#I don’t think you get to do that as a parent?

[cressidagrey]

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White Horse - Chapter 17: May 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

 (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: Maman’s birthday next week—what’s the plan?

Arthur: Isabelle? You usually handle it.

Isabelle: Not this year.

Lorenzo: Sorry, what?

Arthur: Lol okay, very funny. What’s the plan?

Isabelle: I’m serious. I’m not doing it this year.

Charles: Wait. What do you mean you’re not doing it?

Isabelle: I mean you three can plan it this time. I’m not the family secretary. Not anymore.

Charles: Since when?

Isabelle: Since I realized I’m the only one who ever does it, and you all expect it like it’s a given. I’m not your personal event planner.

Arthur: Okay, but… you like that stuff.

Isabelle: I like when people contribute. I don’t like being taken for granted.

Charles: Whoa.

Arthur: Is this because I forgot to Venmo you for the gift last year?

Isabelle: That was two years ago, Arthur. And you still haven’t.

Lorenzo: This feels aggressive.

Isabelle: It’s not. It’s a boundary.

Charles: Okay but can’t you set it… after Maman’s birthday?

Arthur: Yeah. This is really inconvenient.

Isabelle: It’s not supposed to be convenient for you.

Charles: I don’t like this version of you.

Belle: I don’t like being the only adult in the room. So I guess we’re even.

Arthur: So you’re really not doing anything?

Isabelle: I am getting flowers from all of us. I am ordering the cake. I am doing my own gift for Maman. If you three want to do a joint gift, you can do that, but I am not planning it. One of you can book the restaurant.   

Lorenzo: This feels like a test.

Isabelle: It’s not. But you’re definitely failing it.

Charles: I feel emotionally manipulated.

Lorenzo: I feel abandoned.

Arthur: I miss the old Isabelle. The one who covered for us.

Isabelle: I don’t. She was a doormat. ***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur: Okay so we still don’t have a gift for Maman and Isabelle is being stubborn.

Charles: She said “boundaries.” Since when does she have boundaries?

Lorenzo: She said she’s not helping. She meant it.

Arthur: This feels personal.

Charles: I feel abandoned. I feel like I’ve been emotionally left on read.

Lorenzo: We should’ve started this earlier.

Arthur: We always start this last-minute and it’s fine because Isabelle does everything.

Charles: She’s so good at it though. She likes organizing things.

Lorenzo: We need to be strategic. What would Isabelle get?

Arthur: Peace. Quiet. 

Charles: So a spa day?

Lorenzo: We’re not sending our mother to the spa again. She’s starting to think we believe she’s stressed.

Arthur: She is stressed. We exist.

Charles: I had an idea last night. What about a puppy?

Lorenzo: Absolutely not.

Arthur: What if we just… get her a necklace? Generic. Safe. Shiny.

Charles: No creativity. She’ll know we panicked.

Lorenzo: We are panicking.

Arthur: You know what would solve this? If Isabelle told us what to do.

Arthur:  I feel like a neglected plant.

Charles: I feel like the plant someone gave Isabelle to water, and now she’s like “it’s not my plant.”

Arthur: Cool cool cool. So we’re getting Maman a plant and pretending we planned it?

Lorenzo: ...We’re hopeless.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Charles Leclerc

Charles: Okay but hear me out: What about a pottery class for her and her friends?

Isabelle: Charles it’s 2am

Isabelle: Go to sleep.

Isabelle: Maman doesn’t even like pottery. 

Charles: How about a goat?

Isabelle: A what?

Charles: A goat. Like a cute little goat. They’re trendy right now.

Isabelle: She lives in an apartment, Charles.

Charles: A small goat.

Isabelle: No.

Charles: You said I had to contribute. This is me contributing.

Isabelle: This is you spiraling.

Charles: Okay but this looks nice right?? (sends link)

Isabelle: That is a garden gnome wine holder, Charles. 

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon and Nico Hulkenberg)

Oscar: HE DID IT

George: HE ACTUALLY DID IT

Carlos: LAAAAAAAAAANDOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Alex: My BOY MY TWITCH STREAMER MY EMOTIONAL SUPPORT CHAOTIC SUNBEAM

Daniel: I’M CRYING IN PUBLIC WHO LET HIM BE THIS FAST WHO ALLOWED THIS WHO HANDED HIM A TROPHY AND SAID “YEAH, OKAY”

Lando: guys…

Carlos: YOU’RE HERE? GO POP CHAMPAGNE

Oscar: Put your phone down. Go cry. We’re doing it for you.

Nico H: Congrats, man. Seriously. That was a hell of a drive.

Lewis: Five years. FIVE YEARS. You deserve this.

Daniel: Do we throw him a party? Do we kidnap him and fly to Ibiza?

Alex: Yes. Obviously. We ride at dawn.

Carlos: He’s never allowed to say “I’m not good enough” again. I will slap him.

Lando: Okay okay okay 😭😭 I just… can’t believe it happened I thought I was gonna throw up before the last lap

Daniel: I’m gonna rewatch the podium 14 times. You SMILED. Like, real smiled. Oscar was lowkey crying. Don’t let him lie.

Oscar: I WASN’T …shut up

Lewis: See? You’re loved. You’re really loved.

Sebastian: This is what we call earned joy. Enjoy every second, Lando. I’m so, so happy for you 🧡

Daniel: I’m printing out today’s timing sheet and framing it

Alex: We were on Norris Watch for years. YEARS.

Checo: Congrats, man. You’ve waited a long time for this. Really happy for you.

Nico R: You’ve had the pace for a while. Today you had the moment. Bravo.

Oscar: And now he’s won. And he’s still just a slightly dehydrated raccoon in designer sunglasses

Lando: I can’t even be mad

Kimi: Took you long enough.

George: Okay but do we start placing bets on win #2 now?

Carlos: Let him breathe 😭

Lewis: Enjoy it, mate. Every second. You earned this.

Fernando: It was inevitable. That’s all.

George: Do we throw him a party? I vote party.

Mark: He’s in Miami. The party’s coming to him.

Sebastian: Just don’t let Daniel plan the itinerary.

Daniel: I’M A DELIGHTFUL PARTY PLANNER. I’VE MATURED.

Lewis: No you haven’t.

Alex: Absolutely not.

Oscar: Zero evidence of that.

Lando: I love you guys. Thank you. Seriously

George: We’re gonna get so insufferable about this

Lando:I’m gonna go sob in the shower and then drink a really big coconut

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Lando Norris

Isabelle:  You did it. 🧡

Isabelle: You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know… I’m really, really proud of you.

Isabelle: You earned this. Every second. Every race you stayed calm. Every joke you cracked when you were hurting. Every time you smiled for fans even when you didn’t feel like it. You never gave up. And today? It all paid off.

Lando: …you’re gonna make me cry again and I’ve already cried twice.  that’s my limit for the year

Belle: Sorry 😌 I’ll save the long, emotional voice note for later

Lando: Don’t you dare Actually Do it

Isabelle:  I will. After you finish that coconut

Lando: HOW DO YOU KNOW I’M DRINKING A COCONUT

Belle: Because I know you. And you looked like you were already planning it the second you stepped on the podium

Lando: okay fair thank you, Belle really

Belle: Always. Now go celebrate. I’ll be cheering from here.

Lando: From Monaco?

Belle: From the rooftop. With our cats. They’re proud of you too.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Isabelle Leclerc

Max: Going out with Lando for a bit. Post-win celebration. He earned it.

Isabelle: Aww 🧡 That’s sweet of you. Be nice to him.

Max: I am nice. I’m bringing him shots. That’s nice.

Isabelle: That’s dangerous. Try not to start a bar fight.

Max: Promise. Love you. 

[Monday, Much, Much Later]

Max: BELLE

Max: U R SO PRETTY

Max: LIKE. ACTUALLY. PRETTY PRETTY

Max: U should be here u’d hate it but like also u’d look SO HOT in this lighting

Max: lando said i’m soft now bc i said ur voice is my favorite sound so i punched him in the arm

Max: soft???? bro i’m in love what does he want me to do. deny it???

Max: anyway ur eyes r the best part of monaco u can quote me

Max: i miss u

[Much, Much Later]

Isabelle: Good morning, poetic disaster 💋 How’s the head?

Max: 🥲 Loud. Everything is loud. Why does my soul feel hungover.

Isabelle: Probably because you told me my eyes were the best part of Monaco and then threatened to fight Lando for calling you soft.

Max: …Did I actually type that?

Belle: Verbatim. You also called me “pretty pretty” and claimed I’d look “SO HOT in this lighting.” Capitals included.

Max: I hate myself

Isabelle: Don’t. It was very charming. Drunk and feral, but charming.

Isabelle: You did tell me my voice was your favorite sound.

Max: Okay that one stands. I mean it.

Isabelle: I know you do. Still going to make you suffer for the rest though.

Max: I was vulnerable. Weak. In my tequila era.

Isabelle: You were in love and dramatic. It was kind of perfect.

Max: You still love me?

Isabelle: Soft bro, I’m in love. What do you want me to do, deny it?

Max: 😤 Uncalled for.

Isabelle: Call me when you’re functional. 

Max: You’re too good to me.

Isabelle: I know. I’m Monaco’s best feature, after all.

Max: Can confirm. ***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Isabelle Leclerc

Emilie: Okay so… Question

Isabelle: That’s always a dangerous start.

Emilie: Who is this Lando person And why is everyone crying because he won something

Isabelle: Oh my God. You really don’t know anything about F1, do you?

Emilie: Absolutely not. I know Max drives fast, and you’re too pretty to be emotionally stable, that’s it.

Isabelle: Valid.

Emilie: But seriously. My entire timeline is full of sweaty orange hats and people screaming “HE FINALLY DID IT.” What did he do? Did he climb a mountain? Invent a vaccine?

Isabelle: He won his first Formula 1 Grand Prix. He’s been in F1 for five years. Always came close. Never quite made it.Everyone’s been waiting for this.He’s a good guy. Deserved it.

Emilie: Huh. He’s the guy with the curly hair, right?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the jawbones?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the voice that’s suspiciously hot for someone named Lando?

Isabelle: …Why do you care?

Emilie: I don’t!!

Isabelle: You do. You’ve never asked me about a single driver. Not once. And now you’re googling him like a concerned historian.

Emilie: I’m just… doing research. You know. investigating the cultural phenomenon

Isabelle: Uh-huh. Is this cultural phenomenon wearing a papaya-colored race suit and has curly hair?

Emilie: Fine. He’s cute. He looked happy. The bar is so low.

Isabelle: He is cute. And he should be happy. He’s a good guy.

Emilie: You sound like you’re trying to sell me a family dog.

Isabelle: He’s very sweet! Loyal! Thoughtful! Max calls him chaotic sunshine. I call him emotionally transparent. You’d like him.

Emilie: So a golden retriever.

Isabelle: With slightly better hair.

Emilie: Does he bite?

Isabelle: Only when provoked. Or when Max makes a joke about his height.

Emilie: Hmm.

Isabelle: Oh no.

Emilie: What?

Isabelle: You’re thinking about him.

Emilie: Absolutely not.

Emilie: This is slander.

Isabelle: This is me knowing you better than you know yourself. And I’m telling you: he’s a good one. A little chaotic. But real.

Emilie: He smiled like…like he waited years for this. I noticed that. I hate that I noticed that.

Belle: Yeah. That’s why people cried. It wasn’t just about the win—it was about him. He needed it. And he earned it.

Emilie: …Okay maybe I get the hats now.

Isabelle: Give it three days. You’ll be watching fan edits on TikTok and pretending it’s research. I have been there. 

***

Belle had done what she said she would do—and no more.

She’d ordered the cake. She’d picked up her mother’s favorite flowers that morning: cream roses and blue hydrangeas, wrapped in soft white paper. She’d even arrived early to set them on the table herself, with care, because that was the kind of daughter she was. Or used to be.

Now, she was the kind of daughter who kept her word but stopped letting herself be steamrolled.

Pascale arrived right on time, kissed Belle on both cheeks, and immediately gave the restaurant a once-over.

“This place wasn’t my first choice.”

Belle smiled tightly. “Arthur booked it.”

“Ah. Well.” Her mother’s eyes skimmed the mirrored walls, the packed tables. “At least it’s… clean.”

Belle gestured to the bouquet from all of them, and the beautifully chosen gift bag she had chosen for her gift to her mother. It was a hand painted silk scarf from her mother’s favourite small boutique in Nice.  “Happy birthday, Maman.”

“Oh, thank you, darling.” Pascale barely glanced at them. “How thoughtful. Did you and the boys coordinate?”

“No,” Belle said evenly. “They’re doing their own gifts this year.”

Pascale’s brow twitched. “Oh?”

“I told them weeks ago.”

“Hm.” She lifted the bag without really looking at it. “Just from you?”

“Yes. Just me.”

The rest arrived five to ten minutes late, as if they’d all agreed to stagger themselves and then forgot the timing. Arthur looked panicked, Charles like he was trying too hard not to look panicked, and Lorenzo came with Charlotte in tow, who smiled politely and looked like she already regretted it. Alexandra walked in beside Charles and kissed Pascale on the cheek like a diplomat entering a war zone.

“Happy birthday, Pascale” Alexandra said. “You look wonderful.”

Pascale’s smile returned. “Merci, cherie. You always say the right things.”

“Unlike your sons,” Charlotte muttered under her breath, loud enough for Belle to hear.

Charles sat beside Belle and leaned toward her. “So… I take it the restaurant’s not a hit.”

Belle didn’t even glance at him. “What gave it away? The menu or Maman’s expression?”

As the waiter listed off the specials—every one of them garnished with fennel—Belle watched her mother’s face tighten.

“I thought I said last year I hated fennel,” Pascale said lightly.

Arthur mumbled, “It was the only place with a table.”

Charlotte’s voice was gentle. “It’s a beautiful spot though.”

“Yes,” Pascale said with a tilt of her head. “But not terribly thoughtful. I would’ve preferred a nice picnic at home,” Pascale muttered, opening her menu as though it had personally offended her.

Belle stayed quiet. She wasn’t the one who chose this.

Though the one thing she agreed with: Even the wine tasted horrific in this restaurant. She pushed her white wine glass far away from her, the acidic smell hitting her nose and making her want to scrunch her nose. 

The gifts came next. Or rather, the lack of them.

Arthur had hastily shoved a gift bag onto the table with the receipt still inside. Lorenzo offered wine. 

And Charles? Charles offered nothing but a vague “It’s arriving later, it’s like... experiential.”

“Experiential?” Pascale repeated, arching a brow.

“It’s a class,” Charles added quickly. “Pottery.”

Their mother stared at him like he had sprouted wings. 

“Pottery?!” Pascale asked and Charles swallowed, nodding, looking like he was regretting all his life choices. 

Belle didn’t look up, but Alexandra choked into her water and muttered, “I told you.”

Belle sipped her water.

“Oh,” Pascale continued, “and what’s this?” She picked up the card. “Just from you, Isabelle?”

“Yes,” Belle said simply.

“No group gift this year?”

“I asked everyone to handle their own,” she replied. “I did the flowers and the cake. And the card. That was enough.”

Pascale gave a little hum of amusement. “Well, I suppose you have become very independent lately.”

Belle met her mother’s gaze. “I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.”

“No, no, of course not,” Pascale said, voice breezy. “It’s just… you used to take such pride in pulling everything together. You were always so good at it.”

“That was the problem.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “To be fair, you didn’t exactly help us this year.”

“I told you what I was doing. You just didn’t listen,” Belle said calmly.

“You used to remind us,” Charles mumbled. “You used to care.”

Belle’s jaw twitched. “I still care. I just don’t want to be treated like the family secretary anymore.”

“I think she misses being in control,” Lorenzo muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Charlotte glanced at him, sharp. “Or maybe she’s just tired of being taken advantage of.”

“Exactly,” Alexandra said. “God forbid she set a boundary.”

Pascale, still smiling, turned to Belle. “Cherie, no one’s saying you have to do everything. It’s just… you’re so capable. When you stop doing it, everything falls apart.”

“Maybe that means everyone else should step up,” Belle replied.

Pascale gave a laugh that sounded delicate and dismissive all at once. “Well, clearly no one stepped up today.”

She said it like a joke. Like a shrug. Like it wasn’t her sons who had forgotten, scrambled, improvised. Like it was somehow Belle’s fault for letting them fail.

Belle felt the burn in her chest—not anger, not really. Just exhaustion.

She’d done her part. More than her part. But it would never be enough, because the moment she stopped doing everything, the blame quietly shifted to her.

“You could’ve reminded them,” Pascale said again, softer now. “You know how your brothers are.”

“Yes,” Belle said. “I do.”

“Well,” she said lightly. “I suppose this is what adulthood looks like. Everyone suddenly too busy to remember their mother.”

“I remembered,” Belle said.

“You always do, darling. It’s just that this year… you remembered differently.”

And there it was.

Not cruelty. Not even anger.

Just the kind of soft-edged disappointment Belle had spent most of her life trying to avoid.

The rest of lunch passed in half-hearted conversation and clumsy attempts at jokes. The cake arrived—beautiful, perfect, and, predictably, unacknowledged.

Belle watched her brothers clap, watched her mother blow out the candles, watched it all carry on like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn’t just been told—kindly, sweetly, carelessly—that she was the glue, and glue isn’t allowed to come undone.

Alexandra leaned closer, her voice low. “You okay?”

Belle forced a smile. “I will be.”

As they all stood to leave, Pascale leaned in and kissed her cheek again.

“Next year, maybe we go back to the usual way. Less… disjointed.”

Belle didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t sure the old way would ever return.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the point.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: I survived.

Emilie: Emotionally or just physically?

Isabelle: ...Barely both.

Emilie: How bad?

Isabelle: Let’s just say the cake was perfect and no one noticed. Arthur brought a gift bag with the receipt still inside. Charles gave her a pottery class. A POTTERY CLASS. And Lorenzo recycled a bottle of wine she gave him last year.

Emilie: I’m sorry. Did they try to offer her used wrapping paper too?

Isabelle: Honestly wouldn’t have been surprised. She looked at the card—my card—and asked if it was just from me. Then she said everyone was too busy to remember their mother. I reminded her that I remembered. She said: “You always do, darling. It’s just that this year… you remembered differently.”

Emilie: … Wow. Soft weaponized guilt in its final form.

Isabelle: I’m so tired. I did what I said I would. Flowers. Cake. My own gift. I set boundaries. And it still felt like it was my fault everything else fell apart.

Emilie: That’s because it isn’t about the gifts. It’s about control. You stopped doing everything, and instead of realizing they need to grow up, they decided you were the problem.

Isabelle: She said things “fell apart” because I stopped doing it all. Like it was inevitable.

Emilie: Because no one in your family wants to believe they’re part of the problem. It’s easier to blame the glue than to learn how to hold things together.

Isabelle: I didn’t cry. I thought I would. But I didn’t.

Emilie: That’s not because it didn’t hurt. It’s because you’re exhausted from caring so hard for so long. And you knew exactly how today would go.

Isabelle: Yeah.

Emilie: I’m proud of you, by the way.

Isabelle: For what? Ruining lunch?

Emilie: No. For not letting them pull you back in. You didn’t break your boundary. You kept your head high. You even brought the right cake like a damn queen.

Isabelle: I don’t feel like a queen. I feel like… a disappointed intern who can’t quit because the office is run by her family.

Emilie: Then consider this your resignation letter. Effective immediately. From now on, you only show up to enjoy the cake—not to organize the entire damn bakery.

***

The apartment was unusually quiet.

Max pushed the door open slowly, balancing a paper bag in one hand—her favorite pastries from that little place by the port—and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

“Belle?” he called.

No answer.

He kicked off his shoes and padded through the hallway. Her shoes were by the door, her bag hanging from the hook. She was home. But the lights were still off, the curtains half-drawn.

He stepped into the living room, expecting to find her reading or curled up with her laptop.

Instead, he found her asleep on the couch.

Belle never napped. She was the kind of person who filled silence with tasks, who felt guilty if she rested too long. Her idea of downtime usually involved organizing something or researching a new fabric for a client.

But now?

Now she was curled up in the corner of the couch, one arm tucked under her cheek, her breathing slow and steady. She’d kicked off her heels, and one strap of her dress had slipped slightly down her shoulder. Her brow was furrowed, even in sleep.

And all three cats were piled on top of her.

Jimmy was sprawled across her legs, completely dead weight. Lilly was curled protectively against her stomach, one paw gently resting on her arm. And Sassy—who rarely let anyone touch her—was nestled against her neck, purring like a motor.

Max smiled softly.

The cats knew. Of course they did.

He moved quietly, setting the bag of pastries down on the counter and crouching beside the couch. He didn’t wake her. He just watched her for a moment—her lashes dark against her cheeks, the faint smudge of exhaustion still lingering under her eyes. There was something heartbreakingly small about the way she’d folded in on herself. Like she’d tried to make herself take up less space.

He reached out and gently brushed her hair back behind her ear.

Belle stirred, but didn’t wake. Lilly opened one eye, flicked her tail, and went back to purring.

Max exhaled and whispered, “I’m sorry it was shit.”

She didn’t need to tell him. He’d seen the signs before she left: the tight smile, the perfectly chosen scarf, the way she’d stood just a little too straight. He knew Pascale. He knew her brothers. And he knew the weight Belle carried when they made her feel invisible for having a spine.

He reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it over her gently, tucking it in around the cats. Jimmy let out a tiny grunt but didn’t move.

Max kissed her temple. Light. Barely there.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured.

He sat on the floor beside her, leaning against the couch, and let his hand rest on hers, careful not to disturb the cats. She shifted slightly, her fingers curling instinctively into his.

The apartment stayed quiet, but now it felt full. Safe.

Eventually, Belle would wake up. Eventually, she’d downplay it all, say she was fine, say it wasn’t that bad.

But Max would remember the way she napped in the middle of the day like her body had finally crashed, like she’d had to hold herself together for too long.

***

She woke up slowly.

There was warmth on her legs. Something heavy on her chest. A light pressure on her hand.

For a moment, she didn’t move—just let herself feel the quiet. The absence of expectations. The strange relief of not having to speak.

Then she blinked and registered the familiar weight of Jimmy on her thighs, Lilly tucked into her side, and—

Sassy. On her shoulder. Sassy, who hated everyone except Max and her. 

She turned her head slightly and saw Max sitting on the floor beside the couch, head tilted back against the cushion, his fingers still laced with hers. His thumb stroked over her knuckles slowly, rhythmically, like he’d been doing it the whole time she slept.

“How long have you been there?” she whispered.

His eyes opened. “Long enough to be offended none of the cats chose me.”

Belle gave a weak, sleepy laugh. “You didn’t bring treats.”

“I brought toys last week. I feel that earns me some credit.”

She stretched, only a little, careful not to disturb the cats. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. She looked down at their hands. Her voice was quiet when she said, “It was awful.”

Max didn’t respond right away. He waited.

“I knew it would be,” she continued. “I was ready for it. I thought I was. But—” She paused. “It still got to me.”

“Of course it did,” he said gently. “Because you’re not made of stone, no matter how good you are at pretending.”

She swallowed. “She didn’t yell. None of them did. That’s the worst part. Just these… little jabs. Like I ruined things by not doing what I always do.”

He brushed his thumb along the back of her hand again. “Because they don’t want to admit how much they rely on you. It’s easier to pretend you’re being difficult than to admit they’ve taken you for granted.”

“I felt like the villain for saying no.”

“You weren’t,” he said firmly. “You were the only one who showed up the way she deserved.”

“She said I remembered differently.”

“You remembered honestly,” Max said. “And with boundaries. That’s a good thing.”

Belle exhaled slowly. “I hate how tired I am.”

“That’s what happens when you carry everyone else’s expectations for fifteen years.”

She closed her eyes. “I just wanted her to notice. Not the card. Not the scarf. Me.”

Max was silent for a long beat. Then he shifted, stood, and gently sat on the edge of the couch beside her, nudging Jimmy out of the way with minimal protest.

“You know what I noticed?” he asked softly.

Belle looked up at him.

“You walked into that lunch knowing it would suck. You still brought the cake. You still picked out the flowers and got there early and remembered everything that matters. But you also stood your ground. You didn’t shrink. You didn’t apologize for having limits.”

She blinked fast.

Max reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face.

“You didn’t fail them, Belle. They failed you. And she—she missed the point. But I didn’t.”

She let out a breath that trembled more than she wanted.

Belle reached for him then—slowly, tiredly—and he leaned down so she could rest her forehead against his chest. His arms came around her without hesitation, strong and warm and steady.

And for the first time all day, Belle didn’t feel like she had to hold anything together.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: The horse is here.

Emilie: WAIT WHAT???

Max: She’s perfect. Big eyes. Very soft nose. Looks at me like she knows I have no idea what I’m doing.

Emilie: Oh my god. Congrats! You now own 1.5 sentient drama llamas! I didn’t think you’d pull it off this fast!!

Max: Neither did I. I just nodded and wired the money whenever someone looked at me confused.

Emilie: Bold of you to admit that. How’s Fleur settling in?

Max: Good so far. The stable manager is in love with her. She’s very sweet…very gentle. But listen—can you help me with something?

Emilie: That depends. Do I need a forklift?

Max: No forklifts. But maybe a… horse stylist?

Emilie: ...Max.

Max: I want to get her everything she needs. Feed, brushes, gear, blankets, treats, toys, whatever. But I don’t trust myself not to forget something vital and end up buying her a dog collar by mistake.

Emilie: You think a grooming kit is the same thing as a dog leash???

Max: I bought a horse off emotional impulse, Emilie. Anything’s possible.

Emilie: Fair. Okay. Emergency horse wardrobe coming right up.

Max: You’re a lifesaver.

Emilie: I know. What’s the budget?

Max: No budget.

Emilie: …Max.

Max: Buy her the kind of things you’d buy if you were spoiling a horse for someone you love. Go full chaos. Embroidered halter, custom saddle pads. I don’t care.

Emilie: You just said the words “go full chaos” to me. You realize this is going to spiral.

Max: If the horse ends up with a Swarovski encrusted hoof pick, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Emilie: I’m making a list. She needs turnout rugs. Stable rugs. Lightweight blankets. Fly masks. Brushing boots. Halter. Lead rope. Hay net. Saddle pad. Grooming kit. Oh—and a personalized nameplate. Obviously.

Max: I’m overwhelmed.

Emilie: I haven’t even started color coordination yet.

Max: Color coordination???

Emilie: You think I’m putting Belle’s horse in random mismatched gear like some common gelding??

Max: …No?

Emilie: Good answer.

Max: Make her look like she belongs to someone who loves her.

Emilie: That’s easy. She does.

Max: Also... get something for the foal too. It’s still baking, but I want it to have everything once it shows up.

Emilie: You're going to be the most unhinged horse dad in the south of France.

Max: That’s the goal.

Emilie: Okay. I’ll drop everything and build Fleur’s shopping cart of dreams. Expect a delivery van full of horse nonsense by tomorrow.

Max: Thank you. Seriously. I just want everything to be perfect.

Emilie: It will be. She’s going to lose it. In the best way.

Max: That’s the plan.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Hey. You know about horses, right?

Lando: … Why would I know about horses?

Max: Because your sister and your mum ride. That makes you, like… horse adjacent.

Lando: Max. MAX. Being horse adjacent is not the same as being a horse expert.

Max: Do you know how to tell if a pregnant horse is okay?

Lando: MAX WHAT

Max: I got Belle a horse. Actually two. Well, one horse, and she’s pregnant, so technically 1.5 horses.

Lando: I’m sorry back up- You WHAT? YOU BOUGHT A PREGNANT HORSE???

Max: Yes. For her birthday. It’s the foal of her childhood horse. The horse passed away, but the daughter is alive. So I bought her. Fleur. That’s her name.

Lando: Jesus Christ.

Max: She’s perfect. But she’s in foal and due later this summer and now I’m spiraling.

Lando: Okay okay okay. Deep breaths. Why are you spiraling??

Max: Is it normal for her to not eat as much hay? She was eating like crazy when she arrived and now she’s just… slower. Max:  She seems fine. She’s drinking. She let me pet her today. Max:  But what if she’s not fine and I miss something and the foal is in danger and Belle gets attached and then—

Lando: MAX

Max: WHAT IF I’M A BAD HORSE DAD

Lando: Okay first of all: You are very much not a horse dad. You are a stressed boyfriend with access to wire transfers and too much emotional capacity

Max: Unhelpful.

Lando: Second: Flo and my mum both ride. Hang on, I’ll ask.

(Two minutes pass.)

Lando: Okay. Flo says: “Mares get weird when they’re in late pregnancy. Appetite changes, temperament shifts, they get clingy or distant. As long as she’s drinking water and not acting colicky or in pain, she’s probably fine.”

Max: What does colicky mean?

Lando: Horse tummy ache apparently. Signs: pawing at the ground, lying down and getting up a lot, rolling on her side, not passing gas or poop.

Max: She’s not doing any of that.

Lando: Cool. Then Flo says you can stop freaking out and maybe go touch grass.

Max: I would but I’m watching her through the stall window to make sure she blinks evenly.

Lando: You need a hobby.

Max: This is my hobby now. I’m going to be the best horse dad Monaco’s ever seen.

Lando: You’re terrifying. Flo says you should talk to a vet if you’re this stressed. There are equine pregnancy specialists.

Max: I already booked one. They’re coming Thursday. And I bought her a new salt lick. And a bigger water bucket. And more bedding. Just in case she’s nesting.

Lando: Nest??? You think she’s a raccoon now???

Max: SHE’S CARRYING A TINY HORSE INSIDE HER I DON’T KNOW WHAT SHE NEEDS

Lando: Okay wow. This is actually incredible You’re losing your mind and it’s so pure

Max: She’s not just a horse. She’s Belle’s horse. She’s family now. And her foal will be, too

Lando: Max Verstappen, 3x World Champion, is scared of a pregnant horse.

Max: You don’t understand. If anything happens to that horse, Belle will never recover. And I’ll never forgive myself.

Lando: Okay, I’m texting Flo again. You need like. A Horse Dad Hotline. She’s gonna make a guide. Expect a PDF.

Max: Perfect. I’ll print it. And laminate it.

Lando: You’re completely unhinged and I love it. Belle has no idea what she’s in for, does she?

Max: Nope. But I do. And I’m not screwing this up.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso and Kimi Räikkönen)

Lando: UPDATE. Max has officially entered his next evolutionary stage: Horse Dad

Carlos: what???

George: what do you mean Horse Dad.

Lando: HE TEXTED ME FOR HORSE ADVICE. Apparently  he bought Belle a horse for her birthday next week…and said horse is pregnant. AND NOW HE’S SPIRALING.

Oscar: he bought her a pregnant horse???

Lewis: This man does not know how to do things at 50%.

Alex: Imagine being an unborn foal and your literal horse granddad is Max Verstappen.

Daniel: What was he panicking about ?

Lando: "Is it normal for her to eat less hay?" "She blinked too slowly." "Am I a bad horse dad." "I think she’s nesting." "I bought her a new salt lick just in case."

Oscar: nesting?? she’s a horse not a squirrel??

Sebastian: This is beautiful. I love this for him. And for the horse.

Checo: Didn’t he just buy this horse last week???

Lando: YEP. And he’s already at the stage of “watching her breathe through the stall window like a Victorian widow.”

David: I’m crying. Verstappen, World Champion, afraid of pregnant mare.

Checo: He deserves this stress. This is what happens when you spend 300k on a pregnant horse with no clue what you’re doing.

Mark: That foal is going to be raised like equine royalty.

Fernando: It will be a champion. I can feel it.

Alex: Do NOT let Max hear that. He’ll start building it a trophy shelf.

George: How did we get here

Lando: Anyway I told Flo and my mum and now they’re making him a Horse Dad PDF Guide

Alex: Max Verstappen: Race car driver, emotionally fragile boyfriend, horse dad with laminated charts.

Nico H: I’ve never been more afraid of him

Oscar: I just want to see Belle’s face when she finds out

Lewis: She's going to cry

 And then thank him And then cry again And then probably cry on the horse

Lando: And Max will cry because she’s crying. And the horse will just blink slowly like “why are the loud mammals leaking”

Oscar: i love love.

Fernando: We are watching the evolution of a man.

Daniel: Max Verstappen used to destroy the grid. Now he panics about hay consumption

Sebastian: This is growth.

Sebastian: Should we all send baby gifts for the foal?

Lewis: You mean we’re not already?

Fernando: I have already arranged a custom halter and embroidered blanket.

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Oscar Piastri

Lando: Okay this might be a stupid question

Oscar: Those are your specialty, go on

Lando: Should we get Belle a birthday gift?

Oscar: Like… us? Together??

Lando: Yeah. Like a joint thing. I don’t know. A friend gift. A “we know your family’s exhausting but we like you” gift.

Oscar: Honestly? I like it. She deserves it. Especially after Max went full Horse Dad™

Lando: Right?? Like, I’m not trying to compete with two horses but like… a little gift?

Oscar: Yeah, yeah. Something thoughtful. Wait—hang on. Lily’s reading this over my shoulder now.

Lily (via Oscar): YES. GET HER SOMETHING. I LOVE HER.

Lando: I mean that tracks. Everyone who meets Belle ends up weirdly attached.

Oscar: Max didn’t even stand a chance

Lily (still hijacking): Ask your sister for horse-related gift ideas!!!

Lando: You mean Flo?

Oscar: Yeah, Lily says she’ll know what would be good for a new horse owner or something cute Belle can use at the stable.

Lily (via Oscar):  Or something for the baby horse!!! They imprint, right??? GET THE FOAL TO IMPRINT ON YOU GUYS.

Lando: I don’t think we can plan imprinting, Lily.

Oscar: She says that sounds like quitter energy.

Lando: Okay but seriously I will text Flo.

Oscar: We could do like… a fancy grooming kit?

Lando: Or like a custom halter for the foal? 

Oscar: That’s actually so cute. What if we get it in Max’s helmet colors?

Lando: STOP I’M EMOTIONAL

Oscar: Lily is now googling “tiny horse birthday hats” so things are escalating. 

Lando: Belle gets Max, two horses, and emotional support F1 drivers

Oscar: Our love language is semi-coordinated panic

Lando: Okay. I’ll ask Flo for ideas. Lily can continue the hat research.

Oscar: She’s already measuring things on the screen. I think we’re locked in.

***

Belle closed her laptop with a soft sigh, the click of the hinge sounding louder than it should’ve. The apartment was calm—Max behind her, drying dishes from dinner—but inside her head, everything felt overfull.

She crossed to the counter, reached for a glass, and filled it slowly at the sink. Her shoulders ached. Her chest felt tight. Not in a dramatic way—just… tired. The kind of tired that curled up somewhere inside and stayed, no matter how many hours of sleep she got.

Max’s voice was gentle, behind her. “You okay?”

She nodded before answering. “I ordered something for Mother’s Day.”

He turned from the cupboard, brow raised. “For your mother?”

Belle hesitated, and that was enough for him to catch it.

“Yes,” she said, carefully. “For Maman. From all of us.”

There was a pause. She could feel his eyes on her even as she kept hers on the water glass.

“From you and your brothers?” Max asked quietly.

Belle nodded again. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

When she glanced back, Max was just watching her. Not angry. Not judgmental. Just… knowing.

“You’re still saving them,” he said.

Belle straightened slightly. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” she repeated, too fast. “I just… I don’t want another disaster. I don’t have the energy for more awkwardness or guilt. I just want it to be done. Clean.”

“You’re the only reason it won’t be a disaster,” Max said softly.

Belle looked down at the water glass. Her hand was trembling slightly. She hadn’t realized.

“I’m just so tired, Max,” she said, and the words came out smaller than she meant them to. Like admitting it made her feel even more fragile.

Max stepped toward her and touched her wrist, grounding her.

“Then why spend what little energy you have on something that only drains you more?”

“Because if I don’t,” she whispered, “Maman will be disappointed. And my brothers will make jokes. And the silence will feel like blame. It’s easier this way.”

“It’s not easier,” Max said. “It’s just more familiar.”

Belle didn’t answer. Her throat felt tight.

Max pulled her gently into his arms, wrapping her in the kind of hug that made everything quiet for a second. Belle leaned into it like someone letting go of something heavy she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

“You don’t have to fix everything to be a good daughter,” he murmured into her hair. “Or a good sister.”

She closed her eyes.

“Don’t remind them,” he added, quietly but firmly.

She pulled back slightly to look up at him. “What?”

“Don’t message the group chat. Don’t nudge them. Don’t drop hints. Let them forget. Let them feel what it’s like when you don’t carry it for them.”

She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “They’ll blame me.”

“Then let them,” Max said, brushing her hair back from her face. “You don’t owe them your peace.”

“I don’t know if I can ignore it,” she whispered. “It’ll just sit there in my chest like a rock. The whole day.”

“Then I’ll carry it,” he said. “Let me carry it for you.”

Belle’s eyes burned.

“Maybe next year,” she said softly. “Maybe next year I’ll be strong enough not to do it at all.”

Max didn’t push. He just nodded, kissed her temple, and held her tighter.

She didn’t have to say thank you. He already knew.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Max: Happy Mother’s Day, Mama ❤️ Hope you’re relaxing this morning.

Sophie: Thank you, sweetheart 💕 Just had breakfast with Tom & Victoria. Luka made me a card 🥹

Max: He’s a better artist than me already 😂 Your gift should’ve arrived by now. Did it get there?

Sophie: Yes! Just opened it ☺️You didn’t have to get me anything 😌

Max: Yeah, but you deserve it. Spa weekend for you and Vic—Belle helped me pick it. She remembered you mentioned it in passing once.

Sophie: Wait, the place in Provence? With the mineral baths?

Max: That’s the one. Belle remembered the name and everything. She’s… kinda incredible at that.

Sophie: Belle remembered that from months ago?

Max: She remembers everything. She’s scary-good at it.

Sophie:She really is the sweetest. You should’ve booked for three. Belle should come with us.

Max: I suggested it. She said she didn’t want to intrude.

Sophie: She would say that 😤 Tell her I’m demanding she join. It’s non-negotiable.

Max: …You sure? You and Vic don’t want a mother-daughter trip?

Sophie: She is like a daughter to me, Max. And Victoria loves her. You know that.

Max: Okay, okay. I’ll tell her.

Sophie:  I’m adore her. She fits. Like she’s always been here.

Max: Yeah. Feels like that to me too.

Sophie: So bring her over soon. I want to give her a proper hug for this gift. And for looking after you.

Max: I’ll try to drag her away from the horses. 

Sophie: Of course she is. Tell her thank you from me. Truly.

Max: Will do ❤️ Love you.

Sophie: Love you too, Maxie. ***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc & Alexandra Saint Mleux

Charles: Merde. Is it Mother’s Day today???

Alexandra: Yes.

Charles: No one said anything?! Isabelle didn’t remind us this year. She always reminds us.

Alexandra: She’s not your personal assistant, Charles.

Charles: But she knows I forget stuff like this. She usually sends the group chat the schedule with reminders and emoji codes and—

Alexandra: She shouldn’t have to. You’re almost thirty. You should know when Mother’s Day is without your sister hand-holding you through it.

Charles: Okay, but she always does it. And this year she suddenly decides she’s “setting boundaries” and just lets me walk off a cliff??

Alexandra: You forgot your mother. That’s on you. Don’t you dare try to make it Isabelle’s fault because she finally decided to stop mothering you.

Charles: Wow. Okay. Didn’t realize you were on her side.

Alexandra: I’m not “taking sides.” I’m telling you that blaming your sister for your failure is weak. And unfair.

Charles: I’m stressed, okay? I forgot, I feel like crap, and now you’re yelling at me.

Alexandra: No. I’m calling you out because this isn’t the first time you’ve pulled this. The second something goes wrong, you look for someone else to blame.

Charles: That’s not fair.

Alexandra: Isn’t it? Last month it was your trainer’s fault for not updating your calendar. Before that, it was your PR team for not reminding you about a shoot. Now it’s your sister for not telling you Mother’s Day was coming?

Charles: I just didn’t expect this from you.

Alexandra: You mean honesty? Accountability?

Charles: I don’t need a lecture right now.

Alexandra: Maybe not. But you need to grow up.

Charles: Are you seriously turning this into a moral crisis?

Alexandra: You forgot Mother’s Day. You blamed the one person who used to quietly make sure you didn’t screw it up. And when I told you the truth, you made me the problem too.

Charles: Alex…

Alexandra: I love you, but I’m not going to pretend this version of you isn’t exhausting sometimes. Figure it out, Charles.

Charles: Wait—are you seriously mad enough to—

Alexandra: I’m not leaving. But I’m done coddling you.

Charles: ...Okay.

Alexandra: Start with a phone call to your mother.

Charles: Yeah. Okay.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

 (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: So… today’s Mother’s Day.

Arthur: Yeah. Not that anyone would’ve remembered.

Lorenzo: Would’ve been nice to get a heads-up this year.

Arthur: Right? A little calendar emoji would’ve gone a long way.

Charles: You always used to remind us, Isabelle.

Lorenzo: Kind of your thing.

Isabelle: I’m not doing that anymore.

Charles: We noticed.

Arthur: You could’ve at least said something.

Isabelle: I did. Before Maman’s birthday. I said I wasn’t organizing family events anymore. I meant it.

Lorenzo: Yeah, but Mother’s Day’s different.

Charles: It’s not like we’re asking you to do everything. Just a reminder. One message.

Arthur: Instead we’re all waking up to guilt and no plan.

Isabelle: Then maybe next year, plan ahead. Put it in your phones like everyone else.

Lorenzo: You didn’t even mention it once this week.

Isabelle: Because it’s not my job.

Charles: You used to care about this kind of thing.

Isabelle: I still care. I just care about my own mental health too.

Arthur: So what, we just look like idiots today?

Isabelle: I sent a gift from all of us. Card, flowers, everything.

Charles: Wait… seriously?

Isabelle: Yes.

Lorenzo: You didn’t tell us.

Isabelle: I just did it because I didn’t want her to feel forgotten.

Arthur: That’s kind of manipulative, Belle. Doing it and not telling us.

Isabelle: What’s manipulative is expecting me to do everything, and then blaming me when I don’t.

Charles: You’re really different lately.

Isabelle: I’m tired. So I handled it, one last time. You’re welcome.

Lorenzo: Well. Thanks, I guess.

Arthur: Next year maybe give us a little warning?

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Pascale: My darlings ❤️ Thank you so much for the beautiful flowers and the card. They arrived this morning and made me cry (in the best way). You always know just what I love. I feel so lucky to have you. 💐✨

Charles: Aw, Maman ❤️ You deserve it!!

Arthur: Glad you liked it 🥹 Happy Mother’s Day!

Lorenzo: Only the best for you, Maman 😘

Pascale: You boys did so well! So thoughtful. And the message in the card… so sweet. Isabelle, you must’ve helped them pick it, didn’t you? It had your touch.

Lorenzo: We definitely had it covered 😌

Charles: Worked as a team.

Arthur: Isabelle deserves the credit though. She’s always the best at that stuff.

Pascale: Well, however you did it—thank you. I feel very loved. The flowers were perfect. Isabelle: Glad you liked them, Maman. Happy Mother’s Day.

Pascale: Love you all. 💕

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: She sent the Mother’s Day gift from all of them.

Emilie: Of course she did. Let me guess: they acted surprised and then took credit?

Max: Yep. Pascale sent a thank-you in the group chat. Her brothers responded like they’d done something.

Emilie: I’m going to scream into a pillow.

Max: Belle didn’t say anything. Just said she was glad Pascale liked it.

Emilie: She’s still saving them.

Max: I know. And they still don’t see it.

Emilie: They don’t want to. It’s easier to let her carry it all and pretend that’s normal.

Max: She told them she wasn’t going to be the family secretary anymore. Then she quietly handled everything anyway. Because she knew they’d drop it. And she didn’t want Pascale to feel forgotten.

Emilie: That’s the curse of being the responsible one. You’re punished whether you do it or not.

Max: Exactly. And now they’ll just expect it again next year.

Emilie: She deserves better.

Max: I keep telling her that.

Emilie: It’s not just about hearing it. She has to believe it. And she doesn’t. Not deep down.

Max: Yeah. I know.

Emilie: How is she?

Max: Quiet. Too quiet. She’s not upset, exactly—just… hollow. Like it’s easier to feel nothing than admit she’s hurt.

Emilie: I hate that I know exactly what that looks like on her.

Max: She just sat down after lunch and said, “It’s done now. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Emilie: That’s Belle for “I’m hanging on by a thread but don’t want to be a burden.”

Max: I wanted to say something. Call them out for her. But she just looked so tired.

Emilie: You’re doing more for her by holding her right now than anything they’ve ever done.

Max: I still wish I could do more.

Emilie: You do more just by noticing. By seeing her.

Max: I don’t want her to keep being the one who holds everything together.

Emilie: Then be the one who holds her together. That’s what she needs. Someone who won’t let her feel invisible.

Max: Yeah. That I can do.

Emilie: Good. Because I swear, if I see another “thanks for the flowers, guys!” message in that family group chat, I’m throwing someone into the harbor.

Max: I’ll drive the boat.

***

The water was warm from the sun, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue, and the city below hummed with distant life—Monaco moving through another glittering afternoon like it always did.

Max floated lazily on his back, eyes closed, one hand trailing through the water, while Belle sat on the pool steps, scowling down at the knot of her bikini top.

She tugged at the strap again, muttering, “This thing is definitely tighter than last time.”

“You said that last week too,” Max murmured without opening his eyes.

“Because it keeps getting tighter.” She frowned down at herself. “Did it shrink in the wash?”

Max cracked one eye open. “You sure it’s the bikini and not you?”

She gave him a look. “Subtle.”

“I’m just saying, maybe the girls are staging a growth spurt.”

Belle rolled her eyes, but her fingers paused against the fabric. They were… sore. More than usual. And she’d been bloated for days. And tired.

It was probably hormones. Or stress. Or the five cookies she’d eaten for lunch.

Max swam closer and rested his arms on the edge of the step beside her, his chin propped lazily against them. “If it’s bothering you, just take it off. No one can see up here.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You wish.”

“I absolutely do,” he said cheerfully.

She flicked water at him and leaned back, letting the sun warm her shoulders. The strap still dug in a little, but she tried to ignore it.

Max let his eyes drift closed again. “This is nice. Quiet. Feels like we’re the only people up here.”

Belle sighed. “We kinda are. You made sure of it, remember? ‘Private rooftop pool, non-negotiable.’”

“Worth every euro.”

She reached out and laced her fingers with his underwater. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

After a moment, she said, “You know my birthday’s on Monaco GP weekend this year?”

He groaned softly. “That’s criminal scheduling.”

She smiled faintly. “Right? Sunday. Race day.”

He looked at her. “Do you want to celebrate after the race? I could try to arrange something small—”

“No,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “No pressure. Let’s just do something the day after. Quiet. Just us.”

Max tilted his head. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” She kicked her legs slowly in the water. “Honestly, I don’t care about parties. I just want to sleep in, eat something sweet, and maybe hang out with the horses.”

He grinned. “You want a Belle Day.”

“Exactly.”

“I can deliver a Belle Day,” he said. “I will make an itinerary. I’ll laminate it.”

She laughed, and he leaned forward to kiss the tip of her nose.

“Day after Monaco,” he said. “It’s yours.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/OscarPiastri: Searching my family tree to find any trace of Monégasque roots

@/Charles_Leclerc: I can adopt you if needed. 

@/OscarPiastri: No need, mate — your sister already agreed to!

@/Charles_Leclerc: what

@/F1fanatic91: I’m sorry. WHAT.

@/girlsonpole: charles's WHAT????

@/chaoticprancinghorse: Isabelle Leclerc SAID SHE WOULD ADOPT OSCAR??? excuse me??????

@OscarPiastri (replying to himself a few minutes later): for context: Belle showed me around monaco when i first moved. Gave me the full tour. Taught me where to find the best bakery, the best dry cleaners, and which shortcuts avoid tourists. Basically made it feel like home. honorary monegasque confirmed. (Also later adopted my girlfriend, who I am quite sure, she likes more than me.) 

@/raceweekendchaos: charles offering to adopt oscar like a good pal only for oscar to casually reveal he’s already been adopted by belle leclerc is SENDING me

@/tifositalks: charles: i can adopt you oscar: too late mate your sister said yes charles: error 404 charles.exe has stopped working

@/piastriblues: i have been alive for 21 years and never felt this much secondhand embarrassment for charles leclerc

@/f1fluff:  this is so accidentally wholesome it hurts

@/gridgossip: ISABELLE GAVE OSCAR A WELCOME TO MONACO TOUR??? ARE YOU KIDDING THAT'S SO CUTE

@monacominis:  oscar piastri having isabelle leclerc as a big sister figure is EXACTLY the kind of off-track crossover i live for

@chillycharles: charles was offering adoption papers but isabelle already issued a citizenship through pastries and dry cleaning recs. elite move.

@/Charles_Leclerc (finally replying):  I see I am no longer needed. (Enjoy the bakery recommendations, they are very good.)

@/OscarPiastri: Thanks, mate. You're a great backup option.

@/scuderiawifey: ok but this is actually adorable??? like belle really just took oscar under her wing????

@/wheelnutsanon: also charles reacting like he just learned he has a secret second sibling is killing me

@/gridgossip: BREAKING: Oscar Piastri has been unofficially adopted into the Leclerc family. Charles found out through Twitter.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

 (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: What is this about you “adopting” Oscar??

Isabelle: Hello to you too, Charles.

Charles: Seriously, Isabelle. Twitter thinks you’ve absorbed him into the family. You couldn’t mention that?

Isabelle: He asked me where to get pastries when he moved here. I answered. That’s not exactly international news.

Lorenzo: So you adopted him through croissants and Google Maps. Makes sense.

Charles: And the internet’s obsessed with it. Again. This is exactly how the Lando rumors started.

Isabelle: Charles.

Charles: No—don’t “Charles” me. You’re always like this. You do some tiny thing in public, the fans lose their minds, and I get blindsided before quali.

Charles: This is not a joke. It’s race weekend. At home. I don’t need distractions right now.

Isabelle: Then maybe stop scrolling Twitter two hours before FP?

Charles: I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t always causing speculation.

Lorenzo: Are we back on the “Belle is dating Lando” thing?

Charles: YES. Because people think she adopted Oscar and is soft-launching into the Norris family.

Isabelle: I’m not dating Lando. Or Oscar. Or anyone in orange.

Charles: Can you just be low-profile until Sunday? 

Charles: I want to win at home without the press asking if my sister is secretly engaged to my teammate’s former teammate. Is that too much to ask?

Isabelle: Don’t worry, Charles. I’ll keep a low profile.

***

Belle exhaled slowly, settling onto a high stool of McLaren’s hospitality.

“This is so much calmer than Ferrari,” she murmured.

Lily tilted her head. “Too much espresso and shouting over there?”

“Too much everything. Ferrari feels like performance art fueled by adrenaline and barely restrained stress. The walls are tense. Even the coffee judges you.”

Lily laughed. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Our chaos is cozy. Loud, but cozy.”

They sipped their drinks in silence for a moment, letting the hum of track activity drift over them.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Then, casually—too casually—Belle said, “So… do you happen to know if Lando is single?”

Lily blinked, turned her head very slowly. “I beg your what?”

Belle smiled innocently behind her sunglasses. “Just curious.”

“Is this like... a casual curiosity or a capital-C Conspiracy curiosity?”

“It’s for a friend,” Belle said sweetly.

“Oh my god.” Lily’s grin widened. “Your Emilie?! The one with the arched eyebrow and emotional X-ray vision?!”

“The very same. She asked about him after Miami and then insult-complimented him. Which means she’s intrigued.”

Lily gasped. “That’s basically a declaration of intent.”

“I thought so too,” Belle said smugly.

“She’d eat him alive.”

“He’d love it.”

Lily clutched her chest. “This is my favorite subplot of the season. And yes, as far as I know… Lando is tragically, gloriously single.”

Belle grinned. “Perfect. I’m just collecting data. Like a responsible friend.”

“You’re terrifying.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Belle finished the last sip of her iced coffee and stood, stretching slightly before reaching for her sunglasses case.

“I should head back,” she said, a little regret in her voice. “If I’m gone too long, someone at Ferrari will think I’ve defected.”

Lily grinned. “You’d be welcome. Just saying.”

Belle gave her a wink. “Good to know.”

They hugged briefly, and Belle made her way down the narrow stairs of the McLaren motorhome, back toward the paddock’s center. The roar of engines was slightly muffled here—just enough to hear the hum of conversation, the clicking of photographers resetting lenses, the low static of radios. She moved easily, weaving between teams and team staff.

She’d just passed the Pirelli tent when she spotted him, unmistakable despite the sunglasses and cap—Jos Verstappen, chatting with a Red Bull staffer, nodding at something on a clipboard. He looked up as she approached, pausing mid-sentence.

He was not an easy man—everyone knew it.

She’d seen the way people stiffened when he walked past. Heard the stories. Max never sugarcoated them. His childhood hadn’t been easy; Jos was hard, demanding, relentless. Too much, sometimes.

And yet, Max still loved him.

Not blindly. Not without scars. But intentionally.

Max called him after every race. He texted him when things went wrong

Max loved him.

That was the part Belle always circled back to. Not in blind forgiveness—but in this fierce, complicated loyalty that had shaped who he was. Max could talk about his father’s mistakes and still want to protect him in the same breath.

And Belle, Belle who had lost her own father earlier than she should have…she understood that. The absence still ached. Quietly. Persistently.

Belle had never been on the receiving end of Jos’s temper. Never once. He’d been gruff, sure—especially the first time they met. But not unkind. Not to her.

She suspected that made her an exception.

The paddock thought Jos was all bark, all judgment. But Belle had sat beside him during lunch more than once, sipping coffee while he quizzed Max on fuel mapping like it was a Sunday crossword. She’d seen the sharpness soften when Max smiled, heard the pride he buried under complaints about tire strategy.

It was strange, maybe, but she liked him. Not in a warm, fuzzy way—but in the way you respect a hurricane for what it is and appreciate it when it spares your house.

There was a rare kind of steadiness in people who didn’t lie to themselves about who they were. And Jos knew exactly who he was.

He’d been brutal with Max at times. Too harsh, too strict. But Belle had watched Max pour all that pressure into discipline, pour all that history into determination—and then let her be the place where he could rest.

And Jos saw that. Maybe that’s why he liked her.

He looked up as she approached, the stern line of his mouth twitching into something just short of a smile. For him, it might as well have been a beam of sunshine.

“Belle,” Jos said, his voice rough but warm. “There you are.”

“Hello, Jos,” she greeted, easy and open.

He stepped toward her with the kind of casual nod that could almost pass for affection. “Thought you were with Ferrari.”

“I was. Took a detour.”

Jos huffed. “McLaren has better lighting. Can’t blame you.”

They stepped to the side, out of the path of two mechanics wheeling a cart. Belle found herself watching him for a moment—his weathered face, the tightness still in his shoulders. 

She knew what people said about him, knew what he’d been like with Max as a child. Strict to the point of brutal. All pressure, all fire.

But Max still called him Papa sometimes, when he was tired or fond.

Still lit up when Jos showed up on a race weekend, even if he didn’t say it.

Love could look strange from the outside. And still be real.

She never pretended to understand it. But she respected it.

“You look good,” Jos said, nodding to her. “Max said Monaco’s treating you both well. ”

Belle smiled slightly, brushing a wind-blown strand of hair behind her ear. “It has been.”

Jos made a noise that might’ve been agreement—or amusement. “How’s Lilly settling in?”

“Still a menace,” Belle replied, smirking. “She shredded one of Max’s Red Bull shirts last week. Looked very pleased with herself afterward.”

He studied her then, for a long moment. Not judging—just weighing. Jos never said anything he didn’t mean. Which made what he said next hit harder than it had any right to.

“I know I wasn’t an easy father,” Jos said, eyes fixed ahead, as if the admission would be easier without eye contact. “I pushed too hard. Got too angry. Expected too much.”

Belle didn’t speak. She knew better than to fill silence when someone like Jos offered it willingly.

“But Max…” Jos exhaled. “He still calls. Still wants me at races. Still makes space.”

“He loves you,” Belle said quietly.

Jos nodded once, jaw tight. “He tells me things now,” he said quietly. “Little things. What you made for dinner. What you said when he had a bad sim race. How the cats sleep on your side of the bed.”

Belle felt her chest tighten—but not in a bad way. Just in that quiet, overwhelming way that meant this mattered.

“I used to worry,” Jos went on. “That he’d burn out. Too much, too soon. Like I pushed him past something soft he was supposed to keep. But with you...”

He trailed off. Didn’t finish the sentence. Jos didn’t need to.

Belle understood anyway.

With her, Max had something soft again. Something to rest in. Something to hold.

“I don’t want to be the only soft thing in his life,” Belle said gently. “But I’ll be there, if he needs it.”

Jos nodded. “He does.”

A pause. He looked at her again. “I’m glad it’s you.”

Belle’s throat tightened. “Thank you.”

“He’s steadier with you,” Jos added. “Not softer. But anchored. Like he knows where to land.”

Belle blinked away the sudden sting in her eyes. “He does the same for me.”

Jos’s mouth curved, just a little. “That’s how it should be.”

They stood like that for another few seconds, in the shifting quiet of the paddock—engines humming, people passing, a thousand things moving around them. But it felt still.

Then, as if remembering who he was, Jos cleared his throat and stepped back. “Go on, before someone accuses you of defecting to Red Bull.”

“I’ll deny everything,” Belle promised.

Jos nodded once, a final farewell. “Tell Max to call this evening. He never remembers.”

“He does,” Belle said, turning away with a small smile. “He just likes when you remind him.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/MonacoMadness:

Someone zoom in on this pic. She’s laughing at something Lily said.

THE EYE CONTACT.

WAKE UP SHEEPLE.

@/GarageGhouls: Me: they’re just friends. Also me: builds color-coded map of Belle’s appearances near Lando over 18 months

@/SprinkleTheory:

REMEMBER THE SPRINKLE CONVERSATION???

Don’t act like y’all forgot the sprinkles.

Lando and Belle. Ice cream. Eye contact. ENDGAME.

@/CharlesStan97:

Charles could be on fire and no one would notice because y’all are too busy shipping his sister with Lando.

@/OscarPSpyCam:

Meanwhile Oscar is just thrilled his girlfriend and Lando’s or Max’s maybe-girlfriend are bonding over iced coffee and judging everyone.

@/LandoNation94: She was with Lily later too??? Like fully laughing at something together like besties??? What do they know

@/BelleWatch2025: Everyone: She’s dating Max. Me, seeing her chat and giggle with Lily: 👀👀👀

@/MonacoMadness: Belle is either: a) secretly dating Lando b) adopting the entire McLaren team as her emotional support family c) both

@/RedFlaggedRomance: I’m telling you. Belle being with Oscar’s girlfriend all before qualifying?? That’s some soft launch energy

@/OpenYourEyesF1: She’s in the papaya now. The soft colors. The oat milk lattes. The laughing. Ferrari could never.

@/PapayaTheory: So what you’re saying is: Isabelle is now friends with Lily AND STILL INSISTS SHE’S “JUST A FRIEND” Right.

@/gridgossip: DID I JUST SEE ISABELLE LECLERC CHATTING WITH JOS VERSTAPPEN??? and like… smiling??? And he WAS TOO???

@/chaoticprancinghorse: That man growled at a cameraman last year and now he’s out here looking friendly because Belle showed up??? What kind of soft power diplomacy is this???

@/f1girldetective: Belle. Babe. What spell did you cast on Jos Verstappen and is it available in serum form??

@/paddockcryptid: you’re telling me jos verstappen—the same man who looks like he’s planning a coup 80% of the time—was out here smiling??? Because of isabelle leclerc??? i’m ascending

@/maxsmiletracker: First the wallpaper, now they are chatting in the paddock?!?

@/wheelnutsanon: BREAKING: Jos Verstappen spotted having a pleasant conversation with Isabelle Leclerc. Charles Leclerc reportedly still screaming into a pillow somewhere

***

Belle had barely stepped through the glass doors of Ferrari hospitality when Charles turned on her like a heat-seeking missile.

“Why were you talking to Jos Verstappen?”

She blinked. “Hi, Charles. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

He stalked toward her, cap slightly askew, eyes wild in that very specific way he only got during Monaco weekend meltdown mode™.

“No, seriously. I just saw you outside. With Jos. Why?”

Belle exhaled slowly. “Because we ran into each other. We exchanged words. As people sometimes do.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “It looked longer than words. You were smiling.”

She dropped her bag onto one of the hospitality chairs with more force than necessary. “What exactly do you think is happening here, Charles? Spell it out. Because first it was GP, then Lando, and now—now—you think I’m flirting with Max’s father?!”

“You smiled at him, Belle!”

“I also smile at dogs, coffee, and your PR assistant. That doesn’t mean I’m planning a romantic future with any of them.”

Charles scowled. “You don’t understand. The whole paddock watches you. They speculate. And it distracts me.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry my existence is personally offensive to your championship hopes,” Belle said flatly. “Do you want me to start wearing a paper bag over my head?”

Charles blinked. “That’s not—”

“You’re stressed. I get that. Monaco is important to you. But I’m not the enemy here, Charles. I’m not out there giving interviews or calling press conferences. I was walking back from McLaren. I ran into Jos. We talked. That’s it.”

“He’s Max’s dad,” Charles said, like it was the punchline to a joke she didn’t get.

“And Max is a person I know,” Belle replied, tone tight. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

Belle gave him a long, unimpressed look. “Nothing. Because I’m not doing this with you.”

“Belle—”

“No, Charles.” Her voice dropped, low and firm. “You’re rude. You’re exhausted. And instead of admitting that, you’re picking a fight with me.”

Charles faltered. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did. But it’s fine. You’ll be insufferable until Sunday and then pretend none of this happened.”

She walked past him, brushing lightly against his shoulder. “Next time, just say you’re scared of losing and stop dragging my coffee chats into it.”

Charles stood frozen, holding his espresso cup like it had betrayed him.

Belle didn’t look back.

[randombush3]

solo necesitaba estar aquí

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Summary: some much-needed family time is had

Words: 2134

Notes: I got bored and this came to mind

You’re busy. As in, drowning in calls, constantly approached by your juniors, never-seeing-the-light-of-day busy. You don’t even remember the last time you sat down and had dinner with your wife and child. You pay a woman to replace both his mothers.

The sun has already set, the view of orange slowly dimming into darkness especially visible from your newly-obtained corner office. There must be about two more hours left on your schedule today, explaining the fresh coffee on your desk. And you’re tired, but you love this job. It’s worth it.

Your assistant — new, bumbling as he tries to grow accustomed to your discipline and efficiency — appears, phone in-hand.

“Is that New York?” is your immediate question, noting the terror on his face with slight amusement. It always takes a while for the young ones to break.

He shakes his head. The words he mouths are far scarier: it’s your wife.

You stand up.

“Give it to me.” The phone is searing hot, and you know that this is not a call of affection. “Alexia, baby, hi!”

“La profe ha dicho que somos madres terribles.”

You check the date on the screen of your laptop. “Oh, there was that meeting, wasn’t there?”

“You said you’d come.”

“I thought we’d both agreed to send Luisa?” In truth, you had. Alexia is in the most crucial part of the season, playing matches that decide her glory (and her mood during summer). “Did you go?”

“No. But at least I was home to ask him how it went.”

You rub your temples. Your assistant has taken his cue to leave, hovering on the other side of the glass door as if it will save him from the bomb that’s about to go off. “Okay. Well, what did he say? Are you with him right now?”

“Luisa’s is getting him ready for bed,” Alexia replies with a deep sigh. You gather there is no good news to give. “He told her that he never sees us. No malice intended — a simple: mis mamás son tan importantes. And the teacher took it as, mis mamás son demasiado importantes.”

“He didn’t lie.”

“And you don’t feel guilty?”

You think back to the last time you spent uninterrupted time with your son. It must have been Alexia’s last match — no, you had to leave because of a crisis in Tokyo. Maybe before that?

“We’ve spent the last seven years being parents he can be proud of. But he… doesn’t even see us.”

“You’re home right now!”

“Just in time to kiss him goodnight!”

Your breath hitches.

That’s supposed to be enough. That’s supposed to be the line that closes the argument, the past where she tells you it’s okay, that you’re trying. That your intentions are good and true and she isn’t a saint either.

But she doesn’t say anything.

A sudden wave of exhaustion hits you, and you find your desk chair, constantly warmed and broken in, and sink back into it, the city glowing behind you like a silent reprimand. You lean forwards, elbow on the desk, fingers still pressed against your temple.

She’s on speaker now. It almost feels like she’s in the room with you.

“I thought we were doing the right thing,” you say finally, quieter now. “Working this hard. Building something for him.”

There’s a pause. A cavity opens up between the two of you. Alexia no longer agrees. “He just wants parents.”

It stings more than it should. Because deep down, you knew it. You’ve known it for a while — in the drawings where Luisa is front and centre, where you and Alexia are smiling stock figures tucked away in the corner. You knew it when he started calling her mamá Luisa, without hesitation or confusion.

“He told her,” Alexia continues, voice breaking just slightly, “that sometimes he pretends we’re home. That he hears the door open and he thinks it’s one of us — and he gets all… excited, just for it to be a delivery or a friend, or the neighbours checking in on him.”

You let out a long breath, eyes falling shut. “He’s seven. He shouldn’t know disappointment like that.”

Silence. But she’s still on the line. You can hear her breathing — steady, controlled. Like she’s bracing herself to say something worse.

“I have a few matches left this season,” she says. “Then I’m home until the Euros.”

“And I have Tokyo, then Berlin. After that, a quarterly review. Shareholder summit in—”

“No,” she interrupts. “You have a son. Who misses you. That comes first.”

You want to argue. You want to say it’s not that easy, that you don’t just get to drop everything. But maybe it is that easy. Maybe the hard part is admitting you’ve made the wrong choice more times than you can count.

“I’ll clear the week after Tokyo,” you say finally. “We’ll take him to that dinosaur park he keeps asking about. No phones. Just us.”

“Both of us,” Alexia says firmly. “No pulling out last minute.”

“I promise.”

Another silence — but a warmer one, less weighted. For a moment, it’s just the two of you breathing, the world quietly changing as you make your decision.

“I miss you,” she says softly.

And suddenly, more than the job, more than the office, more than the city stretched out in front of you — you just want to go home.

…

He squeals with delight as you march through arrivals, Alexia unable to control his surge into the crowd to attach himself to you. Hands meet your leg and you scoop him up, surprised by how much heavier he is, pulling him into you as you make your way to your wife.

That conversation a few months ago has been a much-needed catalyst for change.

Tokyo was good, perfect for networking, but it wasn’t home.

It's not this.

“I missed you, campeón,” you whisper in his ear as you reach Alexia, smiling at the slight sheen in her eyes. “I’m so glad I could come home early.”

Alexia doesn’t need to respond for her answer to be known.

The next morning, you wake to the sound of tiny feet sprinting down the hallway and slamming into the door of your bedroom.

“¡Hoy es el día de los dinosaurios!” he yells, muffled through the wood like some kind of pint-sized town crier. “Y tú lo prometiste, MAMÁ. ¡LO PROMETISTE!”

Alexia groans from beside you, face buried deep in the pillow, muscles aching from the dregs of the season and the thought of the build-up to the Euros. “What have we done?”

“We’ve entered legally binding verbal contract,” you mutter, already reaching for your phone to cancel the one remaining telecon you hadn’t yet axed. You text your assistant a quick: Push everything back, I’m being held hostage by a T-Rex.

The reply comes instantly: Understood. Good luck, boss.

…

At the dinosaur park, all bets are off.

He spots a rickety, questionably-safe ‘Dino Dig Zone’ and points with an index rivalling Augustus’ ad locutio in the Prima Porta. “There. I’m going to dig for bones. I need gloves. And goggles. And snacks.”

Unsurprisingly, there’s a board listing the prices of those exact items. Alexia gives you one glance before nudging you towards the till.

You buy him the whole kit — gloves three sizes too big, a neon-green hard hat, safety goggles with actual working headlamps. He looks like a very tiny paleontologist sponsored by a very eccentric energy drink company. You and Alexia exchange a look, but say nothing.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s not digging. He’s sitting on top of the dig site, dramatically narrating the excavation like David Attenborough. You have no idea where he learnt the technical terms, but maybe your background checks on Luisa didn’t include her supposed paleontology degree.

“Here,” he says, pointing at what is very obviously a plastic ribcage, “we find the remains of the mamasaurio, a terrifying beast who never misses football training and always scores the best goals.”

Alexia snorts. “Okay, I like this version of me.”

You’re not so lucky.

“And next to it — the dinochefejecutiva. She’s very rare to see. She lives mostly in airports.”

You choke on your iced coffee.

The gift shop is a disaster. You tell him he can pick one souvenir. He picks seven (one for every year you’ve missed, apparently — he’s a master manipulator). Alexia leans down to bargain with him while you tap out and retreat to the picnic benches outside. She emerges twenty minutes later, dazed, holding two dinosaur hoodies, a talking plush stegosaurus, a fossil-shaped backpack, glow-in-the-dark dino socks, and a hat with T-REX CEO embroidered in sparkly thread.

“He hustled me,” she whispers to you.

You smirk. “It’s not hard.”

He wears everything at once for the rest of the day, waddling around like an overburdened prehistoric fashion icon, munching on overpriced churros and announcing to anyone who will listen that today is his yes day. You and Alexia trail behind him, laughing, holding hands, slowly starting to believe you might actually remember how to do this — this parenting thing, this family thing, this loving-each-other-and-showing-up thing.

When he falls asleep in the car, surrounded by stuffed animals and crumbs and the remains of a dino tail-shaped lollipop, Alexia turns to you.

“You know,” she says, voice soft with something like peace, “I think this was the best investment we’ve ever made.”

You glance at the back seat — at your snoring, sugar-comatose son — and then at your wife, radiant even after she was forced to hold a melting ice-lolly that stained her white t-shirt.

You smile. “Returns have been excellent so far.”

Dinner that night is chaotic, but surprisingly demanded even after a day of junk food that nearly sent your two-time Ballon d’Or into a mental breakdown.

He’s still riding the sugar high from the park, sprawled across the kitchen floor in his dino hoodie, tiny plastic stegosaurus tucked into the crook of his arm like he gave birth to it. You’re rummaging through cabinets blindly — unsure when Luisa last reorganised them and finding her system incredibly confusing.

Alexia’s leaning against the counter, eyeing the situation with a suspicious mix of amusement and concern. “Are you sure about this?” she asks as you pull out spaghetti, three different cheeses, and something you think is tomato sauce but might be expired salsa.

“Yep,” you lie.

Halfway through the prep, he finally looks up from his playtime and asks, “Where’s Luisa?”

Alexia freezes mid-chop. You glance over your shoulder and smile, holding up your sauce-stained wooden spoon like it’s proof of competence. “You do know that we can cook, right?”

He blinks. Then, slowly: “Que va.”

“Excuse you,” Alexia says, squinting at him like he’s just insulted her entire bloodline. “Mamá once made lasagna so good it made grown men cry.”

“Did they cry because of the cheese?” he asks seriously.

“Emotionally? Yes,” you cut in. “Digestively? Also yes.”

Dinner ends up being… edible. Barely. The spaghetti is overcooked, the sauce has a suspicious kick that might be from Alexia mistaking god-knows-what for paprika, and the garlic bread ends up more like garlic crackers. But he eats it anyway — every bite — grinning like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“You’re both kinda good at this,” he says between chews.

“Kinda good?” you echo, with faux offence.

“Like… Luisa would do it faster.” He shrugs at Alexia’s raised eyebrows. “But this is nice.”

You and Alexia exchange a glance over his head, soft and knowing. She reaches under the table to squeeze your knee.

“Did you have fun today?” you ask, hoping your tentativeness is well-hidden.

He nods with enthusiasm.

“Let’s do it again tomorrow!”

He’s raised in his seat and almost rearing to go.

“How about bedtime first before we plan more yes-days?” Alexia negotiates, this time successfully.

Later, after bedtime stories and lights out and one too many requests for water, you crawl into bed next to her. The silence is warm and easy, the soft glow of her bedside lamp all you need to help you relax. Her back presses into your chest, and you bury your face into her shoulder, finally relaxed in a way you haven’t been in months.

And then, her voice, low and a little smug: “Now that you’re home…”

You smile against her skin. “Yeah?”

She turns just slightly, her hand brushing across your hip, teasing. “I’ve got a few… yes-days of my own in mind.”

You let out a laugh, quiet and breathless. “You drive a hard bargain, capitana.”

She smirks, settling deeper into your arms. “Better keep up, dinochefejecutiva. Or I’m benching you.”

“Not the bench,” you whisper dramatically, already pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Anything but the bench.”

She hums, wicked and sweet. “Then show me you’ve still got game.”

[formulaonecrumbs]

hi!! i’ve just like binge read all of your stuff and it’s so beautifully written

do you think you could do a charles fic with the co-parenting to lovers trope? like their kid helps them get together or like he flys out to see their kid and realizes that life is so much better with them? i have a whole like plot im sorry 😭

stay a little longer 🕯️

Charles Leclerc x ex(?)!reader

summary: co-parenting finally turns into something more when their daughter decides it’s time for a date.

warnings: co-parenting to lovers, kid matchmaker, suggestive content, kissing, car makeout, implied smut, love confessions, second chances

A/N: thank u anon for the requuessttt!!! i feel like i still don’t write charles very well 😭 like yes i believe the guy is romantic but i think i made that his whole personality in this WHOOPS. random but i love when drivers have girlfriends cuz now i got sm material for the mood-boards. i hope u enjoy it and as always love u ❤️

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

you never expected him to show up.

not like this, not without warning, not with that soft look in his eyes and a suitcase in his hand.

it’s been almost six months since you saw charles leclerc in person. six months since he kissed your cheek at the airport and promised he’d try to visit more. six months of facetime calls with your daughter holding your phone too close to her face, grinning with her tiny teeth and telling him she lost another one. six months of you pretending that you were completely fine raising her mostly alone while he chased podiums around the world.

but now he’s standing on your porch like it’s nothing. like he’s not the father of your child and also the person who once broke your heart in the softest, most unintentional way.

“hi,” he says.

you blink. “charles? what—what are you doing here?”

he looks down at his shoes. he’s wearing sneakers that used to live in your hallway. the ones your daughter would trip over every time she tried to run to the door. “i had a week off. i wanted to see her.”

you let him in because you always do. because she misses him even when she doesn’t say it, and because you’ve never been able to fully close the door on him.

your daughter screams ‘daddy!’ the second she hears him. he drops his bag and catches her mid-run, spinning her around in the tiny living room you’ve made your home. you watch from the kitchen, hands still on the mug you were making, heart doing something stupid and warm and dangerous in your chest.

“you’re not leaving tonight, are you?” she asks him, small hands on his cheeks.

he shakes his head. “not tonight. not for a few days, actually.”

and you swear, you see her little face light up with something more than excitement. something like hope.

it’s not supposed to be easy, but it is.

charles fits back into your space like he never left. he sleeps on the couch and does the dishes after dinner. he drives her to school in the mornings and makes up silly songs about brushing her teeth. he folds laundry while you’re at work and lets her paint his nails on the weekends.

and you keep waiting for it to feel like a mistake. to feel like a tease, like you’re slipping back into something that already ended.

but instead, it feels like healing.

like late nights where he sits across from you, whispering stories about races she’s too young to hear. like laughing over wine after she’s gone to bed, both of you tipsy on nostalgia and something heavier. something that tastes like maybe.

he doesn’t flirt. not really. but sometimes, he looks at you like he remembers every moment you ever shared. and sometimes, when he thinks you’re not paying attention, he stares at you like you hung the stars.

it happens on a tuesday.

you’re rushing to get out the door for work. your daughter can’t find her other shoe and you’ve already yelled twice, which always makes you feel like a terrible mother. charles is standing in the kitchen, packing her lunch like he’s done it every morning for the past year instead of the last five days.

and then she says it.

“daddy, are you staying forever now?”

you freeze. so does he.

“because i think you should,” she continues, completely unaware of the tension she’s stirred up. “you make mommy laugh again. and you’re really good at pancakes.”

charles doesn’t look at you. he kneels down and kisses her forehead. “i love you, chérie,” he says quietly.

you don’t talk about it.

not until later, when she’s asleep and you’re both sitting on the back steps with a blanket around your shoulders and the sky full of stars.

“she wants us to be a family,” you whisper.

charles’s voice is soft. “i do too.”

your chest tightens. “charles…”

“i know,” he says. “i know i left. i know i haven’t been here like i should have. and i’m not trying to ask you to just forget it. but i want to be here now. not just for her. for you, too.”

you stare at your hands. your heart. the little cracks that never quite healed after he left.

“why now?” you ask.

he takes a breath. “because every time i see her smile, i see you. and every time i talk to her, i wish you were beside me. and because… i thought i was doing the right thing. giving you space. letting you live your life without the mess of mine. but i’ve never been more wrong.”

you look at him. really look. and he looks scared. vulnerable in a way he never is behind the wheel. and you realize, in this quiet moment under the stars, that maybe you’ve been scared too.

you don’t say anything. you just reach out, take his hand, and let your fingers intertwine like they never stopped knowing how to.

he moves in slowly.

a toothbrush at first. then a drawer. then he’s picking her up from school without you asking, buying groceries like he knows the list by heart. you fall back into love like it’s muscle memory. slow, steady, familiar. this time, without the fear.

your daughter starts calling you her “mommy and daddy house.” she draws pictures of the three of you holding hands, all smiling with the sun in the corner.

one night, she asks if you and daddy are married again.

charles chuckles. “not yet, chérie.”

you shoot him a look. “not funny.”

he leans in, his voice low against your ear. “it could be.”

and you feel it again—that dangerous, stupid hope that maybe this time, it’s real.

because he came back. because he stayed. because your little girl believed in love enough to put it back together. and because this time, you’re ready to believe in it too.

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

she catches you holding his hand in the kitchen.

it’s not a big deal, really. just fingers brushing as you pass him the milk. but charles catches your pinky with his, gives it a gentle squeeze, and you smile in that way you only ever do with him.

your daughter sees it all from her seat at the table, eating cereal like it’s the most important meal of her life.

“are you guys in love again?” she asks, spoon halfway to her mouth.

charles pauses, milk almost spilling over the edge of his glass. “what?”

“you heard me,” she says, chewing dramatically.

you shoot charles a look. he shrugs, trying not to laugh.

“i think you are,” she continues, totally unfazed. “you look at each other like the people in mommy’s movies. and you sleep on the couch together sometimes. and daddy made you pancakes in a heart shape.”

you can’t even deny that one. he really did.

“okay,” she says, pushing her bowl away. “it’s time.”

“time for what?” you ask, even though you already know.

“you’re going on a date.”

charles raises an eyebrow. “we are?”

she nods. “yes. i’ll stay with mamie. and you two can go somewhere fancy. with candles and music. and then you’ll kiss.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “what is it with you and kissing lately?”

she grins. “uncle pierre says it’s how people fall in love.”

charles makes a face. “i’m going to block his number.”

you get ready while she helps charles pick out a shirt. you hear her scolding him for choosing the boring grey one and insisting he wears the one with the tiny flowers because “mommy likes when you look like a soft boy.”

you come out in a dress that hasn’t seen the light of day in years and charles just stands there, looking like he forgot how to breathe.

“wow,” he says softly. “you look…”

you raise a brow. “like a soft girl?”

he laughs. “like the girl i’ve been in love with since before i even knew it.”

you blink.

he smiles, nervous and sweet and very charles. “too much?”

“no,” you say, cheeks warm. “just enough.”

you drive to a little italian restaurant tucked away in the quieter part of town. it’s dimly lit, with fairy lights above the patio and old music playing inside. it’s romantic in a kind of unintentional way. the kind of place that doesn’t try too hard because it doesn’t need to.

charles pulls your chair out for you and keeps glancing across the table like he’s still trying to figure out if this is real.

“this feels weird,” you say, sipping your wine. “in a good way. but weird.”

he nods. “like we’re pretending we’re not already a family.”

you smile. “yeah.”

“but i want this too,” he adds, eyes soft. “the dating part. the butterflies.”

you meet his gaze. “you still get butterflies?”

he reaches across the table, lacing your fingers with his. “every time you look at me like this.”

and god, you feel it too. that flutter. that full-body warmth that only ever comes when you’re really, really falling.

after dinner, he takes your hand and suggests a walk. it’s chilly but not cold, and the stars are out like someone painted them just for tonight.

“this is the part where we kiss under the moonlight,” you joke, bumping your shoulder into his.

charles stops walking.

“what?” you ask, turning.

he steps closer. “i was waiting for the right moment.”

your breath catches. “is this it?”

he nods, eyes flicking to your mouth. “yeah. i think it is.”

and when he kisses you, it’s slow and soft and everything you’ve been missing for years. it’s full of promises and apologies and second chances. it tastes like wine and laughter and home.

you stay like that for a long time, under the stars and the streetlamp, kissing like you’re twenty and just discovering how good it feels to be wanted.

when you get home, the lights are low and the house is quiet. your daughter is asleep, curled up in her bed with her stuffed giraffe and the nightlight glowing faintly beside her.

charles shuts the door gently behind you.

you turn to him, heart racing, still a little breathless from the night.

“so…” you whisper.

he walks toward you, slow, eyes locked on yours. “so.”

“was this the part where we’re supposed to kiss again?”

he nods, grinning. “definitely.”

he backs you into the couch and kisses you until you’re both laughing and gasping and tangled in each other. his hands in your hair, your arms around his neck, the world spinning just slightly off its axis in the best way.

“we probably shouldn’t wake her,” you mumble against his mouth.

“then we’ll be quiet,” he whispers back, kissing down your neck.

you end up in the car—because it’s late and you can’t quite make it upstairs, and also because there’s something wildly thrilling about being wrapped around each other in the dark leather seats, trying not to fog up the windows too much.

his hands on your thighs, your lips tracing every freckle on his collarbone, his voice low and hoarse as he says your name like a prayer.

after, you sit in the front seat, legs curled into his lap, his hand resting gently on your bare knee.

“we should do this again,” you say, grinning against his shoulder.

charles kisses your temple. “i plan on it.”

and you believe him. completely.

because this time, he’s not just here for the night. this time, he’s here to stay.

THE END :>

[plutoslastwords]

Obsessed with baby Norris!!! Do you think you could cook up some hurt comfort for us? Or even a sick baby Norris xx

sick day

lando norris x daughter!reader

summary: for the first time, baby norris picks up a bug, lando has to cope with his darling girl feeling under the weather

w/c: 1.2k

warnings: vomiting!!!! not super graphic but if you have emetophobia and feel like this may not be for you pls don't feel the need to read :)

a/n: on a writing spree atm, idk what's happening to me

~~~

Generally, you were a pretty healthy child, much to Lando’s relief, he’s not sure if he could manage seeing you ill. It would probably be harder for him than you. You manage to charge through your first 18 months of life without having any major illnesses, maybe a cough or a snotty nose here and there, but all toddlers have a cough, it’s a rite of passage. 

When you turn about 1 and a half, Lando enrolls you in a playgroup, somewhere that you can go whilst he works, where there are people to look after you and play games with you. You can make new friends, and he can meet more parents, you both love it.

However, it doesn’t seem to occur to him that the playgroup is literally a walking germ fest. A room full of 1-3 year olds who’s favourite activity is to stick their grubby hands into anything and everything that they see. Therefore, it comes as a bit of a surprise to him when you fall ill, and he doesn’t really know how to cope.

You normally come to wake him up as soon as the sun has started to think about rising over the horizon, jumping on his bed with a ‘daddy!!!!’, and shaking him awake. This morning, however, Lando wakes up before he even hears a peep out of your room. He doesn’t think much of it, presuming that it’s probably because you stayed up a little later last night, and you had had a long day the day before. 

He goes to the kitchen to start making some breakfast, deciding to let you have a little lie in, maybe he’ll drop you off at playgroup a bit later today. Unfortunately, his plans are all halted when you finally come into the kitchen, pale and in tears.

“Daddy, I don’t feel good…” You mumble, rubbing your tear filled eyes. 

“Oh god baby… you don’t look super well… come here, let Daddy feel your forehead..”

You toddle over, slowly, the usual spring that you have in your step gone, your walk turning into more of a slump than anything. As soon as you get within reasonable distance of where he is at the kitchen counter he scoops you up into his arms, placing the back of his hand against your little forehead. 

He winces when he can immediately tell that you’re feverish, “God, you’re burning up angel…” he mumbles, “Do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?”

He curses in his mind when you reply with a weak nod, “Okay baby, we’re gonna get you nice and comfy on the sofa, not gonna go to playgroup today I don’t think…”

You rest your head on his shoulder as he carries your fragile form over to the big sofa, gently wrapping you up in a nice fuzzy blanket.

“Is there anything that you want, baby? Some water?”

You just shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut as if you were trying to will the illness out of your body. Lando’s heart hurts at your desperate form. 

“My poor angel…” He sighs, running a hand through your messy hair, “Daddy’s gonna stay with you all day, okay? You’re gonna start feeling better…”

That prompts a small smile from you, you like the idea of having a whole day with him, but it’s nothing compared to the normal grins that you flash at him when he suggests something like that. 

For a while you two just sit on the sofa, you going in and out of slumber whilst resting against his chest. At one point he decides that even though you’re not feeling great, you should probably eat something, if not your energy would collapse completely. 

Detaching himself from you, he places a kiss to the top of your head, heading into the kitchen, passing by the discarded breakfast from earlier, and grabbing you just a plain slice of toast, he didn’t want you having anything too flavourful, worried that it would just make you feel even more ill. 

He returns with a glass of water along with the toast, “Baby, can you try to eat this for me, please? It might make you feel a bit better…” he asks softly. 

“‘M not hungry daddy..” You mumble back in response, your little hands clutching tightly onto the blanket that you’re wrapped in.

“I know darling,” he sighs, “but you still gotta eat… just a few bites for me? Please?”

He comes over to sit back next to you, ripping off a small bite size portion of the toast, and coaxing it into your mouth. You reluctantly accept it, chewing it slowly and seeming to have a bit of a struggle to swallow, but you manage it in the end, which gives him a slight sense of relief. 

Although you manage a few more pieces of the toast, it doesn’t take long until your sick body decides that you can’t take it anymore. This leads to the first trip to the bathroom of the day, Lando’s heart breaking as your little body shakes with your retching. 

After cleaning you up, he takes you back into his arms, carrying you back over to the sofa, “Try to go to sleep, my darling… you might feel better for a nap…”

You give him a slight nod, snuggling into your plethora of blankets and pillows, starting to doze off. As you sleep, he rubs your hair, his chest aching with sympathy of how you must be feeling, his poor, darling, angel girl…

By lunchtime you seem to have improved, albeit only slightly, still feeling horrible, but you can stomach a couple bites of a plain biscuit without needing another trip to the bathroom. At this point, Lando is more worried about how hot you’re getting, even though you demand that you’re very cold. 

Much to your dismay, he grabs an ice pack to put on your head, to help and control your rapidly growing temperature. As much as you hate it, it does help to make you feel a bit better.

“That a bit better, my love?”

“‘S cold daddy…”

“I know my love… but the pesky bug has made your body all hot, we gotta cool you down, don’t want you going up in flames!”

You let a slight giggle out at that, giving hope to Lando that you’re feeling at least a little better, if you’re able to laugh at him. 

For the rest of the day, Lando stays by your side, letting you watch all the cartoons that your little heart desires on the TV, pretending to be just as interested in them as you are. 

When it reaches dinner time, you are definitely much perkier, giggling almost like you do when you’re fully healthy as Lando pulls funny faces at you.

“Daddy…”

“Yes, my angel?”

“Can I be sick everyday?”

“Everyday? My love, why would you wanna feel yucky all the time?”

“Cause I could be with you all day… watch cartoons…”

He nearly breaks down in tears right then and there.

“Oh, my angel, you’d get bored of me eventually… you wouldn’t get to go to playgroup! Wouldn’t be able to see all your friends!”

You hum, seeing his point, “But I like having a daddy day…”

“I like it too, baby…” He smiles, pressing numerous kisses to your forehead as he holds you close in his arms. “Daddy loves you, okay? You don’t go forgetting that…”

“Love you more, Daddy..”

~~~

a/n: tysm for reading!!! requests are always open x

[whatsnewalycat]

The first time I got pregnant I had just turned 18. I did not want to be pregnant or be a parent. I was still in high school and living with my dad and stepmom; I didn’t talk to them about it bc I didn’t trust them to be supportive.

My friends and boyfriend at the time (now my husband god bless) went to the abortion clinic in the cities one Saturday. I told my parents we were going to the mall. There were pro-life protesters outside the clinic holding signs telling me that what I was about to do was murder. Once inside, we sat in a small crowded waiting room for 8 hours. I hated the procedure. I felt fucking awful afterwards. People talk about pregnancy and postpartum hormones but we don’t really talk about how out of whack hormones get after an abortion. I plummeted into depression before leaving the clinic. As we were driving out, one of the pro-life protesters with her stupid embryo sign smiled and waved at me and I gave her the finger and mouthed FUCK YOU.

We see a lot of pro-life propaganda in rural areas, a lot of billboards and road signs with pictures of babies saying shit like “I’m a child not a choice” or whatever. I remember seeing those signs on the way home and how angry and sad they made me feel. Not because of regret—I have never once regretted my decision to terminate that pregnancy—but the hormones and the shame and that very lonely feeling of being surrounded by people who think you’re disgusting and immoral.

What I wanted to say is that these billboards are rad and I’m so glad they exist. I wish I could have seen more of this on that drive home instead of the imagery that made me feel deeply ashamed of myself.

What I also wanted to say is that abortions are rad and I’m so glad they exist. People should always have a choice in whether or not they want to host a pregnancy in their body. Every single reason a person has for terminating their pregnancy is a good reason.

"Interstate 55 carries 10s of thousands of abortion seekers out of southern states to Illinois, where abortion is legal. I-55 is covered with horrific, shaming billboards. Shout Your Abortion put up 6 good ones, to show love & affirmation to those making the journey." x

[spiicii]

jey uso / rut 

x fem!reader word count → 8.5k summary → jey goes into an unexpected rut in the middle of a match. now driven by animalistic desire and instinct, he’ll rip the entire backstage apart to find the one person he yearns for: you.  notes → this is the ask that started it all but i've gotten a few other requests for this prompt too! thank you @darkandlight00 for showing interest and for @minteagalaxea and @acute-crashout-jeyuso for keeping me motivated. pls enjoy a gratuitous gunther beatdown as well as some wonderfully feral jey for your viewing pleasure. links → masterlist / taglist  tags → alternative universe, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, possessive behavior, biting, bruises, daddy kink (if you squint), canon-typical violence, unprotected piv sex, knotting, ruts and heats, mentions of blood, scent marking, breeding kink

You stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror, reaching up to trace the bites and bruises Jey had left on your neck. He’d been uncommonly rough tonight, his mouth blazing a warpath across your delicate skin. While it wasn’t unusual for him to be possessive, the marks had been a little too deep, a little too bruising. The last time he’d marked you like this he’d been in his rut. 

“M’sorry.” 

Jey moved up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you close. His eyes flickered down to the rapidly darkening bruises at the base of your throat. You could tell he was remorseful, offering an apologetic kiss to your cheek when he met your gaze in the mirror. 

"Guess I went a little overboard, huh?” 

You couldn’t help but laugh, leaning your head back to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Just a little.” 

Jey pulled you closer, nosing at the sweet spot behind your ear to scent mark you. You rolled your eyes, but didn’t push him away. He’d been uncommonly clingy today, rubbing his scent on you every chance he got. As if you could ever smell like anyone else. 

“I hate this.” He muttered, his brow furrowed as he stared down at you. 

“Hate what?” 

“Those stupid heat suppressants. They starting to take your scent away.” 

You met his frustrated gaze in the mirror, offering him a reassuring smile. “I know, sweetheart, but that’s the point. It’ll be better this way.” 

Jey pouted, but he didn’t argue. You both knew how important it was for you to be on the pills now that you’d started this new job. Being backstage at WWE meant that you were surrounded by alphas. As an unmated omega, your scent would be nothing but a distraction. And the last thing you needed was going into heat at a job with so many unmated alphas roaming around.

“It don’t feel right.” Jey muttered, still trying to take in as much of your scent as he could. You’d only be on the pills for a few days, but they were already beginning to do their job. In a few weeks you’d barely have a scent at all.  

“Those are your instincts talking, baby.” You told him, reaching up to run your fingers through his soft hair. “You already get mad when another alpha even looks in my direction. You think you’ll be any different at work?” 

“You could just not work at all.” Jey met your eyes in the mirror again, his arms tight around your waist. “Stay home. Let me take care of you.” 

He scraped his teeth across the scent glands on your neck, the implication clear. 

You knew he wanted to make things official and mate you, but you didn’t feel ready. You’d grown up with parents who had mated too quickly and things hadn’t ended well for them. You’d seen what happens when a mated pair grows to loathe each other. No matter how unhappy they were, they couldn’t leave. Couldn’t move on. They were still a slave to their instincts, their biology tying them together until one of them died. 

You couldn’t go through that. You wouldn’t go through that, especially with Jey. You didn’t want to mate until you were completely certain it was what both of you wanted. If you were going to be tied together for life, you had to be sure. 

Still, you couldn’t deny the small thrill that ran through you as Jey nosed at the mating mark on your neck, your body instinctively leaning into his touch. There was a small part of you that wanted to let him bite there, officially claiming you as his, but you forced yourself to move away. 

“I don’t want to stay home.” You murmured, reaching up to play with his beard. “I want to work. This is important to me, Jey. I’m not ready to give up my career just yet.” 

Jey seemed disappointed, but he didn’t argue with you. Instead, he moved his hand to rest over your stomach, right above where you womb sat. His dark eyes met yours. He seemed almost hopeful, a silent promise for a future you both wanted but weren’t yet ready for. 

You resisted the instinctual urge to purr, knowing it would only encourage him. 

“I’m going back to bed.” You told him instead, standing on your tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to his bearded cheek. “You coming?” 

Jey could only nod, watching as you made your way back to the bedroom. 

You and Jey had been dating for almost two years now, but it had taken some time for you to work up the courage to move in with him. You’d never had a partner to nest with before. Nesting was intimate. Just one step closer to mating. 

Despite your fears, you couldn’t deny how natural it felt with Jey. He’d allowed you to follow your instincts and create a nest in your shared bedroom, ensuring that your scents were mixed together amongst the mountain of blankets and pillows you’d piled onto the bed. You’d put a canopy up to make it feel more like a den, the omega inside you yearning for a small space to feel safe in. 

It was your favorite place in the world. 

You quickly climbed up onto the bed, motioning for Jey to join you. To your surprise, Jey just stood there and stared at you instead, his dark eyes inscrutable. 

You furrowed your brow in confusion. “What’s wrong?” 

Jey shifted uneasily. “I don’t know,” he murmured, rubbing his hands together nervously. “I think I need to check the house.” 

You raised an eyebrow. He got like this sometimes, whenever he was feeling particularly protective, usually before his ruts. He would do a “check” of the house, ensuring that every window was locked, every door was closed, every curtain was drawn. It made him feel better, knowing that he was making your nest safer, that instinct to protect you driving him to pace the house restlessly until he was convinced his territory was safe. 

But he shouldn’t be feeling like that now. His rut wasn’t due until the winter. You wondered if your heat suppressants were throwing him off, making him restless and confused. You knew how strongly alphas responded to scent changes, especially in their partners. 

“Sweetheart, we’re okay.” You offered him a reassuring smile, motioning for him again. “Come back to bed.” 

Jey shook his head, now beginning to move around the room in agitation. “No. No, I gotta keep you safe.” 

He quickly moved to the window, checking each lock with a worried expression. You stood and reached out to him, a soft hand resting on his arm.  

“Baby, it’s alright.” You murmured. You let out a subvocal purr, an instinctual urge to soothe the restless alpha. “We’re safe. It’s okay.” 

Jey was quick to snatch you up, picking you up with ease and carrying you back to bed before you could argue. 

“Stay.” He growled, his eyes much darker than usual. You stared at him in confusion, even as your body instinctively relaxed at his dominant words, the urge to obey him overwhelming. 

“Jey.” You pleaded, though he wasn’t paying any attention to you. He continued to check the room, eventually leaving to no doubt check the rest of the house as well. 

You curled up deeper into your nest while you waited for him. Why was he so protective tonight? Your hand came up to trace the bites on your neck. His unusual roughness, combined with the uptick in his protectiveness, were usually signs of his pre-rut. But how was that possible? Jey’s ruts had been consistent since he first presented as a teenager. They’d never changed, no matter how much stress he was under. While it wasn’t impossible for alphas to have multiple ruts a year, Jey never had before. 

Perhaps it really was your heat suppressants causing all this. The thick booklet the doctor had given you detailing the side effects of the drug discussed the effect the suppressants had on scent. And alphas weren’t exactly known for dealing with scent changes well, especially in their mates. 

But we’re not mated. You told yourself. Although the mingled scents of your nest told a different story. 

Eventually Jey returned, still rubbing his hands together anxiously as he paced the room. You sat up to look at him, beginning to purr again in an effort to soothe him. 

“Jey, sweetheart, please come back to bed.” 

Jey didn’t seem convinced, doubling back to the bedroom door to make sure it was locked again. 

You sighed. You’d have to get creative if you wanted him to join you. 

“I’m so lonely without you, baby,” You whined, laying it on a bit thicker than usual. You offered him your best bedroom eyes. “I need you. Please, Daddy. Come to bed.” 

Jey was on top of you so quickly that you couldn’t help but laugh. 

*****

You were sore the next morning. 

Jey had fucked you through most of the night, that possessive look in his eyes never fading no matter how many times he came inside you. If Jey’s biology hadn’t been so consistent throughout his life, you would have been convinced it was his pre-rut. 

You were grateful when he woke up the next morning back to his old self again. He was all smiles and jokes as he kissed you awake, his body relaxed as he held you close. And when you left the nest to make him breakfast, he had no objections, merely following you to the kitchen to keep you company as you scrambled some eggs. 

He looked so good this morning, his sweatpants slung low on his hips and his chest bare as he leaned against the kitchen island. His mullet was still messy from sleep, his tattoos glistening in the morning light that slanted through the windows. If you weren’t so sore from last night, you’d probably ask him to fuck him right here on the kitchen counter. Instead, you asked him, “Are you feeling okay this morning? You seemed…different last night.” 

Jey raised an eyebrow. “What kind of different?” 

You rolled your eyes, motioning to the bruises on your neck. “Don’t you feel like this was a bit much?” 

Jey seemed apologetic. He shuffled to your side, pressing a kiss to a particularly nasty bruise he’d left beneath your jaw. “I told you I was sorry.” He mumbled, wrapping his arms around your waist again to pull you close. “I ain’t mean to take it that far.” 

You sighed. “I know, baby. I’m not mad. I’m just worried about you.” 

“Why?” Jey’s tone was defensive, his body tensing behind you. “Ain’t nothing wrong with me.” 

You didn’t want to argue with him, but you also didn’t want him going to work if he was about to go into a rut. You turned around to stare at him. “You don’t think maybe these are all signs?” 

“For a pre-rut?” Jey scowled. “It can’t be. I already had mine this year.” 

“I know, but-”

“You worrying for no reason.” Jey interrupted, keeping his long arms wrapped around your waist. “I told you I’m fine. So, I wanna check my house and keep my girl safe? That a bad thing?” 

“No, but-”

“Then don’t worry.” Jey pressed a reassuring kiss to your cheek. “Please. I don’t like seeing you get worked up.” 

You frowned, but you didn’t argue with him. Maybe he was right. If he really was in his pre-rut, you doubt he would have let you leave the nest at all this morning, let alone come into the kitchen to cook for him. Still, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. He still seemed on edge, his words a little too defensive to have you convinced that he was fine. 

But then Jey smiled at you, his face so open and happy that you couldn’t help but smile back. No, you were wrong. Jey was fine. You were worrying for nothing. He was fine. Everything was fine. 

*****

When you arrived at the arena that afternoon, you gave Jey a quick hug, already preparing to part ways. You both had responsibilities tonight. 

“I’ll see you after the show, baby,” you murmured, standing on your tiptoes to peck a quick kiss to his lips. “Good luck in your match tonight.” 

You moved away, as if to leave, but Jey was quick to grab your wrists, pulling you back into his chest. 

“Jey.” You complained, trying to wiggle from his grasp. “You gotta go see your trainers.” 

Jey’s hand was quick to grab your jaw, forcing your face up to look at him. You immediately stilled. 

“You’ll be waiting for me?” he asked, his tone urgent. “After my match?” 

You gave him a strange look. “Of course, baby. Don’t I always?” 

“You won’t leave.” It sounded more like a command than a question. His eyes seemed darker than usual and you noticed that his hand on your face felt hot to the touch. “You won’t leave the arena.” 

“Why would I leave? Won’t you need a ride home?” You tried to chuckle but Jey didn’t even crack a smile, his hand on your jaw tightening. 

“You’ll stay here and wait for me.” There was an edge behind his words, his pupils blown wide as he stared at you. “You won’t go anywhere. And when the show’s over, we’ll go home.” 

You let out a small whimper at the punishing grip he kept on your jaw and Jey blinked, seemingly unaware of how tightly he was holding you. He quickly released your face, shaking his head in confusion. 

“Sorry, I-” He seemed uncertain, wiping some new beads of sweat that were forming on his brow. “I just felt a little weird there for a second.” 

You couldn’t help but purr, an instinctive reaction at the sight of his distress, and Jey immediately relaxed at the sound. It was something omegas did to soothe their alphas and you were grateful that Jey reacted so well to it. He dropped his head onto your shoulder, allowing you to pet his hair in reassurance. You could practically feel the heat radiating off him. 

“Jey,” You couldn’t keep the worried tone out of your voice. “I think we should-”

“Jey! There you are!” One of his trainers had found the two of you in the parking lot. He looked breathless, as if he’d been running to look for him. “We got a lot of shit to cover tonight. Let’s go, come on.” 

Jey immediately straightened, pulling away from you. He passed a hand over his face and you could tell he was trying to pull himself together. “Yeah, yeah. You got it, uce.” 

Jey looked back at you, his gaze apologetic. “Sorry, honey.” He murmured. “I’ll see you after the show.” 

You frowned. “Jey, I don’t think it’s-”

“Hunter’s been looking for you, Jey.” The trainer interrupted, motioning to him with urgency. “Come on, we need to go. Like now.” 

Jey quickly followed, casting one final look over his shoulder at you before retreating. You nervously watched him leave. Should you follow him? It was clear something was off. 

Your phone vibrated and you groaned when you saw the missed messages. Your coworkers were already looking for you, no doubt eager to begin prepping for the show. You quickly responded that you were on your way, forcing your anxieties down. Jey was a grown man. He knew his body better than anyone. If he felt he could get through his match tonight, you trusted him. 

You had no other choice. 

*****

“Hey, sis.” Jimmy’s smile was wide, pulling you into a tight hug in greeting. “Where you been all night?” 

You returned his hug with a laugh. “I’m working now, remember? Gotta go where they tell me.” 

“True, true.” Jimmy chuckled, pulling away from the hug to smile at you. He was dressed casual tonight, wearing his usual hoodie and black joggers, his gold chain glittering in the light. Although he was normally on SmackDown, he still came to Monday Night Raw whenever he could to see the two of you. You knew he couldn’t go too long without seeing his twin. 

“Hopefully they ain’t working you too hard.” Jimmy teased, giving you a gentle nudge with his elbow. “I know how Hunter can get.” 

You shook your head. “Nah. I like it. And getting to come to work with Jey has been nice too.” 

“Yeah.” Jimmy’s smile dropped at the mention of his brother’s name, his face suddenly worried. “That’s actually what I was hoping to talk to you about.” 

“What? About Jey?” 

“Mm hm.” Jimmy moved closer to you, lowering his voice so others couldn’t overhear. “I saw him earlier tonight. What’s going on with him? He seems off.” 

You swallowed. Was it that obvious? Or was it just because it was his twin? You knew the two had a special bond. 

Jimmy seemed to notice the conflict on your face. “Is he sick or something? He just seemed weird to me when we talked earlier.” 

“I don’t know.” You admitted, fidgeting uncomfortably under Jimmy’s worried gaze. “He kept saying he was fine. But he was acting weird last night too.” 

“What kind of weird?” 

You shifted uneasily and Jimmy caught sight of the bruises you’d been hiding beneath your hoodie, his eyes narrowing at the sight. 

“He do that to you?” 

You didn’t answer and Jimmy gave a concerned look.  

“That’s ain’t like him. Unless he’s in his pre-rut.” Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “Is he?” 

You sighed. “I don’t know. I thought so at first. He got so protective last night, like he normally does before his ruts. Then with how long he kept me up…” You didn’t finish the sentence, suddenly very aware that you were still in public. “But he let me out of the house today, Jim. He wouldn’t do that if it was that time of year. And he’s already had his rut back in February, so it can’t be. Can it?” 

Jimmy seemed uncertain, rubbing his neck in an uncharacteristic display of nervousness. “I don’t know.” He admitted. “He ain’t ever had more than one a year before, but it’s not impossible. He’s been under a lot of stress at work.” 

You stared up at him, your own gaze just as nervous. “What should we do? You know he won’t leave. He’s got that match with Gunther tonight.” 

“That’s what I’m worried about.” Jimmy pulled out his phone. “Look, I gotta cut this promo, then I’ll meet you in Gorilla. You’re gonna be there to watch his match, right?” 

You nodded. 

“Once I finish this, I’ll come join you. Then if some shit goes down, I can be there.” He placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his gaze at you kind. “Don’t worry, sis. You know I ain’t gonna leave him hanging. He’s my brother. I got his back. And yours.” 

You offered him a small smile, but it must have looked weak because Jimmy quickly pulled you into a hug. You allowed yourself to relax into it, knowing that he was trying to ease some of your fears. You knew Jimmy wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you. Or his brother. The Bloodline operated like a pack and although you weren’t officially Jey’s mate, they knew you were his chosen. That made you one of them, which meant that Jimmy was responsible for you, just as he was for any other omega who joined his pack. 

“It’ll be alright,” he murmured, nosing behind your ear to scent mark you in reassurance. You relaxed even more at his smell. It wasn’t quite the same as Jey’s, but it was close enough to calm you. “Just hang in there. I’ll meet you in Gorilla.” 

You nodded, forcing yourself to take a deep breath as Jimmy squeezed your shoulder and walked away. 

You needed to keep it together. This wasn’t the time to succumb to your instincts, no matter how badly the omega inside you wanted to drop everything and seek Jey out. The mere idea of your alpha in distress had your heart racing, your hormones going haywire at the thought. 

When you arrived to Gorilla Position, you tried not to fidget, offering a polite smile to everyone who greeted you. You were glad when Jimmy finally arrived. 

“Hey.” Jimmy’s hand was on your shoulder again and your body instinctively leaned into his touch. “You okay?” 

You forced yourself to nod, though you knew it didn’t look convincing. Your instincts were beginning to cloud your mind, seeking out a strong alpha like Jimmy to keep you grounded in your distress. 

Thankfully, Jimmy was able to sense it. 

“It’s alright.” he soothed, nosing behind your ear again to offer you more of his scent. You wanted it to comfort you, but it didn’t. He didn’t smell right. You wanted Jey. He was your partner. Your chosen. And you couldn’t stop worrying about him. 

“I think I messed up, Jimmy.” You admitted, wringing your hands together nervously. “I knew something was wrong, but I still let him come here. I should have kept him at home. I should have seen the signs.” 

“Hey,” Jimmy’s arms were around you again, pulling you into another hug. He’d had plenty of experience with Naomi to know when an omega was beginning to spiral. He kept his arms tight around you, your body instinctively relaxing in his hold. “We don’t know for sure what’s going on. But whatever it is, we know that Jey can handle it. And we’ll be here for him the whole time, right?” 

You nodded into his hoodie, forcing yourself to control your breathing. You knew that your hormones were fueling your anxiety, making it difficult to separate fact from fiction. Just the knowledge that your alpha might be in any kind of pain or trouble was triggering this, you knew, but you had to resist it the best that you could. 

A few people around you began to murmur and realized that Gunther was making his way through Gorilla, ready to be in position for his entrance. You watched as his nostrils flared, his eyes turning to meet yours once he caught wind of your scent. 

You didn’t miss the protective way Jimmy’s arm wrapped around you, his hackles immediately raised as the Ring General approached. 

“You must be Jey Uso’s mate.” Gunther said, stepping forward until he was in your personal space. You huddled closer to Jimmy on instinct, feeling safer in the arms of an alpha you trusted. “I can smell him on you. Him and his pack.” 

He met Jimmy’s burning gaze and grinned when the older twin curled his lip in anger. 

“You smell distressed, little one.” Gunther mused, his gaze down at you curious. “Worried about what I will do to your mate tonight?” 

“You better watch yo’ mouth, uce.” Jimmy snarled, the scent of his anger bleeding into the air around you. “Or else you won’t even make it out to the ring.” 

Gunther seemed amused by the threat, offering Jimmy a smirk as he towered over you. You noticed that he was staring at you intently, his eyebrows raised when he finally caught sight of your neck.  

“Well, well. I spoke too soon. No mating bite, I see. So, Jey is not truly your mate then, is he?” Gunther’s words were mocking, seemingly delighted by this revelation. “A shame he hasn’t officially claimed you, little one. Though I can’t say I’m surprised. Lesser alphas certainly aren’t as eager to stake their claim, are they?” 

Jimmy took a step forward, his eyes blazing with anger, before one of the PAs intervened. 

“Thirty seconds.” He informed Gunther, his eyes flickering between the two alphas. “You’d better take your position.” 

The Ring General smirked, casting Jimmy one final look. “After I finish Jey tonight, you can tell your pack leader, Roman, to come find me. I wouldn’t mind a real challenge for a change.” 

Gunther’s eyes swept over you one last time before he finally retreated, exiting Gorilla to make his way to the ring. You tried to swallow back some of the bile that had risen to your throat. Gunther’s smell had left a nasty taste in your mouth, his oppressive scent causing you to feel even more edge than before. 

“I hate that fucker.” Jimmy muttered. He turned his gaze back to you, his expression softening. “You alright?” 

You nodded, subconsciously reaching up a hand to touch the unclaimed part of your neck. You couldn’t deny that some of Gunther’s words had stung. He’d seemed far too amused to learn that Jey hadn’t officially mated you yet, his gaze at you almost triumphant, as if you had proven something that he’d known all along. 

“Hey, don’t worry about him.” Jimmy said, his arm still wrapped around you to keep you close. “He just trying to get in your head. It’s a game to him. That’s all.” 

You nodded again, leaning against his strong chest in an effort to calm your rattled nerves. You watched on the nearest TV as Gunther entered the ring, his expression cold as he stared down the throngs of booing fans. You didn’t miss the way his gaze flickered around him, no doubt searching for where Jey might enter from. 

Thankfully, Jey didn’t keep him waiting long. 

His music hit and the fans erupted into cheers, the ground beneath your feet shaking from the roar of the crowd. The camera found Jey amongst the audience and you couldn’t help but notice that he’d forgone his usual bright colors to wear all black, as if he were going to a funeral. He didn’t seem interested in reveling with the audience tonight, his face serious as he made his way down to the ring. 

“He doesn’t seem like himself.” You murmured. 

“He’s okay.” Jimmy was quick to reassure you, rubbing your arm in an attempt to comfort you. “It’s all part of the show.” 

Was it? 

The bell rang and Jey wasted no time, immediately charging Gunther and backing him into the corner, much to Gunther’s amusement. They exchanged a few words, but the microphone didn’t pick it up, the referee already pulling Jey back to give Gunther space to get out of the corner. 

As the match continued, it was clear that Jey was agitated, not even bothering to acknowledge his adoring fans like he usually did, his eyes entirely focused on his opponent. You couldn’t help but notice that his body seemed stiff, his movements jerky as he attempted to keep up with Gunther’s punishing pace. 

At one point, Gunther gave him a particularly brutal chop and you watched as Jey stumbled, his face twisted into a grimace.

“Come on, uce.” You heard Jimmy mutter, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the TV screen. “Don’t let him in your head.” 

Gunther seemed determined to try. You watched as he grappled with Jey in the middle of the ring, chuckling something in his ear that the camera couldn’t pick up. Jey’s eyes burned in anger, shoving Gunther away to offer a superkick to his chin. 

The crowd roared their approval, Gunther dazed as he stumbled into the ropes. But it was only momentary. When Jey tried to come at him again, Gunther was too quick, already grabbing Jey by the arm and slinging him into the turnbuckle. You watched in horror as Jey crumpled, his face a mask of pain. 

You began wringing your hands together in nervousness, your body thrumming with anxiety as you watched Jey struggle back to his feet. 

“It’s a shame I don’t have any worthy opponents for tonight,” You heard Gunther say, his expression smug as he kicked Jey in the stomach, forcing him back to his knees. “I was hoping for more of a challenge, Jey. You disappoint me.” 

He grabbed Jey by the hair, forcing the smaller alpha to look up at him. “You’re not even the strongest in your pack. They could have at least given me the other twin. That would have been less of an insult.” 

You realized that Jey’s mouth was bleeding, his lip split from where it had collided with the turnbuckle. You watched in horror as Gunther quickly hauled Jey to his feet, his smile sadistic as he held him up by the hair. “Your pack leader is the only one I see fit to challenge me. But he’s not here to protect you anymore, is he, Jey?” 

Before you realized what was happening, Gunther had maneuvered Jey’s body in front of him, picking him up with ease and slamming down onto the mat in a brutal powerbomb. Jey groaned in pain, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled to crawl away. 

Gunther laughed, continuing to spit insults even as Jey grabbed at the ropes in an attempt to pull himself up. His trash talk was difficult to hear over the boos from the crowd, but you still managed to catch one word: omega. 

Your blood ran cold. You watched as Jey froze, still on his knees with his head turned away from the camera. His chest was heaving, his knuckles blanched from how hard he was gripping the ropes. Gunther didn’t seem to notice, still taunting him with a self-satisfied grin on his face. 

You could feel Jimmy tense beside you, clearly understanding, just as you were, that Gunther had said something very wrong. 

You weren’t exactly sure what happened next. One minute Jey was kneeling near the ropes, his head bowed and his body tense. The next minute he was exploding from the mat, attacking Gunther with such ferocity that even the crowd was stunned. 

Gunther landed on his back with a loud thud. Jey was quickly on top of him, landing blow after blow to his face. His expression was murderous, his teeth bared like an animal. And when the camera zoomed in, you could see that his pupils had swallowed the soft brown of his irises, his eyes wild as he continued to pummel Gunther with his fists. 

You clutched Jimmy’s arm in fear. You wanted to speak but you couldn’t, realizing with horror that Gunther’s taunting, likely about you, had finally triggered Jey’s rut. 

Jimmy quickly pulled away, approaching Hunter and the other producers from where they sat behind the desk. 

“Cut the match!” You heard him demand, his tone now laced with panic. He didn’t want the world to see his brother in such a vulnerable state. “He can’t continue! Rule it a DQ, now!” 

You could hear Jimmy and Hunter arguing, but you weren't able to turn around to look at them. Your eyes were glued to the screen, watching with horror as Gunther put his hands up in an attempt to push Jey off him. Gunther was stronger, but Jey was meaner. He was quick to shove Gunther’s hands away, landing a particularly nasty strike to his nose that caused blood to spray across the mat. 

You realized that Gunther’s shoulder wasn’t entirely off the mat, leaving the referee with no choice but to try to pull Jey off of him. Jey snarled, the sound so loud and animalistic, even through the camera, that the hair on the back of your neck stood up. The referee quickly backed away, beginning the five count. 

The crowd was going wild. Michael and Pat’s commentary was almost impossible to hear over the commotion, though you could imagine that they were scrambling to find some kind of explanation for Jey’s irrational behavior. 

The referee reached the five count and the bell rang, effectively ending the match, but Jey still refused to move, continuing to bludgeon Gunther’s face with angry, hard-hitting punches. 

You heard Hunter shouting for security, all the producers around him all rapidly talking over their headsets. You jumped when Jimmy grabbed you by the arm. “You need to leave.” He told you, his tone urgent. 

“What?” 

“He can’t find you here.” Jimmy insisted, his eyes flickering to the screen as more referees got involved, still trying to pull Jey off of Gunther. “He’ll jump you right here in front of everyone and we won’t be able to move you. You gotta get further backstage.” 

You were nodding in agreement, though your mind was racing. Where would you go? Backstage was crawling with staff and talent. 

“Gimme your hoodie.” Jimmy demanded. You hesitantly allowed him to pull it over your head, staring at him in confusion. 

“He won’t leave Gunther alone.” Jimmy pointed to the TV. You could see that security had finally entered the ring, trying their best to pull the feral alpha away from Gunther. Gunther had stopped fighting back a long time ago, now lying motionless on the mat, his face bloody.

“Your smell is the only way we can get him out of the ring. But once he gets your scent he’ll come back here looking for you.” He quickly pushed you towards the exit, motioning for you to leave. “Go. I’ll take care of everything else. It’ll be alright.” 

You hesitated, unable to tear your gaze away from the screen. Jey’s face was hardly recognizable, his eyes wild. His teeth were bared as he tried to fight security, still bloodstained from his earlier collision with the turnbuckle. 

“Go!” Jimmy pushed you again. “Unless you want this to happen right here in front of everyone.” 

You didn’t, so you quickly obeyed, retreating further backstage as fast as your feet could carry you. 

You ignored the concerned looks from your coworkers, a few of the wrestlers watching you with curious expressions. Most of them knew who you were, of course, and could probably infer what had happened in the ring tonight. You could hear various snippets from conversations as you walked past. 

Did you see…Had to be a rut, right? 

Damn, this hasn’t happened since Orton back in ‘09. 

I never thought Jey would be the one to snap. I always thought it’d be Jimmy. 

Come on, you know he can’t control it. 

You think Hunter will give him a fine? 

He tore Gunther up. So much for a match at Mania. 

Isn’t that Jey’s mate? Guess he’ll be looking for her. 

You tried to ignore them, your heart pounding in your chest as you made your way back to the staff locker room. You shakily pulled out your phone, trying to remember how long you’d been on the heat suppressants. Had it been a full week yet? They weren’t truly effective until you’d been on them for a full seven days. There was still a chance Jey could trigger your heat. Which meant there was still a chance he could get you pregnant. 

You needed to get to your bag. You always carried an emergency heat contraceptive, just in case. 

You heard a loud commotion behind you, the sound of Jey ripping apart the backstage echoing down the hallway. You could hear shouting, no doubt security trying to contain him. You realized that your scent was likely faint; Jey had just mentioned last night how it was beginning to fade. Perhaps that would give you more time. 

You cursed yourself for getting into this situation in the first place. The signs had been obvious: his roughness with you, his obsession with keeping you safe, keeping you up all night with seemingly unlimited stamina. You never should have let him leave the house. Now you were stuck in a random arena, nowhere near your comfortable nest at home, with a feral alpha on the hunt for you. You were beginning to realize that wherever Jey found you, that’s where you would stay until his rut was over. And his ruts usually lasted two, maybe three days. 

By the time you reached the staff locker room, your hands were shaking. You quickly shut the door behind you, grateful that the room was empty. You ran to your bag to search for the small syringe, the commotion from Jey’s pursuit growing louder and louder from outside the door. You heard what sounded like a table being thrown, Jimmy’s voice becoming clearer as he tried to calm his brother down. 

Your hands were shaking so much that you dropped your bag, the contents spilling across the floor. 

“Shit!” You fell to your knees, scrambling to find the contraceptive. Surely you hadn’t forgotten it? You could still hear the chaos of Jey’s search for you echoing down the hallway. He’d tear this entire arena apart if he didn’t find you soon. 

You finally found the syringe, struggling to open the safety seal as Jey’s snarls grew louder. He was getting close. You didn’t have much time left. 

By the time you jabbed the needle into your side, Jey had made it to the door. 

You weren’t entirely prepared to see him like this. He seemed larger than life as he stood in the doorway, his nostrils flaring as he followed your scent. His lip was curled into a menacing snarl, his lip still split and his teeth bloody. And when his eyes landed on you, you could see his eyes grow darker, zeroing in on his prey. 

You saw Jimmy standing behind him in the doorway, catching sight of the syringe in your hand. 

“Oh, thank god.” Jimmy sighed in relief, and that’s when Jey moved.

He crossed the room impossibly fast, colliding into you with such a force that you both fell back onto the floor. 

“Jey…” His name came out breathless, your heart thrumming like a frightened rabbit beneath his rough hands. His usual scent was much sweeter now, a side effect of his rut, and you felt dizzy with it. His heightened scent, combined with the feeling of him on top of you, had wetness rapidly forming between your legs. 

Jey’s eyes widened, his nostrils flaring as the smell of your arousal bled into the air around you. He let out a low snarl, ripping away your shirt and pants and flipping you onto your stomach with ease. You gasped, your body shivering in anticipation as he started pushing his cock inside you. 

You knew his mind was entirely focused on one thing: to breed. He wasn’t here to make you feel good. He was here to claim you, to take you and make you his. To fill you up with his seed and give you a litter of his pups. A low fog was beginning to settle over your mind at the thought, your back instinctively arching as Jey finally bottomed out. 

You let out a moan as his massive length split you open. Jey growled again, his teeth digging into the back of your neck possessively as he began fucking into you. Pleasure was already beginning to unfurl from your core. Although he hadn’t prepped you beforehand, your body was taking him with ease, as if you were made for him. You could feel his knot beginning to form, your hole getting wetter and wetter to accommodate it. 

Jey’s teeth dug deeper into your neck. His entire body was still shaking with adrenaline, but it didn’t slow him down. Instead, he fucked into you with the desperation only a rut could bring, his bloody hands gripping your hips as he continued to brutally thrust into you. 

You arched your back even further at the feeling, soft pants of breath falling from your open mouth. You could already feel your first orgasm approaching even as his knot grew bigger, putting pressure on your insides. 

“Jey.” You gasped, gushing around his cock without warning. You hadn’t expected to finish so quickly, your body shaking like a leaf beneath him. Jey let out a pleased sound, his knot reaching its full size inside of you when he finally came. His hips stilled. You could feel his throbbing cock pump you full, the knot keeping you tied together. 

For the first time since Jey arrived, the room was quiet. You let out a shaky breath, resting your forehead against the floor. You were grateful the staff locker room had been empty. You had no doubt that Jey would have fucked you on the floor in front of everyone had you not made it here in time. While it wasn’t ideal, you had no choice now. Jey had claimed you here, so here is where you would stay until his rut ended. Jey could only act on instinct now, his biology completely hijacking his body and mind until it was satisfied. 

Jey finally released his teeth from the scruff of your neck, softly licking at the skin he had torn in a wordless apology. You felt your body relax, even as your spasming hole continued to milk his cock as he stayed ball-deep inside of you. 

You were glad your heat hadn’t been triggered yet. It would likely only prolong his rut and would leave you at the mercy of your own biology. The omega inside you was already unhappy with being away from your nest, feeling exposed and unsafe in this unfamiliar room. You couldn’t help but whimper and Jey was quick to check on you, leaning over you to nose at your cheek affectionately. 

“Sis?” Jimmy’s voice had Jey growling again, his grip on your body tightening. “I need a sign of life, girl.” 

You struggled to look over your shoulder, catching sight of Jimmy standing in the doorway. He looked worried, meeting your gaze with a concerned expression. 

“You good?” 

You could only nod, Jey whipping around to snarl loudly at his twin for the intrusion. He was vulnerable right now, his knot still keeping the two of you tethered. If Jimmy got too close, brotherly bonds wouldn’t matter. Jey would guard his territory, his instincts compelling him to challenge any alpha that got too close to his chosen omega. 

“Alright, just hang in there. Trin’s on her way with supplies. We’re here for you, okay?” 

You nodded again, unable to speak as Jey’s knot continued to pulse inside you. Jey was quick to lean over you, caging you in possessively until Jimmy finally retreated and closed the door behind him. 

It took some time for Jey to finally relax, his eyes still darting to the door as if he expected another intrusion. Eventually his knot went down and you were able to pull apart, some of his come dribbling onto the floor below. You whimpered at the feeling and Jey was once again nosing at your cheek again, seemingly triggered by any sign of distress from you. 

There was a couch on the other side of the room. It would feel a lot more comfortable than the floor, but when you made an effort to move in that direction Jey was quick to grab you, flipping you onto your back to keep you close. 

His pupils were still blown wide, the blood from his split lip finally drying. You couldn’t be sure what he was thinking about as he gazed at you. He didn’t look like your Jey. Not right now. This Jey wasn’t quite human, his instincts making it difficult for him to form a coherent thought. 

He furrowed his brow, his expression almost distressed, and you couldn’t help but reach up a hand to cup his cheek in reassurance. 

“It’s alright.” You soothed. You couldn’t be sure what was upsetting him and you knew he didn’t have the capacity to speak right now. “We’re okay. I’m here, baby.” 

Jey frowned, reaching out a hand to touch your face. His knuckles were bruises, the skin bloody from his vicious attack on Gunther. You watched as his brow furrowed deeper, trying to focus enough to speak. 

“Mine.” He rasped, his voice an octave deeper than usual. “Mine.” 

You couldn’t help but smile at him. Normally he wasn’t cognizant enough to speak, but you were pleased to hear him try. You reached up to pet his soft curls, watching with fondness as his eyelids fluttered at your touch.  

“Yours.” You agreed.

Jey leaned down to kiss your neck and you let out a contented sigh, reaching your arms around him to keep him close. He nuzzled into your hair, his hands now gentle as he caressed your skin. Even when he was in his rut, acting on his most animalistic urges, Jey was still impossibly sweet. His instincts were to protect you. To keep you safe and happy. To love you. 

Your heart swelled at the thought, suddenly filled with the stupid desire to bare your neck to him and allow him to mate you. Jey seemed to sense the shift, his teeth grazing across the mating mark on your neck. His instincts wouldn’t allow him to bite there unless you allowed it, but it didn’t stop him from nuzzling into it, almost a silent plea for you to finally let him claim you. 

But it wouldn’t be right. You wanted the moment to be special. You wanted Jey to be fully cognizant and aware of what was going on, fully able to understand the significance of it. It wouldn’t be fair to do it now - not while he was in the middle of his rut and barely coherent. Barely human. 

You could feel his cock twitching against the inside of your thigh, already gearing up for another round, and you couldn’t help but shudder at the sensation. That seemed to spur Jey into action.

He finally released your neck, leaning back up to push his rapidly hardening length back into you. He let out a low moan as he sank into the tight, wet warmth between your legs and you couldn’t help but writhe in pleasure, struggling to keep your eyes open as he bottomed out. God, he felt so big. You were grateful the two of you fucked enough for you to be used to this. Otherwise this wouldn’t be nearly as pleasurable as it felt now. 

You let out a whine as his grip on you tightened, now beginning to hammer into you at full force. You scrabbled for purchase against his tattooed chest, his eyes dark as he stared down at you. He looked devastatingly beautiful like this, his bronze skin glistening with sweat and his brow furrowed in concentration as he fucked into you. Although you struggled to keep your eyes open, you didn’t want to look away. 

You let out a gasp when he suddenly leaned down to bite near your collarbone, his instincts driving him to mark you as his in every way possible. You spread your legs wider to grant him better access and Jey yanked you closer, his possessive mouth already seeking out more of your skin to bite. 

His sharp canines ghosted across your mating mark again and a new feeling of pleasure raced through you at the feeling. It took all of your willpower to keep from baring your neck to him. It was just biology, you tried to tell yourself. Just instincts. You could fight this, no matter how strong the desire to let him mate you was.

Still, you couldn’t deny the reaction your body had at the thought. You could feel a haze beginning to settle over your mind, the idea of finally belonging to him, of finally being mated, causing your leaking hole to spasm around Jey’s cock. Jey let out a low moan in response, his body still radiating heat as he loomed over you. 

You could feel a new fog settling over your mind now, your own instincts urging you to go limp beneath your alpha’s rough hands and allow him to breed you. Jey’s pace was punishing, his hips never faltering even when he leaned up to grab at your thighs, pushing them forward to allow him better access to your swollen cunt. You felt helpless beneath him now, your brain beginning to shut down in favor of being good for him. 

Jey seemed to sense the change, letting out a happy sound as he pushed you into a full mating press, his entire body weight pinning you to the floor. A wave of ecstasy washed over you, your mind now solely focused on him. 

“Jey.” You pleaded, unable to tear your gaze away from his dark eyes. 

They were the last thing you remembered before finally going under. 

*****

Looking back, you could only remember bits and pieces of what happened after Jey triggered your heat. 

You remembered Jey’s hands on your face, cradling you close to him as he continued to fuck into you. You remembered him wringing every ounce of pleasure from your body, giving you orgasm after orgasm until you were certain you couldn’t take anymore. You remembered Trinity entering the room, cooing soothing words that you couldn’t understand as she tried to get the two of you to drink some water. You remembered the sudden feeling of blankets and pillows around you, the air now smelling of your nest at home. You remembered Jey curling his body around yours, keeping you close to him as you both rested in between rounds. 

When you finally emerged from your heat two days later, you were greeted to the sight of Jey’s sparkling brown eyes. 

“Baby?” Jey’s voice was warm, his hands soft as he caressed your bruised skin. “You good?” 

It took you some time to realize that you were still in the staff locker room, the two of you huddled together on the couch beneath a blanket that smelled like home. Jey had his arms around you, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple as you struggled to return to reality. 

Your brain was foggy, but you were acutely aware that every muscle in your body ached. Jesus, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt this sore. You reached up your arm in an effort to stretch it and let out a low moan of pain for your trouble. 

“It’s alright,” Jey soothed, quickly reaching out to massage the sore muscles of your arm. “It’s okay, baby. Just relax for me.” 

You obeyed, leaning against his strong chest as he continued to massage you, his beard tickling your neck he pressed another kiss to your jaw. 

“My sweet girl,” he praised, pulling you close so he could press his nose into your hair. “You did so good for me, sweetheart. Such a good girl. I love you so much.” 

You hummed in contentment, your eyes closing as Jey cradled you in his arms. You didn’t care that your body ached or that your skin was bruised and raw or that your lips were dry and your stomach was cramping. None of it really mattered. All that mattered was Jey’s arms were around you, his lips impossibly soft as he peppered your face with kisses. And when he smiled, his gaze at you adoring and his eyes crinkled with laughter, you knew you were going to be okay.

_____

besties: @acute-crashout-jeyuso @mindairy @amandairene88 @askullasunflower @partypoison00 @brianochka @femdisa @zephyrazzz @scorpiochaos @gardencottage @minteagalaxea @annyanse @nbanenefrmdao @wishyouloveme @glittergirl7 @bloodline-fanacc @key05marie @mzv11 @neytiri-20 @ayeeeitsmiracle @buttercup0024 @punksyeet @pr0wlerpunk @lilucey @cassrox @cosmiccandydreamer @sarlaccussy @fearlesschimera @hadesorion @rollinssection @levissslutt

[daylighted]

─ HIDE AWAY THE SIGNS, dad's best friend ! jackles

you didn't think jensen was leaving and saying goodbye without a proper taste of you, did you?

warnings. ( 18+ ! ) pls for the love of god don't interact with this series if you're a minor. hefty age gap. oral (f receiving). dirty talking. manhandling. edging (kind of). thigh biting. minor exhibitionism. he's mean </3. word count. 3.4k

sneak into his room here!

THE FIRST THING YOU HEAR WHEN you wake up is the sound of rustling around on the other side of your bedroom wall. with an odd sense of disappointment, you realize immediately what it is. suitcases zipping, bedsheets rippling as the big duvet is fluffed and spread flat over it. you’d know the sound of someone preparing to leave anywhere — you’d only just done it days ago prior to returning home. 

it feels wrong to get up and say goodbye. to your parents, jensen was a stranger you talked to sometimes, when you passed each other. even in your mind, you only knew him at base level. you don’t know his favorite color, what high school he went to, if he had any pets wherever it was that he was from. 

so you weren’t going to say goodbye. you’d sit on your bed and stew on this realization that it was fun while it lasted, but it wasn’t meant to last. not really. you’d been told to get some spontaneity in your life by him, made to step out of every single comfort zone you had, and now you could say you did. that was the whole point, wasn’t it? he was sent into your life by some god, probably not any that were going to let you through heaven’s gates or anything, and now that he’d served the purpose he came for, he’d leave.

it still felt bittersweet in the most painstaking of ways. you didn’t have to completely close yourself off from him to know that fact.

the sound of things flipping around halts, and the door clicks shut, and footsteps start down the hallway to the staircase, not once pausing in front of yours. 

somehow, it hurt more that he’s just as dismissive as all of this as you were trying to be. you were trying, he didn’t even need to make the efforts to push you out of his head, it seemed.

four days you’d been home and you hadn’t reached out to your friends. you pull your phone out of your pocket to do that, needing some sort of distraction from the fact that you’d let yourself become your dad’s best friend’s temporary plaything while he stayed over. maybe he had a wife back home, not a dog. maybe his favorite color was the color of her eyes. maybe they met in high school.

the thought makes you feel sick, your fingers hovering over the group message with your friends in town.

you nearly jump out of your skin when a knock echoes on the doorframe behind you. there, standing in its open space, is jensen. 

“weren’t downstairs,” he says, eyebrows raising like he was accusing you of something. he’s wearing a baseball cap, the brim shadowing over the greens of his eyes. the strap of his duffel bag is slung over one shoulder, catching on the bunched up fabric of his hoodie. “thought i’d come up here n’ see why.” 

you raise your eyebrows right back at him, just as much accusation in them as his. “well, i’m not your girlfriend or anything, so…” 

“no, you aren’t,” he says easily, crossing his legs at the ankle as he braced his shoulder on the doorframe. “but i thought we were past the point of pretending we weren’t something.” 

“what’s that supposed to mean?” 

he raises a closed fist, holding up fingers as he counted them off. “friend. good fuck. good fuck who’s a friend. fuckbuddy—”

“your best friend’s daughter,” you interject, hissing it through your teeth at him, eyes darting over his shoulder to make sure both of your parents were downstairs like he’d implied. “you should do better to keep that little tidbit at the front of your arguments.” 

jensen takes a step into your room, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood. “if you wanna play mean, pretty girl, by all means, i’m not stoppin’ you. but i’ve already warned you that you won’t like it when i’m mean.” 

“why are you so adamant on me going to tell you goodbye, huh?” you sit up on your bed now, no longer laying on your stomach facing the pillows, but flipped over to properly argue. all of the hurt you felt over the fact that this was ending and it meant nothing by this point was starting to bubble over, out of your control. “you probably have a wife at home! you probably— probably have a job, and kids, and a dog named, like, spot or something—” 

jensen nods along with everything you’re rambling on about, his lips pursed in disamusement. it’s when you stumble on the syllables out of your mouth that the sentences falter, and you’re staring at him with your chest heaving and your lip wobbling against your will. you weren’t supposed to miss him, and especially not now, when he wasn’t already gone. “you done?” 

“no!” you choke on it, spit it out like it burns your tongue. “i bet you’re really happy, too, with your little family. i bet you came here and saw something young, and new, and because you’re jensen ackles you couldn’t help yourself! you never could help yourself, i know this, dad always said so — you’d see one thing you wanted, and you—” 

his duffel clatters to the ground with a heavy thud, the strap scraping along the hardwood as it lands. you can barely process jensen’s footsteps crossing the space to you before he’s hauled you into his arms, all of your protests dying in your mouth. 

he’s taking you down the stairs, your mouth opening and closing before you can even think of telling him no, or to put you down, or to never let go. 

over his shoulder, you see your parents small forms from the screen door of your front entrance. they’re at the mailbox, talking to one of your neighbors, both of their backs to you and the neighbor turned to face them, capable of seeing you at any moment through his peripheral vision if he chose to glance over. 

you duck your head like that alone could save you from that possibility, tucking it behind jensen’s shoulder. “talkin’ to me like i’ve got somethin’ to prove,” he rasps in your ear, scoffing in disbelief, “who do you think you are, tryin’ to make me feel guilty?” 

jensen shoves you onto the countertop, his head hovering over you, looming like a shadow — overtaking you in a single breath. “the news flash, sweetheart, is that i don’t owe you shit.” his fingers close around your thigh, digging into the bare flesh as he pushes it open. “i don’t owe you my wife’s name, my kids’ names, my fuckin’ dog’s name, if i had any of that shit. i don’t owe you what my job is. i don’t owe you what i do in my freetime.” 

he curls his index finger over the crotch of your panties and tugs downwards, his other hand forcing each of your thighs up to wiggle the fabric down your legs. immediately, your eyes dart to the doorway, to the screen door open for anyone to see, to where you’re directly in the sights of any potential straying eyes. 

“and you know what i especially don’t owe you?” jensen asks, sinking his teeth into the inside of your thigh, nipping at the skin before lapping it under his tongue. he sits back a little, just enough so that one hand could come up and flip his baseball cap backwards on his head. “i don’t fucking owe you on why i like you, pretty baby,” he hums, giving you a wolfish grin before diving into the space between your legs, his head beneath your skirt.

you couldn’t hide your sharp gasp, not when it was all so sudden, and not when the scratch of his beard teases and rubs at the highest parts of your inner thighs and the sensitive skin of your folds, his tongue dipping between them to lick a stripe up the wet slit. one of your hands curls around the edge of the countertop, the other clamps over your mouth to keep quiet.

the last thing you wanted was for either of your parents to wonder what you were making noise for, or for your neighbor to catch too much movement through the glass door and peek over, and to see jensen’s head between your legs, or the throes of ecstasy he was beginning to drag you through. 

his hands grip your calves, keeping your legs open for him with a bruising grip on the skin, but his tongue and lips play a different story. they’re slower, more deliberate, like he was savoring the proper taste of you and not just the fleeting flick of his tongue or the wetness around his fingers. the thought alone has you squirming on the marble surface, knowing that he was teasing you on purpose, that he was just as capable of being much worse as he was being much more ravishing. 

his tongue flicks over the bundle of nerves between your folds and your fingers tighten over your mouth, just in time for him to suck it between his two lips. one of jensen’s hands lets go of your calf to grab upwards at your wrist, looking up at you with dark eyes through the span of his eyelashes. 

“uncover it or we’re going to the living room,” he breathes, his voice a delicious vibration against your clit, “and if you keep pushing me, baby, i’ll put you on the porch.” 

you let go of your mouth with haste, looking down at him with wide eyes. “but—” 

“you think i’m scared of them?” he asks, eyebrows bouncing up on his forehead. “why would i be? you think you’re nothing to me, that this is just bullshit, so why should i care who sees what i do to you? why should i care about you at all?” 

jensen’s glistening lips curl up into that sneering grin again, and he pushes your one leg open further, moving it to the back of your knee to hook his fingers around it and drag you closer to the edge of the countertop. he shifts his attention, trailing his tongue downwards to lap at the seeping wetness from your entrance, before pushing through it and into the tight throb of your heat.

it’s all you can do to not make a sound. the only outlet you have is the grip he still has on your wrist, your nails dug hard into the back of his hand. he doesn’t lift his head to see as he lets go of your hand to smack your digging nails away from his skin, the crescent marks evident in the tanned skin. 

instead, he grabs your fingers in a vice grip, holding them in his own tight enough that you can’t pull them free — like he’s almost afraid of the risk that you’ll let go. he’s relentless in his unabashed tongue fucking, breaking away for seconds at a time to suck and lap at your clit before returning. 

your breath leaves you in heaving gasps, your thighs closing tighter around his head, writhing against him. it only seems to encourage jensen further, the arching of your hips into his face making him groan in between your pussy lips.

he takes the time to learn all of your secrets. how you can’t help a gasp when he nuzzles closer, his beard leaving red splotches on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. how your spine arches when his teeth graze the throbbing nub of your clit. how you whimper softly, just for him, when he closes his mouth around your clit and sucks at it until it aches, and soothes it with the lap of his tongue as he collects every bit of your wetness on it and breathes it in. 

“please—” you beg, though you’re not sure for what, not when he’s started to pay special attention to your clit again and every thought in your head becomes a puddle, replaced with a constant buzz that only builds and builds.

he nips at it again and you whine throatily, just as he relents. jensen’s head dips lower to your entrance again, moaning against the new wave of wetness he finds in place of what he’d just swallowed down. “please what?” he rasps, making your toes curl at his sides. “thought i wasn’t happy with you. thought i was real fuckin’ happy to get away from this pussy.” 

“no!” you gasp the word out, no breath left in your lungs to rise above that sweet whisper of a sound. “no, no, no—” 

“yeah, you backtrack real fuckin’ fast when i’m eating your pussy, huh?” his laugh is bitter and cruel, but the kiss he presses to your clit is sweet, and so is the look he gives you through his eyelashes. a thin strip of green around the expanse of his pupils, big and glossy like he might actually like you, but dark enough to remind you that this, like everything, is a fleeting moment in a span of millions of other little moments.

you’re right on the cusp of the feeling you’ve been chasing, and he’s stopped. his cheek is pressed against your thigh, lips wet with the taste of you, the facial hair around his mouth wet and red from the friction. “you want the truth?” 

your heart screams yes. “no.” your head’s answer slips through your teeth.

he nods once, letting go of the back of your knee to smear his finger teasingly along your entrance, brushing the juices upwards and circling the pad of his thumb over your clit. “try again.” 

you shake your head. the tightness is beginning to curl up beneath your navel, each little brush of his thumb starting a slow crescendo. your head knocks back against the cabinet behind you with a soft thud, your legs spreading open wider in an attempt to grind your hips against his touch. 

jensen grabs your inner thigh again and holds it tight in his big hand, keeping you from squirming too much, no longer about to push you over the edge of the impending orgasm. “try. again.” 

you let out a little mewl at the lack of his touch leaving you panting and empty, the pleasure teetering right over the cusp. “stop it,” you manage to whimper out, again trying to wrestle your hand free from his other one. 

his lips twitch. “do you. want. the truth?” 

“no,” you rasp back at him, leaning your head off of the cabinets to be closer to eye level with him. 

silence follows like a heavy blanket. his thumb strokes slowly along the inside of your thigh where he holds it steady, his eyes never once dragging away from your face. “okay.” 

there’s no preemptive warning before jensen lets go of your leg and slides two fingers deep inside of you, just like there’s no preparation as he pumps them, curling them upwards to brush against the gushy spot inside of you that makes you whine again. the sparks of pleasure are so much more intense with how close you were, everything building at a speed you can’t keep up with. 

your fingers go slack in his grip, your head tipping forward that little bit more to press your forehead to his while you try to catch your breath. never once did jensen take his eyes off of you. and again, he doesn’t falter in that eye contact when he pulls his fingers out of you.

each breath is shallow in your lungs, your lips trembling as you fight against the need to scream and whine and hit him, probably, if you had access to your dominant hand. yeah, you’d hit him, and then you’d kiss it better, and—

“i meant it.” jensen ducks his head to catch your downturned eyes, nudging your head up with his nose along your jawline to force the eye contact. “when i said i wanted you to look at me. wanted you to see me.” he lets go of your hand, then, and surprisingly, you don’t swing on him. not immediately, anyways. “you’re the only fucking person here in this place who doesn’t have some idea of me in their head, you know that?”

you guessed he was right, but how were you supposed to take any of this to heart when you felt like you were made of lightning? when your tears sprung in your eyes with the need for release that he wouldn’t give and kept you from getting on your own? “you try and lie to yourself, baby, try to make yourself feel better about the fact that i’m walkin’ out of that door today. you made up stories to make it easier, assigned me a happy family waitin’ back at the ackles residence, just so you didn’t have to think about the fact that i’m gonna be in my bed every night, fucking my hand raw to the thought of what those moans would sound like if i didn’t have to force them into a pillow, or my fingers.” 

jensen leans up to brush his mouth along yours, glancing between the both of your eyes for an answer he’s not getting. “now are you gonna be a good girl and let me make you come on my tongue, or do i have to keep arguing with you?” 

he doesn’t move an inch as he waits. his eyes are brutal, piercing, watching you with a conviction that no one else has dared to. everyone around you has had high expectations without the room to catch you if you missed them, but his expectations are in the realm of something you want.

just like you’re the first person to look at him without the precognitive impressions your father tried to instill in you, he’s the first person to look at you and see past the goals and the blind hope. you could fall and he’d catch you, so long as you fell from somewhere within what you wanted, and not someone else.

you nod, but it’s not enough. his voice is made of gravel and sin when he whispers, “use that pretty little voice of yours for me.” 

“okay,” you sputter out quickly, as if that alone could make him give in any quicker. “yes, yes yes—” 

his head cocks in his amusement. “yes what?”

“yes, i’ll be good—” 

jensen let go of your hand and your thigh at once. his forearms slip underneath your knees to drag you just a little closer, pulling your thighs up and over his shoulders. and when his tongue dips between your folds and licks up the slick slit before he can close his mouth around your clit again, he moans. 

he licks at your clit and your entrance like he’s starving, nibbling along your clit with each flick of his tongue, each slight movement of his head making the raw skin of your inner thighs that much more inflamed. 

it doesn’t take long for the crest of your orgasm to crash over you, not with the way he ravished with tongue and teeth along your puffy clit and dove his tongue into your entrance with the same intensity he fucked you with. your head tips back into the cabinets, shaking fingers pressed to your mouth being the only thing stopping you from letting out a wail that would inevitably alert the whole town to what you were doing. 

jensen doesn’t stop, though, as you ride out the intensity of your comedown. he laps up every drop of your juices, soothes the beardburn on your inner thighs with kisses along every part of your skin he can reach, sucks your throbbing clit in between his lips just to feel you squirm a couple more times.

when he finally rises to his full height, dropping your legs back down from his shoulders, he keeps his palms on top of your thighs, rubbing little circles through the fabric of your dress. “you look pretty like this,” he whispers, capturing your lips in a kiss so much more gentle than how he was being before, pressing the taste of yourself back into your mouth, “i think i need to see you like this more often.” 

it takes a moment for the words to register, blinking your eyes back into focus when you meet his again. “you can’t—” 

jensen gives you an unimpressed look, still wearing the slick of your juices along his mouth like a wet trophy. he goes to the fridge to take out the nearly empty orange juice bottle he’d drank from a couple days ago, messing with the cap between his two fingers. “give me your phone.” 

you want to question him, but the look he gives you makes your mouth shut. you pull your phone out from underneath your thigh, something that just makes him smirk. he holds the juice in one hand and your phone in the other, swiping through things outside of your line of sight.

he looks kind of ridiculous, in an endearing sort of way. he has an uncapped bottle of orange juice in one hand and a cell phone in the other, mouth wet like he’d been drinking right— 

oh. you almost laugh, then, at how simply he’d reduced what he’d just done to the cover story of drinking juice. like he hadn’t just about had you in tears for the third time in his weekend stay with how good he’d made you feel. 

you hop off of the counter onto wobbly legs, bending down to tug your panties back up from where he’d aimlessly tossed them beneath you. 

the screen door squeaks open and slams shut just as you straighten back up to your feet. your heart nearly leapt out of your chest at the sound of it, at the intensity of the close call you’d narrowly missed. 

jensen forks over your phone again, giving you a wink in the process. “should be all good.” 

“hey, you heading out?” your dad asks from the kitchen doorway, patting his hand on the kitchen wall. he glances between the both of you with a little grin, so oblivious it’d make you feel nauseous if you weren’t so focused on staying upright.

jensen lifts the juice bottle to his mouth again, finishing the rest of the juice off in a quick swig before wiping the excess — and the remainder of your wetness — away with his thumb and sucking it into his mouth. he doesn’t even need to look at you for you to stumble on a breath, looking down at the phone in your hand. 

“yeah,” jensen says, placing the glass bottle down next to you on the countertop you leaned up against. “got a little thirsty. needed somethin’ sweet to tie me over on the drive.” 

he shrugs his duffel over his shoulder again. you can hear the rustle of it without needing to look up, afraid that your expression will give everything away if you look at him now. “bye, little lady,” jensen says, and that draws your attention. he’s devastating like this for many reasons: because he’s leaving, because he smiles with the sun in his teeth, because he can be so sweet after he can be so mean. his two finger salute makes you smile, and you mimic one right back to him before his back turns again. 

daring to see what he did on your phone, you find it open to text messages, where he’d sent something to, assumedly, his number from your phone, after very sweetly naming his contact daddy a.

to: daddy a staying at a hotel for a few nights. i’ll send the room number if you’re feeling brave enough to sneak out.

a dare and a promise all in one. you feel the heat rise to your cheeks, your face blooming in pink, just as your dad lets out a scoff of laughter. “and i always thought that orange juice was too sour, not sweet.”

notes | i dont rly have commentary for this one i just want in his drawls so bad. i was sweatin from the moment i wrote him turning the hat around ───ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤfeedback & reblogs appreciated <3 !!

tags | @soldiersgirl @seven7lee @deansbeer @titsout4jackles @winchestersbgirl @tinas111 @bejeweledinterludes @lonelylonelybaby @mourningthewicked @ultravi0lence14 @1-imbroglio @hughesinthebox @angels-silhouette @blossomingorchids @chris444evr @cassiecourtemanche @writtenbyhollywood @adrienneleclerc @losers-clvb @bluemerakis @fuckedupfate @legalmente-loca @k-slla @fxckingjo @blueschevy @fitxgrld @viluren @youdontknowe @sizzlingcheesecakepanda @cupidluvzz @lanasgirlfr @h8aaz @coralfacecrown @doublecrazyyymofo @1ghxstt1 @mahi-wayy @narniabusinessbitch @zqarax @angelicjackles @arcannaa @am0rem @sthefferrete @v1v1-3 @spxideyver @suckitands33 @beausling @pieandflannel @briisbananass @cowboysandcigarettes @deanswidow @aurevina

[writingjourney]

For Reasons Wretched & Divine

In a desperate attempt to seek out the third Papa’s counsel on an intimate matter a Sister of Sin slips into the confessional one night – only to be met by the voice of Papa Emeritus II instead. Or: Secondo teaches his favourite Sister how to pleasure the man she is infatuated with – unaware that he is exactly who she wants.

content: 19.6k words, pov third person, sexual inexperience, finger sucking, dry humping, gloves & hands, oral sex (both receiving), mild spit kink, choking/sensitive gag reflex, emotional hurt/comfort, praise, sex toys, power imbalance, dom/sub dynamic, soft dom!secondo, p in v, confessions

➽ This is by far the most self-indulgent story I have ever written, also the first one that I ever drew my own banner for. For easier reading I recommend using Ao3 where I split it into three parts of equal length! enjoy ♡

Masterlist – Ao3 link – RATED E – 18+ only

Prelude

He leaves through the list she left on his desk, wets his thumb as he makes his way over to where he hears her getting ready, a small office space he had arranged specifically for her in his basement area. A click as she closes her black leather briefcase and he leans against the doorframe, watching as she slings it over her shoulder, caving in under the heavy weight before she adjusts the painful strap.

“Are you carrying around stones, hm?” he asks.

She turns, mouth parting, her features tensing for a fraction of a second as they always do when he comes close. A static feeling, the room charged with unspoken tension. But then her eyes flicker to his bare forearms, to the open collar of his shirt, the evidence that it is not discomfort that has her body reacting like that. Amused, he focuses back on the list at hand.

“I checked out some books from the library earlier,” she says by way of explanation.

“Are you done for the day, then, sorella?”

“I’m done unless you need me, Papa. I have finished my work.”

“I always have need of you, cara, you are the only one I trust with this task.” He glances up again over the rim of his reading glasses, a mild smile tugging at his lips. “But you have earned your free evening.”

“Perhaps Sister can give me a few more hours down here,” she suggests and the thought alone seems to bring more colour to her face, her fingers shaking as they fiddle with her bag. “I would love to, anyway.”

“Would you, hm?” He cocks his head. “I admit that is not something I am used to hearing.”

No, many Siblings don’t get along with his temperament, the fact that he is rather particular about how he expects things to be done, giving up fast instead of rising to the challenge. Not her, though, no, determined as she is, eager to learn from him, eager to please. For months she’s been down here now, two days a week, cataloguing his vast collection of art, books, and relics, many long afternoons spent in idle conversation as they take notes, more at his probing than hers, though she has a habit of getting him to talk more freely than he is used to.

They are entirely too familiar with each other. He knows the names of her parents, where she grew up, how she takes her coffee and the brand of her perfume, what take out food she likes to order, the books she’s been reading. It would be easy enough to carry their conversations outside of this place, to deepen that bond over a nicely cooked meal. And yet something is holding her back, a flicker of hesitation he can see whenever he tries to go further, when his touches aren’t quite as accidental, when his flirting becomes a little more daring. Or perhaps it is fear, the heat of shame that she is attracted to him of all people. It fascinates him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Papa,” she says, the heavy bag propped against her hip.

Before she can walk by his arm reaches to block her path, a teasing smile on his lips, one he can’t resist. “Sorella, you are forgetting.”

Heat springs to her face, he thinks he can feel it when she leans in to press her soft cheek to his, a practiced ritual. He gives a quick peck but it comes with that Italian intensity, a kiss that lingers long after, the scratching of his cheek, the wet mark of eager lips, and he hopes she can feel it as he does. Her gaze darkens and for a second he expects her to drop to her knees in front of him, confess every single dirty thought she ever had. He would indulge her, naturally. Give her even more ideas.

“Good night,” she whispers, voice nothing more than an exhale.

He nods, satisfied enough with her reaction, his arm falling back down to let her pass. It takes her a moment to notice, before she can break away from his gaze, and his amused chuckle follows her out of the basement. A puzzle he will solve – in due time, and sooner than he expects.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

I – Confession Pt. 1

The only sound in the chapel is the slow rustle of his book as he turns the page.

A slow, solitary night. His official duties have been scarce since entering retirement – though, this is a word he would not use for himself. Retiring, the implication that he can now rest, that his life’s work is over and he gets to be idle. It is not something he wants and though he enjoys the added freedoms he hasn’t been making much use of them. Reduced to confession duty, taking over shifts for his busy younger brother, filling the vacant spots for weekday masses where only few Siblings attend, the view from the pulpit barely reminding him of who he once was. Papa, entertainer, showman, womaniser. Now, it suits him best when he is holed up in his basement all day, restoring flaky artworks, rebinding old tomes he’s been collecting over the years, old school heavy metal blasting from his speakers to drown out any thoughts that could slip into his head. Old school, yes, that is what he is as well now. Rocked down, used, waiting to be discarded.

Confession duty makes him feel useful, at least. It is an irregular night, Terzo nursing an ailment of his vocal chords, urged not to speak unless absolutely necessary. Secondo does not mind taking over. His nights have been quieter, the company he used to keep reduced to the fulfilment of basic needs, the odd overnight stay, a dinner in town here and there. Being stripped of the Papal title came with the added sting of losing the appeal to many. No more grandiose performances.

Purpose, company. It is what he is missing.

He tries not to be offended by how many Siblings show up expecting Terzo and being not quite as enthusiastic once they realise he’s not there. Secondo has his own regulars during the nights he’s on duty, it is the way of things. Discussing such private matters, it requires trust. As the night progresses, however, his breaks stretch out longer. He gets his reading done, a worn copy of The Divine Comedy, read many times over.

When he hears footsteps he pauses, listens whether they carry over or if someone came for a late night prayer. Secondo softly closes his book, pockets it in his black cassock. They approach, sit down behind the lattice on that slippery, worn-down wooden plank, and he readies himself for the well-practiced speech of encouragement he is so used to delivering at any such occasion that a Sibling seeks him out. It is late, his duties almost over, and it is not a rare thing for someone to purposely arrive at this hour, usually when the matter they seek to discuss is of an especially delicate nature. Before he can speak, however, the Sister on the other of the lattice already falls into her confession.

“Forgive me Papa, I know the hour is late and you have lent your ear to many Siblings already but I must–” A deep breath and he sits up straighter as he realises who is talking on the other side. “I must confess that your kind words a few days ago have encouraged me to ask for your counsel in a matter that has been giving me many sleepless nights as of late.”

With no small amount of confusion he realises that she too must mean his brother. He is unaware of such an incident as the one she is describing and last he saw her – this very evening when she left her office with that heavy bag slung over her shoulder – she did not give a hint at being weighed down by something else.

Before he can make himself known, she is already continuing, the words flowing out of her so fast that he can sense the nervousness in her speech. “Perhaps I should start by telling you that I know, as you said, that there is no shame in inexperience and I am aware I am far from the only one who might be insecure about these things. However, the fact of the matter is… there is someone rather experienced who I have become infatuated with. A man, to be precise.” Another deep breath. “He doesn’t know about any of this and he might not even feel the same way about me but still I fear that he might be sorely disappointed if he… if he ever did decide to be intimate with me and found out how very… lacking I am. And I am not talking about sex, per se, the issue is rather… The issue is rather that I have never performed a specific act during my past encounters and I know that I will struggle with it.”

“And what act would that be?” he asks, without thinking.

She audibly startles, though she is trying to hide her gasp. For a second she says nothing, then she stammers out, “Oh, this is– Papa– I don’t–”

“Mi dispiace, sorella, you may have expected my brother to be here tonight. I can assure you, however, that you can confide in me just the same.”

Hurried breathing, he fights off an amused smile at her reaction. “But– because we work together–”

“I assure you of my discretion,” he replies. “I have done this for many decades, sorella. None of what we speak about in here will leave the confines of the confessional.”

She takes a moment to consider, perhaps feeling trapped now which is not his intent. He gives her time, the quiet settling once again. After spending so much time together he can’t shake the hint of disappointment that she’d go to his brother of all people, that she still seems too wary to confide in him.

“It’s just–” She takes a deep breath and he fights the urge to take a look at her through the lattice. “Will you be disappointed in me that I feel ashamed of my own inexperience?”

Ah. Is that what kept her from confiding in him? The fear that his good opinion of her might change? “I will never be disappointed by something like this, sorella,” he assures her. “I am only disappointed that you still distrust me so.”

“I trust you,” she stresses. “I do trust you. I think you’re the person who knows me best in this ministry but I do not want things to change between us. You’re… you’re the closest I have to a real friend.”

He cocks his head, surprised by this admission. “I promise you this will not change. I am here, cara. Take your time.”

For a second, she does not speak, shifts around on the bench. He hears her take a few shaky breaths and while this is not out of the ordinary it is unusual for her. Secondo did not take her reluctance for insecurity before tonight, confident as she is in her work, in dealing so well with him of all people. It is endearing to him, makes his heart ache inside his hollow chest in a way he doesn’t quite understand.

“I have been with people,” she says, then, “but it wasn’t… it wasn’t ever anything special. Some… some fumbling, kisses that escalated and ultimately just a sort of disappointingly quick conclusion. I’ve not been very adventurous, it is hard for me to trust people so intimately with my body.”

“And there is nothing wrong with that,” he assures her, glued to her every word.

“Thank you for saying that.” Another pause. “It is just, now that… there is this man, I realised that I am lacking the skills that… that he might be used to. He is experienced and he knows what he wants which is something I find very attractive. And yes, this should not change his feelings for me, if he has any feelings for me, but if he does not want to take things beyond a physical nature then this might put a quick end to whatever is between us. Before I have a chance to convince him.”

“I see.” Secondo tries not to be vexed by this, the idea of helping her to please another man. “Sorella, dolce ragazza, will you tell me what it is that you are so intimidated by? Is it an usual thing this man wants from you?”

“No, that’s the thing, Papa. It is not unusual at all, it is… Satan, this is pitiful.” She groans into her hands, a pained, muffled sound. “It’s the fact that I have never pleased a man with… with my mouth.”

“Ah.”

“I know this is… it is such a basic thing,” she rambles on. “I am embarrassed, I should not be so worried about it but it’s that I… I am sort of sensitive if you understand what I mean and I’m afraid if I tried… it’d just end in a pathetic performance and he’d decide that he can do better.”

He can feel the blood draining from his face, pooling lower into his body. Only briefly is he irritated by this, being aroused by the mere fraction of the idea of feeling her gagging on his cock. But he can’t indulge this now, not when she is this upset about it. “Sorella, I do not have to tell you that he is not worth your time if this is his reaction.”

“I know and he might not– this might not happen. But with this fear, I’m sure my nerves will make it even worse. I just don’t want to get hurt.”

Secondo takes a deep breath and shifts to sit more upright, leaning towards the lattice now. “As I see it, there are two ways to soothe your worries, sorella. You must confess to him when the time arrives and you wish to please him – and you must tell him truthfully. If he is a man deserving of you he will neither laugh nor judge but guide you with patience. But you must want it, sorella. Remember that every act of sin in Lucifer’s name is one of great enthusiasm, not one of pressure or a sense of duty. If you never wish to perform this act for discomfort or any other reason then he must be understanding of this as well and respect your wishes.”

“But what if he isn’t, Papa? What if he doesn’t want to be with me when he finds out?”

“Then he is not a man that should ever be allowed to touch another person, let alone you. If this should happen, sorella, or if he forces you to do things you do not want, then you will come to me, yes? Promise me.”

She seems taken aback by his vehemence, quiet for a while, but then he sees the shadow of her nodding her head. “I promise.” He hears a sniffle, one that tears right through him. He hasn’t noticed her crying. “But… but what is the other way, Papa?”

Closing his eyes, he fights off the urge to step out of this booth and comfort her. He has ulterior motives, of course, biting at him like tiny parasites, not necessarily a bad conscience, he does mean to help her, but the urges underneath are anything but good.

“If you truly wish to learn, then they key is practice – with your hands, with a safe tool or perhaps… an experienced guide.”

He waits for her reaction now, hoping he did not overstep, that he has been reading her right and despite her feelings for another man she still harbours this attraction to him that he’s sensed when they work. He should not be toying with her in such a vulnerable moment, no, but if it would help guide her into the arms of someone he knows will keep her safe?

“A guide?” she asks.

He fights off a satisfied smile, curious as ever. “Someone you trust, sorella. Someone with experience and patience to show you how it is done.”

“I could not ask anyone of such a thing, Papa. They’d think I’ve lost my mind.”

“Would they?” he replies, then, unable to hold it back, “Who would you ask, sorella? My brother?”

“No!” Her voice rises. “It’s not like that, Papa. I did not– I just wanted reassurance from him, not to– I don’t think about him like that. And I don’t imagine anyone would voluntarily offer to be subjected to shitty blowjobs for a few weeks, least of all Papa.”

“Sorella, you trust me?”

This time, she does not hesitate. “I do, Papa.”

“Then will you come over?”

“Come ov– right now?”

“Yes.”

He hears the wood creaking when she gets up, the soft opening and closing of the door to her booth. In front of his door she hesitates and he almost thinks this is the moment she’ll run away but then, with a visibly shaking hand, she opens. Moonlight streams in, illuminating her face that is still streaked with silent tears. He holds out a hand, and although it is a tight space she fits perfectly into his lap when he drags her there. If she notices that he’s already half-hard she does not comment, secured with a hand around his shoulder.

“Sorella,” he whispers, wiping at her cheeks. “It pains me to see you like this. You should have come to me a long time ago.”

“I know, Papa.”

“Will you let me help you now?”

She glances away, tensing. “I– Would you truly want to?”

“Yes.”

“And not out of pity?”

“No pity, cara.”

She eases in his grasp, allows him to cradle her face in his warm leather gloves. He knows they feel good on the skin, smell of the woodsy oil he uses to keep them soft. It tugs at him, that she is so distressed because of a man who is most likely not even worthy of her. No one is, though, that he knows. And he’d keep her alone if he could, their days spent down in the basement, sorting through his collection between bouts of frantic sex and good food. He’d show her everything, patiently, make her feel so good she’d never think about another man’s cock ever again.

“I’m scared to disappoint,” she admits, then, unusually small.

“I know,” he says. “You want to be good at everything you do, hm? I have noticed this with your work. But we cannot be good at everything right away. I was not, I assure you.”

“You’ve done it before?”

He nods, thumbs stroking over her soft cheeks. “I have done many things, some of which I was good at some of which were just not as good as in my head, hm? It does not matter if you are the best at it, ragazza mia, it matters that you enjoy it just as much as the man who receives it. Or at the very least that you do not mind doing it for someone you like.”

She smiles and he can see her finding back to herself, her gaze stronger, her hands on him firmer, assuring him that she does want to be here, do this with him. Shifting his weight a little he leans back so that she can rest more comfortably in his lap, leaning against the wooden side of the booth. His fingers stroke along her  jaw now, one hand moving to her hip while the other traces the curve below her ear, then forward to her chin, over to the other side. He does it until she’s relaxed, used to his touch.

Then he toys with her mouth. She tenses only shortly, allows him to part her lips, completely enraptured by his ministrations. It’s how he’s seen her look at him during mass, one of the few Siblings who never misses any of those he leads. A smile spreads on his lips, pride that she does indeed trust him, perhaps even longs for him, the intimacy he offers, his company. Slow movements, a finger tracing her bottom lip, feeling her teeth against the tip of it.

More daring, he pushes his thumb inside, makes her spread her mouth open wider. She shivers but allows it, her eyes never leaving his. The muscles in her jaw are tense. After a moment he removes his hand, tugs at his glove until it comes off. Perhaps tasting skin will make it more familiar and he has to admit that the thought of feeling her warm mouth on his finger makes his own heart speed up, that heat in his lower belly now simmering on a steady flame.

“Is this good?” he asks.

She nods.

“Words, my dove, I need to hear it.”

“It’s okay, Papa.”

“Brava.”

He begins by tracing her lips again. This time, he inserts his index finger, longer, pushing further inside. When he sees that she tolerates it he adds his middle finger, a little deeper once again. He does not let it deter him when she gags right away, just retreats a little before going back to where she was comfortable. His fingers are big, he is aware of it, and she has never taken anyone into her mouth, something that thrills him more than he wants to admit to her face. If it takes him a long time to get her to take all of him then it only means that whatever man she was talking about will slip further and further from her mind.

“Not everyone is comfortable taking things in their mouth,” he explains. “It is only natural for the body to fight off the intrusion when unused to it, hm? It is for survival, sorella, it wants to protect you and you cannot blame it for that. But if you wish it so then we can practice and it will be easier with time. Do you want that?”

She nods, mumbling an affirmative around his digits. He smiles, lifts his other hand to pet her jaw encouragingly. Once again he presses down a little harder, goes a little deeper, and this time she is prepared.

“Breathe through your nose,” he instructs. “Relax your muscles, it makes it easier.”

She tries, he sees it, feels her breath against his knuckles. But it only lasts for a short time before she gags again, sensitive just like she’d said, perhaps even more so than he’s expected. But it is good, he thinks, this is perfect. He can show her, the ideal excuse to be close to her like this.

“Shhh,” he coos when she struggles to breathe, removing his fingers to the tips of her lips. “We will get you there, my dove. Do not worry any longer, your Papa will help you. You only have to trust me and you do, do you not?”

Another nod. At his raised brow she speaks, “I trust you, Papa. More than anyone.”

“Good. We will not go any further now. I want you to think about it, sorella, make sure this is what you want, yes? The next time I see you we will try again and perhaps we will try more if you are ready. We can go as slow as you need, but now you need some rest. I do not want to hear about sleepless nights again, at least not if I am not the cause of it.”

She nods, smiles at his jest and shifts in his lap, the arousal sitting uncomfortable between her legs. He knows he mirrors this discomfort, unable to keep his hips completely still. It is not for tonight, however, too much for her to work through already. But she looks grateful, he thinks, her eyes stay dry and the relief is palpable as her body finally relaxes.

This time, she does not forget. “Goodnight, Papa,” she whispers and leans in, pressing her face to his to exchange those wet cheek kisses. He holds still, waits for her to kiss his first, loudly, before he reciprocates. When she breaks away a hint of mischief is laced into her smile. “And thank you.”

His hands tighten on her hips for a second, keeping her there in his lap and holding her gaze with all that he wants to promise. Satisfied that she returns it without as much as a flinch he releases her and she slides off his lap, leaving the booth without another sound.

“Goodnight, indeed,” he whispers, adjusting the bulge in his pants underneath his cassock. When he picks up his book the words swim on the page. He still has another hour.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

II – Lesson Plans

It won’t let go of him.

When he tries to sleep, when he prepares his breakfast, when he sits through a three hour clergy meeting, when he writes Friday’s sermon. His fingers in her mouth, his cock already hard at the mere feeling of her tongue on his skin, that shaky admission of fear and the trust that followed, a festering shame in her eyes that he desperately wants to free her from. Perhaps it is presumptuous, that he thinks it should be him who helps her.

Not that he lacks conviction.

Secondo knows he can show her how to embrace the exploration of her needs better than anyone, the novelty of giving pleasure, a new world he can open up for her. Yes, he can do right by her, encouragement and patience and his guiding hand, protect her from the pain of a lesser man. That she would have him baptise her, it is a gift, or he considers it as such. A thing of beauty, that Lucifer brought her into his care.

His thoughts have been straying to her before that night, that nagging curiosity of why she’s holding back from him, the tingle of lust that has become rarer with age but that she stokes so easily with her presence. Secondo is not in the habit of overthinking, no. Instead he’s pushing uncomfortable thoughts as far away as possible, stuffed into that dark ugly corner in his mind that he has decided to black out, lest they get a chance to hurt him. This is an entirely different matter, an added layer he did not consider before, one that is harder to push away.

There is someone she likes. Someone whose cock she’s been thinking about having in her mouth.

That someone might or might not be him.

Ink drops splatter out of his fountain pen as he realises he subconsciously increased the pressure. He’s beyond cursing, sits back in his office chair instead, identifying his jealousy for what it is. It does not bode well for him, a risk he’d avert if it were anyone else, entanglement, serious feelings. Would she have gone to Terzo of all people to talk about her attraction to him? Terzo would not have known, of course, unless she’d told him, but he is too perceptive for his own good, probably knows she’s been spending hours down here. He can see his brother laughing, telling her to stay as far away from his stronzo brother as possible, semi-serious, perhaps, but Terzo has a way of caring too deeply about his flock and he knows Secondo is not in the habit of reciprocating crushes, rare as they are these days.

Almost a week passes before he sees her again. He makes a note in his calendar to ask Sister to send her here more often, already dreading that conversation. It’s quickly forgotten when he hears her coming down the stairs. She greets him the same way they say goodbye, a kiss to the cheek, a routine he established in one of his slow attempts to take things further. He notes that she is inching a little closer to his mouth, the imprint of her lips lingering in the lines of his jaw.

At first, he does not say anything. They get to work, she catalogues, he wastes some time sorting through a few boxes of books he had recently delivered from Florence where he was a resident Cardinal a few years before his Papacy. Even so, he can’t help but observe her, the diligence, the care with which she treats his belongings, no matter how sturdy or delicate. More importantly, she does not once look at her phone all day. Whoever this other man is can’t be that important.

You’re the closest I have to a real friend, she said in the confessional and he wonders if it is what drives her down here and, in the same breath, whether it is what he feels underneath as well, why he keeps her here, that need for company. Perhaps age has softened him, so much so that he suddenly thinks about a permanent companion for the decade or two that the world has left for him. He doesn’t want to be her friend, no. But is it not how many people start out? Trust, company, friendship, then more. If he can eliminate whoever else is in the equation–

“Papa, I–” She stops when he jumps, cutting his thumb on the cardboard box. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, please go on, sorella.”

Her face is tense, as if he’d startled her instead. She stops wringing her hands, steels her gaze, and he ignores that throbbing in his finger. “I was wondering when we would start our… training.”

It’s late into the afternoon, not that the artificial light in the basement would give any indication. He was waiting for her to be done, call her into his office, see how she’d feel about getting on her knees for him today, but he is too pleased with this progression, her seeking him out. “I take it you have thought about my offer and decided to accept?”

“I have,” she says, not quite so insecure anymore. “And I want to. I am eager to learn and I trust you to teach me.”

“Good,” he says, the books in the boxes long forgotten. At times, she is an enigma to him. It is hard to console the crying sister in the confessional with the woman stood before him, the woman who tolerates his moods, his outward aloofness, tugs at those strings deep inside of him that he doesn’t let anyone else touch. He feels like she is playing him as much as he’s trying to play her and it’s that thrill that makes him reckless with his feelings.

In the end, he leads her to that battered old leather sofa he’s more or less discarded in the back corner, once stood in his own quarters, now exchanged for a firmer model to help with his back pains. It does the job, envelops him when he sits down, comfortable, as relaxed as he’ll ever be at the prospect of a beautiful Sister using her mouth on him. He doesn’t bother with the paint outside of mass anymore and he’s omitted the cassock as well, like most days down here. Just in his slacks and a black button-down he knows he makes quite a compelling sight, even at his age, and she does eye him a little longer than appropriate.

“Right here?” she asks, though it does not really matter. Hardly anyone strays down here, into his domain, and he’s never been one to hide away. She knows this, and when he nods she doesn’t fight him.

“Come here,” he orders, much to her confusion. “Into my lap,” he clarifies.

“But–”

“Sorella, you are beautiful and I am eager to see you on your knees but not even I am ready on command.”

He didn’t mean it as a joke but she laughs, genuinely, and he is way too pleased with himself. Still, her body is rigid when she places her thighs on either side of him, hesitant to fully rest her weight. Secondo is not. His hands settle on her hips and he drags her over his crotch, bunching her habit up enough to feel bare skin and her panties barely hiding the outline of her cunt.

No, this was not part of the deal, not really. He doesn’t care.

“Sorella, tell me again that this is what you want.”

“I do– I,” her voice gives way to a moan, his cock twitching unasked against her core. “Papa–”

“It is not just your mouth that is sensitive, hm?”

His teasing brings heat to her cheeks, suddenly bashful again, and he feels it when he runs his thumb over her skin, making sure to lift her jaw, have her look at him when she feels his size for the first time. She’s pretty like that, aching, overwhelmed by the barest of touches.

“Tell me,” he repeats.

“I want this,” she says.

It’s good enough for him and he has her grinding a few more times, just for his own enjoyment, to see her fight against the need to have him inside of her. Which is not why they are here, no, but he wouldn’t mind getting her to think about it, to yearn for it every time they see each other.

“Now get on your knees for me,” he whispers, eyes still on her, and there is not a hint of defiance in those pupils. She does exactly as he says, slides off his lap and gets between his now spread thighs. He hands her a pillow and she pushes it under her knees, hands carefully grasping at his pants, hesitant but not uncomfortable. The sight overwhelms him. If he hadn’t been hard from her grinding alone he surely would be now.

“I don’t know–” she starts but trails off when he guides her hands to his belt. The front of his pants is already damp but not from him, no. She looks ashamed when she notices and, displeased, he presses her hand to the wet patch.

“I do not want to see this expression, sorella,” he says. “In here, there is no shame, do you understand?” She nods and he reaches for her jaw, lifting her gaze. “Words, my dove.”

“No shame,” she echos. “I understand.”

“Brava ragazza. Now open.”

Her fingers shake but she’s deft enough to be done within seconds, flinching when her hands meet the velvety skin of his dick. With a slight wriggle of his hips he’s slid his pants down far enough for more comfort and she looks up at him, wide-eyed.

He has to fight the urge to laugh. “You will not be taking it all,” he says. “Only as much as you can.”

His words do not seem to calm her, though her eyes linger and he wonders how long it’s been since those disappointing encounters she’s been speaking of. He’s prepared to form more words of reassurance, however many it takes, but then she gets over her fear and cradles him in her hand, curling her fingers around him with some fascination. For some reason, it is not what he expected, that softness, the affection in her touch. His arousal pearls from his slit and she thumbs at him, still gentle, and he tries not to bite his fist. It’s not enough, though.

“Use your spit,” he says, mesmerised by the sight of her.

She looks up, a line of worry deep in her forehead. Secondo takes her hand and, meeting her eyes, lifts it up to his mouth. His tongue works against his cheek until he’s ready to spit into her palm, just enough to help her out. A whimper and her hips shift uncomfortably, another thing he saves for later. But he can’t think about how wet she must be by now if he wants to last for more than a minute.

When her hand next wraps around his length it perfectly slides over his skin. She is not bad at this, he notes, a good soft pressure that firms when she twists towards his tip. Her eyes shift between his cock and his face, taking in every little change in his expression, attentive, already working her mind to learn and improve, not from books or his words this time, and he feels oddly exposed, the mirror suddenly held back at him.

“You are doing well,” he says. “Can you take the tip, cara? Keep your hands on the rest.”

She does, closing both of her hands around him. Then her lips wrap around his tip for the first time and he thinks perhaps he’s the one who will embarrass himself today. His hips buck and he tries to hide it by reaching for her head, fiddling with her hair to keep it out of her face. She looks up at him, mildly confused, but she keeps going without question, rotating her hands and licking at his slit, pillowy lips covering her teeth which tells him she knows the basics. It is a kiss, nothing more, and yet the pleasure in his core is undeniable.

“Very good,” he praises, revelling in the way every little compliment has her eyes sparkling, her confidence growing. “It is good, my dove, you are doing well. A little more, hm?”

She takes him so deep that he can feel his cock resting in the centre of her tongue, right where it flexes on the underside of him, his tip at the hollow of her hard palate. It will be enough for today, he thinks, for him and for her. Her gaze alone could be enough, those insecure, hopeful eyes, wide as they gaze up at him. He pets her head, strokes through the silk of her hair, allowing her to go as slow as she wants. It occurs to him, then, that he does not want this to end, that he’s perfectly content just taking her in for a while.

“Your mouth is perfect,” he whispers. “Have you been thinking about this, hm? Having a cock on your tongue?”

She nods, moving her mouth over his tip, deliciously slow, and when she pulls his foreskin back a little he’s starting to see stars.

“My cock?” he can’t help but ask and once again she nods. He fights back a growl, feels that tightness in his abdomen, all the way down to his balls. He can’t be close already, not from this, and yet– “Come up here.”

She jumps, lets go with a pop. He doesn’t care, pulls her back up into his lap and forward, her panties soaked, dripping onto his cock when he places her just so. With a startled whimper she holds onto his shoulders but he’s already dragging her across his lap, back and forth, until finally she begins grinding on her own again, only that flimsy damp layer between them. Within moments he empties himself into the mess between them and at first she doesn’t notice, not until she’s clenching and shaking and he carefully stops her, begins to ache from the friction.

They breathe for a while, that ebb and flow of pleasure slowly fading, electric pulses between their bodies. Secondo lifts her head from his shoulder to see her and she’s practically glowing, a sight that calms him, satisfied that he managed to pull her there with him.

“When will we do this again?” she asks, breathless, frowning when he laughs at her eagerness.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “and every night when we are here, if you want it.”

She nods, that excited clench of her jaw. He reaches out, wipes a sheen of sweat from her brow. This is the sight, he thinks, the sight he could get used to for years to come. But he is getting ahead of himself, not thinking with the right organ.

“Your homework is to practice by yourself whenever we do not see each other,” he says. “Can you do that?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good.”

He bends them both forward, working his pants closed with a full view of her ruined panties. She leans in, damp cheek to damp cheek, pressing a kiss to his skin that is so soft he has to stop himself from keeping her down here until she can’t walk anymore. He can hardly reciprocate, trying to reign himself in, waits until she’s slipped from his lap before he allows himself to move again.  He doesn’t remember the last time his body has betrayed him like that. Nor does he understand why he is not mad about it.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

III – Dried Tears

He adjusts his schedule. Over the next week Secondo’s days revolve around finding ways to see her. Twice a week is insufficient, though he still only lets her touch him in the basement, makes sure not to go much further than that first time. Security, a safe routine. He won’t let her make him come with her mouth, not quite yet. Everything else is for him, observing her during mass, finding her in the gardens where she helps out two days a week, not exactly following her around but letting his curiosity get the better of him.

There is no other man.

He is sure of it now, or as sure as he can be. She never visits anyone else, sees a handful of friends, all of which decidedly aren’t men, not to his knowledge, and that’s the word she used. There is someone rather experienced who I have become infatuated with. A man, to be precise. If there is a man like that who is not Secondo then he is not here in the abbey.

After two weeks of this sluggish routine he’s had enough. He’s toyed with the idea, surprising her in her quarters on a night she’s not with him, to see what she would do, but it takes him a week to finally follow through. He knows where they are, naturally, though he never usually steps foot inside the dorms. It is an exception, he tells himself, freshly showered, neatly shaved, an extra spritz of cologne, he even used that damned moisturiser Terzo keeps pushing into his hands, made sure his cheeks aren’t dry when she kisses them.

She opens and he thinks she’ll slam the door back into his face. He’s assertive, doesn’t let her surprise affect him, though for a moment he wonders if he did overstep, the other man suddenly not so fake anymore, that short flash of fear that he’s with her right now. But no, she recovers and lets him in, and he surveys her small bedroom with a quick glance when he leans in to press that much desired kiss to her cheek. Empty, no signs of a male presence, and she still smells like shower gel and shampoo, wearing sweats under a plain white shirt, no bra.

“I didn’t expect you, Papa,” she says, picking up items from the countertops of her kitchenette, “or I would have prepared something. A drink or–”

“No need,” he interrupts, noting that she is nervous for nothing. Her small accommodation is tidy enough, that same order she so easily brings into his collection, a logic that somehow works for them both, and he thinks it suits her, a comfortable bed with a plethora of differently textured pillows, a bookshelf that despite some overflow is neatly sorted. “It is best if we are sober. For now, at least. I am not intruding?”

“No, not at all. I was about to settle in for the evening, nothing special.” She eyes him and he knows he must look out of place in his usual black slacks and button-down, the black leather gloves, an overdressed man in her safe, comfortable space like an alien presence. “Would you like anything else? A glass of water?”

He nods, though all he wants is to stall, take a better look at her environments. A small television with a handful of old DVDs, a table she seems to use both as a desk and to eat at. The closed door to her small bathroom, a wardrobe. Then, a stack of library books on her nightstand. He remembers her shouldering that heavy briefcase a few weeks ago. The secrets to pleasure. Sexual practices and their history. The art of oral. Yes, she is eager to learn, no half-hearted efforts.

“Have you been practicing, my dove?” he asks with a smug grin, tracing the image of a man and woman nakedly intertwined on the cover of one of the books.

When she joins him she’s back to her bashful self, as though she hasn’t had his cock in her mouth multiple times by now. “I have tried.”

“That is all I ask,” he reassures. “How have you been doing it? With your fingers?”

She hands him the glass and he takes a performative sip, then sets it down, thinks that she might need it later. Her crouching down in front of her nightstand is more interesting, the drawer she opens revealing a handful of toys. Nothing he hasn’t seen before – two different size dildos, a suction vibrator, a bottle of lube, a disinfectant – but he is pleased to see that she is taking her pleasure seriously.

When she takes out a simple black silicone dildo, ergonomically shaped, he notes that it is not quite as big as his cock. “I used this.”

“Show me.”

Her eyes widen. “Papa–”

Secondo ignores it, sits down on her bed, perhaps a little impolitely leaning back, making himself comfortable amongst her pillows, shoes still on the floor. She stands there, stares at him, and her expression alone is enough to have him raise his brows, begging her to disobey. She won’t, he knows she won’t, she is so eager to please. And she doesn’t, kneels down, placing the dildo upright on the mattress, both hands around the silicone. He has to fight off an amused smile, the way she sits there, like a little girl praying to her Lord before bedtime.

When her lips finally wrap around the toy she averts her gaze, as if to get it over with. But his goal is not to humiliate her, though she might feel differently about it. He wants to reassure her once again that she does not need to be ashamed in front of him, that her trust is not misplaced.

“Look at me, cara,” he orders. “I want to see your eyes.”

She blinks, slowly bobbing her head, leaving a glistening trail on the black silicone. He doesn’t bother to observe her technique, it’s not about that. When their eyes meet he reaches for her hair, angles her head to make sure she sees him palming at his cock through his pants. He pretends not to see her hard swallow at the visible bulge already there, the way her hips move in aroused discomfort.

“You are doing well,“ he says. “I am very pleased with you. But you can take more, hm?”

She always soaks up his praise, his soft reassurances, like a flower raising her head towards the sun, unfolding in its light. It is rare, for someone to react this strongly to so little, almost innocently, though he knows she is not truly a clueless little lamb, that she is aware of their game and participates with purpose. It is enjoyable, for once doesn’t feel like he is taking on a role, no, she willingly submits to him the moment their interaction becomes sexually charged, as though it’s the nature of things. Otherwise, their relationship hasn’t changed, not when they work, not when he sees her around the abbey. He is glad of it, that she treats him like she did before.

She takes the dildo deeper into her mouth, then, cautiously, and he opens his belt, the button of his slacks, unzips them. Her eyes never leave his hand where it’s fisting his cock, getting himself ready for her, that phantom feeling of her lips around him ever present.

“Eyes on me,” he says and she blinks up at his face. “Have you been thinking about my cock when you took this into your mouth, hm? Did you want it to be me?”

She nods, a moan low in her throat. There is no room for anyone else in the way she looks at him, the way she reacts. He’s not sure why, even now, he still feels that simmering jealousy, that urge to erase anyone else from her mind, even when that someone might not even exist.

“I think it is my turn now,” he decides, aching to feel her mouth.

It is amusing how fast she discards the dildo, crawls over between his legs, resting her cheek against his thigh. He’d feel flattered but he’s too distracted by the way her breasts move underneath her flimsy shirt, the outline of her hard nipples pressing against the fabric. It is getting harder and harder to stick to their routine, to limit their lessons to this one simple thing. But he’s not sure if he can allow himself to go further yet, not when he just crossed another bridge of her safety, encroaching on her space. Her comfort sits above all else, especially above his own whims.

“Will you take off my shoes before we start?” he asks, stroking over her cheek with a gloved finger. She is all bare-faced, her hair still a little damp, beautiful and so trusting, letting him see her like this. He can allow himself to feel tender for her but only when he pretends that he is the man she spoke of in the confessional. How else would he be here, with her eyes staring at him all adoringly? Him, of all people?

And she does move down to his feet, no question. When her fingers fiddle with the laces he notices how shaky she is. So far, he blamed it on the novelty of their setting, the way she seems to crave reassurance even more than usual, but now he is not certain anymore.

Even so she is gentle when she removes his black leather shoes, sets them neatly aside. Her hands come to rest on his ankles, stroking up his socks until she meets bare skin, looking up to await further instruction. He can’t hide the shiver that runs through him at her touch, subconscious as it might be, goosebumps creeping up his whole body, and for a moment they just stare at each other while he tries to find his bearings.

“Papa?”

“You can start, cara,” he says, swallowing over a lump in his throat.

Her hands travel up his legs, over his slacks this time, and when they reach his crotch she pulls them down a little more, making space. She begins by massaging around his base, fingers running through the dark hair there, kissing him wherever she can reach before she makes her way up his length and to his tip. Perhaps she has learned that in one of her books, he thinks with some humour.

This time, she keeps anxiously glancing up at him, mouthing at him with a tight jaw. He reaches out to help her relax, stroking along that soft skin underneath her chin. Her hands still tremble, even as she uses them to stroke him, lubed with her own spit tonight.

“You feel good, my dove,” he praises. “You take me so well, no need to be nervous.”

An agitated breath. She unwraps one of her hands, takes him deeper, tongue flat against his underside, wet and hot and firm. Pulling back his hood she licks along his slit, gently sucking at the tip. He moans, unable to hide the sound, and she sucks harder in response, sinking down further. It’s good, he is about to tell her as much, but then it goes too deep and she gags, pulls back, breathing through her nose just like he showed her.

“Slow,” he says. “We are in no hurry, my dove. You were doing so well. Molto, molto bene.”

She nods, takes him back in, not quite as far this time. Her second hand returns, slow stimulation, not that he minds. She is gentle with him and it has a whole different appeal, not like the messy throaty blowjobs he is used to, no, and he does not want it to be over fast, doesn’t need it to be perfect. Not when she touches him like this, like she wants to, like he’s worthy of such softness.

“Good, brava ragazza,” he whispers. “Keep going, just like that. You can take a bit more.”

She tries again, swallows him deeper until he can feel the soft roof of her mouth, but she has to gag again, her eyes watering, sucking in air through her nose. Secondo gathers her hair, tips her head up, looking at her as he mimics how he wants her to breathe. Doing her best to follow the rhythm, she steadily calms down.

When she seems alright, he allows her to continue but she is too ambitious tonight. Her teeth grace his skin when she swallows him too fast and he winces, more in surprise than in pain. When she looks up at him with some shock she gags again, harder this time, fully pulls away to breathe, sitting back on her heels. He watches, ready to move her in case she does have to throw up, but instead she begins to tremble, thick tears rolling down her nose. A sob and she curls in on herself, crying harder.

“Come here,” he says, which she ignores, at first.

He grabs her arms, pulls her up and she doesn’t fight it. When he tucks her against his chest she wraps herself around him and then she’s buried her face against him as if to hide away.

“I told you, I’m useless,” she whispers.

“Shhh, I will hear no such thing.”

She’s quiet then, still shaking, still crying, but silently now. He has an idea of what’s going through her head, only now she won’t share it, not after he cut her off like that. With some regret, he begins to caress her, soothing, trying to convey that he is not angry with her.

“Talk to me,” he says.

She hiccups. “I won’t be able to do it.”

“You were doing it, my dove,” he assures her. “You are impatient.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He coos, presses soft kisses to her hair. She tried to prove herself to him, he realises, still worried that she’s not good enough, impatient, wanting to be perfect for him already. And he knows she is a fast learner, usually, used to improving quickly, to showing her worth, but she hasn’t understood yet that this is not about perfection, not about skill but trust, intimacy, affection and care.

He doesn’t mind, no, he will show her, teach her what he truly wants. It registers to him in that moment, how rewarding it feels to hold her, to comfort her, and not just to prove to her that he can, no, though it is important that she understands. Secondo has always been a man who enjoys providing care for others, often to the neglect of his own well-being, though not always all that selflessly. For his brothers, spiritual guidance in the ranks of the church, then to care for his lovers, emotional release through physical outlets in the way he was shown as a young man. The truth is he enjoys being needed, being admired, just like she does, and perhaps it is the one thing he misses about the Papacy, as hollow as these connections were. It is not often that someone like her seeks him out, someone who offers such tenderness in return, who seems to care for him in equal amounts, who wants him to want her, no transaction.

Someone who might choose to stay.

That is what he truly wants.

“We will stop for today,” he decides. “No more until you have recovered.”

“No,” she says, sitting up to look at him with wide eyes. “No, I can keep going.”

He wipes at her tear-streaked cheeks, cradles her head. “No more tonight. We have time.”

More tears gather at her waterline and she averts her gaze, stares at her shaking hands. “Please… I promise I can do better. Just… don’t give up on me.”

“Shhh,” he whispers, a flash of pain at her broken voice, draws her back against his chest, tightly wrapped up in his arms. He’s not sure why exactly she is so tense tonight but he can tell when the head is not in it. He should have realised it sooner but it has been a while since he had to steer against uncertain winds. “You are not in the right state of mind for this tonight, cara. I should not have overwhelmed you. It is my fault and I promise will do better.”

“It’s not your fault,” she disagrees.

He sits up a little straighter. “Ragazza mia, listen to your Papa. In this room, when we meet like this, it is my task to make sure that you are comfortable, that you feel safe and taken care of and if you are scared or unhappy, then I have failed you. So let me take this blame, hm? It will not happen again.”

Her sniffles tug at his heart and he makes sure to look at her, to convey how very serious he is. Her slow nod is as much of a concession as he’ll ever get from her stubborn little head but it is good enough for him for now. For a long time after he just holds her like that, ignoring his discomfort, how hard he still is, the buckle of his belt digging into his thigh under her weight.

“I really wanted to make you come today,” she whispers, fiddling with the button below his collar. “I’ve never managed before, I thought– if I showed you–”

He draws a deep breath both in arousal and at the realisation that this is the source of her insecurities, of her impatience. “Do you not realise that this was by design?” He lifts her chin, makes sure to meet her eyes. “I did not allow you to.”

”But– why?”

Secondo sighs, unsure what to tell her. That he did not want to give away what her mouth does to him, no matter how clumsy? That he is so fatally drawn to her that he does not want this arrangement to end? That he wants to stay in control of it, can’t hand himself over just like that? The painful vulnerability he feels when she touches him with her soft hands, soft lips, soft tongue?

“It was not about that,” he says instead. “This is not for me, my dove, it is for you. I do not have to as long as you have learned a thing or two, no? It is not always the result that matters. Tell me, why do you want to learn this? Who is he to you that you care more about his enjoyment than yourself?”

“I don’t,” she says, some defensiveness in her tone. “I just– is that not what you want?”

“What I want?”

“To come.”

He chuckles. “Yes, but it is not all of it. I could do that to myself, no? With another person, it is about trust and care, my dove. Why are you intimate with someone?”

She sighs, pondering his words, sinks back down and presses herself to his chest. His hands roam her body, making use of the unexpected closeness, and he realises how he has been aching for her. He continues on when she doesn’t show any signs of discomfort and he can’t help but toy with the hem of her shirt, goes so far as to take off his gloves just to feel her skin against his fingertips. A pleased shiver runs through her body, a tiny whimper from her lips. He goes on, traces her spine up and down.

Perhaps teaching is not so much about instruction, he thinks, perhaps he has to make her understand.

When she doesn’t protest he presses his hand flat to her ribs, following the soft curve down to her waist, to her hip, back up until he can feel the swell of her breast against his finger. She gasps when he presses against it, the softest brush of his thumb over her flesh.

“Papa,” she whispers, drawing a deep breath and shivering all over. “Please–”

“Please what?”

“Touch me.”

He smiles, palms at her breast, generously, kneading, stroking, flicking his thumb over her nipple. She is a mess within seconds, writhing, whimpering, pressing herself against him. He throbs painfully against her leg that is slung over him, fighting the urge to just fuck her into the mattress until they’re both spent for the night. Secondo is a patient man, yes, but he can feel himself reaching his limit.

“Do you want more?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You mean yes, Papa.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good.” He grabs her hips, adjusts her backwards until she is fully on the mattress and he can tower over her. Her face is flushed, hair a mess, her nipples straining against her shirt with every ragged breath. “You trust me, my dove?”

“I trust you, Papa.”

“Then will you let me return the favour?”

She furrows her brow. “But I didn’t even–”

“No arguing,” he decides. “Yes or no?”

“Yes, Papa.”

A smug grin. “Brava ragazza. Hold up your shirt, I want to see you.”

As he climbs off the bed she obeys, gathering the hem and bunching it up until her belly and chest are exposed to him. Pleased, he takes in the state of her, her cheeks still stained with tears but glowing all the same. He adjusts his erection, removes his belt but closes the button again, feeling her eyes on him in what he assumes is anticipation, no more fear, no pressure. He puts his gloves back on, slowly, making her watch. Then, with one swift motion, he grabs the waistband of her sweats and underwear and drags them both down, ignores her mild protest. Not that he’s surprised that she’s pressing her legs together while he folds her clothes, but he makes it a point to draw out the moment nonetheless.

“Let me see you,” he says, placing the bundle of soft fabric on a nearby chair. He can’t help but pick the still damp panties up, bring them to his face, inhale deeply through his nose. The scent of her arousal is so strong that he finds himself unable to set them back down, bunches them up and stuffs them into his pocket instead.

When he turns back around, she doesn’t say anything. Her knees are drawn up, still hiding, even though her whole chest is exposed. Secondo approaches, a pointed look. She is not much of a brat, none of this is to rile him up, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let it slide in the future. Tonight, though, it is reassurance that she needs and he wants to build up her confidence again, a confidence he knows she has, if not for this particular thing.

He changes strategy, gently sitting down on the edge of the bed with a hand on her knee. “You do not have to be shy, cara. Not now.”

“What if you don’t like it?”

A laugh he can’t hold back. “I can assure you I will.”

She allows it, his hand pushing between her thighs, spreading her open for him. For now he keeps his eyes on her face, looking for any signs of discomfort, for even the tiniest indication that she is faking her consent to please him. But he finds none, intrigue and a hint of arousal already, and when he lets his gloved fingers glide down her inner thigh he can watch the goosebumps spreading all over her body.

“You are beautiful, my dove,” he says, taking her in from head to toe.

Under his gaze she fidgets but he can see her confidence growing. He makes a show to lick his lips, to stroke her skin appreciatively, sighing with pleasure at even the subtlest of touches, show her how wanted and desired she is. For months he has been waiting to see all of her but no picture of his imagination would ever live up to her now. Soft. Pliant. Perfect. His.

“Won’t you undress?” she asks after a moment.

“No.”

She furrows her brow. He won’t explain. It is a power play, of course, and she will understand on her own once she feels it. Her discomfort is fleeting, those first encounters, getting to know what he is all about, how he enjoys playing, providing what he does so well, his method, the ins and outs of where they can go. It is about trust, it is about forgetting inhibitions or restrictions or the shame that weighs her down.

“Do you enjoy this?” he asks. “When I take charge?”

He speaks those words as he moves to lean over her, settling between her legs, his face right above hers. She holds his gaze like the perfect girl she is, as though she has already understood what it is he values, what matters to him.

“I do,” she says, allowing him to bend down, mouth at her neck to which she gasps. “It is… it is a bit new to me.”

“I know, my dove, but I can tell that you are leaning into it, that you like it,” he says. “And I am proud of you for how well you are doing. That you are allowing me to show you what I can do for you, that you trust me with your mind and body.”

He kisses her cheek, then down to her jaw, tongue out to lick a stripe up below her chin. She whimpers, her hands at his shoulders now, holding on for dear life. She is sensitive and it thrills him, so much so that he can’t stop kissing her neck and jaw, nibbling, licking, for once careful not to leave any marks on her yet. At some point one of her hands comes to cradle his head and he closes his eyes, leans into the gentle massage she presses into his scalp. When he looks at her, she leans up as if to try and kiss him, but she doesn’t dare to go high enough.

For a long moment he is tempted, feels that draw, the need to devour her so fully that his lips leave a lasting imprint on hers. But he can’t, not if he wants to keep going slow, not when he doesn’t know what his heart would do if he truly felt the tender emotions that stare up at him in her wide eyes.

He makes do with another kiss to her cheek, lingering, wet, hummed into her skin, then he finally makes his way down to her breasts. At first he only blows on them, watches her nipples contract even more, gooseflesh spread over her areola, tempting him to circle one with his thumb. Her breasts feel soft agains this lips when he finally takes one into his mouth, leisurely flicking his tongue over her nipple, sucking ever so gently. Again, her body reacts strongly to his touch, her hips bucking wildly against his belly, her hand pushing his head harder against her. But it is her sounds that affect him the most, those whimpers, breathy and higher than usual, her chest moving underneath him with urgency.

“Do you want it?” he asks. “My mouth on you?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Have you been thinking about this too?”

He looks up at her flustered face and she is so embarrassed that he has to laugh. “Yes, Papa.”

“My mouth?”

“Yes, Papa. Yours, your–” Another whimper. “Your mouth, your hands, the gloves.”

“The gloves? Do you want me to keep them on?”

“Yes, please. Please–”

Her hips buck again and he shows mercy, moving over the curve of her stomach with a few peppered kisses and then down to her mound. He blows on her pubic hair, admires how she is glistening for him, so wet so fast, as though her whole body is just waiting for a morsel of his attention.

Secondo uses his hands to spread her open further, making sure she sees the imprints of his gloved fingers in her flesh, the leather too soft to creak but moving elegantly nonetheless. He is eager to taste her, has been for weeks, perhaps even months, but now that she is laid bare before him he does not want to hurry through it. If he wants to teach her patience and care then he must demonstrate it himself.

Which is unusually hard, especially when he sees her cunt twitching for him.

“Papa–” she whines, throbbing, hands shaking as they reach for the sheets. “Please, I need it.”

“I know,” he says. “I know, my dove, but you will let me admire you.”

She bites her lips and he would not mind having her beg for him but he does not want to tease her too much tonight, those are all games for another time. Instead he kisses along her inner thigh, making his way down to her core. He blows on it again, making sure she can feel her own wetness, lose her embarrassment for her very natural reactions. A look up at her face tells him she is doing better, that she is waiting with bated breath for his tongue.

He gives in, licking a flat stripe along the wetness and parting her folds to make room for him in the process. Her taste floods his senses like the first piece of a sweet summer fruit, so uniquely her that he has to close his eyes, savour it, hum out his appreciation. Once he starts he can’t get enough, it is not something he ever bothered to hide before, but for her he tries to be slow, to ease her into every new sensation, licking and sucking and moving from side to side, sounds and vibrations.

As he goes he keeps his eyes on her, drinking in every reaction, every gasp and mewl, the way her jaw falls open, stomach caving in as her muscles contract upwards into his face. He allows her a few moments in which to close her eyes, though he would usually correct her. But it is her first time, so many impressions that she needs to process, and he thinks she would not handle criticism well tonight, even if playful. No, he wants her to feel good, wants her to get addicted to the feeling of his tongue inside of her, drunk on the pleasure he provides. The rest can come later.

She moans, her fingers cramping in the sheets, and he can tell she is getting close already. He hums once more, sucks at her clit as hard as he can. A high sob breaks from her throat and her hand shoots to her mouth, covering up any further sounds.

Now that he won’t allow.

He stops, bites into her thigh to which she gasps, and when she meets his eyes he grabs her elbow and withdraws her arm from her face, linking their hands together and pressing down on her abdomen.

“But–”

“Let them hear,” he says, thinking let everyone hear, let them know you’re mine.

She follows, the other hand still buried in the sheets. He did not plan to edge her like that but he will not deprive himself of the memory of her sounds, the way they go straight to his cock and will sustain him for a few days at least. No, he wants to see her unfiltered reaction, that raw deep and awkward honesty that will help her ease up when it is her turn again.

“Papa,” she whispers when he starts again, slowly building her back up, too slowly if the urgency in her voice is any indication.

Secondo wants to draw out these moments, every quiver of her legs, every desperate grasp and throb and jitter and whimper and gasp. He feeds on it like a starving man and if she can understand this, if she can see it in his eyes how every movement of his tongue, every press of his lips, is a way to learn about her, care for her, be close to her, then he may not have failed her after all.

When she inches close again, her fingers tightening between his, he shamelessly moans against her, moving from side to side with her clit between his lips, eating, devouring her to the very best of his abilities, and she unfurls so beautifully, her voice thinning out into a scream while her legs shake on either side of his face, her hips helplessly bucking up into his mouth. He can taste her, too, her essence on his chin, his lips, his tongue, and he greedily licks it all up, keeping his face buried deep in her cunt.

He does not plan on stopping just yet. He hasn’t even been inside of her.

When he continues she makes a confused sound that he ignores. A hand on his head, pushing without any real effort. ”Papa– I can’t–“

“You can,” he mumbles into her wetness.

She doesn’t fight him, not when she knows he’s right. This time, he pushes his tongue inside of her and the way she clenches immediately tells him that she enjoys it. In a similar fashion, he tests out different movements, different intensities, sucking, licking, fucking her as best he can with his mouth. He makes her come like that thrice more, though her sounds have become hoarse and her body is a mess of jitters and quakes. It is a sight he enjoys, when the muscles turn into jelly, when the brain forgets how to work. Once he decides that he is done with her every word out of her mouth is but a babbled mess and even though he had planned to use his hands on her as well he decides to be content for tonight. No use for the gloves when she is beyond noticing.

Even as he crawls back up to her it hardly registers, her eyes already closed and her body limp, tingling, flinching at every overstimulation. He cleans off his mouth with his tongue, watches her wrecked form relax properly for the first time since he’s known her.

“Have you eaten dinner, my dove?” he asks, a kiss to her damp forehead.

She shakes her head, turns sideways to where he came to rest by her side. He leaves her there, dozing, recovering, pulls a blanket over her exposed body and uses her bathroom to clean up. He debates, making himself come just to ease the pressure, but it doesn’t feel right. Instead he takes a whiff of her perfume, her shower gel, inspects her toiletries.

When he is all done, more in tune with himself again, he lets his gaze roam over her room once more. It is not much, small like most single apartments here. It would be easy to pack it all up, though he might need another bookshelf to house her collection. His bed is devoid of any more pillows than necessary but he can see that changing as he adjusts to her. Then the image of her body amongst his soft sheets with the high-thread count, not as rough as hers, much nicer on her sensitive skin, and his dove dozing in the warm light of his black candles as he gives thanks to his Lord.

The inhumane size of the kitchenette would frustrate him if it weren’t for her nice selection of products. Good tomatoes, a high quality olive oil, a decent pan. Though her fridge is half-empty he finds a slice of supermarket parmesan, not quite living up to what he’d choose but he can work with it. If she likes Italian food he is confident that he can feed her well. It goes hand in hand for him, sex and good food, nourishing the mind and the body, and tonight she needs both.

He cuts up half of an onion she still has in her fridge, adds a clove of garlic, roasting both in a pan with a generous amount of olive oil, then cuts the tomatoes, throws them in as well and lets it all simmer. After some rummaging he finds frozen herbs in the tiny ice compartment that seem edible enough, though it pains him to add them to the sauce. Pasta boils in a pot behind the pan, barely all fitting onto that tiny stove.

While he waits he watches her sleep, pleased with himself to have worn her out so thoroughly with just his mouth. Perhaps he can repeat this evening, an extra night a week to see her, or two, if she lets him, use the privacy to take his time with her as well, slowly stretch out their arrangement until she forgets the specifics.

She stirs right when the pasta is al dente. Secondo is happy with the tomato sugo and he adds the pasta, then some pasta water, some more salt and pepper, stirs until it is creamy, the juice of the tomatoes giving the dish a subtle red colour. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her getting dressed again, making no mention of the missing panties.

“I didn’t think you’d make dinner,” she says.

“I enjoy it,” he replies. “You like Italian food?”

“I love it, yes.”

He smiles, lets her pick the plates and then shoos her off so he can serve. The table stays abandoned and it is not how he’d prefer it, not as sensual, not as perfect, but he joins her in her bed, watches her eat more so than indulging himself. Would he let her eat in his bed? Perhaps, on occasion, if he was as pleased with her as he is now. Something about her disheveled state, cross-legged, the pleasure still visible on her face. A sliver of domesticity, the vague dream of a future.

“It’s so good,” she says, mouth wrapping around another forkful.

Yes, he thinks. He would let her. He would let her do anything.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

He did not plan on staying as long as he does.

They finish their meal, he has her emptying the glass of water from earlier and then he has to fight her off when she tries to wash the dishes, insists that he do it, a little selfishly prolonging their time. She starts an old black and white movie that he hasn’t heard of before and he wonders if this is her way of inviting him to stay longer. He plans on leaving either way, to give her space, but when he sits down on the bed for her goodbye kiss she slips into his laps and then he doesn’t have the heart to push her away.

They settle in her bed, though he’s sure she’s not actually watching the movie, and it’s not like he is overly comfortable in his tight clothes. But he holds her regardless, chuckling when she inhales the smell of his cologne at his neck, when her hand toys at the hem of his shirt until she’s succeeded in removing it from his pants, two fingers stroking along the newly-revealed sliver of skin. He knows she wants him, she’d let him fuck her right now if he asked, have him stay the night, and he would if she were anyone else, file this night away alongside all the other short-lived encounters he’s had in the past.

But it feels wrong to fuck her now, not just because it is decidedly not a short-lived encounter but because he enjoys her too much and if he moved ahead now it would change, would feel different, and he does not want it to end like all the other times he’s done this. She doesn’t push for anything, successfully bribed him into staying because she wanted him to, not for sex but for his company, and when has that ever happened? Secondo has touched gold, fingertips coated in her richness, and it would be foolish to stick his greedy hand in too fast and burn himself.

No, he will have her but it will be in his own bed, on his own terms, when this charade is over and he knows she’s there to stay.

“Can I ask you a question?” she says after a while.

He’s surprised to hear her voice, so quiet she’s been for the past hour. “What is it, my dove?”

“What should I do if– What should I do if I can never use my mouth like that?”

A displeased hum. “Are you still thinking about this? Did I not distract you enough?”

“I just– I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go all the way.”

“Then you won’t.”

She sits up, looking down at his face. “What do you mean?”

“There are things you can do without taking him into your throat.”

“But what if he only enjoys the real thing?”

“There is no real thing,” he says. “This is not porn, hm? It is all real.”

She rolls her eyes and he grabs her chin, eyes narrowing. Her mouth opens but she doesn’t protest.

“Some men like when you speak to them,” he explains, not letting go of her. “Tell them what you want to do, that you are enjoying it, that you want to feel them come in your mouth. You can use whatever you can reach, massage his skin, his thighs, his balls, lick them, kiss them, bite even, if he is not a coward. You stimulate him with your hand during that time, just like you do with me. You can try touching more of him as well, his back, his taint, use your nails on his ass, anywhere he reacts and when you do it right you won’t need to swallow more than his tip, hm? Everyone enjoys different things, there is not a law you have to follow.”

She stares at him during his speech, his mouth, her hand moving to cup his jaw and stroking so tenderly that he almost feels the urge to pull away. “So, what **do you enjoy?”

His brain short-circuits at her emphasis and she is faster than he recovers, crawling down his body and fiddling with his pants.

“I want to try again,” she decides and he didn’t realise how hard he is. “Will you tell me what you like, Papa?”

“You don’t have to, my dove, I told you I am perfectly content.”

“But I want to. I feel better.”

She unzips him, pulling his pants down further for better access and he is still stuck on her words, what do you enjoy? But then she palms him and he snaps back into himself, grabs her wrist, holding her in place.

“No.” She looks up, taken aback. He swallows. “Before you try we will need a signal. When it is too much you will pinch my leg three times, yes?”

“Okay.” She shows him the gesture, looks at him, still a little startled, and he tries to relax, tries to allow himself to feel what he feels. It is too much at once, this evening, and yet he is unwilling to stop.

“Go slow in the beginning,” he says. “I like to take my time. You can explore and I will let you know what is good. You do not have to speak, I prefer different sounds.”

She does as he said, stroking him wherever she can reach, his hips, his abdomen, carding through his dark hair with gentle fingertips, then grabbing harder at his sides, scratching at the curve of his ass where it meets her mattress. Her mouth follows her trail with kisses, soft, a little too soft after a while.

“More,” he says. “Suck and bite, scratch.”

Her lips press firmer, nibbling on the curve of his lower belly, biting with some hesitation until he encourages her with a hand on the back of her head and she actually bites. It is good, this is what he knows, and he finds back to his outward self, his mind less clouded by emotion. Her lips reach the base of his cock and she looks up at him when her hand closes around his balls, cradling them, slow and careful movements, licking at his length as she does. He has to hold back a moan. This is what he was talking about, the way she is not even aware of what each little touch does to him.

“Good,” he says. “Brava ragazza, just like that. Do you see? It is not about deep and intense, hm?”

Her nod makes him smile, the way she closes her eyes when she properly tastes him, mouthing at his shaft, licking and sucking from the side, one hand fisting his tip, spreading his precome all over him. Yes, he could come like that, if she kept it up. It is her growing confidence that really gets him, her moans, the way she seems to finally allow herself to enjoy the process. Despite her overwhelm she did pay attention to what he did to her earlier, using it to her advantage now.

“You learn fast, cara. Very good.” Secondo pets her head to which she opens her eyes. “Your mouth is divine, my dove. Just like that, yes.”

The flustered tensing of her jaw and she is moving her hips, subconsciously searching for him, some relief for her own needs. He lets his hand roam her back, almost wishing she’d be closer so he could feel how wet she is. But this position is more comfortable for her so he lets her continue, increasing the pressure more and more, one hand dipping lower to his taint, massaging, pressing down exactly where he enjoys, and he clenches hard, not holding back any reactions now. She notices, looks at him with some awe which seems to encourage her to finally take his tip between her lips.

“Brava ragazza, you like how my cock tastes, hm?” he asks, watching her nod, comfortably taking him deeper now that her whole jaw and mouth are more relaxed. She doesn’t gag this time, breathes well through her nose, one hand wrapped around him and the other one still fondling with further down. “You can take more but you do not have to, my dove. You look beautiful like this, an unholy sight. Just keep going like this.”

She does take more, just a little, testing her own limits. He is proud, cannot help it, the way she responds to his guidance, learns, explores, understands. Her mouth is hot, her tongue active around him, sucking, licking, bobbing her head lightly, just enough to give the impression of friction, and her hands work on him with precision.

He feels it, then, that building pleasure, the tension in his lower body, heat and want and– no, higher up in his chest, his affection for her, burning through his shirt, into the mattress, up to his face. Everything feels hot, his hands sweating, and she looks up at him so fondly that he loses all control over himself.

“My dove,” he breathes, a desperate moan breaking from his lips when she sucks on his exposed tip, her tongue pressed to his frenulum. “I’m close. If you do not– do not want me to come in your mouth you need to– to let go.”

She beams, there is no other word, and he doesn’t bother to compose himself. Her face lights up, her confidence more pronounced than ever, ambition behind those pretty eyes. But she does not let go, keeps working him up, hand twisting around his base, covered in spit and his own arousal, slick and deft. His hand, still in her hair, grabs it tighter now, holding on for dear life, trying not to shove himself in deeper. She moans so beautifully around him while she sucks him off that he can’t hold back any longer. When he comes it is with a strangled, helpless groan, his balls tightening in her gentle grasp until he empties himself in her mouth. She obediently looks up at him throughout, taking him a little deeper as if to feel him quivering inside of her. After everything he held back tonight it is more intense than expected and he fills her until his come is dripping from the corners of her mouth.

She swallows. A proud smile on her swollen lips, still stained with his come.

He lets his head fall back, spent, staring at the ceiling for a moment while stars dance in front of his eyes and the pleasure slowly fades. He’s barely noticing how she licks him clean, tucks him back into his pants, closes the button, wiping at her mouth.

“I did it,” she says and he laughs, a full body laugh, a little incredulous that he just let this all happen. “Papa?”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, it was good, my dove. You were perfect, my perfect girl.”

She straddles him with a smile and he indulges her when her hands slip underneath his shirt, press into his soft belly. Gathering his wits he sits up until they are face to face. He’d kiss her, he wants to kiss her, but if he did he would not leave this room tonight.

“Bella, bella ragazza,” he whispers. “Do you see? It is not about taking it as deep as it goes.”

“So you liked it?”

He wipes at her lips, smoothes down her hair and huffs a laugh. “I think I did, hm? Look at you, all wrecked for me. What a sight.”

Even now she flusters and he can’t shake the smile that seems to stick to his lips. He moves his other hand to her head as well, cradling her jaw, and begins to massage her tense muscles. She moans in relief, leaning into his touch with closed eyes. Thumbs pressing below her jaw, his other fingers sweep over her cheeks and jawbone, then down her neck.

“You are not used to it yet,” he observes. “It will get better.”

“It’s okay,” she says.

“Hm, you say this now but wait until you are sore tomorrow.”

“Then you just have to come back and do this again.”

He scoffs, thinking that he would, that he will, if she asks him. She seems happy now, relieved, back to her usual self, and he enjoys it. This is how he wants her, not crying at his feet.

“Will you stay over?” she asks and he winces, lets his hands rest on her shoulders.

“No, my dove,” he says. “But I can stay until you are asleep.”

She doesn’t seem as disappointed as he’d feared and the smile she gifts him seems genuine. Once he is satisfied with the state of her jaw muscles he lets her recline, sink back into the pillows. The film has ended and he turns off the television, rests on his side with her for a while. She is tired, worn out, and though he feels a similar exhaustion his departure doesn’t feel very urgent, not even when her eyes close and she drifts off.

He waits a little longer, watching her so calm and relaxed. His belt is somewhere on the floor, as are his shoes, and he slowly gets dressed, gathers himself back together and stands on heavy legs.

“Wait,” she grumbles, not quite asleep after all, and crawls up to him on her knees. “Papa, you’re forgetting.”

He gives a rumbled laugh and sits back down, leans towards her. Her lips press to his face, not on his cheek where he expects them, no, but hitting the corners of his mouth with purpose. She lingers, kissing him slowly, his face in her hand, and when she retreats he is filled with regret that he did not turn his face after all.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

IV – Stay

Over the next few weeks they make a lot of progress. A lot of progress – and a lot of exceptions.

Secondo is blurring the lines between guiding and indulging and something more, allowing the tenderness between them to bloom. He is aware that he’s lying to himself, not that he really cares. Telling himself that it is all part of his promise to help her is easier, that she needs it and he is merely providing it for her. Assessing risks is something he is good at, knowing where the fun of the gamble ends, but now he is powering with his heart – and he’s gone all in.

But she is improving, getting more and more comfortable with her mouth, taking him deeper, working more confidently through her gag reflex with focused breathing and short breaks, enjoying their time together, initiating it all on her own. This is the agreement, yes, but he has been selfish, getting his mouth on her almost every time, using his fingers, seeing her response to whatever new idea he has to make her come without actually taking her. Perhaps worst, he has been staying over longer and longer, aching when he has to let her go, when she bemoans the loss of him, when he watches her fall asleep alone as he closes the door to her rooms.

Then he is gone for almost a week.

It is a trip he planned months ago to retrieve two Renaissance paintings from Urbino, a private collector who offered him first access should he want them. Secondo traverses the arcaded courtyard of the Palazzo Ducale, marvelling at the architecture, his business concluded, the paintings ready to be shipped, his last day spent taking in the city’s sights before he leaves. She will enjoy them, if her taste regarding his existing collection is any indication, and he is looking forward to showing her his newest acquisitions once they arrive. In his absence he allowed her to proceed without him, finally cataloguing the latest arrival of books, and all week he kept imagining her alone in the basement.

Secondo does not miss. He has missed people in the past, of course, he misses his late mother, his nonna, he even misses his brothers when they’re away, but the last time he missed a woman it did not end well for him. His youth was spent in such daydreams, with the experiments of love, travelling around for the clergy, emotional as well as physical distances his relationships never survived, a broken heart he stitched together so many times that the scars have left it numb.

The late evening sun shines down on him as he walks back to his hotel over cobbled streets, ready to take a light dinner and pack his belongings. His heart, not so numb anymore, cries out for one person in particular and suddenly he does miss again. He’s been thinking of calling her but discarded the idea just as often as it arrived. Secondo knows he is not an innocent man, that he made mistakes, alienated people who might have loved him had he lowered his walls. A loneliness decades in the making, now fractured by this woman who is too lovely for him, who cried at his feet, who asked him not to give up on her.

He knows he is being stubborn, doesn’t care about that either. He can get what he wants, he has done all he was willing to do, but now he doesn’t want to sway anymore, doesn’t want to impose, doesn't want to beg. She has to say it, ask him, tell him, or he will not go any further. He has shown his intentions but he won’t expose his heart. If there ever was another man he’s certain that he’s forgotten by now but she has not corrected him about that night, hasn’t told him, hasn’t made any implications, and he will not be the fool to ask for more than anyone thinks he’s worth. Not again.

Yes, he wants her in his bed, wants her in his life, but not for the arrangement.

The arrangement be damned.

After seeing her kitchen it is easy to think of a gift, a bottle of expensive olive oil, a generous wedge of real parmigiano reggiano, and he can’t help it, old romantic sap that he is, and stops for a bouquet of red roses before he arrives at home. The thought of visiting her is quickly forgotten when he enters his own apartments, feels the raging emptiness. He wants her here, for the rest of his life.

She’s knocking an hour later, one short message sent to her door, conjuring her at his will. He tries not to let it go to his head, unsuccessfully, tells himself that she must have been waiting for him. And maybe she did because then he sees her, a little dressed up, lipstick, her hair done nicely, and she hugs him like she always hugs him, only somehow tighter, a full body effort, pressing herself to him until she can go no further, her face buried in his neck and her nose inhaling his scent. Secondo cannot deny that he loves these moments. He holds her equally tight, breathing into her hair that smells like flowers. Today, she greets him with multiple kisses to his cheek, covering every inch of it, then she stills, sighs, clings to him with clenched fingers.

“I missed you,” she whispers, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to say it.

“I have missed you as well, my dove,” he admits, his heart jumping. “And I brought you a gift.”

“A gift?”

He leads her over to his open kitchen, the flowers throning over the other items and her expression is everything he had hoped for, everything he ever hoped for. Smiles, a happy laugh, her nose in the roses. More kisses to his cheek, more of her, thanking him, touching him, reassuring him. Then he shows her his apartment, watching with rapt attention how she likes it, letting her explore on her own to prepare a light meal in his kitchen. As always he brought more food from Italy than he had planned to, but at least now he has someone to share.

“I own a lot of books but there is always room,” he says when he sees her eyes on his shelves.

“Room?” She scans the titles, a big chunk of his collection, as yet uncatalogued. Many volumes she has never seen before, some particularly impressive ones, and he enjoys watching her browsing with such interest.

“Room for more,” he explains. “Not necessarily mine.”

Her eyes move to him, curious but not averse. “I never thought there was much room in your life. You seem… comfortable, on your own.”

Secondo scoffs, cutting up some fresh bread. Is this how he comes across? Well, he should not be surprised, and yet it stings to hear it from her. Did he not allow her closer than anyone else?

“There is room,” he just says, if you want it.

She joins him, popping an olive into her mouth, a hand snaking around his waist. “Did your work all go to plan?”

“It did, I acquired two rare paintings for a reasonable price. You will see them as soon as they arrive.”

”Secondo–“

It is the first time she uses this name for him and he stops cutting up his tomatoes, looks at her. “Yes?”

“I really did miss you. I feel like– perhaps I should–” She stops, looking away. “I suppose I just want you to know.”

“Did something happen?” he asks, alarmed by the change in her voice. “Did that man hurt you?”

“No! No, nothing like that.”

A pause and he wills her to say it, to admit that he doesn’t exist or that he exists but does not matter anymore. The thought passes and the longer he looks at her the less he cares about anything else. She is beautiful tonight, every night, but something about her wanting to impress this upon him makes it harder to resist.

He stops his preparations, mentally postponing the meal, and pulls her out of the kitchen. His record player is over by the bookshelf she just inspected and he picks a slow tune, some soft rock compilation from the 70s. At first he simply reaches for her hands, pulls them to his chest, swaying with her. She smiles, leans into him. The music is slow enough for them to continue like this, though he needs her closer soon, reaches for her hips, and she obediently wraps her arms around his neck.

This could be their life, he thinks as he looks down at her mellow expression. This could be their future.

“I really like your apartment,” she says after a moment. “It’s not huge but– you use the space well.”

“You would not mind spending more time here?”

“I would not mind at all.”

A kiss to her forehead. “Good.”

She rests her head against his shoulder and they stop moving, listening to the rest of the song. A lot goes through his head then, how he’d take her to Italy with him the next time he goes, how her books would fit into his shelves, her pillows onto the sofa, how he’d like to hear her slow footsteps every morning before she joins him in the kitchen, how he’ll ruin the life of anyone who dares to lay a hand on her.

“You have lipstick on your cheek,” she says, reaching up to wipe at his skin.

She never finishes. He cradles her face in both hands, angling her so that he can look right into her confused eyes. Her arm limply falls away, dangling at her side. Secondo leans down, pressing his lips to her cheek, to the corner of her mouth, to her nose, to her chin, then repeats it on the other side.

“It’s not time for our goodbye kiss yet,” she whispers.

“This is not a goodbye kiss.”

When he captures her lips she falls against him, her hands grasping at his shirt. Even though he plans to go slow her eagerness is catching and he presses in firmer, his thumbs at her jaw, controlling how she moves, swallowing every little whimper. She gives up control within seconds, allowing him to kiss her as he pleases, slow, deep, opening her up for him until he can get his first taste.

A part of him gets lost, a heaviness that dissipates, an invisible hand around his neck that loosens its grasp until he can breathe again, sees his own reflection in the mirror of his mind. It is not the same bitter old man staring back at him, no hard lines, no scowl, no narrowed eyes, but a young man with hopes and dreams and a smile. Who finally has what he’s been longing for.

Secondo breaks way, not far, just enough to clear his head.

“I missed you,” she says against his lips. “I missed eating with you, I missed you in my bed. I missed your company in the basement and I missed you during mass. I missed touching you, feeling you, tasting you. I missed having you in my mouth. I missed it so much.”

He swallows, his throat suddenly tight, and he decides to steer them back into familiar territory. “Do you wish to remedy that, my dove?”

“Please.”

He leads her into his bedroom, not to the bed, not yet, no, but he lowers himself into the brown leather armchair in the corner. It feels grotesque, almost, to have her here, a place that is filled with memories of so many carnal nights that she might cry, could she see them, knowing her fear of inferiority. But looking up at her now, he realises that her confidence isn’t wavering, and perhaps this is the sign he needed that their lessons are over.

“Papa?” She motions to his shirt. “I would like to undress you, this time.”

“You may open the buttons,” he says. “Take off my shoes and slacks. Nothing else.”

She doesn’t fight him, starts with his slacks, then unbuttons the shirt, and he realises what her plan is, the journey given as much attention as the destination itself. Secondo smiles when her hands don’t seem to leave his chest, carding through thick hair like an insistent brush, back and forth, scratching just enough to leave a few red marks. She goes as slow as she has learned he enjoys, a similar path but never the same, a few surprises, like her tongue pressed to his balls or her teeth on the inside of his thigh. He relaxes, the leather soft on his skin, the world returning to normal.

“I thought you missed my cock,” he says after a while, teasing, and she laughs with her lips on his balls until his cock jumps in her hand.

“I did,” she whispers. “But I missed the rest of you, too, Papa.”

He smiles, pleased with her, gently petting her hair. “I do not have to tell you anymore, hm? You know just what I like to hear.”

He feels another laugh, at the base of his cock this time, and she sinks down on him with a long sigh, licking as if to greet his taste, taking him as deep as he knows she can comfortably do now. It is enough to make him feel how wet and tight her mouth is and there is nothing he would miss, no matter how she took him. And yet this time she swallows him deeper, ever deeper, and he wonders if she has been practicing without him.

“My dove,” he says, breathless, his whole body attuned to the heat of her.

“Hm?”

“Cazzo,” he exhales and then his hips buck and he hits the back of her throat, the sensation more than he expected, the word followed by a deep moan and the sound of her gagging. She’s not pulling away, breathing perfectly, waiting it out. His body must have missed her, betraying him once more with the intensity of each little shock that goes through him.

She has to let to go to breathe, then, tears rolling down her face from the sudden movement and mixing in with the drool around her mouth and chin. Secondo pats her cheek for a moment but once he sees she has recovered he pushes her head down again, forcing his cock back into her mouth. She immediately gags as he hits her throat once more but he won’t let her get off completely again.

“You look so pretty when you choke on your Papa’s cock,” he says. “Breathe, my dove. Very good.”

She inhales deeply through her nose, following along with his rhythm and soon she swivels her tongue around him again, doing so well tonight. His fingers are still on her head and he lets them glide over her cheek as tenderly as he can muster, aroused as he is, wiping some of the drool away. She looks up at him, batting her eyelashes, and slowly drags her mouth over him, using the few precious seconds he spends taking her in to recuperate.

“Hmm, mia brava ragazza, taking me so well, molto bene,” he mumbles and she beams at the praise, speeding up slightly as if to prove to him just how good she is. “I do not think you have anything more to learn. Una ragazza perfetta con una bocca perfetta.”

She whimpers at those words, sucking him deep until she can swallow around him, every little gag in her throat gripping him tight. Secondo doesn’t have much left, he knows it, not tonight, not with how she’s moving. And she is a mess, spit and his arousal coating her mouth, running down her hand where it works at his base.

“Stop,” he says, feeling his lower body tighten. “Stop, my dove. Come here.”

A displeased look washes over her face that he doesn’t let her finish but she obeys, as she always does, letting go of him and crawling into his lap. She is breathing heavily, wiping at her mouth, and he pulls off his gloves.

“Come here, let your Papa help you.”

He uses his thumb to clean the mess on her chin only to push it into her mouth. She obediently licks off the fluids, sucking a little longer than necessary. Secondo hums in appreciation, watching with an affectionate, blissful expression he can’t be bothered to hide. His cock is throbbing, waiting to be inside of her, but he can’t just yet.

“We are done,” he says. “I will not teach you how to use your mouth anymore.”

”But–“ Her face falls, her lips quivering. “Papa– I’m sure there’s more–”

“You know what do now,” he continues. “You do not have to worry any longer.”

“But Papa– Secondo–” Her eyes begin to water, not from overstimulation this time. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Then tell me,” he says, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels. “Tell me you do not want anyone else. Tell me you only want me.”

“I don’t want anyone else. I only want you.”

“Swear it, my dove. Swear it, right now, before Lucifer.”

“I swear it. I swear it.”

It is enough. It has to be enough. He inhales a shaky breath, his own eyes stinging as he looks up at her wet cheeks. Without hesitation his hands reach for her, holding her face between his palms, and she doesn’t once glance away. “Stay.”

“What?”

“Stay, tonight. Every night.”

Her eyes widen but she nods a moment later, leans in, and he kisses her with a bruising force that neither of them see coming. Her gasps go straight to his cock and he can feel how wet she is when she grinds down on him, her thighs shaking and tensing. With a tight grasp he holds her hips still, his tongue pushing into her mouth, feeling her, tasting himself on her. It is enough, he thinks again. This is enough.

Even though his knees are weak he manages to grab her hips and get up, dragging her over to the bed and dropping her onto the mattress. It is everything and nothing like he imagined, the image of a divine creature spread out amidst his soft sheets. He hates that he is impatient now, after months and months of waiting, praying, hoping for this, and yet his hunger is that of a starving vulture, waiting to devour.

He undresses her just enough to feel some of her skin, to be able to touch her breasts, her legs.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say it again.”

“I want you,” she chokes out. “I only want you, Papa.”

It draws a moan from him, the absolute conviction in her voice, her gaze never straying from his, her hands on him, roaming his body, desperate, his fingers fully sheathed inside of her, his tongue on her throat, his teeth in her skin. She’s whimpering, clawing, waiting, and he’s had enough.

“I will fuck you now,” he says, a hoarse whisper against her ear. “But there is one condition.”

“Wh-what condition?”

He lines himself up, his tip pressed to her heat but going no further. She cries out in despair like he’s physically hurt her, more cries and sobs. When he looks at her she’s clenching every muscle, her face streaked with tears and ruined make-up.

“You have something to confess to me, ragazza mia,” he says, taking some pity. “Tomorrow night, you will be in the chapel and I expect you to be honest.”

She nods, feverishly grasping at him, a whimpered yes falling from her lips as he finally sinks into her. Deep, slow, perfect. Another tear rolls down her cheek and he kisses it away, holding her face in his hand.

“Promise me,” he breathes, his voice soft now, barely audible.

“I promise,” she whispers and he slowly begins to fuck her. “I promise, Papa. I would do anything.”

He nods, groans, and then the world blurs around him.

V – Confession, Pt. 2

The calming rustle of paper. Secondo turns the page of his book, a paperback copy of –– which he only recently started on her recommendation. The chapel is quiet, the last Sibling left half an hour prior and he has been waiting ever since. He can’t say that he’s nervous, not after last night, and yet a heaviness sits in his stomach like a stone sunk deep into the ocean, the weight of this commitment, equal parts a comfort and intimidating.

When he notices the steps he can tell right away that it’s her, familiar as he has become with her rhythm. The door to the booth opens to a shaky breath and she sits, as she sat all these months ago, shifting around on the worn-down wooden plank that is separated from him by nothing more than a thin latticed wall.

“Sorella,” he says in greeting.

“Good evening, Papa. There is… there is something I wish to confess to you.” The wood creaks, her face closer to the lattice when she continues. “It has been weighing on me ever since I came to you for the first time but I have been a coward. I wasn’t truthful with you and I want to remedy that tonight.”

“I see.” He closes his book, sets it aside. “And have you been repenting for your transgression?”

”To be honest, I thought perhaps you might assist me with that.”

He smiles at the hint of teasing in her voice. “Join me over here, sorella.”

He listens as she steps out of her booth, opening the door to his without hesitation this time. Secondo can’t help the pride he feels at the way she carries herself now, confident in her submission to him, not hesitating to demand what she wants and needs. He’ll take her home with him after this, worship the very essence of her.

“Come here,” he says, patting his cassocked knee.

She sits down, already losing her concentration, her eyes on his mouth, her hands fiddling with his collar. It is just as well, he wasn’t planning on having a fair conversation anyway. His hands work themselves up her legs, dragging the hem of her habit with them, the gloves she so loves toying at her stockings. As expected she whimpers at the slightest of touches, her cunt clenching.

“I know what you want to confess to me,” he says. “You are not a good liar, sorella.”

She smiles at that, biting her lower lip to hide it. “I never said I was, Papa.”

Secondo drags his hands up her body now, groping at her flesh, sighing when he feels her breasts underneath the fabric. She leans into his touch, grinding not quite so subtle on his thigh. His eyes move up to her face and he lets one of his hands follow, tracing the line of her jaw before he grabs it between two fingers, forces their gazes to meet.

“When you came to me, sorella, you told me there was someone,” he elaborates. “A man, to be precise. Now tell me, and do not lie again, did you think of me when you went to confess to my brother? Was it my cock you imagined in your mouth, when you wished to learn how to please a man? Were you shocked when you heard my voice instead? The very man you were speaking of?”

“Yes. Yes. It’s all true.”

His grasp tightens, his eyes narrowed. “Why did you not tell me that night?”

“I was so embarrassed, Papa, I– I didn’t know how.”

“And later, why did you never admit it?”

“I wanted to keep seeing you,” she says, her voice shaking a little, as though she’s not sure if he’s truly upset with her. “I was worried you’d stop if you knew– if you knew how I felt about you. I didn’t think you’d feel the same.”

He lets go of her chin, cradles her cheek instead with his thumb toying at her lips. She relaxes and he strokes her for a moment, unclenching his features, softening his gaze. “That night you called me your friend, sorella. Am I a friend to you still?”

“No,” she says, visible swallowing. “You are still a friend, in– in some ways. But also more. A lot more. I can’t imagine a life without you, Papa.”

He pushes his thumb into her mouth, then, and she greedily sucks it in deeper, her cheek safe in the curve of his palm. “There is no life without me, my dove. You swore it before Lucifer. There is no one else.”

She nods, closing her eyes when he begins to stroke her hair with his other hand, moving down her  jaw, her neck, holding her there, though not squeezing, his thumb against her windpipe to feel every swallow at his fingertip.

“You are mine,” he says. “And I am yours.”

At that she lets go, bringing one hand from his neck to his face, mirroring the way he’s holding her. Her gaze is serious, her eyes staring down at him with an intensity that chills him.

“Will you swear it?” she asks. “Before Lucifer?”

“I swear it.”

She smiles, big, bright and honest, and he breaks the game, returns it, pulling her face down to his until he can feel her breath on his skin.

“This is not a goodbye kiss,” she mimics from the night before.

He scoffs, stopping just before their lips touch. “There will be no more goodbye kisses, my dove. This is forever.”

thank you for reading <3 i know this was long, if you made it hear then kudos to you! as always, likes, kudos, comments and reblogs are appreciated but most of all i hope you had fun reading this story!

Masterlist – my Ao3 – Join my tag list

[woso-story]

Better Boyfriend Than Him - Part Twenty-Two

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

Being Alexia's girlfriend is… perfect.

There’s no other word for it.

Waking up next to her, the way her arm lazily wraps around your waist in the mornings. The soft kisses on your temple before she leaves for training. The way she smiles at you like she’s still surprised she gets to call you hers. It’s all perfect—so easy and natural, like it was always meant to be this way.

But just as everything is falling into place, it’s time to leave.

You’re heading home for Christmas—Zaragoza, with your family and Mapi’s—and suddenly the timing feels unfair. You just got her, just held her hand in public for the first time, just kissed her in front of your friends… and now you have to leave?

You cling to her the morning of your departure, sitting on the edge of your bed in your thick sweater, your overnight bag packed and waiting at the door. Alexia stands in front of you in her pajamas, arms crossed and teasing you with a little smile.

“You’re acting like you’re leaving for six months,” she says, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“It feels like it,” you mumble.

She laughs and leans in, pressing a long, slow kiss to your lips. “You’ll be back in a few days. I’ll be fine.”

You’re not sure if you will.

Mapi’s voice cuts through the moment from the hallway. “Okay, lovebirds. We’re late. Again.”

Alexia helps you up, your hand lingering in hers even as you walk toward the door.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper.

“I know,” she whispers back, her voice soft.

Just as you turn to say goodbye one more time, Mapi groans. “Seriously? I’m gonna drag you out myself.”

And she does.

She literally wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you out the door while you and Alexia are still laughing through your goodbyes. Alexia leans against the doorway, watching you with soft eyes and a small smile, blowing you one last kiss.

It’s hard. Really hard.

But the Christmas days are… perfect.

Your family is thrilled to have you back, and the warmth of home wraps around you like your favorite blanket. There’s food, endless teasing, way too many sweets. And everyone’s excited to meet Alexia someday—your parents, your cousins, even your uncle who pretends not to care about football but somehow knows exactly how many goals she scored this season.

In the evenings, it’s just you and your girlfriend again. You curl up under your childhood blanket, your phone pressed to your ear, and tell each other what you’ve been doing the last few hours.

Her voice always makes your heart calm down.

She tells you about what her mom cooked, and how Alba forced her into watching Love Actually again. You tell her about your grandma’s bad jokes and how you can’t stop thinking about her whenever someone says the word “Barcelona.”

And then, just like that, it’s New Year’s Eve.

You and Mapi are driving back to Barcelona, music blasting, the car packed with presents and leftovers. You're both excited—there's something special about ringing in the new year with your people. Your girlfriend. Your friends. Your life.

The apartment is buzzing with laughter when you arrive. People are everywhere—Alexia in the kitchen with Alba, pouring cava into mismatched glasses. She turns the second you step through the door.

Your heart jumps when you see her. She looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“You’re back,” she says, crossing over to pull you into a kiss.

“I told you I’d come back,” you smile against her lips.

The night is full of music, dancing, drinks, and joy. Midnight comes too fast. Everyone’s counting down around you, glasses raised, eyes bright.

“Cinco!”

“Cuatro!”

“Tres!”

You’re already turning to her, arms around her neck.

“Dos!”

“Uno!”

And then her lips are on yours, and nothing else matters.

The best start to a new year in a long time.

---

Time with Alexia moves differently now. Faster, somehow, but fuller too.

The new year kicks off with both of you buried in responsibilities. She heads off to training camp with Barca. You dive into a new project at work that keeps you glued to your laptop late into the evenings. Life is moving fast—but it’s moving in the right direction.

She still finds ways to make you feel like you’re her priority. You come home to flowers more often than not—sometimes roses, sometimes wild little bouquets she picked up “just because.” Sometimes there’s a note tucked between the petals, scribbled in her handwriting:

“You’re the calm in my chaos.”

You go on double dates with Mapi and Ingrid. You visit Eli and Alba often, sharing Sunday coffees and warm croissants. The first time they came over after Alexia made it official with you, Eli pulled you into the tightest hug and whispered, “Ya era hora. Bienvenida a la familia.”

Everything is falling into place.

At the end of January, it’s your birthday.

Because Alexia’s birthday is less than a week later, the two of you decide to celebrate together—nothing extravagant, just a cozy dinner with your closest friends. Laughter bubbles through the night, champagne glasses clink, and Alexia keeps looking at you like she’s the luckiest person in the room.

Maybe she is.

But you feel the same way.

Alexia is the best girlfriend you could ever ask for. Supportive, steady, full of quiet passion. She kisses you when you’re stressed, holds you when you're tired, reminds you with every little thing she does that you’re loved, deeply.

Life isn’t just good.

It’s perfect.

[coqhee]

 ﹙✧﹚ SUMMER ⁺⊹₊ 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈

IN WHICH ✷ your best friend is your bf just for the summer

엔하이픈 x f!r ― fluff + eensy bit of angst + crack ⨯ 876O ⨯ friends to lovers + cursing + brainrot/gen z/a terms + mutual pining + pet names

em's note ★ this fic was originally for jungwons birthday but guess who's 2 months late,, dot dot dot. this one's semi-based on summer by keshi. anyways I miss summer sm what the heck :( ∘ ∘ ∘ more

─── ♡

the cool breeze in contrast with the summer nighttime humid air sent a rare shiver down your spine this time of year. you pulled your jacket a little closer around yourself, the distant hum of traffic fading away as you walked further away from your workplace. 

for a moment you forget you have your best friend jungwon (and temporary coworker, though you wish he’d get fired already for being making you laugh all shift and lose pace) walking beside you until he interrupts your thoughts with some dumb comment about a new game coming out. 

“so are you gonna play with me or not?” jungwon nudged your arm lightly, his voice taking on that playful whine he always used when he wanted something from you.

you blinked, snapping out of your thoughts, and shot him a half-hearted glare. “i’ll think about it.”

jungwon scoffed. “what’s there to think about? just say yes.”

you rolled your eyes, tucking your hands into your jacket pockets. “you act like i have all the time in the world.” 

“and that’s because you do,” his eyes widened pointing the truth out. “you literally wake up, eat, sit on your phone for what, 6 hours? then go to work, come home and sit on your phone, then sleep,”

to which you lightly curse him out telling him to quote ‘eat shit’. which he does holding a proud grin right after. jungwon only chuckled, clearly pleased with himself for getting under your skin. he stuffed his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels as you both continued walking.

to be fair, he wasn’t entirely wrong. except for those ‘6 hours’ on your phone more specifically being time spent on your phone facetiming jungwon while he plays games. 

“anyway,” he said, dragging the word out, “if you’re not gonna spend your time gaming with me, what are you planning to do this summer?”

“get a boyfriend maybe, you never know,” you grin

jungwon snorted, shooting you an unimpressed look. “yeah, right. you?” he looks you up and down and hosts a disgusted look on his face.

you raised an eyebrow. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“i mean,” he shrugged, “be so for real with me right now. you think you’re just gonna pull a boyfriend out of your ass?”

you rolled your eyes, nudging his arm. “rude. i could if i wanted to, i just choose not to thank you.”

that and the fact your parents would kill you before you even talked to a boy that wasn’t jungwon. even if your parents would let you have a boyfriend, the only one allowed would be jungwon as he’s a quote “boy and a friend”

it wasn’t just because he was your best friend. they’d known him since you were both little kids—since the first time he helped you with that science project in middle school, when you cried because you had procrastinated and your idea wasn’t working as expected. when you were both still in the awkward phase of school dances and sleepovers. they loved him like he was family, and as far as they were concerned, he was family.

jungwon snorted, clearly unimpressed. “uh huh. keep telling yourself that.”

you shot him a look. “excuse me?”

“i’m just saying,” he smirked, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket, “if you really could, you would’ve done it by now.”

your mouth opened in offense. “okay, first of all—”

“nah, nah, don’t even start,” he cut you off, grinning. “no game. no rizz. zero bitches. zero aura. no roster.”

you gasped dramatically. “i’m telling you i could bag a boyfriend whenever i want, won.”

“prove it.”

you narrowed your eyes, stepping in front of him and pointing a finger at his chest. “fine. i will.”

jungwon raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “yeah? where’s he at, then?”

you faltered for a split second before crossing your arms as well, matching his stance as you stop to hit the button at the crosswalk. “i just haven’t picked one yet.”

“mhmm,” he hummed, unconvinced.

you wracked your brain for a way to turn this around, and then it hit you. you smirked. “actually… how about you?”

jungwon blinked. “what?”

“you heard me,” you said, tilting your head. “if you’re so sure i can’t get a boyfriend, then you be my boyfriend. just for the summer.”

he stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “you want me to fake date you… because i said you couldn’t get a boyfriend? you’re like actually psycho.”

his words were pure venom to any outside person, yet you knew as soon as you had brought up the idea, essentially he was already agreeing to it by just being near you. obviously.

you raised an eyebrow, trying to hide the smirk tugging at your lips. "oh, so you're not up for the challenge? thought you liked proving me wrong."

jungwon scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked away for a moment, clearly trying to process your words. "this is insane. what’s in it for me?" he asked, his tone still incredulous, but you could tell he wasn’t entirely dismissing the idea.

"come on," you teased, "it'll be fun. and, hey, maybe it'll even help you get some street cred with the ladies. people from school will think we’re a thing, and you can enjoy all the benefits of being my fake boyfriend without any real commitment."

he rolled his eyes dramatically but the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "right, because getting fake affection from you is definitely my dream summer."

the crosswalk symbol turns green as the two of you continue walking onwards. “see! you’re already basically my boyfriend cause’ you’re walking me home, how sweet, i’m flattered,” 

“we literally work together and live next to each other. you’re insane,” he deadpanned, but one good look into your eyes, he knew his name was already signed up to do this for the summer. he groaned, running a hand through his hair. "i swear, you’re lucky i’m a good friend."

"you’re doing this because you love me, jungwon," you said with a grin, nudging his side.

"yeah, yeah, try not to actually fall in love though," he muttered, but the faint smile on his face told you everything you needed to know.

who knew getting a boyfriend was this easy?

─── ♡

ride or die: gm honey

ride or die: did you sleep well?

to say that you didn’t physically recoil seeing those texts would be a lie. your face contorted with a mixture of concern, your eyebrows furrowing just reading the word honey. you couldn’t deny that you felt some mixture of butterflies erupt in your stomach, but you’re pretty sure it’s just the pet name and not that it was from jungwon

y/n: wtf y/n: who tf is honey

ride or die: stfu im method acting as your bf rn be grateful

y/n: method acting is crazy

y/n: your ahh is NOT an A list actor

ride or die: i could be though ngl. i’m a dedicated asf honey

y/n: who tf is honey: neverrrrr text me like this again

ride or die: good id rather kms than do that again ride or die: anyways be ready by 2, we’re going out

y/n: ??? going where

ride or die: idk either! 

you groaned at your phone screen, swiping down to see the time. 

1:30 pm.

you panickedly rushed out of bed, tripping on the chair in between you and your closet and began searching for some resemblance of an outfit. clothes flew from your closet to the chair, a heap of fabric now piling up one what you could’ve once called a place to sit.

you yanked a sweatshirt from the pile, held it up, then threw it aside. too casual. next came a sundress—immediately vetoed. too much.

 why do you care what he sees you wear. i mean he wasn’t even your actual boyfriend. you don’t dress up for men, let alone jungwon of all people. he’s seen you in the worst phases of your life. from your pink and only pink elementary school phase, to late-night convenience store runs in mismatched pajamas while crying over an ex boyfriend. he’d really seen it all.

it’s just a hangout really, like the thousands of other times you’ve hung out. so why were you standing here, holding two different shirts like it was some life-altering decision? was it because you cared what he thought

your fingers finally landed on some anime tshirt from a convention and some (probably unwashed) cargos you thrifted. good enough.

you grabbed your phone to check the time.

1:48 pm.

"shit."

ride or die: ur not ready are u

you rolled your eyes.

y/n: i’m literally done rn calm down diva

ride or die: uh huh ok

you slipped your shoes halfway on your feet, rushing out to see jungwon through the passenger side window staring at his phone laughing to himself (probably scrolling reels). 

you made your way over to the car, still shoving your feet into your shoes, putting them on in the process of walking, yanking repeatedly on the car handle while reaching down to finally put on your shoes correctly.

jungwon looked up unamused and unlocked the door, whilst you slid in. "made it," you said, slightly out of breath.

he gave you a once-over. "not bad," he said with an amused smile. "i was fully expecting pajamas."

"well, i try to exceed expectations."

he pushed off the wall and fell into step beside you. "good. 'cause our first date can't start with you in your 'i took a shit today t-shirt."

you groaned. "that was one time. and for your information, multiple people found it funny."

"mm-hm."

“so where exactly are we going?” you asked, pulling your seatbelt across your chest.

jungwon shrugged as he shifted into drive. “i told you. i don’t know. just... somewhere.”

you shot him a look. “you dragged me out of bed, made me sprint around my room like a lunatic, and you don’t even have a plan?”

“not having a plan is the plan,” he said, eyes twinkling as he turned onto the main road. “besides, isn't that what couples do? just drive around aimlessly until they end up at target or the mall?”

you rolled your eyes before pulling out your phone to text your parents who were away at work that you were going to go hang out with jungwon. to which they “thumbs upped’ your text. 

jungwon glanced over at you, noticing your thumbs flying across the screen. “letting your fan club know where you are?”

“you wish,” you muttered. “just telling my parents we’re hanging out.”

“oh, then i’m officially approved, huh?” he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “they probably think this is a date.”

“they probably think every time we hang out is a date,” you replied. “you’re literally their dream come true.”

jungwon let out a dramatic sigh. “great. can’t wait to get the ‘you two should just date for real’ speech at the next barbecue.”

“or the classic ‘why can’t you find someone like jungwon’ lecture,” you added, mimicking your mom’s voice.

jungwon shot you a side glance, his lips curving into a teasing smirk. “uh huh, now where are we going? you pick, pretty girl.”

you nearly choked on your own breath. “don’t call me that.”

“why not? i’m just staying in character.” he turned his attention back to the road, the smirk still plastered across his face. “you should be grateful i’m such a committed boyfriend.”

“committed to being annoying,” you muttered, shoving your phone into your pocket. “fine. let’s go get ice cream or something.”

jungwon nodded, signaling to turn. “ice cream. classic couple move. solid choice, honey.”

you groaned, sinking into your seat. “i hate this already.”

jungwon just laughed. “you’re the one who asked me to date you.”

─── ♡

“...and also one scoop of strawberry swirl with a waffle cone. it’s her favorite, but she’s trying to act cool. so just that and the rocky road please.”

the girl behind the counter smiled politely as she scooped the ice cream. “oh, that’s cute. you know her order.”

“sure do,” jungwon nodded, ending the conversation as he turned back to you.

you furrowed your brows, squinting at him. since when did jungwon actually know your order and not order you some diabolical weird flavor. jungwon gave a blank stare back, then turned back to the counter to grab the two cups.

"what?" he asked, not looking at you. "you’re acting like i don’t know you or something."you shook your head, still a little confused. “i’m just surprised you would actually order something i like and not their ‘exotic’ flavors.”

“like their vanilla and balsamic vinegar,” you coughed under your breath. “woah that’s crazy who said that.”

he rolled his eyes in response and tapped his phone to the register to pay. "i had to suffer through that once to know you wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. hence why you suffer with me."

the two of you walked to a two seater table outside watching the many rich cars that went by continuing your conversation.

“so, am i a good boyfriend.. or am i good boyfriend?” jungwon asked with confidence, his eyes following a sleek black sports car that zoomed by, the sound of its engine filling the brief silence between you.

you scoffed, taking a bite of your ice cream. “debatable.”

jungwon turned to you, feigning offense. “debatable? i literally remembered your order. if that’s not boyfriend material, i don’t know what is.”

“ that was quite literally bare minimum,” you teased, waving your spoon. “but i’ll admit, i expected worse.”

there was a pause, just the sound of passing cars and distant chatter filling the air. then, jungwon spoke again, more casual this time.

"so, do i have to do all the heavy lifting in this relationship, or are you gonna start acting like my girlfriend too?"

you rolled your eyes. "what, you want me to start holding your hand and gazing into your eyes lovingly?"

he smirked. "wouldn’t hurt."

you went to throw a napkin at him, but he dodged easily, laughing. "hey, i'm just saying, you talk a big game, but if we’re committing to this, you gotta step up."

"oh, please," you scoffed. "you’re lucky i even suggested this in the first place. it’s a good look for you. ‘loser senior jungwon bags a baddie’."

jungwon tilted his head, eyes scanning your face like he was studying you. "yeah," he said after a beat, "guess i am."

there was something about the way he said it—like it held more weight than the conversation called for. it sat there, unspoken, lingering between the two of you as he nonchalantly scooped another bite of his ice cream. you weren’t sure why, but something about it made you shift in your seat, suddenly hyper aware of the casualness of his voice in contrast to the meaning behind his words.

but instead of addressing it, you did what you always did—brushed it off. you can’t be going crazy only a day in. 

“you know,” jungwon started again, breaking the silence. “you never answered my question.”

you blinked. “what question?”

he turned back to you, tilting his head. “am i a good boyfriend? or just a good boyfriend?”

you rolled your eyes, exasperated. “are you gonna keep fishing for compliments or actually eat your ice cream?”

“you’re avoiding the question.”

“because it’s a dumb question.”

jungwon leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “sounds like you just don’t wanna admit that i’m doing a great job.”

you scoffed. “we’re literally fake dating. the bar is on the floor, six feet under even. my standards are so much higher than you,”

“just scared to admit i’m the best i know, you can thank me at the end of the summer,”

you ignored the way your heart skipped at the if we were real part, instead focusing on scraping the bottom of your cup. “sure, won. whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“see? that’s your problem,” he teased. “you’re all talk, but when it comes down to it, you’re bad at playing along.”

you narrowed your eyes. “excuse me?”

he leaned back again, looking far too smug for your liking. “we’re fake dating, honey. at least pretend to be obsessed with me.”

you stared at him, unamused. “you wish i was obsessed with you.”

jungwon grinned. “see? that’s exactly what someone obsessed with me would say.”

you groaned, throwing your crumpled napkin at him, which he easily dodged, laughing. but despite the playful banter, despite the way he was obviously messing with you, something about the conversation felt like it was stepping in and out of the line that bordered between friends and more than that.

a line that neither of you were acknowledging.

─── ♡

as the new two weeks passed, the whole fake dating thing started feeling less like a bit and more like something else—something you didn’t want to put a name to.

at first, it was just like every other time you hung out with jungwon. same dynamic, same banter, same comfortable familiarity. but now, there was a difference. a shift so subtle it was almost unnoticeable—almost.

when it was just the two of you, things felt normal—like nothing had changed. jungwon was still the same jungwon who teased you relentlessly, who knew exactly how to push your buttons but also when to stop. you were still you, rolling your eyes at his antics but never actually pushing him away.

but when other people were around? that was when the difference became obvious.

it was in the way jungwon would throw an arm around your shoulders so casually, like it was second nature. the way he’d lean in closer than necessary when talking to you, his voice dropping just slightly. the way he’d call you honey or pretty girl without a second thought, like the words belonged to you.

and the worst part? is how he’d continue on even after people had left.

like the time you ran into your friend yunjin at the convenience store and his arm immediately slithered around your waist. how the two of you watched yunjin jump with delight and call out “finally!” then, even after you parted ways with her, his arm remained, as if he forgot, but it seemed intentional the way he just ‘did it out of instinct’.

his fingers tapped lightly against your side, like he was absentmindedly tracing a pattern only he knew. you had waited for him to pull away, to step back now that the audience was gone—but he didn’t.

when you got to the diner for work, ready in uniform to go clean tables for 8 hours a day at minimum wage monday morning, jungwon was already there, waiting at your desk with a grin like he had all the time in the world.

“morning, honey,” he greeted, voice light, teasing.

you sighed, setting your bag down. “we’re at work, jungwon. chill.”

he leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. “so? couples work together all the time.”

“yeah, real ones.”

“ouch,” he deadpanned. “so cruel this early in the morning.”

before you could respond, your boss strolled by, offering a knowing smile. “you two make such a cute couple,” they commented before disappearing down the hall.

jungwon turned back to you, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “see? real ones.”

you groaned, taking your card off the wall and clocking in.

“you know what today is right?” jungwon smirked with confidence and pride, thoroughly enjoying this stupid agreement that you had first brought up.

“no, what,”

jungwon gasped, clutching his chest like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline. “wow. i cannot believe this.”

you gave him a blank stare. “just say it.”

he leaned in slightly, like he was about to drop the most important news of the century. “it’s our two-weekversary.”

you blinked. “our what?”

“two weeks of this beautiful relationship,” he said, dramatically wiping a fake tear. “two weeks of love, commitment, and unwavering devotion—”

“okay, shakespeare wrap it up. you are in public, do not pull this shit right now,” you muttered, shoving him lightly as you both made your way to start prepping utensils and napkins for tables.

jungwon, still grinning, grabbed a stack of napkins and started folding them with practiced ease. “so, how does it feel?”

you raised a brow. “how does what feel?”

he glanced at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. “being my girlfriend for two whole weeks. life-changing, right?”

you snorted, rolling up silverware. “oh, totally. i don’t know how i ever survived without you.”

jungwon chuckled, but instead of firing back immediately, he let a beat pass. then, casually, he said, “well, i kinda like it.”

your hands froze for half a second before you shook it off. “fake dating? yeah, i guess it’s not the worst.”

“no,” he corrected, voice lighter, but still deliberate. “just… being your boyfriend.”

you looked up at him, but he was focused on his task, fingers smoothing over the napkin edges. you were unsure of how to react, so you just shrugged, trying to act casual, though your heart had picked up pace.

you swallowed, forcing a scoff. “yeah, yeah. you’re really selling it.”

jungwon finally looked at you, eyes warm, teasing—but something else, too.

“who says i’m selling anything?” he murmured.

before you could process that, the door jingled as customers walked in, pulling you both back into reality.

jungwon straightened up, tossing a napkin at you. “anyway, anniversary dinner. you in or what?”

you rolled your eyes, grabbing a menu. “depends. are you actually paying this time?”

he smirked. “for you? always.”

you ignored the way your chest tightened slightly at that, chalking it up to the lingering effects of his dramatics.

yeah. that had to be it.

the whole day at work he kept making glances at you and smiling, though not the teasing ones or the ones where he’d conveniently look over when you would make mistakes, and laugh at you. or when he would take over the overfill tables or yell at customers to get out cause you didn’t have the heart to.

throughout the day, you found yourself acting differently too—not in a huge, obvious way, but in small things that didn’t feel all that fake.

like when he forgot to tie his apron properly, and you rolled your eyes but fixed it for him anyway, muttering, “seriously, how do you function.”

or when he barely had time to eat during the lunch rush, and without thinking, you slid half of your sandwich onto his tray, acting nonchalant. “don’t make it weird. just eat.”

he blinked at you, then took a bite with a small, knowing smile. “wow. you do care.”

you scoffed. “debatable.”

and everytime he would say “hey, pretty girl,” or “hey honey,” you turned at the nickname. one that should’ve made you roll your eyes, but instead, it sent a weird warmth through you, though it was really just the nickname. if your #1 enemy also called you honey, or pretty girl you would also be a blushing mess, right..?

it was different watching him look out for you now and you looking out for him. and in a way you hoped this could still persist when you went back to being friends.

but when you gave it another thought, what were you thinking? this was just practice experience being a girlfriend and caring for someone in not just a friend way. 

─── ♡

jungwon had asked you one day if you would’ve ever considered waking up at 3am to watch the sunrise, to which you told him to hell with that idea. 

there was absolutely 0 way you were down to wake up that early just to see the sunrise then immediately go back to sleep.

but then one night, around 1am, as you both sat lazily on your porch with empty slushie cups and a half-finished bag of spicy chips between you, he tilted his head and said, “what if we just… didn’t sleep?”

and for some reason—maybe because he looked at you with that grin, soft and challenging at the same time—you nodded. “okay, fine. but if i pass out in the car, that’s on you.”

you ended up in the trunk of his car, parked on a small hill just outside town. he’d folded the back seats down, thrown in a bunch of old blankets and pillows, and even brought snacks he knew you liked. it was quiet except for the occasional hum of cicadas and your favorite playlist playing softly through his phone speaker.

you both lay on your backs, watching the sky shift slowly from ink-black to a deep navy, the stars beginning to dim one by one.

“this is kind of nice,” you mumbled sleepily, your cheek pressed into one of the throw pillows.

jungwon laughed, low and quiet. “kind of?”

you turned your head just enough to see him beside you, his arm bent behind his head, eyes wide open and reflecting the first signs of light.

“okay, very,” you admitted.

time slowed down in that little space. the air between you was warm with sleep-deprived comfort. you felt his pinky graze yours where your hands lay between you, and neither of you moved away.

you shifted a little, your shoulder brushing his as you tried to get more comfortable, but then his arm lifted slightly in invitation.

“come here,” he said, barely above a whisper.

you hesitated for a second, heartbeat skittering with nerves, before moving closer, slowly, carefully. your head found its place just over his heart, your cheek pressing softly into the fabric of his hoodie. he let his arm rest gently around your waist, not pulling you in, not forcing anything—just… there.

the steady thump of his heartbeat was all you could hear for a while. it was soft, slow, grounding. you found yourself syncing your breathing with his without even meaning to.

he didn’t say anything, and neither did you. you didn’t have to. the silence said enough.

his heart kept beating under your ear, like it had all this time, like it always would, and it felt safe. like home. like maybe you’d been leaning toward this moment all summer without realizing it.

and then the sun finally peeked up over the horizon, casting everything in soft gold and pale pink.

you didn’t even bother looking at it for long. instead, you glanced sideways again, just to see how he looked in the morning light.

he must’ve felt it, because he turned, catching your gaze.

and instead of looking away this time, you just stayed there, hearts beating softly in sync, eyes saying more than either of you dared to speak aloud.

─── ♡

“yknow maybe we should tell our parents that we’re dating,” jungwon suggested absent mindedly, causing you to actually spit out the matcha rose boba you had just taken a sip of a second ago.

you coughed, choking a little as you reached for a napkin, your eyes wide. “excuse me?”

he just blinked at you like you were being dramatic. “what? it’s not that crazy of an idea. they already think we are.”

you stared at him. “yeah, and we’ve done a fantastic job pretending we’re not.”

he raised an eyebrow. “have we, though? your mom made us take couple pictures at my birthday dinner. your dad told me to ‘take care of his daughter’ like he was giving me a blessing. i’m pretty sure your cousin asked if we were getting married soon.”

you groaned. “okay, maybe. but then we tell them we broke up, what happens then?”

jungwon paused for a second, his straw still between his lips as he considered it.

“we say it was mutual,” he said casually. “no big deal. we wanted to stay friends. which is true.”

you narrowed your eyes at him. “but what if they get weird about it? or start trying to set me up with random people like minjoon from the parent’s community center?”

jungwon made a face. “ugh, not minjoon. he used to eat glue.”

“okay but you get my point, see there’s so many issues with it,”

“it’ll be fine, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” he rolled his eyes, “let me call my mom and say i wanna eat at yours and then tell her to come over as well.”

your mom made too much food as always, jungwon’s mom brought over way too many tupperwares of side dishes, and both families slipped into that comfortable rhythm like they’d all done this a million times before. which, honestly, you had.

jungwon took your usual spot at the dinner table—right next to you, of course—elbow bumping yours every now and then, passing you all the dishes he knew were your favorites without you asking. he even stole a bite of your highly cherished japchae when you weren’t looking.

the dinner was the usual kind of chaos—both your moms chatting over each other about some market sale, your dad and jungwon’s dad arguing about grilling techniques, and the unmistakable buzz of familiarity that only came with years of shared holidays and weekend potlucks. it was normal. it was warm.

jungwon cleared his plate to which you made fun of him telling him to slow down, and that you weren’t gonna fight for food he already touched. 

you leaned back in your chair, letting your gaze drift toward him just as he turned to glance at you. it wasn’t a big look—barely a second—but his eyes lingered. and in that split moment, everything stilled.

you gave him a look. something cautious. something questioning. are you sure?

his eyes searched yours like he was answering. only if you are.

and you didn’t say anything. you didn’t have to. your breath hitched the smallest bit, and you gave the tiniest nod.

and that was it. the go-ahead.

he set his chopsticks down with a soft clink, just enough to get the attention of the table without being dramatic.

“actually,” jungwon started casually, glancing once at you as if to double check—like there was still room to back out.

but you didn’t.

you sat a little straighter. steadied your hands in your lap.

“we just wanted to tell you something real quick.” the two of you say in unison just as you had planned 15 minutes earlier outside your front door.

both sets of parents nod on prodding the two of you to continue. and jungwon looks at you to talk. your dad raises an eyebrow, immediately setting down his glass filled with some cheap supermarket wine.

“so um,” you start, the words getting caught in your throat. all the confidence you had mere seconds ago dissipating the moment you actually realized you were going to confess to something that wasn’t even real. 

you felt jungwon’s hand gently squeeze your hand twice as if to say ‘you got it’, though you would’ve much preferred if he just took over and talked, but you knew damn well jungwon would find every way to word it wrong. 

“me and won are uh. well. dating?” you manage to word out with what sounded like a question at the end. as if to ask your parents for confirmation that you were dating.

like they knew.

you winced for a small moment, scared of their reaction, not that they would react poorly, but still just to brace yourself for whatever words came out.

“oh? i thought you already were, okay,” jungwon’s dad spoke first and continued on with his grill talk with your dad. 

jungwon’s mom, however, let out a small gasp—her hand flying to her chest like she’d just received the best plot twist of her life.

“i knew it!” she half-whispered, half-squealed, reaching across the table to swat your mom lightly on the arm. “i told you, didn’t i tell you?”

your mom just nodded smugly, sipping her tea with a knowing glint in her eyes. “you didn’t even need to say it. i’ve been calling him my son-in-law since christmas.”

your jaw dropped. “what?”

jungwon choked on his water. “mom?!”

his mom grinned proudly. “don’t act surprised, you practically live here anyway. every time i call you, you’re with y/n. what was i supposed to think?”

“that we’re close friends?” you eyes widened bewildered at the revelation. 

jungwon just gave you a look that clearly read be so serious right now.

“no offense, but y’all passed the ‘just friends’ stage like two summer barbeques ago,” your mom added, barely suppressing a grin.

your dad, who had been suspiciously quiet up until now, leaned back in his chair and sighed dramatically. “guess i have to find a new way to threaten you when prom rolls around.”

“dad!” you cried.

jungwon snorted. “sir, with all due respect, i think you ran out of threats after you made me recite your ten rules of dating… twice.”

everyone laughed, and just like that, the tension vanished. the table settled back into the usual rhythm—chatter about work, complaints about grocery prices, light gossip about neighbors you barely remembered.

your heart, though, hadn’t calmed at all.

you didn’t know if it was from the thrill of the performance or the way jungwon kept glancing at you when no one else was looking—soft, almost unreadable, like he knew something you didn’t.

the two of your families after dinner, cleaned up and played poker until late at night, the house full of laughter, cheer, banter, backstabbing each other through teams. it all felt just right. 

after jungwon’s parents walked back to their house across the street leaving you and jungwon to hangout in your kitchen after your parents had gone to sleep..

after a long night of baking brownies and blowing up the kitchen the two of you cleaned up the kitchen and you were just about ready to go sit down and rest. at least until jungwon tugged your sleeve as you were walking back into the living room.

“come on,” he said quietly, his voice just for you. “let’s go.”

you blinked. “go where?”

he didn’t answer—just gave you that annoyingly mysterious smile and nodded toward the front door.

you hesitated only a second before slipping on your shoes and following him out.

outside, the summer air had cooled, but not enough to need a jacket. jungwon’s hoodie hung loose on him, sleeves shoved up to his elbows as he leaned against the car, twirling his keys on one finger.

“spontaneous post-dinner getaway,” he said, opening the passenger door for you. “get in loser, we’re avoiding emotional fallout.”

you rolled your eyes but climbed in anyway. “you’re so stupid.”

for some reason it felt eerily normal having jungwon take you on a drive at 11pm, and you tried to think of who else would you really allow to drive you this late at night. 

no one. just jungwon.

it was an awkward moment of realization as you stared

─── ♡

the small “endearing” moments that should in theory mean nothing became more common. as much as you’d like to lie and say ‘haha yeah we’re just super close friends, he does this all the time, he’s so silly’, that vocabulary to label whatever went on between the two of you did not mentally exist by any means.

like when he casually pulled the sleeve of your hoodie down over your hand and held it there, fingers brushing yours a little too long. like when he casually adjusted your necklace, fingers grazing your collarbone. like how at work, when there was no one to perform for, he’d still pull up a chair next to yours, close enough that your elbows brushed.

or even when the two of you were attending keeho’s 18th birthday party, he was stuck by your hip as though he were going to lose you in the crowd of the 6 people in your friend group.

“so,” jungwon said now, setting his chin in his palm as he watched you tap away at your computer, “what are we doing for our final date pretty girl?”

you didn’t even look up. “final date?”

“well, summer break ends in today and we might as well go big or go home, we should go like stargaze or something, ”

you shot him a look. “since when do you stargaze?”

jungwon smirked. “i don’t. but you’d be surprised what i’d do for my girlfriend.”

you ignored the way your stomach flipped at that and focused on your screen.

because this was fake.

it’s all fake, it’s just your best friend. this is normal. it’s not like you were gonna miss these totally non-romantic dates or whatever when it ended. and god the second you took a small glance up to see that stupid dumb smug smirk, you couldn’t help but want to kiss that smirk off his face.

you blinked hard and dragged your eyes back to your laptop, like it could somehow undo the thought. like you didn’t just imagine what it’d be like to kiss him for real—no excuse, no fake label. just you and jungwon and the quiet press of lips that meant everything.

god.

what were you even saying. 

you couldn’t be in love with your best friend.

“yeah sure whatever stargazing is fine or whatever,” you tried to non-chalantly choke out to no avail with his super dumb, extra idiotic with a side of even more dumb smirk, curving up even more than it had already. 

that night when he picked you up to take you stargazing, you hated how stupidly good he looked in that hoodie—the one you always stole, the one that still smelled like his cologne and laundry detergent even after a wash. he leaned against his car with two slushies in hand and a smile that made your stomach flip like it had nothing better to do.

by the time you reached the hill just outside of town, the sky had already started to darken. stars dotted the sky, and the night was cool but not cold. jungwon grabbed a blanket from the backseat like he’d planned this—which, of course, he had. because he always thought ahead when it came to you.

“come on,” he said, flopping down onto the grass and patting the spot next to him.

you sat beside him, and the two of you looked up in silence for a while. the stars were quiet and constant. but your thoughts were anything but.

and then, he broke it.

“i’m gonna miss this,” jungwon said, not looking at you.

your breath caught. “what, the fake dates?”

he chuckled softly. “no. just… you. like this. with me.”

“yeah, me too.”

your voice was quieter than you meant it to be, barely more than a breath. and maybe that was all it took—just that one admission—because when you glanced over at him, he was already looking.

his eyes held that same softness they always did with you. that same calm, steady warmth. only this time, it felt different. heavier. fuller.

you didn’t know who leaned in first.

maybe it was him. maybe it was you. maybe it was both of you moving at the same time, pulled by some invisible thread that had been tightening for weeks now.

but suddenly, he was close.

so close you could notice the way his lashes curled slightly at the ends, the way his breath warmed your skin. your noses nearly touched. your lips—god, your lips were maybe a centimeter apart. your hands were resting between you on the blanket, barely brushing.

and the moment stretched, unbearably quiet, unbearably full. a fragile, perfect pause.

you weren’t sure what you were waiting for. a sign? a reason? an excuse?

but nothing came.

instead, jungwon swallowed slowly, gaze flickering down to your lips—then back to your eyes. and then he leaned back just slightly, like it had all been some kind of mistake he didn’t want to admit to.

you both laughed a little, and it was the worst sound—because it didn’t feel funny. it felt like stalling.

you glanced down at your hands, fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie, gripping like you were holding onto something that was already slipping.

“well,” you breathed out, your voice steady in a way that surprised you. “thank you for being my fake boyfriend.”

jungwon blinked. “thank you for being mine.”

you nodded, forcing a small smile. “we did good.”

“yeah,” he said softly. “we did.”

and then there was silence. stars blinking overhead. grass brushing against your legs. the quiet between you more deafening than anything he could’ve said.

you cleared your throat, gaze fixed somewhere in the sky. “this is for the best, anyway. it’s better this way.”

jungwon didn’t respond.

“like,” you continued, trying not to sound too breathless, too desperate to fill the space, “summer’s ending. we can finally just be normal again. go back to how it was before.”

you swallowed hard, forcing the words out like they didn’t sting. “thank god, honestly.”

and it was a good performance. you said it with a smile. a soft laugh. like the past few weeks hadn’t meant anything more than two friends goofing around, pretending for fun.

but god, you wanted to take it all back. you wanted to say please don’t stop pretending. please don’t let this be the end.

you wanted to tell him you weren’t relieved. not even a little.

but you didn’t.

because this was your best friend. and this was what you’d agreed to. and maybe if you kept lying to yourself just a little longer, it wouldn’t hurt so much.

so you stood up, brushed off your jeans, and turned to him with a grin that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“come on, loser” you said. “we’ve got school in the morning.”

and jungwon… jungwon just nodded.

the car ride back was silent, as you looked out the window lost in thought of the tense moment. maybe you were just going crazy after all.

─── ♡

it felt like summer fell behind you in the blink of an eye. one night you were busy pulling an all-nighter with jungwon, the next you were back at school doing stupid class introductions as if everyone didn’t already know each other, considering the senior class this year was so much smaller than other years.

you thought every thing would just go back to how it was when you and jungwon were purely “best friends”, though the world had different plans. 

you thought everything would go back to normal. that once school started, once senior year rolled around, you and jungwon would fall back into the routine of just being best friends. no more weird stargazing moments. no more forehead kisses because “you looked really kissable right then.” no more fake confessions whispered under fireworks or his hand steadying yours under the dinner table.

and senior year didn’t exactly give you space to process the maybe-definitely growing feelings anyway. college applications were looming like dark clouds. essays. deadlines. the gnawing anxiety of futures you couldn’t picture clearly yet.

“okay but like… when are we gonna talk about the fact you two were literally in love?” keeho asked casually, popping a grape into his mouth as he flopped down on the grass next to you during lunch.

“we’re not in love and never were,” you said quickly. too quickly.

“uh huh,” yunjin chimed in, arching a brow. “so the couples matching lockscreen is just a coincidence?”

“or how he tied your shoe this morning,” sunoo added helpfully, sipping from his yogurt drink. “like we didn’t all watch him kneel like he was about to propose.”

“it’s wasn’t a proposal,” you muttered.

“but you are dating still though,” yunjin insisted, as if this was obvious. “right? there’s no way you break up just like that,” she declared with a snap of her fingers.

“sure we did,” you persist.

technically not a lie. technically still acting. technically going to emotionally ruin you at some point, but hey. not today.

he just raised an eyebrow. “sure, but then why did he look like he got dumped by taylor swift in the hallway this morning?”

you didn’t have an answer for that.

and then there was jungwon himself—who wasn’t exactly acting like a best friend or an ex-boyfriend or anything you could neatly label.

he still saved you a seat in homeroom.

still brought you a can of whatever energy drink from the vending machine if he beat you to school.

still sent you stupid pictures of his dog in sweaters.

but now, there were these weird silences between you two—little pauses where you’d catch him looking at you like he didn’t know if he should smile or not.

you didn’t talk about the summer.

you didn’t talk about the stargazing.

you didn’t talk about watching the sunrise from the back of his car, your head laying on top of his chest feeling his heartbeat, every thump lining up with yours as though they were purely beating together.

you didn’t talk about how you’d almost kissed him, how close your face had been to his under that sky, how your heart had been pounding so loud you were sure he heard it.

you especially didn’t talk about the night in his car, when the music faded low and the world felt quiet, like it was holding its breath just waiting for you to say something.

and now you were here—back to school, back to “normal.”

except it didn’t feel normal.

not when your hand still remembered the way his felt in yours.

not when the thought of him dating someone else made your stomach twist.

not when you couldn’t look at his hoodie without thinking of the way it smelled.

god.

you missed him.

even though he wasn’t really gone.

even though he was right there.

even though he was just your best friend.

just your best friend. nothing more, maybe even less now too.

─── ♡

there you were, tying your apron behind your back, fingers fumbling more than usual. the diner you and jungwon worked at was quiet—the kind of quiet that only existed right before the dinner rush. fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above. the distant clatter of cutlery and the hum of the milkshake machine running its cycle.

you were halfway through restocking the napkin holders when you heard his footsteps walk in

they were unmistakable. slightly too light for someone his height, always a bit rushed like he was trying not to be late, even when he always was.

jungwon.

you didn’t turn around at first. not because you didn’t want to. but because you couldn’t.

because the last time you two stood in this diner together, you’d both agreed it was time to end it.

“the summer’s over,” you’d said with a shrug, even if it felt like peeling off skin.

“yeah,” he had replied. “we said just for the summer.”

and that was that. no more fake dates. no more shared drinks. no more lingering looks when you thought the other wasn’t paying attention.

no more pretending.

but it never really felt like pretending.

and now—now he was behind you again. the bell over the door still echoing faintly. his presence filled the space before his voice even did.

“hey,” he said softly.

you finally turned around, catching sight of him in that same black apron, hair slightly messed from the wind, cheeks flushed like he’d run part of the way.

you hated how your heart still picked up at just the sight of him.

“you’re late,” you muttered, hoping the tease would mask the way your voice shook.

“i know.” he paused. “i was… thinking.”

you blinked, trying not to read into that. “you do that?”

he let out a weak laugh but didn’t say anything right away. instead, he stepped forward, closing the space between you like he always did—like he never even noticed how close he got until your shoulders nearly touched.

“i don’t think i was pretending,” he said finally, so quietly you almost thought you imagined it.

your fingers froze on the napkin holder. “what?”

“this summer. the fake dating.” he looked at you, really looked at you, and your stomach dropped. “it wasn’t fake for me.”

your breath caught, everything else in the diner blurring around the edges.

“jungwon…”

he shook his head. “i know we said it’d be easier to go back to normal. i know that was the plan. but i can’t keep facing you and acting like i didn’t mean any of it.”

you stared at him, every feeling you’d buried over the past few weeks clawing its way up to your throat.

“you didn’t say anything,” you whispered. “you just agreed.”

“because i thought that’s what you wanted, and what better way to basically be dating the only girl who’s been right for you. play stupid games win stupid prizes.” he tried to choke out a laugh, voice rough now. “i thought i was the only one who—”

“you weren’t.”

he looked up sharply.

you swallowed hard. “you weren’t the only one who didn’t want it to end.”

for a second, neither of you moved. the air between you crackled with something unspoken and electric and real. no roles to play this time. no script. just two people standing in the middle of a diner, hearts pounding like it was the first time all over again.

jungwon’s eyes softened. just a little.

his shoulders, tense from whatever courage it took to say all that, eased the slightest bit.

“okay,” he said, voice quiet. steady.

you nodded. “okay.”

neither of you smiled. neither of you had to. it was just… understood.

he stepped behind the counter, grabbing an apron like it was any other shift. like you were just co-workers again. like nothing had changed. except everything had.

and when your hands brushed while reaching for the same menu, you both didn’t pull away.

you just kept going. together.

─── ♡ 

to be honest the next coming weeks were weird. now officially dating and having to tell people, “we broke up and got back together”. you weren't sure if you counted the summer months as part of your relationship or not, but ultimately decided they were.

the two of you were back out driving late into the night going somewhere, but also going everywhere. small raindrop falling into the windscreen, while you watched the streets pass by in a blur, admiring the outside world, as if you’d never seen the familiar streets you’d grown up in all your life.

“you okay honey?” his question catches you off guard after 20 minutes of silence.

you hum with contentedness feeling cool air of the outside world brush past your skin with the windows down. 

normal was out the window. this new kind of normal was messier, softer, realer. like the way he now reached for your hand without needing a reason.

you caught yourself watching him when he wasn’t looking—still in awe that it was allowed now. and sometimes he’d glance over like he knew, and he’d smile that small, familiar smile that made your chest warm.

you still bickered over dumb things. you still teased each other constantly. but there were also forehead bumps and quiet “get home safe” texts and shared playlists and late night phone calls where no one said anything for a long time.

when jungwon pulled into your driveway, neither of you moved right away. the rain still tapped against the windshield, soft and steady, like background music.

you turned to him, and he looked at you like he always did—like you were something constant in his world.

“wanna come in?” you asked, voice quiet.

he shrugged, lips tugging into a smile. “only if you make me tea.”

“you don’t even like tea.”

“i like it when you make it.”

you rolled your eyes, but your heart tugged anyway, that familiar, fluttery way it always had when it came to him.

so you nodded, reached over to unbuckle your seatbelt, and the two of you stepped out of the car and into the rain together.

this was the new beginning.

not loud. not dramatic.

just you and him, walking toward the front door

side by side.

finally, for real.

@ coqhee 2025. all rights reserved.

[134estina340]

OMG YES THIS!!! PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP TALKING TO CHILDREN LIKE THIS!!!

This is a tangent, and I promise I don’t intend to derail too much, but my mom “being practical” like this whenever I would tell her about getting bullied in school is exactly why I constantly doubt myself and have a habit of blaming myself for traumatic things that happen/have happened to me, and hesitate to reach out.

Some of the main things she said were:

“You’re going to end up in an abusive relationship one day if you keep allowing people to do things like this to you.” (“Allow”??? Ouch.)

“You’re going to keep meeting people who mistreat you because you don’t speak up for yourself.”

“They keep doing this because you keep crying and giving them what they want. If you don’t fight back, you’ll end up dead.”

A pattern you see with these statements is “x keeps happening/is going to happen to you because you’re doing/not doing y.” Obviously I don’t think she was purposely trying to do so, but to a child, statements like this have the effect of shifting blame onto the victim for not “doing enough” against the people attacking and harassing them on a daily basis, rather than holding the perpetrators accountable.

And so, because I was in this headspace of constantly thinking that the literal harassment and assault that I kept experiencing was my fault, I felt discouraged from getting help from teachers (not like they’re usually helpful when it comes to things like this anyway, but… yk).

Instead, saying something such as “You don’t deserve this treatment, you need to speak up about this, and I’ll help you”, would have been more helpful since it’s reassuring a child’s worth and lets them know that their parent is on their side. So please, please, PLEASE be mindful about how you speak to children. They internalize things on a lot deeper of a level than you may think.

I think one of the most insidious things you can do to a kid is be so practical about the future you actively discourage them from trying anything. Like even if you're poor you can just say "yeah sure honey you're smart you can get into Harvard on a full ride someday" and like worst case scenario it never happens, but if you tell them they'll never get in and it's a waste of money and effort then there's zero chance of it even if they're a genius because they've already given up. I feel like kids are more receptive than adults think to that kind of thing. It's almost like the only scenario where manifesting is real

[izzih22]

Chapter 3: Just Say You Need Me

Note: remember this is fiction.

The quiet after Azzi left for prom felt heavier than anything Paige had ever known.

Paige had watched her walk out the door in that black sparkly dress that shimmered in the hall light, her heart thudding painfully behind her ribs. She’d barely spoken as Azzi adjusted the sleeves of her dress and slid on her heels, her face neutral but eyes distant. The final blow had been the moment Azzi turned back to hug her goodbye—not just a quick hug, either. A long, slow squeeze, arms winding tight around Paige’s neck like she didn’t want to go. Then came the kiss.

It was barely anything. A soft, warm press of lips just under Paige’s jaw, right at the edge of her neck. Quick. Secret. Gone before Paige could even react. No one had seen, but Paige felt it like lightning.

“Bye Paigey.” Azzi had said as Marcus grabbed her hand a pulled her out the door. Paige wanted to say something anything. Pull her back, tell Marcus to fuck off but she didn’t. She wanted Azzi happy…

So Paige stood frozen in the hallway, Azzi’s scent still clinging to her varsity jacket—because, of course, Azzi had asked to wear it over her dress. And, of course, Paige had wordlessly handed it over. Because that’s what she always did. Whatever Azzi needed, Paige gave.

Now, Azzi was gone, and Paige felt hollow.

She barely responded when Jose and Jon asked if she wanted to hang out, just shook her head and wandered into Azzi’s room, shutting the door behind her. Everything smelled like Azzi in here. She crossed to the bed on autopilot and laid down on Azzi’s side, her head resting on the pillow Azzi always slept on, hoodie still warm from her body.

The ceiling stared back at her. She didn’t cry. She just…lay there. Not moving. Not thinking. Just feeling everything and nothing all at once.

Her phone buzzed hours later, breaking the stillness.

She turned her head. The room was dark now. She blinked at the screen.

Azzi 💗

Her heart jumped. She sat up fast, thumb swiping to answer.

“Az?” Her voice was low, hoarse.

A soft, shaky breath crackled through the speaker. Then: “P-Paige?”

That one word. Broken. Barely there. Paige was already off the bed and grabbing for her shoes.

“I’m here,” she said quickly. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”

Azzi’s voice was trembling. “Can you…can you come get me? Please? Don’t tell my parents. Just—just come, okay?”

Paige was already sprinting up the stairs. “Of course I’ll come. Are you hurt?”

“N-No. I mean…I just—I’m in the bathroom. At school. Please hurry, Paige. I just need you.”

“I’m coming,” Paige said, already bursting into the kitchen where Azzi’s parents were watching TV. “Azzi wants to come home. I’ll go get her. She said she’s okay, just wants to leave.”

Mr. and Mrs. Fudd glanced up. Neither questioned it. Paige had been around for so long, she was basically family.

“Of course,” Mrs. Fudd said, nodding. “Tell her to text me when she’s home.”

“Will do,” Paige said, already out the door.

She stayed on the phone the entire drive. Azzi didn’t say much, just little sniffles, small breaths, soft whimpers that twisted something sharp in Paige’s chest. Her hands gripped the steering wheel like a lifeline. She didn’t know what happened yet, but she knew it was bad.

“Az, I’m almost there, okay?” she said gently. “I’m pulling into the lot. Where are you exactly?”

“Girls’ bathroom. Back hall. Near the gym…”

“I’m coming. Stay on the line.”

She parked, threw the car into park, and sprinted across the front walk, her heart pounding. The hallways were quiet. She pushed through the door of the bathroom and immediately heard it—soft crying from one of the stalls.

“Azzi?” Paige called, her voice catching.

A click, a slow creak, and then the stall door opened—and there she was.

Azzi’s makeup was streaked down her cheeks, eyes red and glassy. She was still wearing Paige’s hoodie over her dress, the sleeves pulled down over her hands like she was trying to disappear inside it. She looked up at Paige and instantly broke into sobs, stumbling forward.

Paige caught her, arms wrapping around her tight. “Hey, hey, I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Azzi buried her face in Paige’s neck, shaking. Paige just held her there in the middle of the bathroom, rocking slightly.

“I didn’t—I didn’t let him do anything,” Azzi sobbed, voice muffled against Paige’s skin. “I didn’t—he tried—he wouldn’t stop—”

Paige’s blood turned to ice. She pulled back just enough to look at Azzi’s face.

“What happened?” she asked softly. “Az, tell me.”

Azzi choked on a breath. “It was Marcus. My date. He got drunk. I told him no, Paige, I told him no.”

Paige’s jaw clenched. Her whole body went rigid.

“And then—then he—he tried to kiss me. He was grabbing at me, and I tried to get away. He kept going, and I pushed him, and he shoved me. That’s when I ran. I ran to the bathroom. I locked myself in and called you.”

Paige was shaking now, too—but with rage.

“I’m going to kill him,” she whispered. “I swear to God, I—”

Azzi reached up, cupping Paige’s face in both hands.

“No,” she said, eyes wide and wet. “Don’t. Don’t leave me. I just need you. Please.”

That stopped Paige cold. Azzi’s voice was raw. Pleading.

Paige softened instantly, wrapping her arms fully around Azzi again.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Azzi nodded against her chest, fingers curling in the fabric of Paige’s shirt. She clung like she was afraid Paige would disappear.

Paige maneuvered them out of the bathroom quietly, shielding Azzi from any lingering promgoers. The gym was mostly empty now. She got Azzi to the car and opened the passenger door, helping her in carefully.

But Azzi didn’t want to let go.

“Can you…can you sit with me?” she whispered.

Without hesitation, Paige nodded, climbing into the passenger seat and pulling Azzi into her lap. Azzi curled into her, head under Paige’s chin, still crying softly. Paige cradled her, rubbing her back gently.

They sat there in the quiet hum of the night, the car’s soft interior light glowing above them.

After a while, Azzi started talking again—voice quieter now, but steadier.

“I kept thinking about you. In the bathroom. I just kept thinking—‘Paige will come. Paige will come.’ And then you did.”

“I’ll always come,” Paige whispered.

Azzi didn’t say anything, just gripped her tighter.

“I can’t stop thinking about him touching you,” Paige admitted. “I hate that he did that. I hate it so much.”

“I didn’t want him to. I only went with him because… I don’t know. I felt like I was supposed to.”

Paige swallowed. Her fingers trembled slightly as they traced slow circles into Azzi’s back.

“He doesn’t get to touch you,” Paige said, voice low. “He doesn’t get to put his hands on you. Not ever.”

Azzi leaned back slightly, eyes shining with emotion as she looked up at Paige. “Why do you always say stuff like that?”

“Stuff like what?”

“Like…” Azzi hesitated. “Like you care more than you’re supposed to.”

Paige stared at her. For a moment, it felt like the air between them shifted.

“I don’t know,” Paige said honestly. “Maybe I do.”

Azzi blinked. Her lips parted, like she was going to say something—but she stopped.

They both glanced at each other’s lips, then eyes.

The moment hung there, fragile and charged.

But Paige pulled back gently.

“You’re not in the right headspace,” she said softly. “I don’t want to do anything you’ll regret later.”

Azzi looked stricken, confused. She pulled back just enough to create space, like she was trying to protect herself from being hurt.

But Paige saw it—saw the hurt and the fear flickering behind Azzi’s eyes.

So she leaned forward and kissed Azzi’s cheek.

Then the other.

Then the tip of her nose.

Then her forehead.

“I got you,” Paige whispered. “Let’s go home.”

Azzi gave a tiny, tired smile. The first one since that awful night began.

They drove back in silence. Paige opened every door for her like she always did, guiding Azzi gently through the house, quiet as they crept back inside. Mr. and Mrs. Fudd were asleep.

Back in Azzi’s room, Paige helped her out of the dress, letting her wear her hoodie. She didn’t comment when Azzi reached for her hand and didn’t let go.

They crawled into bed together like they always had—but this time, Paige held her closer than ever. Azzi was tucked against her chest, her breath soft, finally steady.

Paige stroked her hair and whispered, “You’re okay now. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

And when Azzi’s breathing slowed and her body melted into Paige’s, right on the cusp of sleep—Paige leaned down, brushed her lips against Azzi’s temple, and whispered:

“I love you.”

She thought Azzi was asleep.

But just as she started to close her eyes, she heard it—barely above a breath:

“I love you too.”

A small, quiet smile spread across Paige’s lips.

And for the first time that night, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, Azzi meant it the way she hoped she did.

[jo-speaks]

Can you do a request for luke Hughes? Maybr he meets a girl while doing an appearance with the team like a nurse at hospital and he has to try and find her the next day to ask her out. Maybe his teammates help

CHASIN' YOU

warnings: none!!

note: please excuse my lack of hospital knowledge.. ps. THANK YOU 700 followers. i love you all.

The Devils were making another one of their visits at RWJBarnabas Health, a trip that always had Luke feeling excited.

As awkward as he was, he felt great visiting kids whose days were made so much better just by spending time with him. It wasn’t just for him, it was for them too. So, when he and Nico were split up together walking around the hospital and meeting those kids, he didn’t think too much of it. Just another day at the office.

That was until the pair entered a room in the left wing. They were expecting a kid, and their parents, the usual sight they were met with during these trips. However, what they hadn’t expected was for you to be in there. You turned to face the men, a warm smile on your face. 

“Hey, sorry! I’m just checking his vitals, and I’ll be out of your hair.” 

Nico nodded, thanking you before walking over to the parents, shaking their hands, and making small conversation as you did your job. Luke, on the other hand, was stuck still in his spot, lips slightly parted as he watched you work. 

The way your hands were gentle as you lifted the boy's arm, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around it. The way you were smiling and laughing along with him as he told you about how the other nurses weren’t as nice as you. The way you chewed on your lip as you wrote on his chart. You weren’t doing anything a nurse wasn’t expected to do, but Luke thought you were an absolute grace from the heavens.

“Everything looks good, bud!” You said joyfully, high-fiving the boy before taking off the cuff. “I think it’s time for me to get out of your hair and let you enjoy these superstars, huh?”

The boy nodded, smiling widely. “Thank you, Ms.Y/N!”

Y/N. It suited you so perfectly, Luke was positive he’d never get it out of his head. You bid farewell to his parents, walking across the room to head out the door. As you passed Luke, he caught your eye, offering you a polite smile. In return, you smiled at him and let out a soft, “Hi,” before grazing his arm with yours, walking out the door into the hall.

It was one word, yet Luke felt a blush rise to his cheeks and a tingly feeling in his stomach. It was one word, and Luke knew that he needed to see you again.

~~~

“We don’t have to go again for the next two months. Why do you want to go back so soon?” Nico asked, his eyebrow quirking up at Luke’s sudden request.

He choked on his spit. “I- I just miss the kids, you know? I’m sure it gets lonely in those cold rooms.”

His reasoning was bullshit, and Nico knew it too. “Alright, spill it, Rusty.”

Luke sighed, knowing he’d been caught in a not-so-good lie. He shifted back and forth on his skates, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket as he avoided eye contact with his captain. 

“You remember the girl who was in there with that Charlie kid?”

Nico furrowed his eyebrows. “His mom?”

“No!” Luke exclaimed, “The nurse. I thought she was kinda cute.”

The older man let out a sigh, his hand coming up to his teammate’s shoulder. It was possible, Nico knew that, but he wanted to tease the boy a little longer before giving in. “So you want to use those kids to get a girl? Didn’t think you were that kinda guy, Hughes.”

His tone was light and teasing, so Luke didn’t feel actual offense. Still, hid his face in his shoulder, face burning red. Maybe he was right. Maybe he shouldn’t be using visiting kids just for the slight chance of seeing you. Maybe he should just man up and ask a receptionist for your name. Maybe-

“I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

The look of pure joy on Luke’s face was laughable. His smile was wide, and he was pulling in Nico for a side hug before skating off quickly to do god knows what. 

~~~

The hospital felt bigger than it had during previous visits, making Luke sweat a little around the collar of his jersey. The whole team was confused as to why they were back only two weeks after their initial visit, but they were happy to be making kids’ days again. Jack was with them this time, feeling well enough to join his teammates and brother on this visit, unaware of Luke’s ulterior motives. 

They split off, leaving in groups of three. Coincidentally, Luke ended up with Jack and Nico, one of them who would actually be a help to Luke’s side quest. 

He was antsy. Walking quickly through the halls that you would think he was a doctor trying to get to his patients, given he wasn’t wearing his jersey. Jack gave Nico a look, confused as to why his younger brother was zooming past rooms of kids they were scheduled to visit. “Is he alright? He’s been acting weird.”

The captain chuckled, placing his hand on his teammate’s uninjured shoulder, “You’ll see.” The lack of an explanation had Jack even more confused, but he kept on, speeding up his pace to follow Luke. 

“Lukey, can you slow down?” Jack hollered, trying to avoid crashing into the hospital staff. 

Luke turned around for a quick second, his eyes widening slightly as he saw the distance between himself and the boys. Before he could chirp back, a sudden pressure came onto his chest, a soft gasp following it,  causing his head to whip back around. His jaw fell as he saw you, your chart and pens scattered around you as you looked up with furrowed eyebrows. It was impossible for you to keep that rapidly rising anger, your face immediately softening when you noticed it was the guy from a month ago. 

He squatted down, helping you pick up your stuff, “I am so sorry. I-”

“It’s okay.” You laughed softly, picking up your papers and taking what he had gotten from his hands, “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Luke stood up, his tall figure standing over you as he extended his hand, which you gladly took. “Still, I don’t think you’d expect someone to be standing in your way.”

By now, Nico and Jack had caught up. They were a few steps back from you and Luke, choosing to watch the situation unfold from a listening distance before they stepped in to help the younger boy. 

“Well, if it were to be anyone, I’m glad it was you.”

Your words slipped out before you could stop them, mentally facepalming yourself at what you had just said to the cute stranger in front of you. The truth is, you couldn’t stop thinking about him either. Since the day he walked in on you, it felt like his face was imprinted into your head, every bone in your body wishing he would come back. Selfishly, you started picking up extra shifts, wanting to be there if he ever came back. 

A blush rose onto his face, your heart beating faster at the sight. Yet, he did his best to keep his composure. “Y-Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smiled, “I’m Y/N.”

Luke remembered that. How could he forget? It was your name. The name that was engraved into his memory. The name he spent countless nights thinking about because it fit you so well. 

“Luke.” 

“Well, Luke,” You repeated, “It’s nice to see you again.” Your pager beeped, your eyes glancing down to see that you were needed down the hall. He noticed it too, but he knew he couldn’t let you go again. 

“Do you think I could get your number?” He blurted, causing Jack and Nico to sputter out laughter.

You chuckled, taking his arm and sliding the sleeve of his jersey up. You took one of your pens, clicking down the tip as you scribbled your digits onto his skin, making sure he couldn’t lose them. When you finished, you looked up at him, noticing his impossibly redder face, smiling at him before dropping his arm and walking away.  Jack came up behind him, picking up that same arm to see what you’d done. “Damn, Lukey. She’s got you whipped already.”

And his brother was right. He was already obsessed with you.

[firewasabeast]

Cough Syrup

a very small bucktommy fic, implied mcd

Death doesn’t care how old you are. It doesn’t care how much time you think you should have left. Death doesn’t bother with trivial things, like a perfect goodbye. It doesn’t matter if you have someone to hold you, or if you’re all alone.

Death comes for anyone. It doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t bargain. And when it makes a decision, it doesn’t change its mind.

You can scream.

You can cry.

You can beg.

You can plead.

Death will do what death wants to do.

It will take. It will take your parents. It will take your kids. It will take your husband or your wife. Aunts, uncles, best friends, neighbors.

Death doesn’t care if you imagined a different life. If you wanted the man whose casket you’re carrying to officiate your wedding. If you wanted him to be called Grandpa by your future kids. If you wanted to learn more recipes from him, and give him a retirement party, and have him there when you become captain.

Death is a bitter medication that burns when you swallow.

Death doesn’t hurt the dead.

But it kills the living. It rips out a piece of your heart when it takes away the person you love. It leaves a hole in its wake that can’t be filled, can’t be sewed shut. The blood drips out, pours sometimes, and you spend the rest of your life learning the quickest and easiest way to clean it up.

Death doesn’t care if you weren’t ready for them to go.

Death doesn’t care if you wanted more time.

Death doesn’t care.

It doesn’t care.

It doesn’t care.

It doesn’t-

“Evan?”

Buck whips his head towards the bedroom door, where Tommy is leaning against the frame.

“You okay?” Tommy asks.

Buck’s sitting at the foot of the bed. He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there, but he knows the plan was to take off his dress uniform and get a shower.

He hasn’t cried. Not since the day Bobby died.

But there’s tears in his eyes now. “He needs me to be strong,” he says, his voice breaking. “I- I’m trying to be strong.”

Tommy’s by his side almost instantly, sitting next to him and wrapping an arm around him. “You don’t have to be strong right now, Evan,” he tells him. “You’re allowed to be sad.”

And that’s all it takes. Buck’s lip starts to tremble, and his legs start to shake, and then his head is falling to Tommy’s chest as he sobs.

“I w- wasn’t r- ready.”

Tommy holds him, rocks him gently, rubs a hand up and down his back. “I know, Evan. I know.”

Death doesn’t rejoice.

It just happens.

And it doesn’t care.

[artthoufruity]

Alright I guess I’ll do more research into this like 7 months later cuz I’m bored and re-entering my byler era AND angel era,

The drawing was definitely inspired by the most famous painting of Archangel Michael, “The Archangel Michael Casting Down On Satan” By Guido Reni

In the former depiction, satan is drawn as a dragon, which is generally pretty common as Satan is often considered to be the "original serpent" that tempted Eve in the Garden of Eden, the description of a serpent-like dragon, in combination with the use of the actual term "serpent" in Revelation, makes sense that a "dragon" is an appropriate physical form of Satan.

Here’s where I get unbelievably kookoo bananas:

This guy^

Imma be honest this is probably my sleep deprived chronic pain medication induced loopyness. But also. Fun and Whimsy. Remember

Anywhoo, I don’t know this fellas significance in dnd because honestly I’ve tried but can’t decide on who it’s supposed to be (Sorry Will) there’s some debate between people who actually play dnd so I’ll leave it to them. In my heart he’s an allegory for Satan/temptation/The whole satanic panic shabang and Mikes fighting it, (internalised homophobia or what amirighttttt)

You may be asking “Jo wouldn’t that defeat the whole byler case? If he’s fighting what represents Mikes deepest secrets?” But Aha! Wrong! He’s fighting the “dragon (gay thoughts)” to keep his friends (including Will and El) safe! He thinks being queer would hurt them or at least destroy his relationships with them, of course El and him would break up, he thinks Will and the others will be freaked out and who’s to say what his parents would think! So he fights it to spare them the shame and horror, how nice of him.

Also side tangent maybe, I’m Irish and we invented Claddagh Rings, which have crowns on hearts! Like this:

These rings represent Love and Loyalty. Which could be interpreted as Wills love and loyalty to Mike but that’s no fun, seeing as Mike is often described as loyal in canon I think it works for him better, so I’m choosing to interpret it as Mikes love and loyalty to not only Will but everyone in his love, which is why he chooses to fight himself to spare them (Boom full circle live when that happens)

This means something probably, I’m totally normal about this

[maybefae]

What do you need to hear right now?

Pile 1 - Pile 2 - Pile 3

Remember, this is a general reading and it may not resonate for everyone or completely. Tarot is a tool to help guide but you are responsible for your actions and life, you choose your path.

Tips!

|Pile 1

Tarot: The Tower, Page of Pentacles, The Moon, Queen of Swords, Knight of Swords, King of Cups, Ten of Pentacles, The Hierophant, Four of Cups (bottom of the deck)

Advice: The Opossum and Peony — bashfulness, The Bear and Cedar — leadership

Mhm, Pile 1… Well, I am doing your pile second and I also got distracted for 10 minutes (and keep getting distracted) as if I was avoiding something…Much like how you are. :)

This feels more job related, but adapt it how you will. One of the things that distracted me actually feels similar to the messages I am receiving for you. My sister was trying to find her guitar tuner, which my father had previously used for his bass a few weeks ago. But she couldn’t find it on her desk so she asked me to help find it. But the more we looked, our parents ended up joining in on the search. Turns out, the tuner was clamped on her amp right in plain sight.

You are trying to achieve something but you have come to obstacles that you can’t solve by yourself. I mean, you can…but it would certainly take a lot longer. Ask for help, Pile 1. There is someone, maybe more qualified, that could help. This person could also have others join in to work on the problem as well so there is a whole team that is striving to solve whatever problem you have encountered. 

I don’t know if you’re stubbornly independent, shy, or both. But the solution is really simple and is presented right in front of your eyes that you are neglecting to even flirt with the idea. Your solution is to just ask for help. You may have that “well, that was stupid” feeling that you get when something turns out a lot smoother than expected after worrying yourself sick beforehand. For example, when I was in uni, I used to worry myself way too much over exams that I had studied for extensively and I knew that I knew all the material — I take the test and ended up with a passing or perfect score which I was then left dumbfounded that I worried so much in the first place. 

You would probably help someone if they asked so why do you think that someone else wouldn’t do the same? You’d actually be surprised that other people would extend kindness and help.

|Pile 2

Tarot: Six of Swords, Page of Pentacles, Queen of Swords, The Empress, Ten of Pentacles, The Emperor, Ten of Swords, Six of Cups (reversed), Three of Swords (bottom of the deck)

Advice: The Quail and Gooseberry — Anticipation

Hello Pile 2! I am actually doing your pile first because the energy was being really insistent and I also feel like someone’s spirit guide was pushing me to start with your pile first. It’s a more feminine energy but it also almost feels like an angel or light being in an androgynous sense. I don’t know if that was any help trying to determine who or what it could be for you.

Pile 2, I keep second guessing myself and it’s really reflective of the energies in your reading. It’s like you keep digging your heels into the ground while an energetic force pulls you in the direction you need to be going. This could honestly be the spirit guide I was picking up on. There’s, not stubbornness per say, but an unwillingness to move. You may have to move in a direction that causes a lot of emotional turmoil for you. You do know that you need to make this move but you keep saying “I don’t know” because you truly don’t want to make the decision, even if it’s what is best at the moment. 

The way I’m getting these messages is really fast and it’s really hard to grasp each one so I can relay it because it’s so much. There could be a lot of energy surrounding this (dark or light), either way, both energies are a conductor that will facilitate this movement. Or you have spirit guides that are grabbing you by the arms and dragging you in a direction because you have stalled for so long. Think of it as a pipe — you are the blockage that is backing up all the energy behind you and at some point, the force behind you will move you.  

This situation has to do with walking away from something. A partner, family, a childhood friend, something from your childhood, or something that wasn’t the best for you and you knew you should go but you stayed (leading to you getting hurt over and over again). This could be an “older daughter/sibling” dynamic that you want to break but it leaves you feeling terribly guilty. If it is, just know that your younger siblings want you to do what is best for you and to stop beating yourself up. 

I don’t really like to bring up “divine feminine/masculine” energy but I don’t have other terms to use… But there is a need to bring balance. If you’re an older daughter, that will be incredibly difficult since it’s usually harder to truly express emotions and just let everything flow, not controlling everything. But I remember hearing about “feminine rage” energy and how you can confuse it with divine masculine energy. Feminine rage energy is the act of plowing forward with endless amounts of adrenaline until a hardship is done and your safe, it’s quiet because you’re detached from emotions, it’s easier to burn out, and you endure until you're safe and then you collapse. Masculine energy is more about self discipline — you have routines and boundaries that take care of your physical body, mental health, etc, and you are more logical but your emotions aren’t ignored. 

A lot of you are at different points. Some need to make the decision to walk away from someone or something while others are told to develop a healthier balance in your life now that you’ve made said decision. Your guides want me to tell you that there is a lot to anticipate in the future (but won’t specify what…It’s definitely a surprise).

|Pile 3

Tarot: Nine of Swords, Past Lives (Death), Ten of Wands, The Vessel (The Devil), Eight of Cups, The Shapeshifter (Knight of Wands), Two of Cups, Five of Wands, Seven of Wands (bottom of the deck)

Advice: The Fox and Ivy — Adaptability

I saw The Vessel while I was shuffling and had already got a message but I ended up putting it back and just shuffling the cards out. The Vessel is The Devil in this deck that I’m using and the image is a lot less scary than the original picture we get with the devil card. It’s a drawing of a capped vase and there’s a lot of light coming from it, practically glowing. And definition-wise, a vessel is used to transport something — but it’s also contained to that space. 

Some of you have an addiction (when I saw it the first time, someone very much needs to quit vaping/smoking but it could really be anything) that has really hindered your life and has trapped you. A bad habit, substance abuse, a mindset, anything. This addiction has entrapped you…It could’ve once been something that actually allowed you to carry through life, but only so far. Again, you are stuck in the walls of this vessel. And I get the feeling that this addiction has finally reached the point where it is getting annoying to you. There’s frustration that this addiction has so much power over you and your life. You are ready to lift the lid on the vase and finally set yourself free. For some of you, this could be breaking generational trauma.

I feel like you know this, but this reading could be external validation to finally take baby steps towards your personal freedom. I want you to know that I support you. Breaking any addiction isn’t easy and it’s very easy to fall back to bad habits, but it’s the fact that you are willing to try over and over again to finally get the freedom you want that means the most. It could look like you’re lazy or not trying hard, but trust me, there’s a lot of strength and courage and willpower that you have to muster to try after failing numerous times. 

You love yourself. You are willing to try to get better and that is loving yourself, even if you are hard on yourself sometimes. Be gentle with yourself. Tough love isn’t beating yourself up — it’s willing to be disciplined with yourself. And ya know, you may have to try different ways to break the cycle. It may not land with the first way you try and it may not be in a way someone else does it. It honestly could be unconventional.

I am supporting you and I’m sending love. xoxo

Dividers: @inklore