve from the beginning. That I’m in this. That I meant every word I ever said to you, even the ones I was too much of a mess to back up.”

Max steps forward slightly, like he’s bracing for rejection but can’t help chasing hope anyway.

“I don’t know how else to ask. I keep trying to think of the right thing to say but none of it feels like enough, but this, you, you’re everything, and I’ll take whatever version of us you’re willing to give me, even if it’s just the chance to try.”

His voice breaks completely then. “Please. Give me a chance.”

It breaks something in you.

Because you do love him. Even now. Even after all the silence, all the distance, all the aching disappointment. Your heart still beats louder when he’s near. But love isn’t enough, not when you’re still bleeding from the wounds he left behind.

“I can’t,” you say, and your voice shakes.

Max’s face crumples like he’d prepared for this but prayed against it anyway. He nods, slow and steady, like each movement hurts.

“I understand.”

He nods. Once. Twice. Each movement slower than the last, like gravity’s working harder on him now.

“Yeah,” he breathes, barely audible. “I thought maybe I could earn it back.”

His eyes are red, glistening, but he doesn’t wipe them. Doesn’t hide. He just stands there, hollowed out. “I knew that coming here was a long shot. I just hoped…”

He steps back, nodding again like he needs to convince his body to move.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice tight. “For everything.”

He steps back and turns away, but just before he disappears down the hall, your voice breaks through the silence, shaky, quiet, but impossible not to hear.

“I never stopped loving you.”

He halts mid-step. Stiffens. For a long moment, he just stands there, back to you, head bowed like the weight of your words physically hit him.

His shoulders rise and fall with a breath that sounds like it hurts to take.

“Me neither.”

A pause. The kind that stretches forever.

“Not for a single second.”

Then he walks away, with the same realisation you’ve been battling for weeks, that love alone was never going to be enough.

It’s been two months since you closed the door on him.

Max hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Not once. He hasn’t tried to push, hasn’t knocked at the door or slipped another note under it, and in a strange, cruel way, it hurts. It means he heard you. It means he listened, he’s respecting your boundaries. But it also means he’s gone.

And yet, he’s everywhere.

You still find pieces of him buried in the quiet corners of your days, like ghosts you’re too tired to chase away. His name doesn’t appear on your screen, but his voice plays in your head when you drive past the petrol station where he used to stop for your favourite gum. His laugh echoes in the back of your mind when you open Spotify and the playlist you made for him starts and somehow it still knows which songs make your throat close.

You keep his shirt in the back of your drawer, forgotten, then remembered, then deliberately not moved. It still smells like his skin in a way that makes your knees weak. You pass the little café he loved and your heart stumbles over itself because you can see him leaning against the window, tapping the lid of your drink so the steam wouldn't burn your lips, eyes already crinkled in that half-smile he never gave to anyone else.

He's there when you open the fridge and automatically reach for the orange juice he always used to keep on the top shelf so he could tease you about not being able to reach and then act all macho when he got it down for you. He’s in your dreams when sleep forgets you’re supposed to be angry and lets him back into your arms. He’s in the ache just beneath your ribs when someone asks, “Are you okay?” and you smile and nod and hope they don’t hear the lie rattling behind your teeth.

But today… today you can’t do it anymore.

You can’t keep carrying the silence like a shield when all it’s done is cut you off from the one person who ever made you feel that kind of love. You’ve tried the distance. You’ve tried the pretending. You’ve tried to be fine.

You don’t know what you’re going to say.

You don’t know if it’ll come out as forgiveness or fire, or if you’ll be able to speak at all when you see him again.

You do know this, nothing hurts more than this in-between. Nothing is worse than wondering what might’ve happened if you’d just tried one more time. Maybe you’ll get hurt again. Maybe he’ll break your heart all over again. But what you had was rare, and that kind of love? That kind of connection? It’s worth the risk. It’s a chance you’re willing to take, for how special you were together. If there’s still a chance, you have to take it, you have to try.

Because waiting might protect your heart.

But not giving the two of you another chance, not finding out what this could’ve been.

That’s the kind of regret that would haunt you forever.

It’s late.

Almost midnight, Monaco is quiet, and rain is threatening the cobblestones. You take the steps to his apartment two at a time, heart pounding so hard you can hear it echoing in your ears.

When you reach his door, you hesitate.

Then you knock.

It only takes a few seconds.

The door swings open.

He’s there. Hair tousled, hoodie hanging loose off one shoulder, barefoot, eyes wide like he thought maybe he was dreaming.

You’re both frozen.

Then you whisper, “Hi.”

“You’re here,” Max says, voice wrecked.

His eyes are wide, disbelieving. He looks thinner than you remember, tired in a way sleep can’t fix. One hand grips the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“I didn’t think you’d ever—” He breaks off, breath catching. “I never thought…”

You shift your weight, arms folded tightly across your chest. You want to say something comforting, but instead, what comes out is honest.

“You hurt me so badly, Max.”

His shoulders drop. “I know,” he says immediately, his voice cracking at the edges. “And I’ll never stop being sorry.”

You look away, just for a second, long enough to stop yourself from crying. “I wasn’t asking you to be the perfect boyfriend. I never expected you to be anyone but yourself. I just needed you to show up for me. I needed you to stay. To choose me, even when it wasn’t easy. Especially then.”

“I know,” he says again, more desperate this time, stepping forward without thinking. “I thought I was doing the right thing, pulling back, then trying not to mess it up more. I was scared. Scared of what it meant to need someone like I needed you. I thought pushing you away would protect us, but all it did was destroy what we had.”

His eyes are glassy, voice trembling. “You were everything I ever wanted and I handled it like someone who didn’t deserve you.”

You take a breath and step past him, into the apartment.

It still smells like him.

Still feels like home, in the way a bruise still hums beneath your skin, aching when you press it, reminding you of everything that came before. You look around, and your voice is soft when you say, “I told myself I was done. That I deserved better. That I shouldn’t come back.”

His breath catches.

“And I still don’t know what’s right,” you admit. “But I know this, waiting didn’t make it hurt any less. Pretending not to love you didn’t help, and maybe I’ll regret this. Maybe we’ll fuck it all up again, but I would rather risk everything than spend one more night wondering what might’ve happened if I’d just given you that second chance.”

Max is crying openly now, but he’s smiling, too, this broken, beautiful kind of smile that only comes from relief so overwhelming it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“You still want this?” he asks hoarsely. “You still want me?”

You nod, stepping into his arms. “I want us. I want messy and real and worth it. But only if you choose me this time. Every time. No more halfway.”

He pulls you into him like he might never let go again, his whole body trembling. “I choose you,” he breathes against your temple. “Forever. I swear to God, I’m all in. I don’t want a life where you’re not mine.”

Without any warning you're crashing into him like waves that have waited too long, too long to break, too long to finally come home.

There’s no pause, no hesitation, no careful approach just your body folding into his, arms winding tight around his neck, his wrapped around your waist like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. You’re both trembling, not from cold but from the sheer weight of it all, weeks of silence, of pain, of love held back like a dam on the verge of breaking.

Your forehead presses against his as your fingers twist into the familiar fabric of his hoodie, breath caught in your throat, tears slipping hot and silent down your cheeks.

“I missed you,” you sob, the words cracking in your chest as they leave your mouth.

Max lets out a sound like something inside him is breaking open. “I missed you every fucking second,” he says, voice thick with desperation and relief, like he’s been holding that sentence inside his lungs and can finally exhale.

Then his lips are on yours, messy, raw, and a little too hard, but you don’t care because it’s not careful, not poised, not the kind of kiss you save for clean slates or picture-perfect moments.

It’s real. It’s everything.

All the love, all the grief, all the fear and the hope and the need you’ve both been swallowing since the second things first cracked, it's all there, spilling out between your mouths in gasps and saltwater tears.

He kisses you like he’s starving.

Like his heart has been aching for this one small miracle.

When he finally pulls away, your chests are heaving, noses still brushing, his hands coming up to cup your face, his thumbs swiping away your tears, his fingers trembling against your skin like he still can’t believe you’re here.

“I’ll do it right this time,” he whispers, voice breaking like glass in the quiet. “Whatever it takes. I’m yours, completely, stupidly, yours. As long as you’ll have me.”

You don’t answer with words.

You kiss him again instead, slower this time, deeper. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just full of everything you couldn’t say before. Then you rest your forehead against his, eyes closed, tears still drying on your cheeks as you both stand there in the silence, in the safety of each other’s arms.

It’s steady.

Sure.

Home.

Later, when the adrenaline has settled into something softer, when the tears have dried but the weight of everything still clings to your bones, you lie curled up beside him, limbs tangled beneath the duvet, the room dim and hushed, like the universe itself is catching its breath.

His arms are around you and your head rests on his chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The same heart that's trying truly, desperately to piece you back together again.

You tilt your face up toward him, your voice quiet but steady, raw from crying, scraped from truth.

“It meant a lot that you waited,” you whisper, your fingers drawing soft shapes along his ribs like you're still trying to memorise the feeling of being this close again.

Max looks down at you, and there’s something different in his eyes now, not panic, not fear. Just presence. Just him. A boy who’s made mistakes. A man who’s trying to do better. Someone who is choosing you, fully and without flinching.

He reaches up and brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, gentle.

“I hoped every day you’d walk through that door,” he says, voice low, eyes locked on yours like they’re the only truth he knows. “I swore I didn’t care if it was weeks, or years… or never… I would’ve still waited.”

You don’t speak. You just kiss him.

It’s hope.

It’s trust.

And for the first time in weeks, in months, in what feels like lifetimes, you both finally believe, truly believe, that this will last.

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[docrobinavitch]

chasing ghosts

dr. abbot x f!resident!reader masterlist content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, lots of angst, age gap, swearing, alcohol, mentions of child death/multiple casualties at the beginning during a shift words: 8.1K synopsis: you and jack share a kiss during your second year of residency and you spend the next two years trying to outrun those feelings. until the pitt's annual summer party. jack abbot is down absolutely fucking horrendously. like i meaaaaan unprecedented levels of yearning. a/n: hi, i think i blacked out while writing this. eyeeeee had so so much fun. i hope i did jack justice. let me know what you think!!!!

The annual summer party for the Pitt is an all day affair in order to make sure everyone, regardless of who’s working what shift that day, has a chance to stop in.

You wouldn’t think it, but the ER knew how to throw a good party. In the morning, it started with brunch at a place downtown with bottomless mimosas, top tier pancakes, and a drag performance. After brunch, they’d go hang out at the park by the river for a few hours before reconvening for dinner and bar hopping downtown.

Jack Abbot was off today, but still skipped all the morning and afternoon activities in favor of the evening. His sleep schedule was built that way now and even on his off days, it was rare for him to be out during the day. Besides, he was hoping he’d run into you there after your own shift.

You never came to these types of events, but that didn’t stop him from hoping every time. His eyes were always searching, hoping they’d stumble upon yours.

He hadn’t seen or spoken to you much in the last two years, since you switched to the day shift. When shift change occurred, you largely avoided him. He asked Robby about you and Robby always said the same thing, “She’s a great doctor, but she keeps to herself.”

It hadn’t been like that when you were on the night shift. You were shy, sure, but it hadn’t taken Jack very long to pry you out of your shell. 

He wondered sometimes if you regretted it, now. Letting him in.

Now, he was making the rounds at the first bar of the night, not so subtly looking for you.

“You’re pathetic,” Robby teased as he sipped his beer.

“Huh?” Jack said, finally bringing his eyes back to the man in front of him. 

Robby smirked knowingly, “She is here, you know.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” He said, “But her boyfriend is supposed to be meeting her here.”

His heart stuttered in his chest, “Boyfriend?”

Robby nodded, “I didn’t know she was seeing anyone until today. I overheard her mention it to Heather.”

Fuck. Not only were you seeing someone, you were bringing him here, to meet everyone in the Pitt. You must’ve been serious about him, then.

“Do you know where she is?”

Robby tilted his head as he looked at Jack, “You sure you wanna go down that road?”

“I just want to talk to her.” He said, and it was true. Mostly. 

The two of you hadn’t had a real conversation since the week before you had requested the shift change. That night on the roof. He felt it was long overdue for the two of you to sit down and talk about it like adults. Maybe Robby was right, maybe it was much too late for that. 

But Jack couldn’t accept that.

Robby sighed heavily, “I saw her go upstairs to the rooftop bar with Heather and Samira twenty minutes ago.”

“Thanks, brother.” Jack clapped him on the back as he headed up the stairs.

***

You liked the quiet of the night time. Being awake and working when everyone else was asleep brought with it a sort of peaceful solitude you couldn’t quite explain.

But Jack hadn’t needed you to explain, he had understood it intrinsically.

The night shift, of course, could become hectic and even nightmarish at times. But if you stepped outside for some air, either on the roof or the ambulance bay, the quiet of the night cocooned you in safety.

And that’s where you were that night two years ago, on the roof and leaning over the railing, trying to catch your breath.

There had been a six car pile up almost immediately rushed in after the day shift had trickled out. Ten patients. Four of them were in critical condition when they arrived, in that terrible purgatory between life and death. For five hours, you, Abbot, Shen, and Ellis had bounced between them. Still, you lost all four of them.

You had kept it together for the half hour after you had called the last patient, despite the fact that you had felt Jack’s eyes on you the whole time.

But he seemed able to keep it together, to not fall apart, so you would too. The knee jerk response to impress him, to make him proud of you had never quite dulled in your two years of residency. It felt a bit fucking pathetic, actually.

Worse, still, that he seemed to notice how badly you craved his validation and so gave it freely. 

“Hey,” He stepped close to you, his warm breath caressing your cheek, “Go take a break, I’ll come find you in fifteen.”

“I don’t need a break.” You said quickly.

“You do,” He said, undeterred, “You’ve been staring dead eyed at the board for the last two minutes. Shen tried to call you over for a code stroke thirty seconds ago and you didn’t blink.”

You turned to him finally, panic on your face, “Fuck, seriously?” 

You started to walk to go find Shen and the stroke patient, but Jack grabbed your arm, “Nope, uh-uh. Break first. Now.”

It was rare that Jack wasn’t joking with you, trying to make you smile. Now he looked deadly serious. Like he would physically remove you from the floor himself if you refused. You must’ve looked like shit.

“Okay.” You said finally, “Fine.”

He released your arm, but his eyes trained on your every step as you walked away, “I catch you on a patient in the next fifteen minutes and I’m sending you home.” He called after you.

You raised your hand over your head in a thumbs up to signal that you’d heard and kept walking.

And that was how you ended up on the roof. Bathed in the moonlight with the quiet midnight streets of Pittsburgh below, silent tears streamed down your cheeks as you greedily sucked the night air into your lungs.

You weren’t aware of time passing and your mind had gone blissfully blank until you heard him come up behind you.

“How come you, Ellis, or Shen didn’t need a break?” You asked, your voice wavering, “Is there something wrong with me?”

He leaned over the railing at your side and turned his head to look at you, but you avoided his eyes, knowing they’d be soft and warm and inviting. You did not need to see him looking at you like that right now. Just like you had been trying not to notice the way he watched you more than the others, touched you more than was necessary, handed out praise to you more generously.

“Not even a little bit.” He said softly, voice rough, “You were perfect down there. Nothing else you could have done.“

You breathed out a shaky breath, “Then why does it feel so bad?”

“Because you’re human,” He said softly, “And because you were the only one of us to call time of death on a seven year old tonight.”

You swallowed, tilting your head up towards the sky so you could see the moon. A moon that seven year old kid would never see again. “Does it ever hurt less?”

“Fuck, no.” He sighed, “But it makes you a better doctor, I think. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself to try to make it all mean something.”

Finally, you looked at him, and the sight of your red rimmed eyes wrecked him, “It does make you a better doctor,” You hiccuped and gave him a small smile, “The best, probably.”

He shook his head, smirking, and looked down at his hands, “Careful, kid. You keep talking like that, I might think you actually like me.”

Feeling brave, you nudged your shoulder against his, “I mean it. I feel really grateful that you’re my attending. I wouldn’t want to learn under anyone else.”

He pushed his shoulder back against yours and your hands brushed where they each grasped the railing, “I came up here to make you feel better and somehow you’re the one comforting me. How did you get so good at deflecting?”

You laughed through your tears and he relished the sound, “I learned from the best,” You said pointedly as you looked over at him.

“See,” He pointed at you, teasing, “That’s what I’m talking about. Much better. You’re way less unsettling when you’re mean.”

You smiled and he found himself staring at your mouth, enraptured by it, really. The truth was, he had noticed the ways in which he was better when he was around you. Both as a doctor and a teacher. You made him want to be better. He knew he had been giving you more attention than the others, bordering on an inappropriate amount. And he knew, before he came up to the roof, that he’d have a hard time being alone with you and not imagining what you taste like or what your soft skin would feel like under his calloused hands.

He thought you felt the same, but you could be hard to read sometimes. Sometimes, he swore you leaned into his touch, other times you jumped away from it as if he had burned you. Sometimes you went whole days seemingly trying to avoid him, others you followed him around like a puppy waiting for a pat on the head and for him to tell you what a good girl you are.

But now, fuck, now you were gazing at his mouth, too. And he tried, really fucking tried, to rein in the desire. He shouldn’t have kissed you. And he would think about it every day for days and weeks and months and years how badly he wished he could take it back. Not because he didn’t mean it or didn’t want it, but because it had started this downward spiral of silence and distance until you were so far away he hadn’t really seen you up close in two years. If he could go back, he would’ve told himself it wasn’t worth it. Because having only this much of you day in and day out while he yearned for more was better than having nothing at all, than you slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. 

But he didn’t know then what he knew now. 

Cautiously, he moved his face towards yours, waiting for you to pull back. But inch by inch he moved, and you stayed put. And when he was close enough to share breath with you, he met your eyes and was greeted with pupils that had completely devoured your irises. No color in sight, just an endless abyss of desire and want. Your breath faltered when his lips just barely brushed yours, and he stilled for a moment before his self restraint crumbled.

The kiss was hesitant and gentle, at first. Jack kept his hands to himself, slowly kissed you in a way that repeatedly seemed to ask Is this okay? Is this alright? Are you okay? Are you sure?

It was you who deepened the kiss first, tongue darting out to swipe gently at his lower lip.

And the cord between you, that was already so tenuous and frayed, snapped.

His hands shook as he touched you, moving from your waist, to your neck, to your face. It was like his body knew first what his brain didn’t, that he was taking too much and not enough, that hours and days and months and years of touching you would never satiate him anyway and he should just fucking quit while he was ahead. His traitorous mouth that moaned into yours was a bottomless, greedy pit and it could never have you, not really, not even as it sucked desperately at your neck in a useless attempt to mark you as his.

The marks would fade and you would fade from him along with them. 

He thinks now he probably knew as soon as you pulled away, at the panic in your eyes, that he had lost you before he had even really had the chance to have you. 

But he would deny it to himself, even as you ran off the roof ignoring the way your name came out strangled from his throat. 

He would deny it when you didn’t look at him the rest of the night, when you pretended not to hear when he tried to talk to you after the shift change that morning.

He would deny it when you handed him your shift change request form after a week of avoiding him, asking for his signature as you looked anywhere but at him.

He would deny it when his broken voice asked “Is this really what you want?” and you only silently nodded.

Jack Abbot knew he had lost you, he wasn’t delusional, but he could convince himself it was only temporary. He was patient. So fucking patient. He’d find you again, when you were ready.

***

Jack could admit that you having a boyfriend had not been part of his plan. Not that he had a plan, more so an overwhelming sense that if he waited long enough, you’d fall back into him.

But you had still been fleeing the ER at shift change without acknowledging him. He was patient, but it aggravated him to no end, the way you seemed so unaffected. Sometimes it made him feel like maybe he had made it all up in his head and that you had never wanted him at all. But then the film would play on loop again in his head and he knew he didn’t imagine your blown out pupils or the way you deepened the kiss first or the way you moaned when his mouth plucked bruises from your neck like ripened strawberries.

You had wanted him just as badly, he was sure of that. He just couldn’t understand why you were still acting like he didn’t exist.

When he got to the rooftop and looked around, he found you first at a table in the corner, eyes glued to your phone. Another quick glance around and he saw Heather and Samira talking at the bar.

Perfect. You were alone.

When he crossed the roof and sat in the empty seat next to you and you didn’t immediately look up, he realized you had marked his presence on the rooftop as soon as he got here.

The man was like a fucking sonar to your brain. You knew when he was in the same room as you before your eyes could track him. Tonight was no different.

“You look like you could use a drink.” Jack said.

Oh, you hadn’t realized how much you had missed the pleasant roughness of his voice, how it soothed you effortlessly. It practically sent chills down your spine.

You swallowed, continuing to stare at your phone. The second you met those warm hazel eyes, it would be over for you, you knew. It was the reason you had avoided him so diligently the last two years.

“Heather and Samira are getting me one.”

He wordlessly held his own drink out to you. When you stared blankly at it for a few moments, he shook it lightly, ice rattling against the glass, “It’s just a tequila soda. It’s not poison.”

Against your better judgment, and perhaps to indulge that stupid fucking instinct in your head that demanded you not disappoint him, you took it from him. You did your best not to pay attention to the sensation that shot across your skin when your fingers brushed, but the traitorous goosebumps spread across your arms anyway.

You took a sip and handed it back to him, still looking at your phone.

“Why aren’t you with them at the bar?”

“I had to take a call.”

“From your boyfriend?” Finally, fucking finally, you looked at him. It was disdain all over your face, but fuck it, he’d take it. He smirked and held his hands up in surrender, “I didn’t ask, Robby told me. Said he was meeting you here.”

Quickly, you looked back at your phone and he saw your throat bob, “He called to say he couldn’t make it, so.”

Jack watched you carefully, the way you frowned and your mouth turned down just slightly. You were upset, and not just at him. 

“I’m sorry,” He said softly, but you scoffed at his apology and shook your head. And that pissed him off, “Look, you may fuckin’ hate me, but I still care about you and I mean it. I’m sorry if he stood you up. I don’t like seeing you sad.”

You rubbed at your forehead in agitation, “I don’t hate you. I’ve never fucking hated you. That’s the problem.”

Well, that was news to him. But he decided not to comment on it. He didn’t want to piss you off anymore than he already had, which seemed to be an awful lot considering he had just got here.

“How long have you been together?” You shot him that annoyed look again, “Christ, I’m just making conversation.”

“Right,” You said sarcastically and shook your head, but you answered all the same, “Two and a half years.” You said quietly. It hadn’t quite caught up to you yet, what you were admitting when telling him that. It took a couple of moments for your brain to catch up, but by then it was too late.

But Jack’s brain was already there, making the mental calculations you had long forgotten about.

Two and a half—? No, that—That couldn’t be right. Because that would mean—

Your face and ears had reddened and you wouldn’t look at him.

Jack’s ears were ringing. He started to say your name—

“Dr. Abbot,” Heather and Samira were back, the latter handing you a drink, “Catching up with your old resident?”

He forced a smile and stood, acted like his world wasn’t fucking falling apart around him, like you hadn’t just dropped a fucking bomb on him in casual conversation.

He was impressed with his ability to hold damn near cheerful conversation with Heather and Samira until he was able to excuse himself.

And this time, it was you who called after him when he left the roof.

“Jack,” Your voice was a soft plea behind him. It was a language he used to be fluent in, but clearly, he didn’t fucking know you anymore. He was starting to think he never had, “Jack, wait—“

He rounded on you in the stairwell, you still a couple of steps above him so the two of you were eye level, “Why didn’t you fucking tell me?”

You seemed to be caught off guard that he had actually stopped, and just blinked at him for a moment, “What difference would it have made?”

“What difference—?” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, “All this time I’ve been driving myself out of my goddamn mind trying to figure out what I did wrong when it turns out I was your fucking, what, side piece? Affair?”

“Affair?” You hissed incredulously, “We kissed once!”

He squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head, “Does he know?” 

“What?”

He was quickly becoming frustrated with your inability to keep up with the urgency this situation demanded. To him, at least, the whole world had shifted around him. And you were behaving as if he was the one acting crazy.

“Your boyfriend, does he know? About us?”

“Jack,” You said breathlessly, “There is no us. There was never an us.”

Jack shook his head, “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” You asked, exasperated.

“I’ve been pining after you for two fucking years and you’ve compartmentalized so goddamn well that you’ve convinced yourself it was nothing. That it meant nothing.”

For a second, he thought he saw a flicker of the version of you he used to know. Your face faltered for just a second, but then the walls were immediately back up, “I don’t owe you anything.” You said coldly, “It’s not my fault you’ve spent the last two years chasing a ghost.”

You stared each other down for a few more moments, the rage pulsating between you, before Jack broke your stare by tossing back the rest of his drink, “You’re right,” He said finally, and turned away from you to head down the stairs, “I’m sorry I disrupted your evening. Won’t happen again.”

You sighed, “Jack—“

“It’s Dr. Abbot,” He said coldly, turning back to face you again, “If you don’t mind.”

Your face fell marginally and he almost took it back when he thought he saw your lower lip wobble, but he couldn’t be sorry. If you wanted to pretend like there was nothing between the two of you, then he would do the same.

He turned again and jogged down the rest of the stairs. He needed another drink. Or seven.

***

Your hands were shaking. You stood in the stairwell staring stupidly after Jack for longer than was acceptable. You couldn’t go back upstairs to Heather and Samira like this, they’d know something was up. And you certainly couldn’t follow after Jack.

You should just go home. It was a stupid fucking idea to come here in the first place, you knew it was. And still you had come, why?

Because some part of you wanted to see him? No matter how much you denied it? Never mind the fact you had basically only invited your boyfriend because you knew his presence would keep you accountable if you were forced to be alone with Jack?

You hadn’t wanted him here, not really. Not for reasons that made sense. If you were honest with yourself, which you hadn’t been in a long, long time, your relationship had been over for at least six months.

Seeing Jack again, hearing his voice again made that very clear to you. And a part of you hated Jack for it. You had been able to convince yourself for two years that your current relationship was as good as it would get. Your mistake with Jack on the roof was just that, a mistake. Nothing more.

You had thought after all this time Jack must’ve felt the same. He fucked up and kissed his hot, younger resident, just once. He hadn’t meant to and he would be glad it was all over. You had been doing him a favor, you thought.

But when you had allowed yourself to look at him, really look at him tonight, that hadn’t been what you’d seen. In fact, he was angry with you. He had looked at you with such hurt and betrayal as if all this time he had been in love with you.

It didn’t make any fucking sense. You sat in the stairwell and pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. None of it made any fucking sense.

You should go home.

***

Robby eyed Jack with silent suspicion when he joined him back at the bar and ordered two tequila sodas. He knocked the first one back in one go and then rested his head in his hands on the bar top.

“So it went well, I take it?” Robby asked mildly.

Jack glared at Robby and then looked back at his drink, “She has a boyfriend.”

Robby nodded, “Right. I’m glad we’re on the same page about that, now.”

Jack shook his head and felt the tequila make its way through him, “No, you see, she’s had a boyfriend. Since before she moved to the day shift. The same one.”

Robby was silent for a moment, then, “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Jack knocked back his second tequila soda and ordered another.

“Alright, I can see you’re upset, but all the tequila sodas in the world aren’t going to make you feel better.”

“No,” Jack agreed, “But maybe it’ll stop me from thinking about her for just a while.”

Just then, as Robby was trying to subtly get the bartender to cut off Jack, Robby’s phone buzzed with a text from Heather.

What did Abbot say to Y/N? Found her crying in the stairwell. She won’t stop.

He sighed heavily and turned back to Jack, “You made her cry?”

“What?” Jack looked at him incredulously, “No.”

“Heather says she’s sobbing in the stairwell.”

Oh, he hated the way that sent an ache through him. There was a time when he would’ve taken off running to get to you if he had heard that. Maybe even just earlier today. Not now, though.

“Believe me, her eyes were fucking bone dry when I left her.”

Robby’s phone buzzed again.

Never mind. Finally got her to say something coherent. Broke up with her boyfriend over the phone. Nothing to do with Abbot.

Christ. Nothing to do with Abbot. Right, Robby thought and rubbed a hand down his face, somehow he doubted that very much.

Robby looked back at his friend, debating if he should deliver this news to Jack or not. But Jack was very drunk now and he’d probably just tear after you like a man on a mission. Neither of you needed that right now, Robby thought. He’d tell Jack in the morning.

***

Heather and Samira sat on either side of you as you tried and failed to explain everything to them. You were very bad at this. Having work friends. Shen and Ellis had tolerated you, always including you, buying you coffee, but you knew really you were mostly third wheeling. And you hadn’t minded it. You had always tried to draw a firm line between your work and personal life, which is probably why the situation with Jack fucked you up so badly.

Heather started again, “So you and Abbot—“ 

“Yes.”

“And that’s why you switched to the day shift.”

“Yes.”

“And Jack also wanted you moved to the day shift?”

This is where things got murky for you. Tiredly, you rubbed your eyes, “I don’t know what Jack wanted because I never asked.”

“He didn’t know about your boyfriend then, either?”

You shook your head slowly, “I thought the fact that I was his resident was excuse enough. I left because I didn’t trust myself around him and I thought it’d be easier on us both.”

“And today was the first time you’d really spoken in two years?”

“Yes.”

“And this one conversation spurred you to break up with your long term boyfriend on a whim?”

You looked at Heather and smirked, “So you’re getting it now? Why I should be institutionalized?”

Heather and Samira both laughed, but Heather shook her head, “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re finally being honest with yourself about your feelings. Which is really fucking brave.”

“I say we go to the next bar and get very drunk.” Samira said, standing.

“Oh, I— No,” You shook your head, panicking, “What if he’s there?”

“Oh, I hope he is.” Heather laughed and the two of them linked arms with you.

***

Robby walked silently next to Jack as they made their way to the next bar, his hands stuffed in his pockets, “Brother, I really think maybe you should just sleep this one off.”

Jack turned to Robby, “It’s only 10 PM which is roughly 10 AM by my standards. So there will be no sleeping from me for a while. But you, by all means, can go home.”

Robby inhaled slowly through his nose. He was fucking exhausted, but he didn’t trust Jack in this state. And he had seen you go off with Heather and Samira not too long ago, headed in the same direction they were walking in right now.

So he kept walking, eyeing Jack every so often until they got to the bar.

He should have just gone home, probably.

Because once they got to the bar, all hell broke loose.

***

The room was spinning. The text had come in just moments after back to back lemon drop shots and your vision was blurred. You were unsure if it was from tears or the alcohol.

“Hey, what happened?” Samira was shouting in your ear over the din of the bar.

You passed the phone to her wordlessly as you ordered another shot. You needed to be belligerent if you were going to survive this.

Samira’s jaw dropped as she watched the video. She scrubbed back and forth a few times before she handed the phone back to you.

“This is the boyfriend who couldn’t meet you here because of ‘work’?”

You nodded.

“Well, you made the right call then, breaking up with him.”

You laughed humorlessly, and then you were sobbing, “I don’t know… why I care…” You hiccuped, “I don’t think I’ve loved him for a long time.”

Samira sighed, rubbing a hand down your back, “It sounds like you tried really hard to salvage the relationship. Probably feels like a waste of almost three years of your life now,” This renewed your sobs and Samira looked at you with alarm, “I’m not saying I think you wasted three years, I just mean, it probably felt that way— I’m gonna go find Heather, she’s much better at this sort of thing.”

Alone, you ordered a drink and wiped at your cheeks. You knew Jack was next to you before you smelt his cologne and sighed heavily.

“Don’t worry,” He said softly, “I’m just getting a drink and then I’ll go as far away from you as possible.”

You only nodded. The man you had chosen to fight for had stood you up to go to a bar across town and make out with the coworker he swore for months you had nothing to worry about while your best friend unknowingly filmed him from across the room.

The man you were beginning to suspect had been in love with you for close to four years now, you had spent the last two years running away from and now he hated you.

It felt like a big cosmic joke.

You rested your head on your arms and willed him away so you wouldn’t have to confront the long string of bad decisions you’d made that had led you here.

But Jack just couldn’t resist when you looked so miserable, “Are you alright, kid? Hate seeing you like this.”

You pushed your head up and met his eyes. Despite your earlier argument, he was looking at you with tenderness and concern. He meant it, that he cared, you could see it all over him. It made you want to burst into tears again. And maybe that’s why you decided to poke the bear, see how far you could push, what would make him really, truly loathe you? It was what you deserved after all, right?

You turned your head away from him and unlocked your phone, tapping to the video your friend had sent, hitting play and sliding it over the bar top to Jack, “You’ll be happy to know this is what my boyfriend was too busy doing to meet me tonight. Some sort of fucked up karma, I suppose.”

Jack’s face betrayed nothing as he watched the video, but you thought maybe a muscle in his jaw ticked. He slid the phone back to you, “Whatever you think of me, I’m not enjoying this.”

You scoffed and shook your head, looking down at the bar top.

“I’m serious. I would never—“ You hear him sigh in frustration, “Just because I’m hurting doesn’t mean I wish you were hurting, too. If anything, if you were happy, maybe it’d all make more sense to me.”

He tapped his finger on top of your phone case, “That guy’s a fucking idiot. You deserve way better than that.” You chewed on the inside of your cheek, carefully avoiding looking at him, “Hey,” He said and crooked a finger under your chin, gently pulling until you met his gaze, “You deserve better, okay?”

You were conscious of the fact that you wanted to kiss him. And you knew he saw the way your eyes drifted dangerously to his mouth. 

“I did the same thing to him.” You said quietly, still staring at his mouth, “Only seems fair.”

Jack released your chin and shook his head, “Don’t compare what we did to… To that.”

He sounded disgusted and it made you want to laugh, “How is it any different?”

“That is just drunken lust.” He leaned towards you on his forearms, “What we did meant something. Maybe not to you, but it did to me.”

“And that makes it better?”

“Did it mean something to you?” He shot back.

His face was very close to yours now, you could smell the tequila on his breath. 

“Tell me,” He said slowly, “Tell me it didn’t mean anything to you and I swear to God, I’ll walk away and you’ll never hear from me again.”

You swallowed, blinking rapidly to clear the watering of your eyes. Of course you couldn’t tell him it meant nothing. You had thought about it nearly every day for two years. 

But you were drunk and a fucking wreck and you didn’t know anything anymore except that you still remembered exactly what Jack Abbot tasted like and that he was looking at you right now like he would get on his knees for you in this crowded bar if you asked.

“I should go.” You whispered softly, broken, and slid from your bar stool.

He let you pass, but then called after you, loudly enough that people around you quieted, “What the fuck are you so scared of?”

You turned back, knowing that your face was flushed from the attention of others, “Goodnight, Dr. Abbot.”

***

“Hey, let her go,” Robby stood in front of Jack who was now trying to exit the bar and follow after you, “You’re drunk.”

“I’m fine,” Jack insisted, and when he looked around Robby, he saw it had started to downpour outside, “She’s drunk and it’s storming out there.”

“Heather will check in with her and make sure she gets home okay.”

Jack looked from the door to Robby a few times before sighing and running a hand through his hair, “Sorry, I just… She really gets under my fucking skin.”

Robby nodded and tried to stifle a yawn, “I noticed.”

Jack sighed, “Go home, Robby, seriously. I’m not gonna do anything stupid. I promise.” He shook his head, “I should probably just go home, too.”

Robby offered a sad smile and clapped him on the shoulder, “It’ll all make more sense in the morning, brother.”

Jack snorted, “Historically, that has never been true for me.”

***

It felt pretty melodramatic to be standing in the park overlooking the river as it poured. It was all very Jane Austen of you, you decided. Except Mr. Darcy would not be showing up to declare his love for you, Mr. Darcy was likely dry and headed home in his UberX.

You didn’t know where home was anymore. Luckily, you hadn’t moved in with your boyfriend yet. It was one of the many things that should have been a red flag, the fact that you hadn’t had a desire to cohabitate with him. You liked when he left in the morning and you liked the nights where he got home too late and went to his own apartment so as not to disturb your rest.

But still, there were traces of him all through your apartment. You didn’t want to be there.

You’re not sure how long you sit in the warm rain before your phone buzzed. You expected Heather or Samira, but were shocked to see Jack’s name on the banner, alerting you to a text.

Jack hadn’t texted you in something like two years.

I know I shouldn’t be texting you, it read, But I just want to be sure you got home safe. Please  text when you’re home.

After staring at your phone for a few minutes, now soaked with the rain, you attempted to dry the screen with the sleeve of your jacket. It worked only slightly, but allowed you to hold down the text and “like” it.

After about thirty seconds, the speech bubble appeared on your phone to indicate he was typing.

Well don’t just fucking like the message. Are you home?

You could lie, you supposed. Probably, you could walk into PTMC and sleep in an empty room upstairs.

But you were growing tired of all the pretending.

no. You replied finally.

His reply was immediate, Where are you? 

in the park.

It’s raining.

excellent observation, dr. abbot.

You stared at the screen as his speech bubble appeared and disappeared, over and over, for a couple minutes.

Send me your location. Then, almost as an afterthought, Please.

This was a bad idea, probably. After the events of today, you should not be sending Jack Abbot your location. You should not be speaking to Jack Abbot at all. After today, you should probably resign from your residency and maybe join a convent.

You watched as seemingly of their own volition, your hands tapped all the right buttons to send Jack a pin.

A few moments later, he texted a screenshot of an Uber being sent to your location with the car information and license plate.

i don’t want to go home. You sent him in a rush.

Yeah, I got that, he replied, The Uber is bringing you to me.

You blew a long breath out between your lips, you sure that’s a good idea?

Nope. Uber’s pulling up now.

Sure enough, headlights lit up the raindrops behind you. You turned to see the car, quickly giving the license plate a cursory once over to make sure it matched what Jack sent. 

You could send the car off. Say it was a mistake. Not get in. Showing up at Jack’s apartment soaked to the skin in the middle of the night, still drunk and emotionally unstable felt like boarding a train you knew would derail. 

You still got in the car, though. You didn’t have anywhere else to go.

***

When Jack opened the door to his apartment, the frigid air from his AC assaulted you and you shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He stepped aside to allow you in and you kicked off your water logged shoes.

You had been here only once before, the first week of your residency. Jack would host a team dinner (early, so you could all still make your shift in time) whenever a new resident was added to the night shift. 

You had been really nervous you recalled, until Jack had cracked a joke that made you choke on your soda.

It had been almost four years, but his apartment hadn’t changed much at all. It was neat and tidy, nothing out of place. The furniture was well taken care of, but everything was in varying shades of gray and blue. The only hints of personality being some pictures on his fridge, vinyls by a stereo, and some books on a shelf.

But one photo on his fridge caught your eye and before you knew what you were doing, you were walking to it.

Early in your second year of residency, you had presented your research on cardiogenic pulmonary edema outcomes in the ER at a conference in New York. Jack had shown up without telling you he was coming. He stayed near your poster all day while you presented to interested passersby, giving you a thumbs up or “solid work” when you needed it, smuggling you snacks, making sure you drank water. And at the end of it you remembered he took you out to dinner and told you how proud he was of you and what a great emergency medicine doctor you would be.

You had taken a picture with him in front of your poster and this was the photo on his fridge. You had a huge smile on your face and Jack had an arm wrapped around your shoulders.

“I didn’t know you had this.” You said softly.

He didn’t say anything so you turned to look at him, but his eyes were trained on the photo, “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes,” He said finally, walking by you to his bedroom.

You watched in his doorway as he pulled a pair of clean sweatpants and a t shirt from his closet and placed them at the edge of his bed, “The shower’s in that room,” He pointed to a door off the bedroom, “There’s clean towels under the sink, use whatever soap you like.”

He started to walk past you, but you grabbed his arm, and he stopped, eyes snagging on the hand that was touching him, “Thank you.” You said softly.

His eyes slowly roved upwards until they met yours. He searched your face, though you weren’t sure what he was looking for, then pressed a kiss to your forehead before he left the room.

***

After you were showered and changed, you wandered out to the living room where Jack sat on the couch, an arm draped over his forehead. He had taken his prosthetic off and it was propped up next to the coffee table.

When he heard you pad into the room, he cracked his eyes open, “Feeling better?” You nodded. “Good. Take the bed, I’ll sleep out here.”

But you still stood there, staring at him, arms wrapped around yourself, “Do you love me?” You asked, voice small.

He stared at you for a moment and sat up, running a hand over his face, “Have I not made it painfully obvious?”

“For how long?”

He shook his head and smiled at you incredulously, “You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what?”

“You’ve been in control of this,” He gestured between the two of you, “From the second I fucking met you and now you’re trying to what, decode the situation? See what outcome is most advantageous? I mean, Jesus Christ, what do you want?”

“What do I want?”

“Yes,” He said, “Not what seems correct, not what seems rational, what is it that you want?”

“I—“ You shook your head, “I don’t– I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He said firmly, “Do you want your cheating boyfriend?”

You frowned, “No.”

“Did you ever want him?”

You huffed in frustration, “What do you mean?”

“I mean when you chose him over me, was that what you wanted?”

“That’s not a fair characterization of what happened—“

“Was it what you wanted?”

You faltered, “It was what was safest.” You said softly.

He smiled at you sadly, “He couldn’t hurt you if you didn’t love him, right?”

You stared up at the ceiling, willing the tears back into your eyes, “I didn’t think it meant that much to you.”

“You never gave me the chance to tell you.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, “I’ll ask you again, what do you want?”

You looked at him, eyes watering, and you swallowed hard before you moved to him. He watched you as you placed a knee on either side of his legs, straddling his lap. His eyes followed your every movement reverently, your face just above his as you rested your forehead against his. His hands knotted themselves in your hair, “I’m scared,” You breathed shakily into his mouth.

“Of what?” He asked, his mouth near centimeters from yours.

“Of you. Of wanting you too much. Of losing you. Of everything.”

“I can’t promise you that this will work,” He said softly, “But I can promise I’ll fight like hell to make it work.”

You swallowed, “Because you love me?”

Finally, he laughed, “Yes, I fucking love you. Now be quiet.” He said before he kissed you.

He tasted exactly like you remembered, except tonight, there were remnants of tequila on his tongue. It was like he was trying to make up for lost time, the way he kissed you on that couch. He pushed his tongue into your mouth almost immediately, like he was searching for something he’d lost. Already, you were out of breath, hips grinding down on him without realizing. He sucked your lower lip into his mouth and bit down gently, groaning when you rubbed yourself on his growing erection.

“Slow down,” He chastised.

“You started it.” You reminded him.

“Fuck,” He moaned and then pushed you off him so he could crawl over you, “You’re sure?” He asked as you looked up at him, hair fanning around your head on the couch cushion like a halo.

You nodded, “I want you.”

He smirked and lowered his head to yours again, pulling kisses from you as one hand worked its way under your t-shirt. Your skin was smooth and soft there and he inched up slowly, until his fingers just brushed the underside of your breast. Touching you like this, he thought a lot about that night on the roof, the way he had kissed you like he knew he was already out of time.

Now… Now the world seemed to open up. He could take as much time as he wanted. You weren’t going anywhere, not this time. You were his and he wouldn’t let you go so easily again.

Gently, he tugged the t-shirt over your head so he could look at you and he was unable to suppress the sigh that tumbled from his lips. He squeezed your breast with one hand, thumbed your nipple and watched it pebble as you sighed. Still watching you, he pinched your nipple lightly between his thumb and forefinger and your eyes rolled back into your head as you writhed beneath him.

He kissed you, fingers still teasingly rolling your nipple between his fingers, and then he began to kiss down your jaw and neck until he was able to suck your nipple into his mouth. The moan that fell from your lips when he swirled his tongue around you went straight to his cock. 

He was overly conscious of the fact that because he had imagined this very moment for two years minimum, likely longer, because he had imagined it hundreds of times while getting himself off, it was likely he would last all of thirty seconds once he was inside you, once he felt the real thing. So he would make this last for you.

Jack shimmied the sweatpants off of you and forgot that because you were here and you had just showered, you weren’t wearing panties. And suddenly, he felt feral. 

“Jesus Christ,” He shook his head looking at you, it felt like maybe he was dreaming a little, having you naked beneath him. He felt almost delirious with it.

You looked up at him, those pupils once again whole saucers, “Touch me, please?” You whined.

He kissed you again, licking into your mouth as he reached a hand down between your thighs. You gasped as he fully sunk a finger into you. When he moved his mouth back down to suck on your other nipple, your back arched and it sent him into another dimension, being able to make you feel like this.

With two of his fingers pumping you slowly and a thumb on your clit, he felt the moment when you climaxed before you cried out, “That’s it, sweetheart,” He said softly, “Look so pretty when you come for me like that.”

As you caught your breath, you watched as he pulled his fingers out of you and then sucked your juices from his digits. “Taste so good, too.”

Your eyes stayed locked on one another as he reached for a wooden bowl on the coffee table. He took the top off, pulled out an aluminum packet, and closed it again. And suddenly you were giggling, “What?” He asked, ripping the package open.

“D’you fuck mad bitches on this couch or something, Jack?”

He rolled his eyes, but smirked, “Shut up.”

When he slid into you, forehead pressed to yours, you gasped at the sensation. You had thought about this countless times before, Jack Abbot above you, like this. What you had never really thought about was that maybe while he did it, he’d be looking at you like he was in love with you. And it nearly shattered you.

“I love you,” You murmured into his mouth as you felt him beginning to come undone, “I love you so much.”

He moaned your name as he finished and collapsed against you, damp and breathless, “You love me, huh?” He said after a moment.

You lightly scratched the back of his head, “I’ve loved you for years,” You said softly, “Just spent a lot of that time denying it.”

He pulled his head back and kissed you messily, your chin grasped firmly in his hand. 

“Better late than never.”

[bunnis-monsters]

🕸️Legend of the Drider🕸️

Bunni’s Monstertober Event(Oct1)

Male!Drider x Fem!Reader

Oct2

warnings: light web bondage, breeding, oviposition, possessive behavior, reader is a bit insecure about her body, body worship and praise

summary: You go on a trip, hoping to build your confidence before you go back to college. When you get trapped on a mountain during a storm, you realize a legend about spider people may be real when you encounter a horny one for yourself.

A/N: I don’t know much about college so don’t kill me if things are inaccurate 💗 also don’t expect all of the halloween posts to be this long, some will be short and some on the longer side >< also guess the inspo for this story in the comments…

my ko-fi if you’re feeling generous~

If you had known how your trip up a nearby mountain would end with you in the clutches of the spider creature you’d only heard of in legends, you would have stayed home that October day.

But you were bored, wanting to find some fun stuff to film and meet a cute stranger while you were at it. That’s why you packed your bag and left for the nearby tourist attractions.

First you walked through a big pumpkin patch, taking pictures with a 50 pound pumpkin. It wasn’t as impressive as some you had seen online, and you knew that wearing a burnt orange sweater while posing next to it would only bring on ridicule.

You weren’t thin, and if someone from your college saw that picture, you were sure they’d compare you to the pumpkin, saying it was your twin.

Well… you had never even really talked to a single in any of your classes. You weren’t the type that liked to socialize. Too many times had you been burned, finding out they were being your friends for a prank or had been talking about your body behind closed doors.

Part of you knew it wasn’t right to judge others before even meeting them. After all, it happened to you more times than you could count… but you were still too shy and insecure to take that first step into making new friends.

That’s why you took a bit of time off of college to try and build up your confidence. It was important to you, learning how to love yourself so you could truly love others.

Ever since you went through puberty you had been aching for someone to love you, to adore you with their entire being…

How would you even be able to believe them if you didn’t love yourself first?

So you laughed at the picture of you next to a pumpkin and placed it into your scrap book before packing it away in your backpack.

You repeated this at several tourist attractions, even finding the courage to speak to a few attractive men and women. It wasn’t as scary as you thought, they didn’t look at you with disgust or say anything mean. They simply spoke with you before giving a smile and going about their day.

‘Maybe there really isn’t anything to be afraid of after all?’

The last stop on your list was the Arachne Mountains, named after a certain legend surrounding the area.

“Huh… spider people have been sighted several times over the year, and there’s a reward for anyone that can catch them on camera…”

You squinted at the pamphlet in your hands, trying to read the small print at the bottom. “What does that say? It’s so small…”

With a shrug, you stuffed the pamphlet into your bag, pulling out the bug spray instead and spraying every bit of bare skin. Mosquitos just loved you, and you didn’t want to be itching the whole bus ride home.

As you walked up the mountain trail, you took many pictures, but mostly of the gorgeous scenery.

A vast forestry landscape spread out beneath you, and the mountain path winded through the forest. As you continued walking, the path worn down by several years of hikers began to become more overgrown and less accessible.

“Huh… doesn’t seem like anyone’s been this far up in a while…”

When you thought about it, the stand with all the pamphlets was abandoned and dusty, the window broken. You just assumed they didn’t have the budget to fix it… but now you were second guessing yourself.

And that’s when a storm hit. Earlier that day you had heard something about a thunderstorm on the radio, but it was supposed to be that night, not now!

“Shit!”

You ran through the rain, slipping on mud and losing your way. The rain was so thick you could barely see in front of you. Tree branches scraped against your sides and caught on your clothes, ripping your sweater and scraping you up.

By the time you were finally able to take shelter in a nearby cave, you were absolutely drenched and covered in scratches and scrapes.

You slid down to the ground, panting and taking off your sweater, now heavy with water. It plopped against the ground, and you reached into your backpack.

“Fuck…”

Your phone had no signal, and you wouldn’t be able to go down the mountain to call anyone until the storm died down.

You yelped, jumping up from your seat and backing away from the entrance to the cave when lightning struck close by.

This sent you further into the cave, nearly tripping on the uneven, rocky ground.

Most would expect a cave out in the middle of nowhere to be cold and damp, and smell of moss and dust. Surprisingly, the further you traveled inside, the more… “cozy” it seemed.

It smelled almost like cinnamon and felt pleasantly warm. This made your shivering die down, your soaked clothes forgotten at the entrance of the cave.

Little did you know, you were slowly being lured in deeper by the inviting warmth and pleasant smell…

The first sign that something was wrong was a skittering that could be heard further into the cave. The hair on your neck stood up, but you tried your best to reason with yourself.

‘It’s probably just some rat or bug…’

But as your phone battery went out and darkness enveloped you without your only source of light, the noise got louder as whatever was making it approached.

You yelped when something brushed against you, and tried to scream, but your mouth was covered and something sunk into your neck…

Darkness.

——————

When you awoke, you felt something warm yet sticky enveloping you, keeping you from freezing while trapping you in place.

You were barely awake when you heard a purr like sound coming from the dark corner of the cave. A man’s face was barely visible within the shadows.

He was handsome, his eyes a dark red and hair a soft blonde, almost platinum color. It seemed he had been the one to trap you there.

“Hello, my dear. You’re finally awake…”

As soon as you were fully conscious, you began to struggle against your bonds, finally looking down to see what was keeping you from breaking free.

“Are those… webs..?”

You felt almost faint, staring down at the whitish, substance wrapped around you. It looked like thick, velvety ropes, but they were so sticky that you knew that they couldn’t be.

“Indeed.”

The man began to move forward, the same skittering sound appearing once more. You looked on in horror as his lower half was revealed.

Below his torso was not a set of legs like a normal, no, it was the abdomen of a spider.

‘The legend… is true?’

You had been captured by one of the spider people of myth…

“You must be scared… you’re just a human girl after all, and I’ve taken you away.”

He reached out, caressing your soft cheek with his hand. “But do not fear, I’m not planning on eating you, little one.”

His hand traveled down your face to your shoulder, his fingers playing with one of your bra straps.

“Far from it…”

Your cheeks heated up as he easily cut through your bra, his eyes on your now bare breasts.

“I’m in need of a mate to carry my eggs… and you’re the only woman that’s traveled to this mountain in ages…”

He breathed against your neck, licking the bite mark he left there earlier. “God, I could hardly hold myself back the moment I saw you. Such a plump, perfect woman, you’ll carry my eggs well…”

You whines as his lower half creates more webs, keeping you suspended in air, but freeing your soft cunt.

Quickly, he tore off your panties as well, growling lowly at the sight of your pretty, fat pussy. “Oh, my little mate, already this wet? Perhaps this was fate, for me to be sent this angel from above…”

He plunged a finger into you, pressing against your gummy walls and stretching you out as one of his spider legs nudged against your sensitive clit, just enough to stimulate you and get you to cum all over his fingers.

“There we go… such a good girl…” he purred into your ear, beginning to stroke his monstrous cock. He drew out several orgasms from you, prepping your virgin hole for him.

Within seconds, you were lowered down, your hips hovering over his as he nudged the head of his cock against you.

“Gods, you’re so soft…”

He kneaded your fat belly and thighs, purring in delight. “You’ll make such a good mother… you’ve got child bearing hips, like you were just meant to carry my eggs…”

Soft nips and nibbles were left on your neck and breasts.

“Every ten years, us driders go out to find a mate that’s suitable for us. I am the last of our kind, so there are no females left for me…”

He smiled, beginning to push in.

“But you… are not just going to be the woman that carries my eggs. You’ll be my mate, and I’ll cherish you.”

It was uncomfortable and painful, the way his cock stretched you out. You gritted your teeth and he cooed, but wouldn’t allow you to close your legs, two of his spider legs kept your thighs apart so he could sink deeper into your fat cunt.

“Shh, shh… it’ll feel good soon, my love…”

And he was right, his cock stretched you in such a delicious way, hitting all the right spots and making you cry out in pleasure.

He mounted you, fucking into your needy cunt as he groaned into your ear. “Gonna take my eggs, okay? My sweet girl, you’ll be such a good mommy won’t you?”

Suddenly you felt something push into you. Was that…

He was cumming, eggs filling up your pussy and settling into your womb. Soon your belly would swell as the eggs grew and developed, but for now, you were tired…

He kissed along your shoulders and neck, nuzzling into. Slowly, he lowered you down from the webs, curling up with you in a dark corner of the cave.

“You’ll be pampered, well taken care of… never again will you worry about a single thing…”

As you began to drift off to sleep, you realized that this creature truly thought you were beautiful… it made you happy.

So you snuggled into him, too full of cum and eggs to really even try escaping. Why would you?

You were loved… you felt truly beautiful for the first time in your life.

“I’ll prepare a cabin soon, there’s plenty of abandoned ones nearby. Wouldn’t want my mate to be uncomfortable.”

The way he nuzzled into you was filled with such love and care. He must have been lonely, being the last of his species.

So you decided to stay… at least for now…

Want a part 2? Send me a kofi and ask for it~

————————

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