#In This Corner (and Other Corners) of the World

[geneviveleocardius]

dad’s got it covered

feat. simon riley

the soft clatter of pots and pans fills the kitchen as you stir the bubbling pot of pasta sauce. the warm aroma of garlic and herbs drifts through the house, mingling with the faint sound of the tv playing in the living room. amidst it all, your toddler’s tiny voice breaks through, high-pitched and filled with excitement.

“mummy, i want the braid! the one rapunzel has!” she calls from the couch, holding a toy brush in her small hands.

you glance over your shoulder, a small smile tugging at your lips. “later, sweetheart,” you say, your voice gentle but distracted. “mummy’s making dinner right now.”

there’s a pause, and then the sound of her humming to herself, followed by the occasional soft giggle. it’s enough to make you peek out of the kitchen, curiosity getting the better of you. what you see stops you in your tracks.

simon, your husband—your hulking, stoic husband—sits on the floor behind your daughter. his large hands, so used to wielding weapons and carrying the weight of the world, now work with a surprising delicacy. he’s carefully braiding her fine hair, his expression one of focused determination. your daughter is practically glowing, a radiant grin on her face as she chatters away, oblivious to how tender the moment is.

your heart softens, warmth blooming in your chest as you lean against the doorway, watching them. simon glances up briefly, catching your eye. there’s a flicker of something in his gaze—a mixture of pride and amusement.

“you’re lucky she doesn’t want the full rapunzel treatment,” he murmurs, his deep voice laced with dry humor. “i’d need a ladder.”

you laugh softly, shaking your head. “you’re doing great, love,” you say, meaning every word.

years pass in the blink of an eye. your little girl is no longer so little, and the house feels quieter, the once-constant chaos of toddler life now replaced by the rhythm of a teenager’s world. tonight, your daughter has a party to attend. she’d asked you earlier to iron her hair, a request you’d readily agreed to.

but somewhere between the dishes and the laundry, exhaustion crept in. you’d sat down for just a moment and fallen asleep. when you wake with a start, panic surges through you. you glance at the clock, your heart sinking as you realize how much time has passed.

“oh no,” you mutter, scrambling to your feet. “her hair—”

you rush out of the room, searching for her, guilt already gnawing at you. when you find her, the sight that greets you makes you stop short.

she’s sitting in front of the vanity in her room, scrolling casually through her phone. behind her stands simon, a flat iron in one hand and a comb in the other. his movements are slow and precise as he smooths out her hair, section by section.

your daughter barely looks up from her phone, her trust in her father’s meticulousness evident. but you can see it—the care in simon’s touch, the way he handles her hair like it’s the most delicate thing in the world. his expression is the same as it was all those years ago, when he braided her hair for the first time: focused, patient, and filled with an unspoken love.

your heart melts at the sight, the guilt dissolving into something softer, sweeter. leaning against the doorway, you smile to yourself, the memory of a tiny girl and a father’s careful hands blending seamlessly with the present.

“you’re amazing, you know that?” you say softly, your voice breaking the quiet.

simon glances at you, one corner of his mouth twitching up into a faint smirk. “just don’t expect me to start charging for haircuts,” he murmurs, his voice teasing but warm.

your daughter, still focused on her phone, rolls her eyes with a groan. “dad, you’re so lame.”

you laugh quietly, your heart full to bursting. watching them, you realize some things never change—and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[covenofagatha]

hey!! can you do one where you run into professor agatha at the library while doing homework and it ends with her making you sit on her cock without moving while you study and you're impatient and she ends up fucking you right there in thar secluded corner (with lots of overstimulation and daddy kink if you're comfortable with that?)

Inspiration struck for this one today so hope everyone enjoys

I just started a new semester so probably won't be posting as much but I will do my best to keep writing and putting stuff out regularly. Also will be pausing any Agathario x reader fics for the moment

Learning to focus

When you run into Professor Harkness at the local library while you're supposed to be working on a project for her history class, you find yourself distracted by her (again)

Word count: 4.3k

Warnings: public sex, GP Agatha, fingering, cockwarming, daddy kink, overstimulation, it really was agatha all along, slight humiliation?, hints of degradation

The Westview University campus library is always packed, so you usually opt for the local library about twenty minutes away from the school. 

Much quieter and way less crowded. 

And you don’t have to worry about running into any failed situationships or crazy roommates from past years. 

Plus it’s a really nice library, two stories with long glass windows stretching from the ceiling to the floor. Even when you don’t have school work, you often enjoy coming here just to read or play on your computer. It’s a peaceful place, a place that lets you just relax and forget about the outside world and all the stress you feel. 

Stress mainly from one class. Your history class. 

Professor Agatha Harkness was the only one who taught U.S. History when your schedule could allow it, which meant you had to ignore all the bad reviews on RateMyProfessor.com, because you had no other option. 

On the first day, you could see exactly where they came from. 

One boy had shown up five minutes late, practically a miracle on the first day of classes, stammering an excuse about how bad traffic was, Professor Harkness had fixed him with a glare and told him that he better drop the class. 

You were just thankful that you had a class before hers, otherwise you would’ve been late, too. 

She was just as mean and ruthless and cold as everyone said she’d be. Her assignments were almost outrageous and she graded them so harshly it was honestly impressive you weren’t failing yet. 

But the one thing the reviews forgot to mention was how attractive she is. Her long, dark hair that she’d often keep back in a ponytail. Her sharp blue eyes that reminded you of the ocean on a dark night. Her high cheekbones, her pointed nose, her wicked smirk, honestly, everything about her. 

You suppose the more impressive thing is that you aren’t failing with how often you get distracted by the way her fingers on her left hand tighten around the dry-erase marker when she’s drawing time-lines on the board. When she sways her hips and flexes her knuckles which tightens her veins, you feel a tugging in your gut and you have to bite your lip. 

And you definitely should not be noticing the bulge in her pants when she sits back with her legs spread in her chair while the class is taking an exam. 

You have an optimal seat, all the way to the right of her desk and in the front row, so you can take her in without her noticing you too much. 

If anyone looked too closely at you, they’d assume you were sweating because of the forty-five multiple choice and five written questions you had to answer in only a little over an hour. 

That wasn’t it. 

You swore she saw you looking one time, one particular day when she was wearing a blue flannel and loose fitting cargo pants. You were staring, so completely distracted when you should’ve been taking notes that you didn’t even notice she had dismissed the class. 

It wasn’t until you finally realized that she was stalking toward you that you had fucked up. You had swallowed roughly and moved to shove your stuff into your bag when she had put her hands on your desk and leaned in, causing you to completely forget how to breathe. 

“You seemed a little preoccupied there,” she murmured in a low voice, her hint of cologne tickling your nose. “Try to pay better attention next time. Don’t want to have to teach you a lesson.”

You had promptly nodded and almost ran to your dorm to fuck yourself to the thought of her teaching you a very different kind of lesson. 

Professor Harkness is in your head, and you can’t get her out no matter how hard you try. Except right now, you really need to focus, because the end-of-semester project is due in a week and you haven’t started. 

Did she give you the entire four months of the course to complete it? Yes. But you have never been good at working ahead or at time management. 

She had assigned a ten page paper along with a hand-drawn timeline about something that had happened in the history of the United States. You had picked the Salem Witch Trials, and Professor Harkness had winked when you got the topic approved by her. 

So you’re about to spend the next probably five hours in the library trying to make some headway on this project. The timeline should be easy, but it’s the paper you’re worried about. 

You go up the stairs and wind through the aisles of books on the second floor until you get to your secluded corner, the one you always go to, the one with a small table and two chairs hidden by bookshelves and gasp. 

Your favorite spot has been taken by none other than Professor Harkness. She’s sitting in the chair you usually sit in, pen between her teeth, staring at papers. 

When she looks up, she doesn’t even seem surprised to see you and a slow grin spreads over her face. 

“Professor, what are you doing here?” You ask, fiddling with the straps on your tote bag. Should you go somewhere else?

She chuckles. “In a public library in the town where I live?” 

Your cheeks burn. “Right. Um, I’ve just never seen you here before.” And then you inwardly kick yourself because now it sounds like you’ve been on the lookout. 

“Wanted to get out of the house,” she shrugs. “Have some papers to grade for that project due next week. How’s yours coming?” 

“Oh, really good,” you lie, shifting your weight and trying to think of a quick way to get out of this conversation. “Almost done. Well, I don’t want to bother–” 

She interrupts you by sliding the chair out next to her and patting it. “Why don’t you come show me what you have? I can give you some help, free of charge.” She winks, a glint in her eyes, and it makes your stomach twist. 

“Oh, Professor, that’s not necessary,” you say nervously but she tsks and waves dismissively. 

“Please, call me Agatha. It’s the weekend and we’re off campus. Now, come sit.” She makes it clear it’s an order and you gulp before taking the seat. Even being this close to her is affecting your body and you know there’s absolutely no way you’re getting anything done. 

She’s currently grading a paper about the Boston Massacre and it’s drenched in red ink. You’re not sure which you feel more of: annoyance at your over-achieving classmates or absolute dread for how Agatha is going to react when she finds out that you haven’t even started and, even worse, lied about it. 

You take a shaky breath, feeling her intense gaze on you. “So, the thing is…” You trail off, reaching down to pull out your laptop. You set it on the table and slowly open it, silently begging for the floor underneath you to open up and swallow you whole. 

Anything would be better than this humiliation. 

“Yeah?” Agatha breathes, suddenly much closer to you. You will your eyes to not look away from the computer screen and type in your password, praying that you didn’t leave anything that embarrassing up. 

It opens up to the blank document titled Salem Witch Trials, just so it’s clear to Agatha what exactly this page was supposed to be. 

You’d rather it have been porn. 

Your professor chuckles slowly next to you. “Thought you were almost done?” She simpers in that gruff voice that drives you wild. “Did you get distracted again?” 

Agatha leans forwards, resting her elbow on the table, and perching her head in her hand so she can peer at you. Your eyes glance over to meet hers and then back to your computer, but in your peripheral vision, you can see her body tilt toward yours and her legs open just the slightest. 

Your mouth runs dry and you make a pointed effort not to look between them. 

“What’s gotten you so preoccupied, babygirl?” She asks and you clench around nothing at the shift in tone and the pet name. Holy fuck. “I’ve seen you staring in class, you know. You’re not very subtle at all.” 

Forget being swallowed by the floor, you might just combust out of pure embarrassment. 

You try to stammer out something, an apology maybe, sorry for wanting to fuck you, Professor, but no sounds come out of your mouth. Her other hand comes up and teases a lock of your hair and you finally work up the courage to look at her. 

Agatha’s eyes are heated and dark, all the blue practically gone, and her lips are parted just so. And then you flick your eyes down to between her legs involuntarily and you have to bite back a whimper because she’s fucking hard. 

You can see her length through her navy pants and your brain short-circuits. Agatha likes this. Agatha likes you. 

“Is that what gets you all hot and bothered? Can’t focus because you’re too busy staring at me?” Agatha asks, hand dropping to palm herself. She gives her dick a quick stroke and lets out a tight sigh and you have to hold onto the table to steady yourself. 

Heat rushes through your body in an almost unbearable way. “Yes,” you whisper hoarsely. 

Agatha takes her hand off herself and taps a finger to her lips. “Hmm,” she draws out thoughtfully. You can feel a puddle growing in your underwear. “You know, I’m used to the crushes. Doesn’t even phase me anymore, usually it’s college girls who are just so desperate for attention. Not getting it anywhere else and they think that their fifty year old professor will be into them.” 

Your jaw clenches. Is this the part where she rejects you? 

But Agatha smirks and looks you up and down, takes in your squirming body in the chair. “And I never have even considered it. Until you. None of them have been as delicious as you, pet.” 

And it makes your head spin. It’s almost as if you’re in a trance when your hand grabs onto her thigh and Agatha lets out a low moan. 

“Please,” you say, desperation in your voice. What are you asking for? You don’t even think you know. 

Agatha tuts. “Do you really think you deserve anything? This paper is due in a week and you haven’t even started. Doesn’t seem like you should get a reward for procrastinating, does it?” 

“It’s not my fault,” you whine before you can even think about it. There’s something about this side of Agatha specifically that makes your mind turn to mush. 

She raises an eyebrow like she’s daring you to say that again. “I think you need to learn how to keep that pretty head of yours focused.” She nods to the computer screen. “Make an outline.”

You swallow roughly and straighten up, putting your hands on the keyboard. You’ve just switched tabs and begun googling “Salem Witch Trials” when Agatha’s hand lands on your upper thigh. 

You freeze and glance at her out of the corner of your eye to find her scribbling another note on the paper in front of her. You don’t know how she’s so calm and collected when you feel like your entire body is on fire. 

“Focus,” she tells you in that deep voice of hers and you click on the first result that comes up as her fingers begin to toy with the hem of your skirt. 

You try, you really do try, but it’s so fucking hard to read the words on the screen when she’s inching closer and closer to your underwear, which you can feel is absolutely drenched. 

And soon enough, she’s going to feel it, too. You can almost hear her dark laugh already when she realizes just how affected you are. 

Her fingertips brush against you and instead of laughing, she gasps. “Oh, pet, no wonder you never pay attention in class,” she coos and a thrill runs through you despite how embarrassed you are. She effortlessly finds your clit through the fabric and rubs it and you have to sink your teeth into your bottom lip so you don’t make a sound. 

“Agatha,” you say under your breath and you can practically hear her smirking. Why is it so hot that she is still grading the paper as she starts to run her fingers up and down your pussy over your underwear? She dips in at your entrance and a muffled groan tears itself out of your mouth. 

“Is this what you’re like while I’m teaching, too?” She muses conversationally, but you look down just in time to see her cock twitch in her pants. It makes you feel even more exhilarated, knowing she’s just as affected. But then she moves your panties to the side and slides her fingers through your folds and you forget any train of thought you had. You really hope your wetness isn’t as loud as it sounds. “Dripping for me like a little slut? Getting yourself all worked up when I’m talking about the Declaration of Independence? It’s pathetic.” 

You whimper, maybe in agreement, maybe at how good it feels when she pushes a finger into you, but her eyes slightly glaze over at the feeling of your warm walls around her. 

“God, Agatha,” you moan, your own hand coming down to wrap around her wrist when she starts moving. You can feel her flexing with each thrust and your tongue presses against your cheek as you breathe heavily, leaning toward her. 

She presses a quick kiss to your head and scrapes her teeth against your ear before hotly whispering, “Better be quiet, babygirl. And focus. Or I’ll stop.”

You manage to type out three bullet points worth of information when she slips another finger into you and you clamp a hand over your mouth before you moan obscenely. 

Agatha leans over to read what you have so far. “Who was the first woman to be executed for witchcraft?” She asks and you realize that you never finished that sentence. 

“Bridget Bishop,” you gasp, and she swipes at your clit as a reward, sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine. 

You continue to type, hoping it’s making sense because you can’t even comprehend the words, while Agatha continues to twist her fingers inside you roughly and rub your clit. You can feel your orgasm slowly building, and it only makes it worse every time Agatha hums right into your ear at something you’ve written. Your walls are clenching around her, trying to draw her even further into you, and she can tell you’re getting close, you’re going to cum so quickly around her fingers. 

“There we go pet, such a good girl for Daddy,” she says into your ear and you spasm all around her, the name sending you right over the edge. 

Who knew you’d like that so much? 

Apparently Agatha did, who grins like a cat getting her cream as she fucks you through your orgasm with her fingers, keeping a steady rhythm on your clit. You taste blood from biting your lip so hard but you manage to keep quiet and you finally come down from your high. 

But it’s not enough, you need more, and judging by the straining of Agatha’s cock against her pants, she needs more, too. 

You move to touch her but she slaps your hand away. “Not yet,” she growls and it sends another blast of heat through you. You think there might be a wet spot on the chair underneath you. 

It only makes it worse when she reaches down and undoes her own belt, fiddles with the button exasperatedly, and finally unzips her pants. She reaches inside and your jaw drops open when she pulls out her hard and leaking cock. It’s big, big enough to make your mouth water, and it almost looks painful. Agatha gives herself a few strokes, hips jumping, and she hisses when she rubs her thumb over the tip. 

“Think you can focus while you sit on Daddy’s cock, babygirl?” She taunts. You’ve never felt so empty in your life, you need her so bad, and she’s right there. 

You almost want to bend down and take her into your mouth, taste her hard cock. 

“I asked you a question,” she reminds you roughly, slapping your thigh to get your attention. The sting makes you jump. “God, you really do get distracted easily.” 

You mumble an apology, cheeks flushing. “I can focus, I promise,” you say, trying to sound convincing, but neither of you believe it. Regardless, she smirks and pats her legs and you do a cautious sweep of the surrounding area. This is incredibly dangerous and if you get caught, you both will get in serious trouble. 

But for some reason, the thrill of getting caught only turns you on more. 

So you stand up and straddle her and sit down, taking her cock in one fell swoop. She goes in easy with how wet you are and you bottom out in her lap, the both of you groaning quietly with restraint. 

“Fuck, babygirl,” you hear Agatha huff and you squeeze your walls around her in response. It makes her thrust up and you inhale sharply at the feeling. She is so big and you can feel her throbbing inside you. “Better keep working.” 

You lean forward slowly to move your laptop closer, the stretch absolutely delicious and she chuckles when you gasp as you settle back onto her. Agatha wraps her arms around your waist and you really do try to be good and focus, but every so often, she shifts beneath you and it hits that spot so deep inside you and you can’t help but squirm to try and get more. 

Would she notice if you slowly start moving? Most likely, but it’s worth the risk. You give the gentlest roll of your hips and Agatha moans low into your ear before her fingernails dig into your hips through your skirt to still you. “Don’t even think about it,” she whispers dangerously so you’re forced to sit without moving on her cock that is filling you up better than anything ever has before. 

It’s sweet torture and you write a few more sentences before you can feel your wetness dripping down her cock and out of you. Every so often, you’ll clench around her, too, completely involuntarily, of course, and she’ll buck into you like she can’t help it while breathing suddenly. You’re not sure how much longer of this you can take, the ache spreading everywhere in your body and absolutely ruining you. 

“Agatha,” you whine again, begging, starting to move despite her death-like grip on your waist. 

She moves your hair to the side and nips at your neck. “Yes, babygirl?” 

“Can you please–” you begin, frustration leaking into your voice, tears pricking in your eyes. “Can you please move? Please, I need it so bad. I’m trying so hard to focus, please, can you fuck me? Daddy–”

Turns out, all you needed to convince her was to call her that, because she finally breaks and starts thrusting her hips up and pounding her cock into you. Your hand flies over your mouth and you bite onto a finger to stop yourself from crying out and you wish you weren’t in a library right now, rather be in the comfort of Agatha’s bed or car or office or anywhere but here, so you could be as loud as you want. 

“Let’s see if you’re still distracted after Daddy fucks all the thoughts out of your head,” she snaps and fuck, you’re already so close after cockwarming her for those few minutes. She reaches around you with a hand to circle your clit, which is already sensitive from your previous orgasm and a muffled sound escapes you. Agatha laughs breathlessly and you strain your ears to hear if anyone is coming near you – not that you could do anything about it now – but there’s nothing. 

Thank god this is a relatively empty library, especially at this time of the day, and that the two of you are tucked away in the back where it’s hard to see normally. 

Agatha’s thrusts are getting so powerful that you’re forced to put your hands out on the table for balance which means it gets a lot harder to control your noises. But your professor, ever the problem-solver, comes up with a solution. 

She slides two fingers into your mouth so you can suck on them and so your moans are stifled. Agatha presses her fingers against your tongue, scrapes her nails against it, and draws them out before shoving them back in, effectively fucking both your mouth and your pussy. 

“You feel so good, babygirl, so fucking tight,” she pants into your ear and you gag when she pushes her fingers down your throat. 

It’s so much, so much stimulation from her cock and her fingers and the fact that you’re being fucked in a public library where anyone could see that your orgasm hits you out of nowhere and it’s explosive. You sink your teeth into her skin and she moans, almost being louder before she remembers to control herself. 

You need a moment to collect yourself, but she doesn’t give it to you; instead, she shoves you off her lap and stands up right behind you without her cock ever leaving your body. 

Agatha bends you over the table, hand pressing against your back, and you have just enough awareness to move your laptop out of the way before she sets a bruising pace. The table must be bolted down to the floor or something, because it thankfully doesn’t move. 

Agatha grunts softly with each thrust and you can feel her twitching inside you even though it feels like every single one of your nerves is on fire. 

“Daddy, I don’t know if I can again,” you quietly sob, the pleasure fraying your mind, the sensitivity of your clit making you gasp when she rubs it. You feel like you’re drifting away from your body, dizziness swarming your head. “Too much,” you babble. 

But she doesn’t slow down. If anything, she picks up her speed and tears fall from your eyes. “You can, babygirl, I know you can. You can take it – fuck, you feel so good around me.” 

Agatha losing her composure because of you, just knowing you have that kind of affect on someone usually so cold and unaffected, is starting to build your orgasm back up. 

“Daddy,” you whine, trying to be as quiet as you can. Her rhythm is starting to falter, she’s throbbing and twitching and cursing, fingers scrambling for purchase on your hips, and you know she’s getting close. 

“So perfect, babygirl,” she mutters and you know she’s refraining from being louder, too. “I’ve wanted you for so long, ever since the first day when you walked into my classroom wearing that short skirt.” 

The confession makes you clench and a gasp escapes your lips. You’re climbing closer and closer to the edge and Agatha isn’t far behind. 

“Knew I had to have you,” she keeps going and your body is practically vibrating. 

She’s pounding into you so deep, filling you so good, her cock dragging against your walls in the best way. Her ragged words are getting to her, too; you can tell in the way her thrusts become shallower and shorter like she can’t do anything more. 

You’d make a quip about her being distracted but you can’t form a sentence right now. Every thought in your head is gone. 

“Daddy knows you come here,” she continues and your eyes roll back into your head. You don’t even think you can understand her. You’re close, so close. “Knew you hadn’t started on the project. Knew you’d be here – fuck, babygirl.” She breaks off with a sharp inhale as you squeeze around her at her words. 

This whole thing was planned. She’s wanted you just as badly as you’ve wanted her. And now she’s fucking you against a table in a library because of it. 

She reaches around and rubs your clit and that’s it. 

You cum all over her cock, walls convulsing around her, and she quickly follows, pumping her cum into you. You feel her warmth spreading through you and it makes you gasp. 

Thankfully she pulls out because you truly can’t take anymore and she slides your underwear back into place before her cum can drip down your legs. She turns you around after zipping her pants back up and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. 

“You okay?” She murmurs and you weakly nod. “Is that pretty head of yours clear now? Think you can focus?” 

The question makes you laugh. There are no thoughts left in your head whatsoever. “You do know that I’m only going to be thinking about this in your classes right? You just made the problem ten times worse.” 

Agatha smirks and taps under your chin. “Tell you what, pet. For each day early you turn this project in, that’s one more reward you’ll get.” 

And even though you’re completely worn out, your clit pulses at the thought of more. 

“Think you’ll be able to focus now?” Agatha asks sweetly. You nod eagerly, your brain suddenly able to piece together how you’re going to structure your paragraphs, and she chuckles. “It’s all about finding the right motivation. I look forward to seeing your final project.” She winks, packs up her stuff, and then walks away. 

You sit down in the chair, making a mental note to clean that and the table before you leave, and open your laptop back up. 

Cracking your knuckles, you get to work, suddenly able to focus so much better now. 

[orangeblossomsintheair]

HONEY YOU’RE FAMILIAR | MV33

summary : For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

wc : 5k

an : writing this to distract myself from my other wips? ..i would never.. 😦 also i wrote this at 12 am so let this not be a place of judgement :))

Max sometimes forgets how small Monaco is.

It’s easy to do when most of his memories of the place are a blur of fast cars and glittering parties. He spends most of his time racing through the streets during the Grand Prix or holed up in a hotel room overlooking the harbor.

When you’re constantly traveling the world, hopping between paddocks and podiums, the compactness of Monaco barely registers. It’s a speck on the map, a gilded bubble he never really bothers to think about until it’s right in his face.

But sometimes, like tonight, he’s reminded.

Monaco isn’t a city, not really.

It’s a playground. A handful of streets strung together like a necklace, choked with Lamborghinis, Rolls-Royces, and yachts so big they could be small countries. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone.

Or, at the very least, they know of everyone.

The millionaires gossip about the billionaires. The bartenders know who tips in cash and who never tips at all. Even the stray cats probably have dirt on the local royals.

It’s not just small in size. It’s tight.

Wealth wraps around this place like a noose, strangling it into exclusivity.

There are no dark corners to disappear into, no sprawling suburbs to lose yourself in.

Just a few restaurants, a few clubs, and a few streets where the same people circle each other like they’re on a carousel. If you’re here long enough, you’ll eventually run into everyone you’ve ever met.

Even the ones you’ve been trying to avoid.

Max doesn’t think about that when he walks into the bar.

He’s not in the mood for deep reflection or existential dread. He’s here because Daniel said he needed a drink, and when Daniel Ricciardo says you need a drink, you listen.

That’s how Max ends up at some overpriced lounge that smells like vodka and ambition, standing under soft, warm lighting that’s trying too hard to make the place feel classy instead of claustrophobic.

He’s nursing a beer, half-listening to Daniel tell some convoluted story about a failed date and a stolen Vespa, when he hears it.

A voice.

Your voice.

It’s the kind of thing that cuts through the noise without him even realizing why. It’s not loud or particularly distinct; it’s not like you’re screaming or making a scene. But it’s you. The way you talk, your cadence, the rise and fall of your words. It’s all so achingly familiar that it grabs him by the throat and yanks.

Max freezes. His drink doesn’t make it to his lips.

The years fall away in a blink, and suddenly, it’s like no time has passed.

He’s twenty-two again, still figuring out how to smile for cameras, while you’re draped over the back of his couch, talking absolute nonsense about whether or not the cars in Cars have insurance or not.

He doesn’t even realize he’s turned to look until he spots you.

You’re standing at the bar, laughing as you say something to the bartender. It’s loud, and Max can’t hear you properly, but he can feel you.

The way you lean casually on the counter, the tilt of your head, the way you wave your hand to punctuate whatever you’re saying. It’s so painfully, annoyingly you.

And God, you look good.

For a second, all he can do is stare. You haven’t seen him yet, thank God, because Max Verstappen does not know what the hell to do with himself right now.

You look different.

Not in a drastic way, just… grown.

Your edges are sharper, your presence more refined, like a photo that’s come into focus after years of being a little blurry. But the core of you is still the same. It’s in the way you throw your head back when you laugh, like the world isn’t slowly crumbling under the weight of climate change, billionaires, and whatever Kardashian family drama is brewing this week.

And suddenly, Max is thrown back years.

To a time when you were his person. The one he called when things went sideways, or when he won, or when he was just bored and needed someone to hear him rant about understeer.

You were his best friend.

No. The friend. The one. The only one who ever really got him. And then…Well, then he was an asshole.

He tries to tell himself that you two drifted apart.

People do that, right? It’s life. Except that’s a lie, and Max knows it. You didn’t drift; you held on like a freaking tow hook. You tried—texted him, called him, showed up to races, tried to remind him there was a world outside of 300 km/h and tire degradation.

Max doesn’t know what to do with this. With you. He’s not used to seeing ghosts in real life, and you might as well be one now.

Max debates his next move. He could just… not. Pretend he didn’t notice you. Slip out quietly, finish his drink somewhere else, and avoid whatever emotional grenade this is about to be. That would be the smart thing. The logical thing.

But Max has never been great at logic.

For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

But then you glance over your shoulder.

And your eyes lock.

He doesn’t have time to decide whether to stay or bolt

You see him.

And Max realizes he’s fucked.

For a split second, he thinks you might look away, maybe pretend you didn’t see him either.

He’s not sure if he’s hoping for that or dreading it. But then your face lights up, and the look you give him isn’t what he expects.

It’s warm. Familiar. Like you’re genuinely happy to see him.

His chest tightens. Max isn’t sure what he thought he’d see. Resentment, awkwardness, indifference, maybe.

But this? This disarms him completely.

You wave, and before he knows it, his feet are moving.

“Maxy,” you say as he approaches, your voice carrying that teasing lilt that could only ever be you. It knocks the breath out of him, so familiar and effortless it almost hurts. “Long time no see.”

Max freezes for the briefest of moments, the nickname hitting him like a slap and a hug all at once. Maxy. No one’s called him that in years. Not his family. Not his team. Not anyone.

No one except you.

“Yeah, uh, long time,” he manages, scratching the back of his neck in a gesture so awkwardly familiar it almost makes you laugh. He looks like he’s 17 again, shy and unsure.

Before either of you can say more, Daniel sidles up next to him, a beer in hand and an amused eyebrow raised as he glances between the two of you. “Know her?” Daniel asks, his voice dripping with curiosity.

“He does,” you reply smoothly before Max can fumble an answer. Your smirk is playful, but there’s no bite to it, just that same easy warmth Max hasn’t felt in what feels like forever. “I used to keep this one in line. Back when he was all awkward interviews and tragic haircuts.”

Daniel barks out a laugh, glancing at Max’s meticulously styled hair. “Tragic haircuts? Wait, this-” he gestures wildly at Max’s head, like it’s some architectural masterpiece “-is the improved version?”

You’re already laughing, and it’s the kind of laugh Max hasn’t heard in years.

He groans, dragging a hand over his face, though the corners of his mouth are betraying him with a faint smile. “Don’t encourage her,” he mutters to Daniel, but his tone is far too soft to have any weight.

It’s stupid how easy this feels. How natural. Max isn’t used to easy anymore.

Daniel, bless him, is soaking it all in.

“So?” he says, giving Max a teasing nudge. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, or do I have to guess?”

“I was getting there,” Max grumbles, shooting him a half-hearted glare before looking at you. For a moment, he falters. He doesn’t know what to call you. Acquaintance feels too cold. Stranger would be a lie. And friend? That feels like stepping too far into a past he’s not sure he’s ready to face.

“An old friend,” you offer, saving him effortlessly, like you always did. “And you must be the famous Daniel Ricciardo.”

Daniel grins, full of boyish charm. “Guilty as charged,” he says, tipping his beer in a mock toast. “And let me just say, I already like you. Great taste in insults.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Ricciardo,” you say, though your smirk says otherwise.

The three of you fall into an almost absurdly natural rhythm, as though you’ve all been doing this for years. Daniel’s effortless charisma bounces off your sharp wit, and Max finds himself smiling more in five minutes than he has in weeks.

Maybe months.

It’s like the weight on his shoulders has lifted, just for a moment, and he can breathe again.

You’re mid-story when he realizes he hasn’t felt this light in ages.

“So there I was,” you’re saying to Daniel, gesturing dramatically, “dragging Max out of his hotel room because he was refusing to face the world after a bad race.”

“I wasn’t refusing to face the world,” Max interjects, but there’s no real heat in his voice.

You give him a look that could level a building. “You were lying on the floor eating Haribo like it was your last meal,” you say, deadpan. “It was tragic. Genuinely tragic.”

Daniel’s cackling now, nearly spilling his beer. “Please tell me there are photos of this.”

“Sadly, no,” you reply with mock disappointment. “But the image is burned into my brain forever. It was that bad.”

Max groans, shaking his head, though the grin tugging at his lips is impossible to hide. “Why did I ever let you into my life?”

“Because no one else could handle you,” you fire back, and it’s so quick, so natural, it makes his chest ache.

Daniel takes a step back, still laughing. “You two are too much,” he says, pointing at the two of you like you’ve just performed a comedy sketch. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t get too emotional without me, okay? I’m going to find another beer. Or maybe a Vespa to steal. Who knows?”

You watch him disappear into the crowd, still grinning. For a moment, the two of you are left standing there, and the noise of the party seems to fade just slightly.

“Daniel’s fun,” you say, breaking the silence.

“He is,” Max agrees.

When the music starts bumping up again, the two of you are faced with a whole other problem entirely.

“So, you’ve been busy!” you yell, leaning across the sticky bar top, your voice barely cutting through the bass thumping around you.

“What?” Max shouts back, leaning closer.

“I SAID, YOU’VE BEEN BUSY!”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“I KNOW! THAT’S WHY I’M SHOUTING!”

“WHAT?”

You throw your hands up in exasperation, but he just smirks, clearly enjoying this.

So you double down.

“DO YOU WANT ANOTHER DRINK?” you bellow, miming holding a glass.

“WHY ARE YOU YELLING ABOUT DRINKS?” he shouts back, baffled.

“BECAUSE IT’S TOO LOUD IN HERE!”

“WHAT?”

This back-and-forth nonsense goes on for an impressively ridiculous three minutes, the two of you getting progressively louder, until Max finally groans, shaking his head like he’s reached his limit.

He steps closer, leans in like he’s about to shout something else, then just presses a warm, steady hand to the small of your back. “Come on,” he says, not even bothering to raise his voice this time.

“What?” you yell, still committed to the bit.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts gently steering you toward the stairs, and you stumble a little, caught off guard by the unexpected physical contact.

“Where are we going?” you shout, craning your neck to look at him as you climb.

“UPSTAIRS!”

“WHY?”

“BECAUSE I VALUE MY HEARING!” he fires back, glaring at you over his shoulder.

“OH, NOW YOU CARE ABOUT YOUR HEARING?” you tease, but he ignores you, his hand still firm and insistent on your back as he guides you upstairs.

The VIP section is quieter, tucked away from the pulsating bass and the sweaty chaos of the main club floor. Max had slipped a word to a bouncer—who nodded in a way that made you roll your eyes—and now you’re here, sinking into the plush leather of a semi-circular booth with a ridiculous view of the dance floor below.

The second you step into the VIP area, the relative silence hits you like a warm blanket. You blink, adjusting to the sudden absence of aggressive EDM, and turn to Max, who looks much too smug for your liking.

“Smuggled into VIP like I’m some sort of black-market item,” you tease. “Careful, Verstappen. This is how egos start.”

“You’re welcome,” he says dryly.

“For what?��� you shoot back. “The privilege of not getting tinnitus at 27?”

“Yes,” he replies smoothly, sliding into a nearby booth like he owns the place. “You’re lucky to know me.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “My life has improved immeasurably since you dragged me up here. I’ll write a thank-you card.”

“Make sure it’s handwritten,” he quips, signaling a waiter for drinks. “And don’t skimp on the stationery.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, rolling your eyes but you’re smiling, and he knows it.

He chuckles, leaning forward slightly. “Hey, if you’re going to criticize, at least admit this is better than shouting at each other over terrible music.”

You glance around the room, all dark wood and dim lighting, where a few scattered people are having hushed conversations or staring down at the dance floor with an air of superiority. “Alright,” you admit, “it’s not terrible. But the crowd up here…”

You nod toward a guy at the next table wearing sunglasses, inside, and sipping champagne like it’s water. “Is this your scene now? Bottle service bros and indoor eyewear enthusiasts?”

Max glances at the guy, smirking. “Not my scene. But I figured you deserved something better than sticky floors and overpriced tequila shots.”

You laugh. “Wow. I feel so special. Nothing says friendship like a quiet room and a drink I can’t pronounce.”

“Admit it,” he says, leaning back again. “You love it.”

“I love judging it,” you correct, grinning. “Big difference.”

Max watches you for a moment, shaking his head with an almost fond expression. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“And you’ve changed too much,” you shoot back, gesturing at his ridiculously put-together outfit. “Look at you, Verstappen. Fancy haircut, custom clothes, actual social skills. Who are you?”

“First of all, the haircut is functional,” he retorts, mock offended. “Aerodynamics.”

“Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want your hair slowing you down at 300 kph,” you say, pretending to be serious.

“It’s a real thing!” he insists, laughing now. “If you knew anything about racing-”

“If I knew anything about racing?” you interrupt, your voice rising in mock outrage. “Excuse me, I was there when you had to Google how to talk to the media without sounding like a robot. You think I don’t know the intricacies of racing, Maxy?”

“Don’t call me Maxy,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“Oh, I’m definitely calling you Maxy,” you say, delighted. “I might even get a custom T-shirt. ‘Maxy’s Biggest Fan.’ I’ll wear it to a race.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “If you do that, I’ll steal your phone and delete every embarrassing photo you’ve ever taken of me.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t have backups,” you say smugly, sipping your drink.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

For a moment, the two of you fall into an easy silence, the noise of the club below fading into the background. You glance at Max, noting the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way he’s fiddling with the label on his beer bottle—a habit he’s had for as long as you can remember.

“So,” you say, breaking the quiet, “what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve bought since you became all… you know.”

“All what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You know,” you say, waving a hand vaguely. “World Champion. Multi-millionaire. Guy who smuggles old friends into VIP sections.”

He chuckles. “Ridiculous? I don’t know… probably the private jet.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “The private jet is the least ridiculous thing about you, Verstappen. Try again.”

“Fine,” he says, thinking for a moment. “I bought a sauna for my house. Didn’t use it for six months.”

You burst out laughing. “A sauna? For what? Post-race existential crises?”

He groans, rubbing his temples. “It was a bad idea, okay? I thought it would be relaxing.”

“Did it come with, like, a tiny man who throws water on the rocks for you?” you ask, grinning.

“No, but now I kind of want one,” he admits, laughing.

“God, you’re the worst,” you say, shaking your head, but your tone is full of affection.

“And you’re jealous,” he fires back.

“Of your unused sauna?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m absolutely consumed with envy.”

The two of you dissolve into laughter and the conversation continues.

Next thing you know it’s 3 am and you and Max are stumbling out of the club, too giggly for both of your sakes.

Daniel had hopped on to another place hours ago so it’s just you and him.

The cool night air hits you like a slap, but instead of sobering up, it just makes you giggle harder.

Max freezes mid-stumble, his head lolling back like he’s auditioning for Les Mis on the world’s worst stage. “Why’s the air so aggressive?” he slurs. “Feels like it’s… pushing me. Rude.”

“Why’s the ground so spinny?” you counter, stumbling sideways into him.

“'Cause you’re bad at walking,” he accuses, latching onto your arm like a barnacle while swaying dramatically.

“You’re bad at walking,” you fire back, immediately tripping over a shadow and nearly eating pavement.

“You can’t even walk straight!” Max protests, laughing as he catches you before you faceplant.

His arm slides around your waist, steadying you in the most unsteady way possible.

“You’re the one spinning,” you argue, slurring every other word. “Maaaybe you should ju- just stay still for once in your life.”

“Oh, because you’re the expert,” he fires back, wheezing as you nearly trip again. “Where- where are you even staying at?”

You squint at him, trying to focus. “Uh… good question.”

Max stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “What do you mean good question? How do you not know?”

“I don’t rememb- ber,” you admit, cackling as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Max groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re just- what? Homeless now?”

“Homeless for the night,” you correct, wagging a finger at him like that somehow makes it better.

Max laughs so hard he has to pause, doubling over slightly. “How- how do you forget where you’re staying?”

“’S not my fault!” you defend yourself, leaning heavily against him. “The hotel has, like… a name! A boring one! And too many floors!”

Max groans so loudly it echoes off the buildings. “Oh my God. You’re homeless now. You’re a wandering drunk with no home.”

“I'm trying a new lifestyle,” you say, grinning. “Like… nomadic, y’know? Spiritual.”

“Yeah, okay, Buddha, let’s find you a real place to sleep before you start befriending rats,” he mutters, dragging you down the street.

“I like rats,” you say cheerfully. “They’re just misunderstood.”

“You’re misunderstood,” Max shoots back. “Come on. You’re crashing at my hotel. I can’t leave you out here to, like, adopt a possum or something.”

“I don’t wanna!” you whine, digging your heels into the ground.

“Tough!” Max barks, throwing his arm around your shoulders to keep you moving. “You’ll thank me in the morning when you’re not spooning a garbage can.”

You groan dramatically, slumping into him. “Maxxyyy, I’m tired. Can’t I just sleep on a bench or something?”

“Nooo. No benches. Benches are gross. You’ll get, like… pigeons on you.”

“Pigeons are my friends,” you declare solemnly, as if this is a hill you’re prepared to die on.

Max shakes his head, clearly trying to stay serious but failing miserably. “Okay, Dr. Dolittle, you’re not sleeping outside.”

You groan again, dragging your feet even as he starts pulling you along.

“Stop whining,” he slurs, swaying as he tries to walk in a straight line. “It’ll be like- like a sleepover! Like when we were five.”

“Sleepovers at five were better,” you mutter. “Less… you.”

“Excuse me?” Max stops, glaring at you like you’ve mortally offended him. “I’m the best sleepover buddy. I let you steal my Haribo once.”

“You hid the Haribo under your pillow!” you counter, poking him in the chest.

“’Cause you’re a thief!” he says, grinning as he pulls you toward the street corner.

“Am not,” you huff, pouting.

“Are too,” he replies, but his tone is teasing as he hails a cab.

When the cab pulls up, it feels like the world is tilted just enough that the ground might collapse under your feet at any moment. You both tumble into the backseat in a fit of giggles, your laughter echoing off the darkened streets.

It’s the kind of laughter that’s born of a little bit too much alcohol and a whole lot of absurdity. You could’ve sworn you heard a streetlight flicker in disbelief at the sound of your shared joy.

“You smell like tequila and poor decisions,” he mutters with a lazy drawl, his words slow but somehow still cutting through the haze of the night.

Max flops dramatically against you as if the very act of sitting upright requires more effort than it’s worth.

His head lands squarely on your shoulder, and for a split second, you’re both tangled in the shared warmth of a really questionable decision.

He looks up at you, eyes half-lidded, and grins like a kid who just got away with stealing candy.

Max’s eyes widen in mock outrage. “I did not!” He shoots up from your shoulder like you just insulted his very existence, but the motion sends him veering dangerously toward the cab door.

You’re already shaking your head before you even speak, the words spilling out one over the other. “You smell like someone who wore Axe in high school.”

He catches himself at the last second, gripping the seat like it’s a lifeline.

Max is practically in tears from laughing, his snort-laugh echoing off the walls of the cab as he tries to argue that Axe is, in fact, a perfectly fine product, just poorly misunderstood by society.

By the time the cab pulls up to Max’s hotel, you're both deep into a discussion about whether Axe body spray could be classified as a biohazard in certain quantities.

It’s a ridiculous debate, fueled by far too much tequila and a complete disregard for logic, but it’s the most fun either of you have had in ages.

The cab screeches to a halt, and Max stumbles out first, holding the door open for you with the kind of exaggerated flair you’d expect from someone who probably practices his dramatic entrances in front of a mirror.

As he pays the driver, his wallet slips from his hands not once, but twice, and he’s already apologizing profusely, his face flushed from the alcohol and his own clumsiness.

Finally, he gets the wallet sorted, tucks it back in his pocket, and reaches down to drag you out of the cab like you’re a piece of luggage.

You’re both barely standing, teetering back and forth on your feet as if gravity itself is conspiring to make the night even more ridiculous.

“Your palace has really ugly carpet,” you mutter, laughing as you trip over the offending fabric, your feet not quite able to keep up with your brain’s idea of where they should go.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Max says, throwing his arm out grandly to gesture toward the hotel lobby like he’s unveiling the Louvre.

The marble floors, polished to a shine, the sleek, understated furniture… none of it compares to the visual assault that is the ugly carpet underfoot.

Max snorts, his hand steadying you as you almost face-plant into a particularly gaudy potted plant. “You’re banned from the palace,” he retorts, giving you a playful shove.

You recover, and together, you stagger toward the elevator, which, for some reason, feels like an obstacle course in itself.

The elevator doors open with a dramatic ding, and Max promptly starts jabbing the wrong floor button in a series of random, very confident moves.

Each one is a miss, but he keeps at it, as if this were somehow part of the plan.

Max grumbles under his breath but finally, miraculously, hits the correct floor button. He turns to you with an exaggerated wink. “See? I told you. Genius.”

You lean against the wall, your body shaking with laughter as you struggle to breathe through the giggles.

“This is why they don’t let you operate machinery,” you manage to gasp, watching him fumble with the buttons in disbelief.

You raise an eyebrow, patting him on the head condescendingly. “Sure you are, buddy. A true mastermind.”

When the doors finally open, you both stumble out, holding on to each other uselessly.

The elevator ride is a blur of jokes and half-baked insults as you both fight to keep your composure.

Max leans against the wall with a smug look, clearly reveling in his victory over the elevator button.

“Jesus. You okay there, Einstein?” you tease, leaning casually against the wall and watching him drop the card once more. You can’t help but laugh.

At the door to his room, Max proceeds to fumble with his key card in a way that can only be described as tragically incompetent.

The key card slips from his fingers twice, and each time, he lets out a string of expletives in a garble of Dutch and English.

“Shut up,” he mutters, his voice already tinged with frustration. “Technology’s hard.”

“This bed is softer than my hopes and dreams,” you mumble, your voice muffled by the comforter as you stretch out like a starfish.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the door swings open, and Max stumbles inside with the grace of a rhino on roller skates.

He turns to face you with a theatrical sigh. “There. I did it. Happy now?”

You’re already halfway to the bed, your shoes flying off in opposite directions, one ending up by the dresser and the other getting lodged under a chair.

With a dramatic thud, you collapse onto the bed, your body sinking into the soft, luxurious comfort like it was the only thing holding you together.

“Nope,” you reply, barely lifting a finger to indicate where his side is. “Your side’s over there,” you say, pointing vaguely toward the edge of the bed, but it’s clear from the way your eyes are barely staying open that you’re not in any shape to play the “bedroom politics” game.

Max, predictably, flops down beside you with the subtlety of a sack of bricks, his arms and legs sprawling out in every direction.

“Move over,” he grumbles, his face smooshed into the pillow.

“Too bad,” Max grunts, grabbing your pillow from beneath your head and smushing it over his face. “This is a dictatorship, and I’m the dictator.”

For a brief moment, it feels like nothing’s changed at all.

“Goodnight, Haribo hoarder,” you slur, your words trailing off into nothing as sleep drags you under.

The last thing you hear before you fully fade into unconsciousness is Max’s muffled laugh, and you can’t help but smile.

—-

Max stretches, or at least tries to. His arms flail in an uncoordinated spasm, which results in a series of awkward grunts and a pop from his back that sounds like a joint trying to jump ship.

Max’s eyes snap open, and for a second, everything is blurry.

He blinks a few times, the weight of his eyelids making it feel like he’s wading through molasses.

A dull ache sits in the back of his skull, a reminder of the questionable choices he made the night before.

He groans, dry, scratchy, the kind of noise that only belongs to mornings where you regret both your life decisions and your snack choices.

He’s still in his room. So far, so good.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary... except for that persistent feeling in the air that something is off.

For a second, he considers staying perfectly still, hoping his body will remember how to function like a normal human.

But then—

There’s something warm beside him. Something... alive.

Max freezes, eyes snapping wide open. His breath catches in his throat as he tries to process what’s happening. The warmth next to him isn’t the soft comfort of a pillow.

It’s... a person.

A person in his bed.

What the actual hell?

His brain goes into overdrive, trying to make sense of the situation. His mind races through a thousand thoughts in a second, each one more ridiculous than the last.

Did he... did he end up getting a stranger drunk last night? Did someone break into his room to cuddle with him?

Max’s eyes dart to his left, and it hits him like a freight train.

The person is you.

You, sprawled across the bed, fast asleep, your hair tousled and your face peaceful, completely unaware of his mounting panic.

“I need to call Daniel..”

For a moment, Max just stares, brain failing to catch up.

How did this happen? His head starts swimming. His mouth goes dry. His first thought is that he’s dreaming..except, no.

This is far too real. He’s not that lucky.

[i-can-kazoo]

Assuming a world in which a furby could die, I would still assume that it maintains a treif status. No matter what sort of creature it is, there are qualifiers that it simply doesn't meet. Is it a mammal? No split hooves, therefore treif. Is it a bird? It isn't one of the non kosher species listed, but. Also very much is not a bird. Fur is not feathers, so this is a moot point. Is it a bug? Other than certain communities that have held a mesorah for kosher bug groups, the yiddishe velt had abandoned that corner of the animal kingdom. (And I doubt a furby matches any description of a kosher insect anyways.) Is it a fish? No fins, no scales, not kosher. It's very clearly a treifadik creature, even without taking the immortality into account.

i just woke up from a dream where i was being interrogated by a bunch of people asking me if “furbies are kosher” firstly…. im not jewish. secondly……..what the fuck

[vaguely-concerned]

imagining that while rook is gone, about a week and a half or so in, there's one night where lucanis suddenly appears unannounced in illario's room in the way he has of doing that and which could scare anyone else to death on its own, but of all people in the world illario is the most inclined to only find it mildly annoying to look up from his bad boy Brooding and also facemask-equivalent beauty routine (can't be tragically denied even being doomed by the narrative if you ain't cute) to find his cousin -- now first talon of the crows at least in name -- suddenly staring at him intently and expressionlessly from a few meters away. and when illario (half-jokingly, half-seriously, all-yearningly because crows live bad) is like 'ah so is this finally it are you here to kill me' even with no vengeful purple glow in evidence lucanis just snorts scathingly to show all the seriousness with which he still takes that idea and illario has to wistfully be like 'no, I thought not. so to what do I owe the honour, then, first talon. I figured you'd be pretty busy out there by now'.

and lucanis doesn't say anything at all, just stands there silently for a while and then sits down in a corner of the room with his back against the wall and buries his face in his hands. you have to understand how crucial it is for my vision here that they Do Not talk about it. they never talk about it, not in that moment and not later. illario doesn't have the first idea what 'it' could even be, once he's asked 'is it -- caterina? did something happen to...' (feeling suddenly and absurdly as much like a little boy again as lucanis just had before covering his face) and gotten the slightest headshake in response, nothing else he tries to ask even gets a reaction.

everything is all fucked up and nothing is ever going to be like it used to and the fact that this is where lucanis thought to go about whatever has happened to make his eyes look like that is ludicrous on so many levels and in so many ways. but I do think illario eventually sighs and at least sits down on the floor next to him, leaving a bigger distance between them than he might have once both in self-defense and out of something like consideration. 'I'd ask if you'd like to talk about it, but of course I know you. you never do'. (even with everything else that has happened, illario still knows lucanis better than almost anyone in the world. few things could have convinced him that maybe it really is his cousin in there still quite like this prolonged and complete lack of communication lol.) in the silence they fail to keep each other company in the same way they have for years, but maybe they can at least be honest about it now.

and then when lucanis gets to his feet like this entire very strange silent last half hour never happened to brush dust from his clothes and say he has to go... what can illario really do but go 'sure. great talk, as always. happy to be of service' from the floor as he watches his cousin disappear again into the night. I imagine illario wearing some sort of opulent bath robe or something through this whole thing by the way I think that's an important detail to get in there

[secretmaniacc]

RIDE OR DIE

Parings: The salesman x Fem!oc

Summary: Two fierce recruiters, locked in a heated rivalry over who can secure the most players, strike an unusual deal: whoever wins the next recruit gets to drag the other out to dinner. But when tempers flare and egos clash, their “game” turns into a battle of wits, slaps, and simmering tension. What starts as a simple challenge spirals into something far more unpredictable—because in their world, nothing ever goes as planned.

Warnings: slow burn, language, violence, dom!salesman x baddie oc, teasing, work rivals, kissing, fingering sex, mentions of blood, slapping, maybe something else that I don’t remember.

Wc: 5.4k

A/n: this is my first post and idk how do you use tumblr and I can’t even add warnings cuz idk what should I warn about but I hope y’all can enjoy wtv the hell I wrote, English isn’t my first language so no attacking. Not proofread. This is so bad ik.

The dimly lit café hummed with quiet chatter, the occasional clatter of cups breaking the tension in the air. She adjusted her sunglasses, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she leaned forward, her fingers tapping softly against the edge of the table. The man seated across from her was sweating through his cheap dress shirt, his eyes darting nervously to the plain white envelope she'd slid toward him just moments ago.

"Inside that envelope," she began, her voice calm but charged with intent, "is the answer to all your problems. Every overdue bill, every phone call you're dodging, every sleepless night. All gone."

He hesitated, staring at the envelope like it might bite him. "I don't know... I mean, this doesn't sound—"

"—legal?" she finished for him, leaning back casually. She tilted her head, the smirk widening. "You'd be right. It's not. But when has that ever stopped you before?"

His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Bingo, she thought, watching him flounder. That reaction told her everything she needed to know.

"Think about it," she pressed, her voice dropping an octave, almost a whisper. "A few games. A few hours. And then you walk away with enough money to start fresh. No more debt. No more hiding."

He reached for the envelope, his hand trembling. But just as his fingertips brushed the edge of it—

A familiar voice cut through the air. "Amateur move, don't you think?"

Her eyes narrowed behind her sunglasses. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Only one person could manage to sound both smug and bored in the same sentence.

"Go away," she said flatly, her tone ice-cold.

But of course, he didn't.

"I mean, honestly," the salesman continued, sliding into the booth beside the man like he owned the place. "Laying it all out like that? Where's the finesse? The mystery? The intrigue?"

She finally turned her head, pushing her sunglasses down just enough to meet his eyes. "Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?"

"Not when I'm right," he replied, flashing her that infuriatingly cocky smile.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, and gave him a sweet, fake smile in return. "Right about what? Annoying the hell out of me? Congratulations, you've mastered the art."

The man between them shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting from her to the salesman and back again. "Uh, I should probably—"

"You're not going anywhere," she said sharply, cutting him off. She reached for the envelope and slid it back toward the man with deliberate slowness, her gaze never leaving the salesman. "You want to talk about finesse? Fine. Let's talk about your pitch. What is it this time? Another mysterious slap game in the subway? Real creative."

He laughed, the sound low and easy, and leaned back in the booth. "What can I say? It works."

"Until it doesn't," she shot back.

"Why don't we let him decide?" he countered, gesturing to the man, who looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

She turned her attention back to her target, her expression softening. "You want to trust him? Go ahead. But let me ask you this: When he disappears into thin air after taking his cut, who's going to be there to clean up the mess? Not him."

The salesman's grin faltered, just for a second, but it was enough to make her smirk.

"Fine," he said, standing abruptly and brushing imaginary lint off his suit jacket. "He's all yours. Let's see if your little sob story gets him to bite."

"Gladly," she replied, leaning back with a victorious gleam in her eyes.

But as he turned to leave, he leaned in close, just enough for his breath to brush against her ear. "Next time, sweetheart, try not to play so dirty. It's almost cute how hard you're trying to beat me."

She didn't flinch, didn't react, even as her grip tightened on the edge of the table. He chuckled softly and walked away, leaving her with the trembling man and the lingering scent of his cologne.

"You should take the deal," she said finally, sliding the envelope across the table one last time. "Before someone else comes along and makes it worse for you."

This time, he took it without hesitation.

As she left the café, she spotted the salesman leaning casually against a lamppost outside, twirling a coin between his fingers.

"You owe me," she called out, not breaking stride.

"For what?"

"For not strangling you in there."

His laugh followed her down the street, a sound that stuck in her head longer than she cared to admit.

Next day

She pushed the door to the briefing room open with a little more force than necessary, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor. He was already there, of course, leaning back in one of the chairs, his feet propped up on the table like he owned the place. The sight made her want to turn around and walk right back out.

The office reeked of stale coffee and carried the faint metallic tang of the envelopes they used to seal people's fates. Spotting their shared desk, she sauntered over and dropped into her chair, leaning back with a casual air. Her red-tipped nails drummed a steady rhythm against the table, a small but deliberate sound to break the silence.

"So," she started, her voice smooth but sharp enough to cut, "how many desperate souls did you con into signing today?"

"You're late," he drawled, not even bothering to glance up from the notepad he was scribbling on, "I've already got a head start."

She ignored him, tossing her clipboard onto the table with a loud thwack. "Four recruits," she announced, while sitting in the chair across from him.

That got his attention. He arched an eyebrow, finally glancing up. "Four? That's cute."

Her lips twitched, but she kept her expression neutral. "Better than your three."

The smug grin he'd been wearing all evening faltered for a split second, and the sight was immensely satisfying. He quickly recovered, sitting up straighter and folding his arms over his chest. "Who says I only got three?"

"I saw you at the station earlier," she shot back. "Your guy ran off before you could even give him the envelope."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," he said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "He came back. Took the bait. Easy money."

She narrowed her eyes, trying to gauge whether he was bluffing. With him, it was impossible to tell. He could sell a lie as easily as breathing, and she hated how good he was at it.

"Let's see the proof, then," she said, gesturing to his notepad.

He hesitated, just long enough for her to pounce.

"Liar," she said smugly, leaning back in her chair.

"Fine," he admitted, tossing the notepad onto the table. "Three. But mine were quality recruits. You're probably scraping the bottom of the barrel as usual."

She bristled at that, her fingers curling into fists under the table. "Quality? The last guy you brought in was a drunk who passed out halfway through the first game."

"And he still made it further than your little college dropout," he countered.

"That dropout lasted three games," she snapped. "And he made us more money than any of your recruits ever have."

"Us?" He laughed, the sound low and mocking. "Sweetheart, there is no 'us.' This is a solo game, remember? And right now, you're losing."

The word sweetheart grated against her nerves, but she forced herself to stay calm. She wasn't about to let him see how much he was getting under her skin.

"Keep telling yourself that," she said coolly, pulling out a pen and jotting down the day's numbers on her clipboard. "Meanwhile, I'll be over here actually doing my job."

He watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he reached across the table and snatched the clipboard out of her hands.

"Hey!" she protested, but he held it just out of her reach, flipping through the pages with a smug grin.

"Let's see... Ah, there it is," he said, tapping the page with the end of her pen. "Four names. Not bad. But you forgot to include the part where they all looked ready to bolt the second you left."

She lunged for the clipboard, but he pulled it back again, chuckling under his breath. "Careful now," he teased. "Wouldn't want to make a scene, would we?"

She glared at him, her jaw tightening. "Give it back."

"Say please."

"Go to hell."

He laughed again, but this time, he relented, sliding the clipboard across the table. She snatched it up, smoothing the crumpled pages with deliberate care.

"You're insufferable, you know that?" she muttered, not bothering to look at him.

"And yet, you keep coming back," he replied, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smirk.

She bit back the retort that was on the tip of her tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose her composure. Instead, she focused on her clipboard, pretending he didn't exist.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he broke it.

"You know, you're lucky you have me as competition."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why's that?"

"Because I keep you on your toes," he said, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. "Admit it. If it weren't for me, this job would be boring as hell."

"Boring?" she repeated, her tone icy. "You think ruining people's lives is boring?"

"Don't get all self-righteous on me," he said, his voice low and teasing. "We both know you enjoy the thrill just as much as I do."

She opened her mouth to argue, but the words caught in her throat. He wasn't wrong, and they both knew it.

"Speaking of thrill," he continued, his eyes gleaming with mischief, "how about a little wager?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What kind of wager?"

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Next recruit wins."

"Wins what?" she asked warily.

He shrugged, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Bragging rights. And dinner."

She snorted. "You think I'd let you take me to dinner?"

"Who said I'd be taking you?" he shot back, his grin widening. "You'd be taking me."

The audacity of it made her laugh, a sharp, bitter sound that echoed through the sterile room.

"Fine," she said, standing up and smoothing her pencil skirt. "But don't cry when you lose."

"Don't worry about me, sweetheart," he said, rising to his feet and adjusting his tie. "Worry about yourself."

With that, she grabbed her clipboard and swept out of the room, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor.

Later That Night

The neon lights of the city cast a harsh glow on the bustling streets, illuminating the restless hum of nightlife. Cars honked in the distance, their headlights cutting through the mist rising from sewer grates. She stood near the entrance of a seedy-looking diner, a faint flicker of its neon sign sputtering above her. The air smelled of fried food and rain-soaked pavement, but she didn't notice. Her sharp eyes scanned the crowd like a predator hunting for its next meal.

She didn't need long to spot potential. It was always the same—the defeated ones, with slumped shoulders and darting eyes. They carried their desperation in their posture, wearing it like a beacon.

Her instincts honed in on a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit leaning against a lamppost. He clutched a briefcase to his chest like it was his last lifeline, his lips moving silently, perhaps rehearsing excuses or trying to summon courage to return home empty-handed.

Perfect.

Before she could move, a faint ripple of awareness prickled at the back of her neck. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"Stalking me now?" she asked, her tone sharp but low enough to remain unnoticed.

"Just observing," came his smooth reply, closer than she expected. "Wouldn't want you accusing me of cheating."

Her lips twitched, almost betraying a smile, but she held it back. "You can't cheat at something you're already losing."

"Keep telling yourself that," he said, and she could feel the smirk in his voice without even glancing back.

She pushed his presence to the back of her mind, focusing instead on her target. With a subtle breath, she strode forward, heels clicking against the pavement, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of the street. She approached the man with the kind of confidence that disarmed even the wariest prey.

"Rough night?" she asked, her voice soft and sympathetic, like the purr of a cat just before it strikes.

The man flinched slightly, his tired eyes meeting hers with a flicker of suspicion. "Something like that," he muttered, his voice hoarse and uncertain.

She tilted her head, her expression warm but unreadable. "Well," she said, slipping an envelope from her jacket pocket and holding it out to him, "what if I told you there's a way to turn your luck around?"

The man hesitated, his eyes flicking between her face and the envelope as if weighing the risks. Behind her, she felt his presence again, closer this time. The faintest shuffle of shoes on asphalt told her he was watching, and she resisted the urge to smirk. This one was as good as hers.

Just as the man reached out to take the envelope, a hand shot over her shoulder and plucked it from her grasp.

"Now, now," he said, stepping into view with that maddeningly smug grin, twirling the envelope between his fingers like a magician showing off a trick. "Let's not rush things."

Her jaw tightened, the air around her practically crackling with tension. "What the hell are you doing?" she hissed, her voice low and sharp.

"Just helping out," he replied, unfazed by her glare. With a deliberate slowness, he handed the envelope back to her, throwing in a playful wink that made her blood boil.

The man, caught in the crossfire, glanced between them, his confusion turning into hesitation. "Uh... Is this some kind of scam?"

"Not at all," he said quickly, his tone dripping with practiced reassurance. His smile widened, radiating a charm that seemed almost genuine. "We're just offering a little game. High stakes, high rewards. Interested?"

The man hesitated, his grip on the briefcase tightening. "What kind of game?"

"It's simple," he said, crouching and slamming the folded paper onto the pavement with a sharp snap. "You use your own tile and try to flip mine. If you win, you keep the envelope and some extra cash." He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket, fanning them out enticingly.

"And if I lose?"

He smirked, the gesture sharp and taunting. "Then I get to slap you. Fair trade, don't you think?"

The man recoiled, his skepticism deepening. "What kind of twisted game is this?"

"Just a little fun," the salesman said, his tone light but unyielding. "Besides, no one plays if they think they're going to lose. Are you scared you'll lose?"

She suppressed a groan. He always did this—pushing just hard enough to make them take the bait.

"Or, you take the envelope and walk away, no games required." She suggested.

Her rival's chuckle was low, almost teasing. "Where's the fun in that? And where's the money he so desperately needs, Let him decide."

The man glanced at the envelope, then at the money, and finally at the salesman's smirk. "Fine. I'll play."

Her rival's grin widened. "Excellent.", gesturing toward a nearby alleyway. "Let's make this quick."

She followed them into the dimly lit alley, her annoyance simmering just beneath the surface. He always turned everything into a game, always needed to prove he was one step ahead

He handed the man a folded paper tile, stepping back and gesturing for him to begin. The man crouched, his hand trembling slightly as he slapped his tile against the one on the ground. It barely budged.

"Not bad," the salesman said, picking up the tile. "But let me show you how it's done."

He crouched, his movements fluid and confident. With a sharp snap, his tile slammed down, flipping the man's effortlessly.

Without missing a beat, he straightened and grinned. "Looks like I win this round." He raised his hand, his smirk deepening.

The man flinched, bracing himself, but the salesman stopped short, hovering just close enough to make him sweat. Before delivering a slap that echoed through the alleyway like a gunshot. The man staggered back, holding his cheek with a mix of shock and indignation.

"Oh my—" she whispered, flinching

The salesman, unfazed and borderline proud, grinned down at the man. "another round?."

The man blinked, rubbing his face. "don't you think this was abit painful?"

"Wasn't this our deal?"

"Alright, I'll go again," the man exclaimed, determination etched on his face. He grabbed the colored tile with trembling fingers and slammed it down with force.

The tile on the ground barely budged.

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

Minutes passed, and the man refused to give up, his voice hoarse as he repeatedly asked for another round. His face, now blotched with red and purpling bruises, told the story of his futile persistence.

Growing impatient with the drawn-out game and the waste of her time, she decided to intervene. Not only had her rival stolen her recruit, but he was also dragging this nonsense far longer than necessary.

"I'll go easy on you this time," she heard him say, his voice laced with mock compassion.

"Or," she interjected sharply, pulling a thick stack of cash from her pocket, "you let me take over and raise the stakes."

Her rival's brows lifted, amusement lighting up his face. "Feeling brave, are we?"

"I just like winning," she retorted, her tone clipped as she handed the cash and envelope to the bruised man. "I don't think you have a reason to continue this."

The man hesitated for only a moment before greed overtook him. He snatched the envelope and money from her outstretched hand, shoving them hastily into his pocket. "Thanks," he muttered, practically sprinting into the crowd and out of sight.

She turned, her eyes narrowing as they locked onto her rival. "Happy now? You scared him off."

He smirked, stepping closer, his movements deliberate and calculated. "Scared him? I think I made his night."

"Your ego is insufferable," she said, arms crossing over her chest.

"Is it?" he countered, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from her face with a maddeningly light touch. "Or is it just that you don't like losing?"

Her pulse quickened at the proximity, but she refused to show any sign of weakness. "I didn't lose. He took my deal."

His smirk deepened, his expression dripping with arrogance. "If that helps you sleep at night."

Before she could reply, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, velvety murmur. "The game's not over yet. Want to take his place?"

Her breath caught as his fingers grazed hers, sliding the blue tile into her palm before he pulled away. The motion was deliberate, calculated to unnerve her, but she refused to let him win that easily.

She exhaled sharply, tilting her chin upward as she crouched down. Focusing on the game, she slapped her tile against the ground with all the force she could muster.

The crack echoed through the narrow alley, but the result was disappointing—the tile barely shifted.

"Tough break," he quipped, crouching beside her, his voice a teasing whisper. "Maybe you should let me teach you a thing or two."

Her eyes snapped to his, sharp and unwavering. For a moment, the tension between them was palpable, an electric crackle in the chilly air.

"I don't need your lessons," she bit out, rising to her feet and brushing past him, her jaw tight.

"Alright then," he said with infuriating ease. He crouched effortlessly, his movements smooth as silk. With a single, sharp slap, his tile flipped hers with almost mocking precision.

Standing, he turned toward her, a mock pout curving his lips. "I guess I'll have to slap that pretty face of yours now. May I?" he asked, his voice dripping with a false politeness that made her blood boil.

Her jaw tightened, and she nodded stiffly. Before she could brace herself, his hand connected sharply with her cheek. The slap rang out in the alleyway like a firecracker, her head snapping to the side with the force.

Pain bloomed hot and fast, her body recoiling slightly as she stumbled a step back. She could already feel the beginnings of a bruise forming, the sting radiating from her skin.

Her chest rose and fell as she steadied herself. "Again," she demanded, her voice steely.

This time, she took her turn, and with a fierce slap of her tile, she flipped his. A slow, triumphant grin spread across her face.

"Your turn," she said smoothly, stepping closer.

His smug grin never wavered, even as he leaned in for his next move. The sharp crack of his tile meeting her tile.

he missed.

His tile flipped awkwardly, tumbling off-course and skidding out of bounds. A flash of annoyance crossed his face, but before he could recover, her palm came down with brutal precision. The slap echoed louder this time.

He staggered slightly, his face turning away as her hand left a bright, stinging imprint on his cheekbone. The smirk she wore grew darker, more dangerous. "Losing your touch?" she taunted, her voice mocking.

His jaw tensed, but he said nothing, merely resetting the tiles and motioning for the game to continue.

The game continued, the back-and-forth intensified, each slap a resounding echo through the narrow alleyway. The tension between them crackled like static electricity, thickening with every calculated strike. Her cheek throbbed, the sting from his earlier slap blooming into a vivid bruise, while his jawline reddened with the marks of her retaliation.

Then she missed.

Her tile spun wildly off-course, landing far from where it needed to be. The mistake was glaring, and he seized the moment without hesitation. His hand came down with brutal force, striking her cheek hard enough that the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

The impact sent her staggering, and this time, a trickle of blood began to run from her nose. She stood frozen for a moment, her fingers brushing against her upper lip. Crimson streaks stained her pale skin, a sharp contrast that only seemed to embolden her defiance.

She tilted her head back slightly, wiping the blood with the back of her hand, smearing it rather than cleaning it. When she looked back at him, her smirk was intact, as sharp as ever.

"What's the matter?" she teased, her voice biting despite the blood. "that's all what you've got?"

For the first time, his confidence faltered. His hand, raised for the next strike, but then froze mid-air. Her face painted with blood hit harder than any slap, and the hesitation in his expression was palpable.

Before she could press further, he stepped forward abruptly, closing the distance between them in one smooth, deliberate motion. His hand dropped from the air to grip her arm firmly, and he pushed her back against the cold brick wall.

The impact stole the air from her lungs, the rough texture of the wall biting into her back. Yet her smirk didn't waver. If anything, it grew sharper, her chin tilting upward as if daring him to try harder. His arms came up, caging her in, palms pressed against the wall on either side of her head. Her breath hitched at his closeness, but she refused to let him see her flinch.

His eyes flicked to her nose, catching the blood still trickling down. Slowly, with deliberate precision, he raised his hand.

She braced herself for another strike, but instead, his thumb brushed against her face. The unexpected gentleness of the motion sent a shiver down her spine, though she masked it well. His thumb wiped away the blood, his touch lingering a second longer than necessary.

He pulled his hand back, glancing at the crimson streak now staining his thumb. Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and wiped it clean on her shirt, the motion casual but calculated.

"Better?" he asked, his tone mocking, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

Her smirk dissolved into a sharp scowl, her voice snapping as she opened her mouth. "You—"

He cut her off without a word, his lips crashing against hers in a fiery, passionate kiss. The world around them faded as his hand ditched the wall completely, roaming over her body, pulling her impossibly closer.

For a moment, she pulled back, eyes wide with shock, breathless and taken aback as if the kiss had surged through her like electricity, igniting every nerve ending. What had just happened? How had everything shifted in the blink of an eye? But before she could fully process the intensity of her feelings, his grip tightened on her hips, anchoring her in place, and the heat radiating from him was undeniable, wrapping around her like a warm blanket.

Her heart raced, a wild flutter in her chest that felt like it could lift her off the ground. There was something magnetic in the way he looked at her, a primal pull she could no longer resist. The air was thick with tension, charged with unspoken promises, and just when she thought she might pull away entirely, the fire in his gaze ignited something deep within her.

With a soft sigh of surrender, she leaned back into him, allowing herself to melt against his body. He cupped her face, his thumb brushing along her cheek, as if memorizing the delicate curve of her features. And then his lips crashed into hers again, hungry and demanding, hungry as though he had been waiting for this moment forever. This time, he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue slipping past her lips to dance with hers in a slow, teasing rhythm that sent shivers down her spine.

She gasped at the sheer sensation, heat pooling in her core as every ounce of tension from earlier evaporated in an instant. The taste of him was intoxicating—warm, slightly sweet, and utterly captivating. Her hands found their way to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him for more.

He pulled her closer still, his hands roaming over the small of her back, mapping every curve as if he were trying to memorize her with his touch, urging her to lift her legs around his waist. Instinctively, she obliged, feeling the strength of his body as he lifted her effortlessly. she wrapped her legs around his waist, instinctively urging him to lift her higher, to take her deeper into his embrace, their bodies fitting together perfectly—two pieces of a puzzle that had finally found their match.

The world around them vanished, a blurred backdrop to this moment where only they existed. He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing kisses down her jaw, throughout until he meets her neck, pausing to nibble at the sensitive skin just below her ear, igniting fire in her veins with each flick of his tongue and gentle bite. She could feel the tension in his body, the way he held her tightly as if he feared she might slip away. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her impossibly closer, their bodies pressed together in a way that felt electric.

When his lips began to trail again over her delicate skin, she hissed, "You can't leave more marks; they'll know."

He paused, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze, a teasing light in his eyes. "How would they know it's me?" he murmured against her skin.

"The cameras," she whispered, referring to the implanted devices on both their jackets that monitored their work. But just as the words left her lips, she felt his mouth curl into a smirk against her neck.

"Then we might as well give them a show and leave as many marks as I want." He falls back into her skin, his lips teasing the flesh between his teeth as he moves to mark her as his own. His lips pause at one of the pulse points on her neck, noticing how her heartbeat quickens and flutters. Was this typical?

He wasn't sure, but he finds himself praying it's a good thing. A chuckle escapes him as her hands grow desperate, pulling at the back of his head, stifling a groan. "Easy, girl."

"Remember when you said you'd never kiss me? That I wasn't worth it?" she teases, a playful smile flickering on her lips.

"Fuck, did I really say that? I don't recall," he replies, feigning shock.

"Just saying that because you can't make me come," she laughs softly against him, and he can't help the way a small smile curves his lips. His fingers slip underneath her skirt, pushing past the hem of her panties. He finds her wetness already coating his fingers. "Can't make you come yet you're so wet for me, hm?"

She bites her lip, allowing her hips to sway against his fingers as pleasure envelops her thoughts. Though he's unsure of what exactly to do, he has overheard other men discussing this, and he hopes it delivers as much pleasure as they say when he dips a finger inside her. She's loose around him, wet, eagerly sucking him in. He quickly adds another finger, finding his rhythm almost immediately and growing bold. He dares to let his thumb tease the edges of her clit.

He notices the way her nails dig into his shoulders, biting her tongue so hard that crimson might seep forth at any moment.

The salesman had kissed many women, been on the brink of sex, yet none had reacted the way she did. They were quick to show their responses, every emotion not hidden behind a curtain of embarrassment; yet now, despite the situation, she found herself shy about making noise. He allows another finger to push inside her, the pink velvet of her insides gripping him. He hears her gasp when his fingers threaten to curl, and he allows himself another smile. His thumb finds her clit again, and that's when her grip becomes lethal, biting her lip no longer serving as a guard for her moans.

"Please," she mumbles, whimpering.

"Please what, sweetheart?"

"I... I need you," she moans, surprising herself with her confessions to a man so dangerously psychotic, one who has killed and toyed with lives—this was something she swore she would never do. Yet here she was, becoming intimate with him, and his touch felt so gentle it was as if his past didn't exist. She can see the vein pulsing in his neck as he finally pulls his fingers out, his eyes fixed on hers as he moves his hand to his mouth, savoring her taste.

Her pupils dilate at the sight, skin warming before she realizes she's replacing his fingers with her tongue, pressing her mouth against his again. His hand falls to her waist.

Now every kiss deepens, an intoxicating blend of urgency and desire. She feels each heartbeat echoing between them. Every brush of their lips sends sparks racing through her veins, igniting every part of her being. It's primal and raw, yet intimately tender, as if they were revealing hidden parts of themselves that only the other could see.

Their lips finally part after what feels like an eternity, both gasping for breath. Foreheads resting against each other, they feel the warmth radiating from their skin, their hearts racing in unison. His eyes flutter open to find her looking up at him, a soft, teasing smile spreading across her face.

"You can put me down now," she breathes, her eyes dancing with mischief.

He reluctantly lowers her to the ground, still holding her gaze, trying to steady himself.

But as soon as her feet touch the ground, she kneels right at his crotch. "That's for not giving me a warning," she laughs, her sound teasing and light.

He winces, a mixture of surprise and discomfort crossing his features as he stumbles back. "Fuck."

She turns with a gleaming smile, beginning to walk away, glancing over her shoulder. "And now... I win. Dinner is on you," she calls back, her laughter lingering in the air.

"We are not done yet!" he calls out one last time, holding himself in pain.

part 2

[heartmix]

My Girls - MV1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x singlemom!reader

Word Count: 1.4k+

Warning: poking fun at max, dad!max, no use of y/n but daughters name is Aria

A/N: dad max content. I have a part 2 in mind so that will be coming soon

F1 Masterlist / Masterlist

"Can I ask you a question, it's totally okay if you say no."

"What is it?"

"When do you think I'll be able to meet her?" the question caught you off guard. 

You knew what he was asking, he was asking when he'd be able to meet your daughter. Being a young single mom was not in the books for you. With her father leaving before she was even born you quickly tossed out the idea of finding a relationship. Sure, there have been many instances where people dated single parents, but since you had her when you were young, the idea did seem impossible. You've been preparing for the moment for months, but it still caught you off guard. Coming up on a year of being together it was bound to happen. 

Noticing your silence he quickly tried to defuse the tension, "I mean it's totally up to you. I don't mean to rush you or anything, I want to let you know that I'm committed to you and I'm not going anywhere. I want to be there for both of you."

"Sure." 

"Sure?" He clarified, a smile spreading across his face quickly, one you matched instantly. A simple nod was all he needed to take you into his arms and give you the most bone-crushing hug. Seeing him make a big deal settled all your nerves.

Max's hand was shaking way too much to be meeting a 2-year-old. From the stories you told about the little one, he saw that she was friendly and was willing to meet new people so the fact that he was shaking so much was comical. He's had meetings with some of the richest people in the world and met world leaders, hell people would have this reaction meeting him and he would laugh it off saying he was just a normal person. So why was this little one making him more nervous than a race day? 

It had to do with the fact that she was yours—the light of your life and the only person in your life you prioritized. The more he thought about it, the more that person became you to him, and this was just the final step to make everything feel real. If the little girl didn't like you, he knew you wouldn't hesitate to break it off, and he couldn't blame you.

With one final head shake to try and get rid of the nervousness he knocked on the front door. Did he knock too hard that he startled the little one? Should he have knocked? Maybe he should have texted you he was outside. It's been months since he knocked on your door, having his own key to the place. Before he could think of any other ridiculous thoughts the door opened the reveal you, standing in all your glory with that welcoming gorgeous smile he fell in love with. 

"I can't believe meeting my kid got you out of wearing a Red Bull kit. I can't even get you to do that." Your teasing tone snapped him out of the trance. Max couldn't help but laugh at that being your comment in a situation like this. 

"It's just a black shirt schatje. I can hardly say I dressed up." he glanced looking down at his black shirt and some jeans. He would be lying if he said he didn't think about what to wear today. 

"Oh please, Max Verstappen outside of anything Red Bull is dressing up." 

"You're not helping." he groaned seeing as you were enjoying every minute of this. He was going to get payback, if everything went okay after all.

"Why are you so nervous?"

"How are you not?" He asked not seeing any concerning features. He expected you to be more worried and in a worse state than him actually.

"Because I know you, I know how great you are, and that my baby will love you." You smiled while wrapping your arms around his neck, Max immediately circling his around your waist. Maybe if you weren't worried he shouldn't be either. "Come on, she's expecting you." Grabbing his hand and pulling him further into the house.

Before he rounded the corner to the living room he heard the sound of what to be a Disney song playing on the speakers and toys clashing with one another. He's been to your house enough times to know how much toys littered the living room. When the living room came into view he saw the little girl sitting on the ground surrounded by blocks and little toys he didn't recognize. 

"Aria, baby. I want you to meet Mommy's friend. This is max. Can you say hi?" Max didn't leave your side as you leaned down to grab the girl's attention. Her eyes immediately locked onto his the second she recognized there was a stranger in her house.

"Hi!" She beamed up at the tall Dutchman with the biggest smile on her face. Seeing that smile every last bit of nerves washed away. Just like seeing your smile for the first time, he knew he was screwed in the best way possible. 

"Hi, Aria. Lovely to meet you."

"Can Max spend the day with us?" you then asked although, with one look at the smirk on your face, he knew the answer. 

"Play with me?" In the cutest voice Max ever heard, he wasted no time sitting next to the girl who held a stuffed cat up to his face.

"Of course. I would love to!"

"Baby, why don't you show Max your cars."

"My cars!" She excitedly said before running to her room to retrieve her cars. Not a second later she came back with a bag filled with a few cars. Max was expecting Hot Wheels or toys from the cars movie, in no way was he prepared for the girl to pull out a replica of his car. 

"Do you know the cars we watch every week? That's Max and that's his car." You pointed out watching the girl's face turn into shock. 

"You 1?" Turning to Max who held the same shock expression as hers.

"I am. You like cars?" At this, she let out a little squeal and pushed the car into his hand. 

One by one she pulled out every car she had even the names she gave each of them. Max was 1, the McLarens were orange, and more specifically Lando was 4. The Ferraris were horsey and the one Mercedes car being Lewis of course was pretty due to the fact that she could only point out Lewis out of his racing gear. 

By the end of the day, Aria was all tired out. After all day playing with Max and telling stories at dinner, she passed out beside Max on the couch while watching cars. Your choice of movie just to poke fun at Max more. Taking her to bed you saw that Max pulled out wine from the fridge and handed you a glass before settling on the couch. The stark contrast from the noise-filled day to the quietness of just you two was a reality check for Max. He made it through and from the way you were cuddled up into his side, he knew that he was right where he needed to be. 

"Thank you. For being so good with her, she loved you so much, probably just as much as me. You made her day and she is going to be excited to see you in the morning."

"You don't need to thank me for anything. I should be thanking you for letting me into the biggest part of your life. You are doing such a wonderful job with her, you're an amazing mother." At his confession, you couldn't help but feel tears brim your eyes.

"I'm sorry, silly thing to get emotional about but that means a lot. I'm just happy you accept me and her with everything we have going on." Before your hands could wipe the tears streaming down your cheek his hands wiped them away. 

"I meant it when I said I'm with you through everything. I wouldn't change anything about you or her. I want you to know I love you both and I'm not going anywhere."

"You're such a freaking sap Max Verstappen. If your fans could see you now." You teased making him chuckle. 

"The duality of you to turn a heartfelt moment into teasing me." 

"You signed up for it when you agreed to date me."  

"And I wouldn't have it any other way." He smiled as he pulled you in for a kiss. 

[milkteabinniechan]

♡Tongue in Cheek - Yang Jeongin

MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY MEMBERSHIP//M.LIST

pairing: CEO jeongin x fem! reader

summary: your boss is up for a big promotion. There's just one problem, he told his boss that he's married. So he asks you to be his wife for just one night. But now this cold CEO is seeing you in a whole new light.

warnings: power dynamics, tooth-aching fluff, angst, kissing, did I mention fluff????

Jeongin slid a few papers around his desk. “Something you need?” He snapped, his tone exhausted and annoyed. His patience was wearing thin lately. You had noticed immediately, the way he moved around the office like every corner and seam of his heavy armor was starting to crack. He was stressed, he was nervous. You suppose that's why you agreed to this dinner in the first place. To help him out. That was the only reason you had agreed to be his “fake wife.”

“Sorry to bother you, Sir. But Mr. Kwon’s assistant called again to confirm that you- um, that we would be attending the dinner tomorrow evening.” You kept your eyes downcast, studying every fiber of his office carpet. A deep, intimidating red color that filled the entire room like an inferno. It's as if he wanted everyone that walked into his office to know that they were walking into Hell.

“Tell her that we'll be there at eight sharp. I want you dressed nicely. Take my card and buy yourself something expensive.” Jeongin's hand stretched out to reveal a heavy platinum credit card weaved between his fingers. You took a step forward but hesitated, your mouth parting slightly. Jeongin's eyes flashed up to you, his head still hanging down. “No arguments, just do it.”

And that was that. Because if Yang Jeongin told you to do something, then goddamn it, you better do it.

The night of the dinner was chiller than you had anticipated. The sun was going down sooner and sooner and cold air swept you up and pulled you inside of Jeongin's luxury car. It was warm inside with plush seats that hugged you better than your own mother. Was this what money could buy? You casually glanced at Jeongin's hand gripping the expensive leather of the steering wheel. He was wearing a shiny silver bracelet and a large, heavy looking ring on his middle finger. He had told you once that the ring was lucky and he would only wear it when he really, really needed it. Jeongin kept his eyes fixed on the road, focused and determined even in his driving. But soon his deep voice cut through the building tension. “Mr. Kwon is the man to impress, the man to be, the man to beat. But he is put off by the fact that I never settled down to start a family. He thinks it's abnormal for a man my age to not have someone.”

You kept your mouth closed tight. You agreed with Jeongin's boss, it was abnormal. Jeongin was young, attractive, and successful. So why hadn't he found someone? As if sensing your train of thought, he cocked his head towards you and raised an eyebrow. “It's not like I don't fuck, I just don't have time for a relationship.”

A relationship. He said that word like it was poison on his tongue. The two of you pulled into the long driveway of a sprawling manor you had only seen in magazines. The path was lined with lights and led you both to a towering front door that was painted the most intense red you had ever seen. You were starting to understand where Jeongin was getting his business inspiration. You stepped inside to see dinner already being set.

Five course meal. Five courses. There were nights when all you could afford was a cup of ramen and a few beers. This was how the other half lived. Mr. Kwon and his wife were both incredibly gorgeous. To look at them too long almost felt greedy. Mr. Kwon commented on Jeongin's cufflinks and his wife absolutely adored your dress. You found it easy to converse with her. A simple, sweet woman who meant well but was so detached from the real world that she was living in her own little fairytale. Jeongin and you had discussed a background story for how you met and what your wedding day was like in case anyone had asked. And to no one's surprise, Mrs. Kwon wanted to know every detail.

After a few glasses of champagne, you found yourself gushing about Jeongin. You spoke about his gentle demeanor when his mother or siblings call. You talked about his smell and the first time you knew you were in love with him.

Jeongin sat back in his chair and watched you. He watched you diverge from the previously discussed storyline that the two of you agreed on. He listened as you spoke honestly about your feelings and your ambitions and goals for the future. He felt a clench in his chest that he hadn't felt in years. You seemed to almost have a glow around you when you spoke. As if the roof opened up to let moonlight pour down over your entire body. And the dress you chose. Jeongin finally allowed himself a moment to admire and memorize every curve and dip of your waist and legs. He could feel his $300 slacks growing tighter by the second. Mr. Kwon stood from the table and announced that the men should adjourn to the other room for cigars and brandy. Jeongin let out a sigh of relief and quickly stood to follow the rest of the men but before he could leave you grabbed his hand and kissed his cheek. “Miss you already.” You said with a smile loud enough that the rest of the guests could hear. You gave him a quick wink before dropping his hand and returning to the dinner table.

“You got a good one there, Yang.” Mr. Kwon let out a large puff of smoke from his cigar. “Don't fuck this up. She's good for you.”

Jeongin fiddled with his own cigar, still unlit. He weaved it between his fingers. “Yes, Sir.” His mind was a million miles away. You have worked for him for three years now. He still remembers the day he hired you. The outfit you wore, the messy bun with frazzled strands of hair falling in front of your eyes. You were so nervous. But you were determined. He recognized that fire in your eyes. It was the same fire that burned inside him.

“Thank you for tonight. You were very convincing.” Jeongin had driven you back to your one bedroom apartment. You stood in the single step in front of your front door. You were actually eye-level with him now, your face just inches from his. “You're welcome. It was fun.” You confessed. You liked being a part of his world. Jeongin cleared his throat and smiled. An awkward, unsure smile that you weren't used to seeing. He gave you a polite bow and turned towards his car to leave. You felt a heaviness pull at your heart as he started to walk away. But before he got to the street he stopped. He turned on his heels to face you once again, his unsure smile now transforming into a devilish smirk. “The night isn't over. Technically, you're still my wife.” He took a few steps towards you. “Kiss me.”

The heaviness in your chest now felt like a balloon soaring high as you ran towards him without hesitation. You jumped into his arms and he held your leg with one hand and used his other arm to wrap around your waist, holding you close to him. Your lips crashed into his clumsily. Your mouths falling over each other until you slowly found a rhythm. It was the most romantic moment of your entire life and you never wanted it to stop. You kissed him over and over again. Some were slow and lingering while others were needy and impatient. You kissed him. Because if Yang Jeongin tells you to do something, then goddamn it, you better do it.

taglist: @simply-trash5 @sugawhaaa @trixiekaulitz @chrizzztopherbang @cassidymb121 @roanns-posts @staysinbloom @yaorzu-blog @bubblebisk @cotton-candycloudz @beautyinhypnosis @domicaru @strawberry31 @slxtmeri @newhope8 @tinyelfperson @dandelions-143 @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21 @msauthor @fun-fanfics @ell0thebell @stephanieeeyang @juskz @kimahreummm @readr1221 @kayleefriedchicken @ovulatingrn @hwnglixho @darthmaddie25 @queen-in-the-shadows @itgirlalisaa @miinhoo @greyaia @chanchansgirly @skzleeknowcore @skz-smut-reader @thatisrankharry @hearts4yawnzzn @jchotch726 @cherricola-star @minh0scat @kibs-and-bits @minhosgirlposts @firelordtsuki @softkisshyunjin

[wendichester]

helloooo! :D I wanted to ask if you’d ever write for cas? It’s completely okay if not, only do what YOU want <33

BUT I also had a thought so hear me out:

Dean calling the reader a pet name for the first time, and not really realizing what he said but the reader is just like 😵‍💫 all blushy caught off guard because THE Dean Winchester just called her honey as if they didn’t confess like a week ago 🧍🏻‍♀️

remember to eat and hydrate, I hope you sleep well too💙

-💫

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆🔧 honey,

summary. you're dean's honey .ᐟ

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 469

notes. this is just wholesome and... relatable. and i'd definitely be down to write for our sweet sassy angel cas! do you have a specific scenario in mind? 👀

The clang of tools against the Impala’s hood fills the garage, a melody as familiar as breathing. You’re perched on a stool nearby, half-focused on the book in your lap, but mostly on Dean. His hands move deftly as he tinkers under the hood, a smear of grease streaked across his jaw.

“Pass me the wrench, would ya?” he says, glancing at you with those green eyes that always manage to make your stomach flutter.

You nod, leaning over the workbench to grab it. When you hand it to him, his fingers brush yours—just a brief, fleeting touch, but enough to send a spark racing through you.

“Thanks, honey,” he mutters absently, turning back to the car.

Your brain short-circuits.

Honey?

Did Dean Winchester just call you honey?

You blink, replaying the moment in your head to make sure you didn’t imagine it. No, you’re sure of it. He said it so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The book in your lap is forgotten as you try to process the anomaly. A week ago, you and Dean finally confessed your feelings for each other, and while things have been a bit more... touchy-feely, this? This is new.

“Uh… you good over there?” Dean’s voice breaks through your spiraling thoughts. He glances at you again, brows furrowed slightly.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, totally fine,” you blurt, your face heating up.

He smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You sure? You’re lookin’ a little pink.”

“I’m not pink,” you mumble, pulling the book back into your lap and staring at it like it holds the secrets to the universe.

Dean shrugs, clearly oblivious to the bombshell he’s just dropped on you, and goes back to work. But the damage is done. The word honey keeps bouncing around in your head, making your heart race and your palms sweaty.

Minutes pass, and you try desperately to regain your composure. But then Dean turns to you again, wiping his hands on a rag. “You wanna grab lunch? Burgers sound good?”

“Sure,” you manage, your voice a little too high.

Dean tilts his head, his smirk widening. “Seriously, what’s up with you? You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird,” you protest, even though you’re about two seconds away from combusting.

“Uh-huh,” he says, clearly unconvinced. “C’mon, let’s go, honey.”

There it is again.

You let out a small squeak, your cheeks flaming as you follow him out of the garage. Dean doesn’t even notice, but you’re left reeling, wondering how someone can casually call you honey and not realize they’re turning you into a puddle.

And as you climb into the passenger seat of the Impala, you can’t help but smile, even through your embarrassment. You're Dean Winchester’s honey.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles

[cressidagrey]

Such A Mystery - Part 10

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Colette Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen fell in love at the ripe old age of 12 and never looked back.

Colette Leclerc really regrets posting that particular Taylor Swift Lyric to her private Instagram account, because it made George Russell go insane.  

The rest of the world has absolutely no idea that the Dutch Lion and Charles Leclerc’s twin sister have been a couple for 15 years and are expecting a baby. 

Warnings: 

Pregnancy, Mention of multiple miscarriages, Pregnancy complications, George Russell Bashing (he's probably really nice in real life but in this, he's the bad guy, sorry), Jos Verstappen, We have apparently now reached the time where I also bash Ferrari. I am sure they are super nice in real life too. They are not in this. Labour.

Author Notes: Huge thanks to @llirawolf for holding my hand through this. Chapter 10 of 12!

“Breathe,” Victoria kept insisting.

“You are doing so well, Choupinette,” her mother cooed.

Colette was quite certain that she was going to die. 

At least it felt like it.

The pain was overwhelming. It didn’t feel like her body could take any more of it. The contractions were so strong and the pain was blinding in its intensity. She wasn’t certain if she could do this anymore.

“I can’t do this,” Colette choked out.

“Yes, you can,” Victoria insisted. Her voice was firm and steady. “You absolutely can do this. You’re already so far along, you just have to push. You can do this.”

"Just breathe," her mother said soothingly, stroking back her hair. "You are doing so well."

But she wasn’t doing well. 

She wanted Max. No, she needed Max.

She needed him so badly. She didn’t want to do this by herself. 

Colette cried out in pain as another very strong contraction hit her, clenching her teeth through it. "Max," she sobbed. "I need Max."

"I know," Victoria said, stroking her hand. "I know you do. But you can do this. Just a little bit longer, okay? It won’t be long now."

She didn’t want to do this without him. But what other choice did she have?

A strangled sob escaped her throat as she clutched her mother’s hand desperately as another contraction hit.

“We’re going to need you to push now,” the doctor said firmly. “You need to start pushing with the contractions.”

Colette cried out in pain as she tried her very best to push like they were telling her to. The pain was blinding in its intensity. But it hurt. Gods, it hurt more than anything that she had ever experienced. It was like her body was about to rip itself in half.

"You’re doing so well," her mother cooed.

"Keep Pushing."

Another strangled scream escaped her. "Max," she sobbed. "I need Max. I need him. I can’t do this.”

Victoria stroked her hair. "It’s almost over, Colette. It’s almost over. Just a little bit more," Vic promised her. 

Colette wanted to give up, she wanted to give in. She wanted the pain to end. But more than anything else, she just wanted Max.

Another scream was torn from her, a ragged cry of pain as a particularly severe contraction tore through her. She was certain that she wasn’t going to survive this. The pain was too severe.

"Keep Pushing."

"Keep Pushing."

"Push, Push, Push"

She didn’t understand how they expected her to keep going. She could feel herself flagging, she was so exhausted.

The room was a blur around her, dark spots dancing at the corner of her vision. The sound of her own screams echoed in her ears, the pain almost overwhelming. She thought she was going to pass out.

She heard the door open.

A small part of the pain-hazed part of her mind registered the sound. She thought she was hallucinating. Surely that wasn’t the sound of the door opening. Surely she was just losing her mind under the excruciating strain.

“That took you too fucking long,” Victoria snapped. Colette would have smiled, if she hadn’t been currently in the middle of pushing. Max's familiar voice echoed in her ears, and for one sweet second, the pain all but vanished.

And then he was there.  Her heart jumped and a small sob escaped her. Max. It was really Max. He was there. He was right beside her.

Dry lips pressed against her sweat slick forehead. “Liefje.“

He was there. He was really there. 

"Max," she sobbed out. "You’re here. You’re really here."

"Of course I am," he said shakily. He pushed back her sweaty hair from her forehead. "You didn’t think I was going to let you do this without me, do you?"

She wanted to tell him that, in all honesty, she had thought exactly that. If he hadn’t shown up, she would have had to do this without him. But she was too exhausted, and in too much pain to form the words. All she could do was clutch at his hand, desperately clinging onto him like a lifeline.

Max immediately threaded his fingers through hers, holding her hand tightly. "I’m right here," he soothed. "I’m not going anywhere.” He was giving her something solid to hang onto. 

“Another push,” the doctor encouraged.

With Max holding her hand, Colette gave one last, desperate push.

She was certain that she was going to pass out. She didn’t understand how she was still conscious. The pain was mind-numbing in its intensity. "Once more,” the doctor said firmly. “I can see the head. Just one more push.”

Colette whimpered, her breath coming in short sharp sobs. "I can’t,” she cried in exhaustion. "I can’t."

"You can,” Max said fiercely. “You are the strongest goddamn person I know, and if anyone can do this, it’s you. Just one more push, come on, liefje."

His grip on her hand was so tight, it was almost painful, but that brief moment of pain was worth it. Feeling Max's presence beside her, holding onto her so desperately with his fingers threaded firmly through hers, it was the only thing that gave her the last little bit of strength that she needed.

With a long, ragged scream, she gave one last push, pouring everything she had into it.

She could hear Max beside her, talking to her soothingly, but the words were all blending together. Her senses were slowly fading. "Push, you can do it, you’re almost done." The words were coming at her from all sides now, swirling and echoing amongst the darkness of her hazy vision, and it was all she could do to grip Max’s hand, and listen to the sound of his voice.

And then it was over.

The searing pain suddenly stopped. 

For just a moment, everything was quiet. 

A cry cut through the sudden silence

The sound echoed around them, small and shrill and so very loud in the stillness of the room. A choked gasp of relief escaped Colette as she slumped back against the pillows, utterly exhausted.

"There you go," Max murmured, gently wiping back the hair from her forehead. "It’s over, it’s over now. You did so well, liefje. You’ve done it."

She wanted to speak, to say something to him in return, but her tongue was so heavy in her mouth it would hardly form words. Her mind was still a blur of exhaustion, relief and adrenaline. All she could muster was a small whimper as she felt his hand gently stroking her hair.

The sound of the infant’s cries rang out again, more strongly this time. “Here,” the doctor said, sounding a little amused. “Let’s get that little girl on maman’s chest.”

Through the haze, Colette felt an immense amount of exhausted relief, as the doctor carefully placed a small, wiggling bundle on her chest.

The baby was beautiful. Small and new and perfect, and Colette felt like the very breath had been knocked out of her. All the exhaustion and the pain was suddenly entirely worth it as she cradled the tiny baby in her arms.

"Hello, bébé," she breathed softly, the words coming out as a whisper. “I thought you were going to be a boy,” she choked 

A broad smile covered her face as she gently stroked the downy soft tufts of dark hair covering the baby’s head. The small, tiny, perfect little fingers wrapped around her own, and Colette’s heart felt so full it felt like it was going to burst.

"I was right," Max said, the words somewhat choked. His voice sounded almost strangled, and she didn’t need to look to know that there were tears running down his face.

Colette looked up at him then, taking in with a mixture of affection and amusement how utterly awestruck he looked. He was crying openly, tears running unashamedly down his cheeks.

“We did it,” she told Max.

“We did,” He said, his voice still choked with emotion. “She’s so beautiful.” Max sounded utterly wrecked.

Colette couldn’t help but share his feelings as she looked back down at the baby in her arms. The small infant had opened her eyes for a brief moment, revealing the most vividly blue eyes that Colette had ever seen. “She got your eyes.”

“And your hair,” Max said, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch the soft dark locks on the baby’s head.

The baby gave a little gurgle, waving her tiny hand as if to reach out for his fingers. “Hello, mooi meisje,” he said softly, his voice still sounding a little choked, as the baby tried to wrap her fingers around his own.

"She's absolutely perfect," Colette whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from the tiny, perfect bundle of joy in her arms.

"Just like her mother," Max said, his voice hoarse. He stroked his finger down the baby's soft cheek, the most gentle of touches.

***

In the end…he made it with minutes to spare.

He couldn’t describe the relief that he felt when he finally burst through the door, to find Colette in the midst of giving birth. He had been so terrified that he wouldn’t make it in time.

And now here he was, sitting beside her on the bed, their daughter in her arms, safe and sound and utterly, utterly perfect.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of them both. Colette was beautiful, despite looking utterly exhausted. Her face was pale and slick with sweat, but she had never look more lovely.

And their daughter… Their daughter was perfect. Tiny, and new, the sweetest thing that Max had ever seen. He gently ran his finger down her soft, plump cheek, marveling at the sheer fragility of her.

And he couldn't stop crying. This was his family. His.

They had hoped so desperately for so long, and now there was their little girl. And she had been worth it. Worth all the heartbreak.

His eyes stung and his throat was constricting, but he couldn't help it. He knew he must look a mess, tears running unashamedly down his face and throat choked up, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered. They were here, and safe, and together.

He looked down at the baby’s tiny, perfect face, her closed eyes, her nose. She had Colette’s hair, and his eyes, and Max thought that if it was possible to die of love, he was dangerously close to that moment right there.

He reached out a shaking hand to touch his daughter’s tiny fist, his own hand dwarfing hers. She opened her eyes again for a brief second, and he could have sworn that she smiled at him for just an instant.

The tears ran more freely down his face now at that thought. His daughter, his little girl, his precious perfect baby, smiled at him. It might have just been a trick of his own overjoyed emotional state, but right then, Max was convinced that it had been a real smile.

"She's perfect, liefje," he whispered, his words coming out a little choked. "She's so damn perfect.”

"Dad, you want to cut the cord?" the doctor asked him.

The question seemed to take a moment to register in his hazy emotional state, but when it did, Max’s breath caught in his chest for a moment. And then just as quickly, he nodded mutely.

In a daze, he reached for the small pair of scissors that the midwife handed over to him, cutting the umbilical cord under her careful supervision.

He was in a daze, even when they took his daughter from Colette to check her over and bath her. "Stay with her," Colette told him softly. "Go on."

Max nodded, unable to find the words to answer to her. He stood up on slightly shaky legs, watching as the midwife took his daughter over to the small bassinet and started to check her over.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of his baby, tiny and perfect and theirs. All the years of trying, all the hope and the heartbreaks, and now there was their little girl, safe and sound.

He got to watch her be bathed and then swaddled right into a soft pink swaddle that he knew he himself had bought because Colette kept insisting that it was a boy...and then he finally got to hold her in his arms and cry some more, because she was perfect.

He cradled her small, tiny form in his arms, his fingers trembling a little as he gently touched the soft downy skin of her cheek. Her weight was barely anything at all in his arms, and for a moment, terror gripped his heart. Was he holding her too hard? What if he hurt her?

"You aren't going to hurt her," Victoria said suddenly and he stared at his sister that sat down next to her. "You aren't. I promise you. Babies aren't as breakable as they look," she teased him softly. "Congrats, Maxie."

Max nodded, a little startled. He had honestly forgotten that his sister was even there, the arrival of his baby girl had taken up most of his attention.

"Thanks, Vic," he managed, his voice still choked. 

He looked down at the baby in his arms again. They had wrapped her tightly in the pink swaddle that he himself had insisted on months ago. He had been so sure that the baby was a girl. And he had been right.

He wouldn't have cared either way, but...he had been right.

"She's perfect," he whispered, his eyes burning.

Victoria smiled, watching him with a softness in her eyes that Max wasn't sure he had seen before. “You’re a father,” she said simply. “How does it feel?”

“Like my heart’s going to explode with pure happiness,” Max admitted, looking back down at his daughter in his arms. “Like I can’t breathe. Like I’m dreaming. I don’t…I don’t know how to describe it.”

"Welcome to the sleep deprivation community that is parenthood," Vic joked softly. "You are going to be the best father," she told him.

It made him choke up. That absolute certainty with which his little sister said that, a hand on his shoulder. "You are going to be the best father to her," Victoria promised him fiercely.

Fresh tears welled up in his eyes as he looked up at his sister. “I’ll do my best,” he managed to say, his voice a little choked. “I’ll do absolutely anything for her, for both of them. Anything in the world.”

They didn't often talk about their childhood...about all the things that had gone down...the long drawn out screaming matches they could remember before their parents had divorced and the separation that came afterwards...

They didn’t like to talk about it. It was one of those things that they usually just skirted around, because when they brought it up, old feelings and emotions came up with it. And the fights weren’t pleasant to remember...

But in that moment, Max felt a profound sense of relief. For the first time, he was glad those fights had happened, because if they hadn’t…he and Vic wouldn’t have the relationship they had now, and he wouldn’t have learned, from all of the pain and heartbreak of those fights, what not to do. He never wanted his daughter to grow up like that. He never wanted her to feel the pain of a broken family like they had.

And he knew that he would do absolutely everything in his power to prevent that from happening. He and Colette would keep their family tightly together and protect and love their little girl with everything that they had.

No matter what.

A fresh wave of tears welled up in his eyes at the thought of that. "I don't ever want her to grow up like we did, Vic," he managed to say, the words still a little choked. "I don't ever want her to feel like we did."

"She won't," Vic assured him, her voice still soft. "Because you're going to be a great father. She'll grow up feeling loved and wanted and safe. I know that, Maxie."

His throat felt as if it was slowly closing up. "Thanks, bink," he managed to say, his voice cracking. "It means a lot. I..." His eyes stung, and he swallowed hard. "I couldn't ever thank you enough for being here. For being with us."

For coming even when he handn’t asked…for somehow knowing without being told what they needed.

His sister just smiled at him, her blue eyes, so similar to his own, sparkling. "She’s my niece," she reminded him. "You're not getting rid of me. I'm going to spoil her rotten, you know that?"

"You are going to have fierce competition, Victoria" Pascale said softly.

He looked up to where Colette's mother was tucking her own daughter back into the bed, fussing over her. Colette looked better than she had before, freshly showered, still exhausted, but no longer...no longer looking like she was going to faint any minute.

Colette was already sitting up, even though she would be in pain for a while, a testament to her usual stubbornness.

"Maxie." Colette didn't need to say more than that, as he stood and crossed the room, safely putting their daughter back on her mother's chest.

He sat on the edge of her bed, careful not to jostle her too much. "Hey," he said softly, wrapping an arm gently around her shoulders. "How are you feeling, liefje?"

"I'm okay," she said softly, resting her head weakly against him. "Sore. Tired. Happy. Went through 6 hours of labour, only to give birth to your and Charles' clone," she said drily, making her mother laugh.

Max smiled faintly, resting his head against hers. “Charles?” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"She does look awfully similiar," Pascale agreed.

Max gave a small laugh, glancing back down at the baby. He supposed there was a resemblance, if one knew what to look for. “She’s not a clone,” he countered, a note of mock offense in his voice. “She’s a perfect mix of us.”

"With what I am pretty certain is Charles' nose," Colette said drily.

Max laughed faintly, reaching out to gently touch the baby’s tiny nose with his finger. It narrowed just so at the tip… “Maybe,” he conceded thoughtfully. 

His daughter stirred faintly at the contact, a small noise coming from her mouth that sounded a bit like a grumble. Max smiled at the sound. 

“And I’m pretty sure she’s just as stubborn as her mother,” he teased Colette.

She reached up to lightly smack his hand, but her smile was fond. “Like you aren’t just as stubborn,” she retorted.

Their daughter took that moment to complain loudly for once and Colette shifted her slightly, unbuttoning her pyjama top.  At least one thing went down with absolutely no fuss whatsoever. A few minutes later, their daughter had greedily nursed, burped and was back to slumbering quietly. 

"Are the three musketeers still outside?" Colette asked.

“They are,” Max confirmed, brushing a strand of hair back from Colette’s face. He had all but forgotten about Colette’s brothers.

"Get them," Colette said softly.

Max smiled. "All of them?" he teased. He knew that was exactly what she had meant."All of them," she nodded.

[sergioguymanproust]

Tesla proved our point ,we so called humans are not only devious and egotistical,we are also extremely dangerous.Warmongers and creators of amazing technology and architecture that always end up destroying it ! We toy with vibrations,frequencies and energies only to create our own species demise. We use the words love,empathy,forgiveness and compassion only to use the opposite ones! We invented governments and so called democracies while in truth we have always used them to control and oppress the weaker of our very own species. We have total amnesia of the planets we have destroyed with nuclear weapons and the exodus we have had to go through in order to survive ,we destroyed Mars with the same technology we are using to destroy this one! Heck we are now heading to WORLD WAR 3 and a nuclear winter is around the corner .Folks no God wants to deal with us ,we have been told by other alien races ,we are not ready to join the pacifists galactic federation.We are a truly dangerous and evil species.We have a record ,well history of repeating the same mistakes and look at us now ,we are heading to extinction a head on collision with our very own amnesia and still believe we are okay! Our break pads are running thin ! Instead of killing the very leaders that have created the mess we are in ,we allow them to continue destroying this fickle reality!You see how even invoking God by saying ,in God’s name stop this mayhem and let us return to peaceful times,the opposite is happening! We are a snowball that is only getting bigger and stronger and will be the death of humanity !Our so called system is collapsing and all we can think of is saving the stock market,and keep cloning species to use in future wars! Sanity , freedom,morality, equality,integrity are all words that have been spoken and spit out ,by corrupt and greedy politicians!We must admit we got it all wrong.Proof we got plenty but brains none! We must use telepathy to eradicate the lies, double talk ,cheating,conniving, that is so prevalent in our society.Folks we have truly forgotten our past ,I’m going to say it again amnesia is global.Folks telepathy is the universal truth where we can no longer hide from ,we must return to it !We are capable of doing it again! Well,think and meditate and those in power act to stop our demise.Words by Sergio GuymanProust.

[leeluvsyoongi]

ִ𐙚 Synopsis: meanie bf! yoongi x innocent! reader

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 | warning(s)— mean dom yoongi, yoongi is a lil possessive over his girl, spanking, oral (m & f receiving), rough sex, fingering.

˖ 𐙚 | word count: 3.5 k words

meanie!bf yoongi cherished every moment he spent with you. As much as he enjoyed retreating to the dim, cozy comfort of his studio—his self-proclaimed “genius lab”—he didn’t mind being pulled along on your shopping sprees. Store after store, he followed you, hands laden with bags, while you trailed behind, pleading. “Yoonie, please let me help!” Your persistence was always met with an exasperated grumble of refusal. Eventually, you gave in, your eyes lighting up at the sight of a charming little shop brimming with trinkets and toys. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he watched his pretty princess practically skip toward the entrance.

meanie!bf yoongi couldn’t stand how naive and oblivious you were to flirtation. You smiled—eyes bright, docile, and so achingly innocent—when the clerk complimented your frilly pink dress, calling you pretty. His gaze lingered on you, shamelessly committing every detail to memory. Then, with that soft, matter-of-fact voice, you mentioned that your "boyfriend" had picked it out, thanking the clerk before eagerly asking about the latest Monster High dolls.

When you turned around, it nearly undid him. “Yoon!” you exclaimed, your voice brimming with delight. “He said they’re in the back aisle—”

“I heard.” His voice sliced through the warm atmosphere, cold and sharp. His piercing gaze locked onto the clerk, intense and unyielding, as though dissecting the poor soul on the spot. 

“Go ahead and look for them. I’ll catch up with you,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. You hesitated, puzzled by his sudden shift in demeanor. What had the clerk done to warrant such an icy reaction? His expression was so forbidding that you thought better of pressing for answers. Instead, you nodded cautiously.

“Pick whatever you want,” he added, the tension in his voice unsoftened. Still unsure, you gave a small nod before slipping away toward the back aisle, your curiosity simmering under the surface.

meanie!bf yoongi turned to the clerk, his face unreadable and his voice calm yet chilling. “I saw the way you were looking at her,” he briskly spoke. 

The clerk stammered, only to be silenced, “You were. Don’t bother lying.” 

The man swallowed hard, his throat tightening with nerves. “I’m sorry I—”

A dark chuckle escaped him, his lips slowly curving into a mocking smirk, “It’s fine. Perfectly fine,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping casually around the store. “My girlfriend really likes this place.” He paused, letting the words linger before continuing in a low, menacing tone. “But let me make something clear: don’t let me catch you again—not even by mistake. If you see me, turn the other way. And pray to whatever god you worship that I don’t see you.”

He extended his hand, his demeanor seemingly relaxed. The clerk hesitated before reluctantly taking it. The moment their hands met, his grip tightened like a vice, drawing a sharp hiss of pain from the man.

“Good,” he nodded, the anger vaugly platiable through his stoic exterior. His eyes briefly flickering to the man’s name tag. “Glad we’re on the same page, Joonwon.”

meanie!bf yoongi saunters casually to the back aisle, his gaze settling on you as you marvel at the collection of dolls. Your attention lingers on the Draculara and Lagoona boxes, and your face lights up when you spot him. “Yoon!” you call out, holding up the two options. “Help me pick?”

He shrugs with a hint of indifference. “Just get both.”

It doesn’t matter which one you choose. And to him, it truly doesn’t—especially when he’d give you anything without hesitation. If it were up to him, he’d hand you the world on a silver platter.

“No, Yoon… I can’t get both I already bought—” you protest, but he rolls his eyes, cutting you off without a word, and grabbing both boxes from your hands, heading toward the cashier.

You blink in surprise, caught off guard by his grumpy demeanor. Trailing behind him, you can’t help but wonder why he seemed so off. At the register, the clerk avoids meeting his gaze, silently handing over the bag as if something unspoken had just passed between them. Your curiosity deepens, and your mind flits back to the moment he lingered at the counter a little too long.

meanie!bf yoongi scoffs when you askwhat he and the clerk had been talking about. “It’s nothing important,” he said casually, his hand turning the steering wheel with ease, his eyes sharp and focused on the road ahead.

“You sure...?” you asked, confused and slightly hurt by how he brushed you off. “Yoon, please tell me—” 

Before you could finish, he swerved the car sharply, pulling into an empty parking lot. Your eyes widened in shock, your heart pounding in your chest. 

“Listen,” he said, his voice calm but carrying that signature edge of indifference. “You really want to know what happened?” 

Reluctantly, you nodded. His tongue darted over his lips as he ran a hand through his waves, sighing.“That guy at the store wasn’t just being polite when he called you pretty,” he finally admitted, his tone steady but serious.

Your stomach dropped, disgust pooling in your gut. “W-was he... looking at me gross?” you whispered, the words feeling like poison on your tongue.

He simply nodded, his gaze firm and unwavering as he met your eyes.

 “I’m not mad at you. I never would be, especially when it’s not your fault.” His voice was resolute, making sure you understood the weight of his words. “I was mad at him, okay?” His hand gently cupped your cheek. You quickly nodded, leaning into his palm. 

“You know how much Yoon loves you, right?” he murmured, his thumb tenderly grazing your skin. “I might come off as a little mean sometimes, I know, but it’s never about you.” He reassured, his voice softening as he continued, “I love being with you, and I love making you feel special because you are.”

meanie!bf yoongi watches as you unlock the front door, before carrying in all the shopping bags, effortlessly setting them down on the coffee table. The warmth of your shared home envelops you, its decor reflecting a harmonious blend of both your personalities. Guitars of varying styles adorn the walls alongside cream-colored posters, while freshly cut pink tulips brighten the kitchen table. The soft floral hues of pastels in the kitchen add a light contrast to the otherwise neutral tones.

“Go upstairs and change into something comfortable. I’ll handle dinner,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, “No. You’ve already done so much.”

“[____], go.” He fixes you with a blank stare, his expression teetering on unimpressed.

“No.” You cross your arms, digging in your heels.

“I’m going to count to five. Don’t act like a kid,” he glares you down, arching a brow at your defiance.

meanie!bf yoongi sets down his pinky, finishing his countdown. You stand your ground, your cheeks slightly puffed in defiance, a small pout on your lips, and a glare in your eyes. “No, I really wanna to help—” Before you can finish, he effortlessly scoops you over his shoulder, landing a firm smack on your ass. 

Despite your squirming, he suppresses a small smile and deliberately keeps his tone stern.“Good job,” he grumbles, “Not only will dinner be late, but you've just earned the privilege of watching me eat every last tangerine. I’ll make sure to leave the peels for you though.”

“N-No Yoongi I bought them to share—” You shook your head, your balled-up fists hitting his firm back as he made his way up the stairs.

"Keep hitting me like that, and I’ll make sure your ass hurts for a week," he says, words laced with a sharp, unmistakable threat.

meanie!bf yoongi drops you onto the bed, his expression devoid of amusement as you let out a soft squeal, your eyes wide in surprise. "I left the studio with an unfinished song, spoiled you, and wanted to take care of you, and what do I get? Attitude?" He scoffs, crawling over your frame, his hand squishing your cheeks together as he gives your head a small shake.

You whine softly, your voice muffled between your squished cheeks. "wasn’t giving you attitude... I jus’ wanted to help—y-you’re being mean to me…"

He notices the way your eyes begin to well up, and despite his unmoved expression, his heart softens. "I’m just being mean, huh?" He smirks, running his thumb lightly over your puffed bottom lip, smudging your gloss. "But here’s the thing," His gaze deepens, locking with yours. "Did kitty listen when Yoon told her to go upstairs and change?"

You shake your head slowly.

He hums, "And does she know what happens when she doesn’t follow instructions?" Without another word, he sits beside you, effortlessly flipping you over his lap and flipping your dress, exposing the frilly white lace of your panties.

"’m sorry, Yoon..." You whimper, your bottom lip trembling, " ’m so sorry..."

“Oh, I’m sure you are.”

meanie!bf yoongi slips your pretty panties down your legs with no difficulty, his palm smoothing over the pliant flesh of your ass. "Count, you make a sound we start over. I'll go easy this time, just 10, okay?" 

You sniffle, fingers curled into the warm grey sheets. You brace yourself, biting down your bottom lip before the sharp impact stings your cheek. The smack sends a rush of heat blazing through your skin, and your eyes sting with tears as you swallow a quiet cry. 

His hand gently soothes your skin, his fingers trailing between your thighs and grazing your juicy slit with a light touch. "One," his voice is eerily calm, a stark impact to the rough strikes his palm delivers to your plush ass. He almost feels a twinge of sympathy at the suppressed sounds ripping through you. It’s the way your bruised ass bounces with every strike, the flesh deliciously recoiling. He really can’t get enough. 

meanie!bf yoongi notices the way your body trembles, your small hands twisting the sheets in a desperate grip, crumpling the crisp fabric as your tears stain the cloth. "Y-Yoon..." you sob, shaking your head. "e-enough—no more please…” The way your voice breaks between soft hiccups satisfies him. He places a soothing palm over your hot, puffy skin, gently kneading soft circles. 

"Shh…I know…” he grumbles, pressing a tender kiss to the small of your back, his touch soothing as the tremors gradually subside.”No more, I promise.”

meanie!bf yoongi gently positions you on your knees, carefully lifting your pretty dress over your back and adjusting your posture. Your face is muffled into the pillow, the faint rustle of his clothes hangs heavy in the air. You feel the dip of his weight on the mattress, his hands shove your thighs apart, pressing your back down, and granting him a perfect veiw of your ass. 

"I'm gonna make you feel so much better, promise..." He whispers, pressing a tender kiss over the abused flesh.

You nod eagerly, a slight shift of your hips betraying your anticipation. "Mhm..."

meanie!bf yoongi groans at the sight of your cunt, the delicate flesh drooling sweetly for him, the sight alone makes his cock ache. His thumbs slowly spread your flesh apart, taking in your soft keens, watching your tiny hole clenche around nothing. “Fuck…” He groans, puckering his lips around his fingers before gradually slowly them into your hole. The sight of your hips shifting to accommodate the sudden stretch makes his cock strain uncomfortably. 

“So pretty, so, so, pretty…” he mutters, curling his fingers into your tight opening, mesmerized at the way your greedy hole convulses around his slick fingers. 

“Yoon…p-please need you…” You softly mewl, eyes bleary with every slow drag and push of his fingers reaching further in, rubbing deliciously over your spongey core. Your lips part, mindlessly babbling his name with every nudge of his fingertips against that sweet spot. It’s embarrassing how much you’re drooling, hardly conscious of the warm saliva coating your squished cheek and the pillow. 

meanie!bf yoongi wraps his long fingers around his throbbing length through the dark fabric of his underwear. “fuck kitty…” He slightly winces, “Streched so good around my fingers huh? Such a pretty pussy.” He murmurs. Your fuzzy brain can hardly process the words with how deep his fingers are stuffed inside of you. 

“s’ t’much fingers s-so long…” you babble, feeling a third finger squelch into your creamy hole. “Shhh, it’s okay, you can take it…jus’ like how you’re gonna take Yoonie’s cock, hm?” His fingers twist deeper,”Y-yoongi—” you whine, eyes rolled back as your toes curl, you’re so close, so close, so close—

meanie!bf yoongi pulls out with a lewd pop, softly humming at the sight of your raw cunt clenching around nothing. “N-nuh...n-no yoon…” you sob, shaking your head in a fit. 

“Awhh, What’s wrong?” He coos, his thumb faintly circling your trembling hole. “Wanna get filled up again?” He chuckles, before flipping you over on your back. His lazy, cat-like gaze slowly takes in the way your mascara leaks down your cheeks, the way your cleavage spills out of your pretty dress, and the smears of cum between your legs. “Such a mess,” He tsks, squishing your cheeks together pitifully. 

“y’so mean yoon…s-so mean…” You sob, lips stupidly puckered for him. “Shhh m’not mean, no baby…” He croons, his lips brushing over your swollen ones, never enough to satisfy you. Your fingers curl into his dark silky strands, pulling him closer for a proper kiss, “wan’ kiss you p-please…” You’re pleading, and fuck you’re so pretty when you cry.

meanie!bf yoongi “yeah? wanna kiss me?” He lazily smirks, lips ghosting over your own, “u-huh…w-wan’ kiss you so bad…” you press your lips to his own, kissing him as though your lungs would collapse without his mouth tightly slotted against your own. He groans, parting your lips with his tongue before tasting your mouth, “open,” he whispers, squeezing your chin, before spitting a warm glob of saliva onto your tongue . “swallow,” he roughly taps your cheek, watching the movement of your throat, as you obey. “good baby, so good.” 

meanie!bf yoongi watches with you with a slow deliberate blink, the way your pretty face nuzzles into the dark fabric of his underwear, your nose lightly nudging his stiff cock as you whine for him, so desperate to have him buried deep inside of your pretty throat. You want him so bad, need him. “yoon…” your soft doe eyes are looking up at him through thick lashes, your face nuzzled so sweetly against his him, and fuck he’s twitching when your pretty eyes swell with tears. 

meanie!bf yoongi guides your head down his cock, gently patting your head and reminding you to breath when you gag, “just like that, keep sucking.” He coos, slowly bucking his hips up, “taking it good baby, so good…” He grunts, gently cupping your jaw, his dark eyes locked into your soft teary ones, watching as you admire the way you drooled over his cock. His head dips low, groaning when you wrap your pillowy lips around his flushed head, suckling at his tip. Your small hands pumping the base. “Fuck, just like that [___],” he hisses, feeling your hot tounge lathe around his slit. Your teary eyes are focused on the movement of his Adam’s apple, the flush of his cheeks, and the quick rise and fall of his chest. 

meanie!bf yoongi briskly taps your cheek, watching you pull away from his thick cock. He wants to cum inside of you, and needs to feel you squeezing him so good. “Get up princess,” He helps you up before impatiently discarding your dress, and laying you back against the sheets, making sure you’re extra comfy. His body dips low over your own, before worshipping you with soothing touches and slow kisses. His lips trail your collar bones, following the slope of your sternum, his hands cupping your breasts, squeezing the mounds between his palms, and taking in your blissed-out expression. Your breathy sighs, and the way your eyes look up at him with a slight daze. His teeth nip at your flesh, taking his time to suck deep marks. He’s intoxicated by the scent of your lotion—vanilla with a hint of honey—

”so pretty, smell so good, could jus’ eat you up…” He murmurs, his voice reverberating against your skin. His head dips between your legs, silky strands of dark hair brushing over your plump thighs. He takes in the slight tremor in your chest, the way you’re dripping in anticipation. “Gonna make you see stars baby,” He whispers, pressing a kiss to your pelvis before dropping your legs over his shoulders.

meanie!bf yoongi takes in your high pitches whines, practically inhaling your cunt like a man starved. His tounge flicking over your puffy clit, before cushioning the abused nub between his swollen lips, moaning deeply. He’s drunk on your breathless whimpers, your fingers tugging at the dark roots of his hair. “yoon…e-enough-m-m g-gonna–” He doesn’t relent, sharply slapping your thigh, when you beg him to stop. You’re sobbing, pushing his head away when he’s making a mess of his mouth and chin, his tounge curling into your sensitive hole with no plans of stopping, not when you taste so divine. 

meanie!bf yoongi wipes the back of his palm over his slick mouth and nose, before pressing a soft kiss to your lips, “did so good f’me,” he whispers, gently cupping the tear-strained curves of your cheeks, brushing away the smeared mascara. “can you still take it?” He slowly whispers, lightly tapping his cock over your sensitive bud. An amused chuckle slips past his lips at your soft whine, “c-can take it…” you nod. “y’sure, safe word?” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “cupcake.” you mumble, between his lips, his hands gently kneading at your sides. “Good girl.”

meanie!bf yoongi folds your legs against your chest, before pushing himself in to the hilt, muffling your whimpers between his lips before starting a slow pace, letting you adjust to him. “So good kitty, so so good…” He drawls out, the soft slope of his nose pressed against your jaw, as his hips fuck in and out of your used cunt. “Taking yoon so good hm?” His hand finds its place over your stomach, before pressing a warm palm over the slight bulge.

“S’so deep…” you sob out, your arms secured tighter around his neck. “N-ngh—c’cant…” his roughly chuckles, before pressing his thumb against your mouth, watching your puffy lips suck on it as if your life depended on it. 

“That’s it, such a good baby…” he presses his chest against your own, lowering his slick thumb down to your clit. “Give it to me k’ay?” You nod breathlessly, watching the space between your legs with hazey eyes, the sloppy sheen of white that coated his dick, every time he pulled out of you, his dark hair brushing against your cheeks with every sharp nudge of his tip into your overstimulated g-spot. 

“Y-yoon…” you gasped out, nuzzling your face deeper into the crook of his neck your lips pressed against the salty slick skin. “P-please don’t stop yoon…d-don’t p-please…s’so close..” you gasped, feeling his arms swing your trembling legs over his shoulders, his hands rushing to intwine into your own. 

“Love you so much, so fucking much.” he gasped, snapping his hips into your own, you nodded, incapable of voicing anything but desperate gasps. He watched as your face contorted in ecstasy, your legs convulsing as you squeezed him so fucking tight, and gushing over his cock. His movements slowly stilled, his hips curving into your own nudging that spot that made your body burn up, his hand pressed firm against your stomach as you gasped, feeling his warm seed fill you up.

meanie!bf yoongi holds you close, his lips pressed against the crown of your hair, peppering soft kisses to your head. His arms tighten around you as you melt into his touch, nuzzling your face deeper into his chest. “Love you s’much yoon…” You mumble, looking up at him with sweet wide eyes. 

“Love you so much more kitty,” He whispers, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I loved being with you today,” 

You softly hummed, before whispering. “Are you still gonna eat all the tangerines?” 

He softly chuckled, shaking his head, “No baby, I’m not that mean.” You softly nuzzled your nose against his own, before yawning softly.

 “Awh, m’ so hungry…” You mumbled, “But I’m also super tired..” Yoongi is quick to get up on shaky legs before you can stop him, slipping on his discarded pants, and tying his hair back. “Gonna get dinner ready, this time, shower and get dressed. I’ll come up in a little.” “No wait I said I was gonna-” A small smile tugged at his lips before he slipped out the door. 

[astrcmoni]

ᯓ☆ star’s midnight caller ☆ᯓ

MASTERLIST

pairing: billie eilish x sex-hotline-operator!fem!reader

genre: fluff, smut(kinda)

synopsis: in the quiet of the night, you answer a call that pulls you into a world of mystery and intrigue. what starts as a simple conversation with a stranger turns into a connection you never expected, leaving you craving more with each ring.

wc: 2.4k

warnings: light cussing here and there

authors note: let me know what you guys think, i really liked writing this and i want to make a part two. also there’s no smut in this part but the concept of the hotline is sexual (idk if that made sense) anyways imma stop rambling byeee ☆

phone call style story — reader is in bold italics, billie is in blue italics.

————

wednesday 12:43 am — incoming call from +1 (980) 598-7201 (charlotte, NC)

“thanks so much, babygirl,” richard says from the other side of the phone, his voice soft, tinged with something like gratitude. “you always know what i need.”

richard is one of your regulars, calling at least twice a week. he likes to imagine that you’re his long-lost girlfriend, reaching out from some parallel universe. you let him ramble, your voice smooth and coaxing, playing into his fantasy like a script you know by heart. a light laugh here, a soft hum there, the occasional breathy moan when it fits the moment.

“anytime, boo,” you reply, fingers already grazing the disconnect button. “take care of yourself, okay?”

the line clicks off, leaving a brief silence that feels heavier than it should. you exhale, stretching your arms above your head as you try to shake off the remnants of his voice. just another call. just another night.

soft light spills through the corners of your room, golden and warm against the pale lavender of your walls. the curtains billow lazily, carried by a breeze that whispers through the cracked window. outside, the city hums—a distant siren wailing, cars rolling down the street below, someone leaning on their horn too long, too loud.

at your desk, you lean forward, catching your reflection in the mirror perched precariously against a stack of books. sticky lip gloss catches the lamplight, glinting like glass. your lashes look decent—lifted enough to remind you of your own femininity. normally, you wouldn’t bother. no one can see you, after all. but it helps, this small ritual. it’s armor in a way, a mask you slip behind before stepping into this role.

“alright,” you mutter, rolling your neck to release the tension settling in your shoulders. “one more call and i’m done.”

the surface beneath your elbows is cluttered—textbooks splayed open, scribbled lab reports fighting for space with overdue bills. it’s not glamorous, but it pays. and it’s enough, for now.

you adjust your headset, letting the padded cups press comfortably against your ears, and clear your throat. the practiced warmth creeps back into your voice as the phone chimes again, flashing another number across the screen.

wednesday 12:49 am — incoming call from +1 (213) 597-3492 (los angeles, california)

“hello, and thank you for calling the pulse network. this is star speaking.” your voice drops an octave, soft and inviting, the words sliding out like honey. “who do i have the pleasure of speaking with tonight?”

there’s a pause on the other end—static filling the silence like a breath held too long. then, a voice cuts through, low, smooth, and distinctly feminine.

“uh…hi?” she sounds hesitant, her voice fraying at the edges like she’s second-guessing herself. “is this…is this a-uh…hotline for…you know?”

your brows knit for a moment before relaxing. most callers know exactly what they want, their voices heavy with intent. but her hesitation feels different. delicate, almost.

“that depends,” you say, leaning forward slightly, your tone light and playful. “what are you looking for, my love?”

she exhales sharply, and you can hear the faint sound of movement—like she’s pacing, the rhythm of her footsteps soft and uneven.

“honestly?” she says after a beat, her voice quieter now. “i don’t even know why i called. jus’ bored, i guess. curious. didn’t think this would even work.”

a smile tugs at your lips, though you bite it back. calls like these are rare, but you don’t mind them. there’s something refreshing about the uncertainty, the lack of pretense.

“well,” you murmur, letting your voice wrap around the words like a velvet ribbon, “we’re here now. go ahead, tell me whatever’s on your mind. no pressure.”

there’s a pause, long enough that you glance at the timer on the screen, wondering if she’s about to hang up. but then she sighs again, the sound softer this time, like she’s giving in.

“is it weird that i’m calling?” she asks, her voice dipping into the quiet like it’s unsure of its place.

“no judgment here, love. everyone has their reasons.” your response is soft, easy, laced with practiced charm. but something about her feels different.

“i don’t even know mine.”

the line falls into silence again, thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of her breathing—steady, almost meditative. it’s the kind of silence that feels like it’s waiting for you to fill it, but instead, you let it linger, listening.

“what’s your name?”

you blink, caught off guard. most callers don’t ask that unless it’s part of the fantasy they’re crafting. most don’t care to know.

“well, what do you want it to be?” you counter, your voice tipping into something playful.

she laughs softly, the sound low and throaty, curling through the line like smoke. “no, that’s not what i asked. i wanna know your name.”

there’s a pause as you weigh her words, the sincerity behind them.

“star,” you say finally, keeping it professional, your tone steady. “you can call me star.”

“what’s your real name?”

her question lands heavier than it should. it’s not forceful, not even intrusive. just curious. like she’s asking for a story rather than a fact.

you hesitate, fingers tracing the edge of your desk absentmindedly. something about her voice makes you want to give in, but you push the temptation aside, slipping easily into deflection.

“you know, most people don’t ask me that,” you murmur. “they usually want to know what i look like, what i’m wearing. things like that.”

“guess i’m not most people, then.”

“come on, you’re telling me you’re not even a little curious?”

she chuckles, warm and low, the kind of laugh that sticks in your chest. “okay, i’ll bite. what are you wearing, star?”

you smirk, leaning back in your chair as the city hums faintly through the open window.

“blue and black pajamas” you reply, your tone light. “lace trim. very cute, if i do say so myself.”

“where’d you get it?”

“some victoria’s secret around my city. they were having a sale.”

“cute.” her voice dips, carrying a hint of a smile. “now, back to my question.”

you roll your eyes, though there’s no edge to it. she’s persistent, you’ll give her that.

“you’re just gonna have to call me star. can’t give you my name. not tonight, sorry sweetheart.”

“no, it’s okay.” she pauses, then repeats it, like she’s trying it on. “well, star.” there’s something deliberate about the way she says it, slow and careful, testing its weight. “i’m billie.”

her name sits soft and sure in the air, settling between you like it belongs.

“you seem like a billie.”

“do i?”

“mhm,” you hum, leaning forward against the desk. “so, billie. what do you want to talk about?”

“hmm.” she draws the sound out thoughtfully, the silence stretching just long enough to make you wonder if she’ll answer. “why do you do this?”

the question hits you in a way you don’t expect, cutting through the usual rhythm of calls. most people don’t ask—don’t even think to ask.

you consider lying, giving her something easy, but the weight of her question lingers, tugging at the edges of your honesty.

“it pays the bills,” you admit finally, your voice soft. “and it’s not as bad as people think. i meet some…very…interesting people.”

“like me?”

the corner of your mouth quirks up, her words pulling at something playful in you.

“you tell me. are you interesting?”

“guess that depends.” she pauses, her voice curling with quiet amusement. “you think i’m interesting so far?”

“so far? i’ll give you a solid maybe.”

her laughter spills through the line, warm and unexpected, and it lingers in your room long after it fades.

“oh really? how long have you been doing this?”

“for about…” you pause, eyes flicking up to the ceiling like the answer might be scrawled there. “for about a little over a year now.”

“damn. that’s a long ass time.”

you chuckle, the sound warm and easy. “it is, isn’t it? i don’t know, i don’t mind it though. all i do is answer the phone. sometimes i do schoolwork, cook—small things like that. not like i necessarily have to be fully present for it, as long as i’m paying attention, you know?”

“you’re in school? just exactly how old are you?”

“wait—before we continue, you’re aware it’s a dollar seventy-five per minute, right?”

“uhh, i wasn’t, but i don’t mind it.”

“ooh, so you’re rich then?”

she laughs, a low, honeyed sound that settles in your chest. “i wouldn’t say that. i’d say i’m… comfortable.”

“only rich people say they’re comfortable. but to answer your question, i’m twenty, in my junior year. babe, you?”

“okay, not bad. i’m twenty-three. though i did think you were much older.”

you snort, rolling your eyes even though she can’t see it. “not bad? we’re practically the same age.”

“mm, i got about three years on you, so… no,” she laughs, her voice carrying a teasing lilt. “what are you majoring in?”

“criminology. mainly forensics and things like that.”

“that’s so fucking cool. so you’re like those people on tv who examine bodies and shit?”

“yeah, but doing it in real life is way different than it looks on tv.” you close your eyes, the memory of your first dissection flashing briefly. “especially lab work. but you get used to it after a while.”

“still, that’s badass. you must be super smart.”

the compliment catches you off guard, heat crawling up your neck. “i guess you could say that,” you mutter, a quiet smile tugging at your lips.

the conversation flows easier after that, like water finding its way downhill. you don’t even realize when you’ve moved to your bed, your headset cast aside as her voice fills your room through the speaker.

she asks you everything��your favorite movies, the hobbies that keep you up at night, the kind of music that makes your soul hum. the questions are simple but intimate, slipping past your usual defenses like she’s known you for years.

and you answer her. honestly, without hesitation. there’s something about her voice, warm and unhurried, that pulls the truth out of you.

you find yourself smiling, more than you have in days, fingers absentmindedly playing with your hair as you lean into the sound of her. it feels oddly intimate—like a late-night call with someone who’s already carved out a space in your life.

“so,” she asks after a lull, her voice soft but curious, “what’s your favorite movie?”

you grin, closing your eyes as you let the answer roll off your tongue. “pulp fiction. it’s a classic, don’t judge me.”

“no judgment. i respect it. but you gotta admit, it’s a little basic.”

“oh, and you’re not basic? let me guess—you’re gonna say something artsy like ‘a clockwork orange’ or whatever.”

“wrong. mine’s ‘the shining.’”

“oh, so you’re a horror girl. noted.”

she laughs, the sound warm and easy, and you realize you don’t want the conversation to end. not yet. not with her voice lingering in your room like this.

“what about you?” you murmur, breaking the soft rhythm of silence that had settled between you.

“hm? what about me?” her voice lilts, curious but guarded.

“what do you do? like for work?”

there’s a pause, long enough that you wonder if she’s going to sidestep the question entirely. but then she exhales, the sound quiet, like she’s carefully letting something go.

“i’m a musician,” she says finally, her words tentative, like they might break if handled too roughly. “or i guess i was… i teach music now.”

her admission catches you off guard, a flicker of something vulnerable passing through the connection. but you don’t press her, sensing that whatever she’s offering is enough for now. instead, you let the conversation drift, carried by the quiet ebb and flow of her voice.

the hours blur like watercolors, the world outside fading until there’s only her.

eventually, her tone softens, the edges of her words rounding with sleep. “it’s getting late. i should let you go,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

you glance at the alarm clock on the wall, the soft red digits blinking 3:35 a.m. back at you. exhaustion tugs at you, but the thought of ending the call feels heavier than it should.

“but…” her hesitation pulls you back to her. “can i call you again? i had a really good time.”

your heart stumbles over itself, a small hitch in your chest. “yeah, of course you can.” your voice dips into something softer, something closer to truth. “i had a good time too.”

“great. goodnight, star.” there’s a smile in her voice, light and unguarded, and it lingers in the air even after she’s gone.

“goodnight, billie.”

the line goes quiet, and for a moment, you sit there, the warmth of her voice still brushing against you like an afterglow.

you slip off your bed, padding into the bathroom to wash your face and brush your teeth. the cool water shocks your skin, but it doesn’t chase away the heat curling low in your stomach.

when you return to your room, the lamp clicks off with a soft snap, plunging the space into shadows broken only by the shifting colors of your tv. you slide under the covers, the faint hum of a late-night rerun filling the silence. the images blur on the screen, but all you can think about is her voice, the way it clung to the edges of the night, soft and sure.

a ding pulls you from your thoughts. your phone glows faintly on the nightstand, and you reach for it, the sudden brightness making you blink.

new transactions — 4:03 a.m.

+1 (254) 783-0184 (dallas, TX) - $26.25

+1 (980) 598-7201 (charlotte, NC) - $43.75

+1 (213) 597-3492 (los angeles, CA) - $315.62

you smile, the corners of your lips twitching up involuntarily. it’s nothing unusual, but tonight it feels different, lighter somehow. you turn the screen off and set the phone back down, a quiet sense of contentment settling over you.

for the first time in a long time, you find yourself looking forward to your next call.

inspired by @whore-era

astrc’s tag list: @zendayasredbottoms @bilsdillldough @billiesrighthand @watercolorskyy @bilssturns ; hit my asks saying “add to taglist” if you want to be on my regular taglist for all billie content!

[moonchild9350]

Miss You

summary: you dream of a mysterious man with blond hair who seems so familiar yet so distant.

pairing: Hyunjin x gn!reader

genre: angst, smut, alternate reality, sci fi au

word count: 2.0k

warnings: alternate reality, lots of dreams, sensual touch, clit/nipple play, unprotected sex (don't), creampies

notes: this idea is inspired by hyunjin's mv Miss You but with a twist. this is my weird brain in it's sci fi era lol. let me know what you think of this idea! I love feedback!

please do not copy, translate, modify, use, or repost this work without my permission. ©moonchild9350 (2025)

divider by @sweetmelodygraphics

General masterlist

He came to you in a dream, softly and gently, his face clear as day before slowly materializing, becoming nothing in an expanse of black. Everyday, you’d watch as he’d work, his eyes and body focused on the task at hand, a gentle smile on his face. Despite this, there was also a melancholic feel to his aura, as if something was missing in his little world.

You thought the man beautiful, but even that word seemed to be inadequate. You loved gazing at his face, a set of soft eyes that glistened, complete with chocolate brown orbs that caused shivers to run down your spine as you looked into them. His lips were plush, cushiony and tinted with pink, a complete contrast to his chiseled face.

His blond hair seemed soft and silky, the strands tied up in a half up, half down up do while other times they hung perfectly against his neck. Lastly, you loved gazing at his hands, the veins prominent and fingers long, adorned with various silver rings.

You couldn’t help but watch them as he painted, his wrist gently swooping across the canvas as he translated whatever scene was playing out in his head. As he mixed colors of white and green, he hummed softly, his voice muted yet projecting across the small room.

He gazed at the canvas in thought, his bottom lip snug between his teeth, and his eyebrow scrunched in annoyance, the tsk he let out harsh and short in the otherwise quiet room. You eyed the canvas, trying to see what disturbed his mood, but every time you tried to peer over his shoulder, the image would blur, almost as if you weren’t meant to see it. The only thing you could make out was the name Hyunjin, which must have been his name.

You tried it out, the syllables rolling off your tongue like water, the sound so pleasant your heart rate increased and your face became flushed as the heat rose. Hyunjin looked up and then smiled, almost as if the dilemma he was facing was solved. However, the smile still didn’t quite reach his eyes as melancholy was still present, taking over the beautiful orbs.

As he went back to painting, the scene faded away slowly, Hyunjin materializing as he softly whistled a tune. Right as it faded to black, you thought you heard him murmur something, the words jumbled and inaudible, but present nonetheless. To you, it almost sounded like he said, “I’ll see you again.”

You are dreaming again, you know so as Hyunjin is present again, this time he’s walking around the small room, his eyes searching for something. He has a camera in his hands, the strap hanging haphazardly in front of his body.

You wonder what he’s searching for, the look of frustration yet determination present. Hyunjin stops at some items placed perfectly on a table. As you take a closer look, you realize there’s a hand held mirror, rose, and bottle of perfume present. While you gaze at the items, an electric feeling spreads through your body, a feeling of deja vu spreading over you.

The items seem familiar but at the same time not, the thought confusing in the moment. You look up at Hyunjin and gasp, as he’s looking your way, a look of surprise on his face. It seems as if he has seen you, but you know this to be false, as he shakes his head and goes back to pondering the objects in front of him.

Eventually, he gives up and saunters over to another corner, this time stopping in front of a flower arrangement, the flowers wilted and clinging to the last moments of life. Hyunjin nods his head and smiles before lifting the camera to his face, squinting his right eye as he focuses his left through the lens.

He adjusts the zoom a few times before pressing the shutter, the soft click echoing throughout the room. He takes a few more pictures before finding another angle. Click, Click, Click. Hyunjin snaps picture after picture, his mood changing slowly from one of irritation to one of apathy.

You watch intrigued until the sun slowly sets, the once clear blue sky giving way to shades of orange, red, and purple. Once Hyunjin is satisfied with his work, he looks up and turns your way, almost as if he can see you, just like the moment before. He raises his camera and points it at you before pressing the shutter, the click going off with a flash, causing you to blink before everything fades to black.

You dream of Hyunjin again and again, the scenery the same little room each time. With each dream, you feel as if you know this man, however, just when you think you can remember from where, the idea slips from your mind to not return again until you dream again.

You find yourself frustrated, having watched Hyunjin paint, take pictures, and even write in a notebook, over and over. It’s the same scene again and again and you start to wonder if there’s any significance behind it. There has to be and you try to voice so when you dream, hoping that Hyunjin will answer, but he never does. He doesn’t even acknowledge your presence, and why should he as it’s all a dream right?

He seems happier, more hopeful with each passing dream, as if what he is searching for is within reach. You wonder what that is, slightly jealous that he may be getting the answers he’s been searching for, unlike you. However, despite the uncertainty of it all, you enjoy being with him in these dreams, finding peace in his company, as if you’ve been there before, watching, listening, and just be with him.

Once more you are dreaming, excitement brewing as you anticipate what will happen today. Maybe he will paint again, which you have grown to love as he seems the happiest while doing so. However, as you walk into the room, he’s standing at the window looking out into the scenery beyond, the sun shining brightly into the room.

He reaches up to grasp something only he can see, his fingers wrapping around the invisible item before he lets it go. Hyunjin is humming again, the tune you now recognize, which shocks you. You are frozen in place as he hums and then switches to whistling, the soft tune dredging up memories that must have been buried deep within.

You close your eyes and find yourself drifting, drifting to a time and place where you lived in happiness with a man, your lover. You both were happy and carefree, perfect for each other, soulmates. Your body is filled with warmth at the memory, as your brain tries to focus on the man’s face.

As time passes, his features become more clearer, until you realize it’s Hyunjin, the man who is present in this room with you right now, the man you have been seeing in your dreams for months.

“Welcome back,” Hyunjin murmurs as he turns around to face you, a gentle smile on his face as he looks to you.

His eyes are filled with joy, the melancholy that was present gone. He walks over to you and wraps his arms around you in an embrace, pressing his face into your hair. You both stand there in each other’s arms, as joy radiates off both of you.

Hyunjin.

Hyunjin who is your best friend. Hyunjin who is your lover. Hyunjin who is your soulmate.

You remember everything now.

How he was painting you over and over, the image never clear as you were trying to remember your love, how he was photographing all of your favorite items, his eyes full of longing for you. You realize you dreamt of these things and of him, as you tried to find your way back to him.

Tears have started to form in your eyes, whether they are from happiness or sadness, you’re not completely sure. However, you pull back and look up into your lover’s eyes, taking in the brown orbs as he gazes at you lovingly.

“Hyunjin, I’m so sorry for leaving you,” you whisper, your voice filled with regret but hope, hoping that he will forgive you for such a crime.

Hyunjin brushes the tears that are falling down your cheeks, as he gently smiles down at you.

“I’ve been waiting for you love. I’ve missed you,” he says as he leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips.

They are softer than you remember, the feeling like silk on your lips. He pulls you closer as he deepens the kiss, before laying you down gently on the couch. There’s a flurry of movement as he quickly but efficiently rids you of your clothes, before he rids himself of his, his eyes on you the whole time.

He coaxes sweet moans from you as he touches you, teases you, your nipples hardened and pussy soaking as he works the parts of you only he knows. You think you feel overwhelmed as he pulls yet another orgasm from you, a wide grin on his face as his fingers that you’ve watched for so long circles, pinches and taps at your clit.

You whimper as he finally sheaths his cock within you, stretching you out slowly and deliberately, making sure you feel every ridge, every vein on his length. As he bottoms out, you both let out a moan before he begins to thrusts his hips, coaxing sweet, wet, sounds from your pussy.

You are lost in him, your hands roaming his body, feeling the soft skin beneath your palms. You take him in as if you’re memorizing his body, his toned arms, his pinkish-brown nipples, to the look on his face, his eyes scrunched up in pleasure as he drives his cock in and out of you over and over.

You take in the thin sheen of sweat that has formed, causing his body to glisten as twilight takes over, the setting sun’s rays casting shadows across his face as he grunts and sighs in pleasure.

You don’t want to forget him, not again as you seemed to have done, for reasons you are not entirely sure. You know you won’t forget him though as he brings you to orgasm, as you whimper, as the pleasure spreads through you, your walls clenching over his cock, holding him in.

You watch as Hyunjin reaches his orgasm, a strangled cry leaving his lips as he murmurs “I miss you. I miss you.”

He stills once the last drop of his cum paints your walls, his gaze locked on yours. He leans down and presses a wet kiss to your lips before dragging his tongue down your jaw, your neck, and chest until he wraps his lips around your nipple and sucks.

You gasp at the sensation, your hands moving to tangle in his hair as he nips and suckles, alternating between the two buds to give them equal attention. You feel his hips rock into yours once more, the drag slow, achingly slow as he makes love to you.

As he drags his cock into you, he opts to swallow your moans, and instead you both find yourself gasping and breathing in tandem, your body, mind, and souls becoming one. The pleasure is increasing, the white hot sensation building and building until it becomes too much and you let go, clutching onto your lover as your walls milk his cock dry.

And in the afterglow of your love making, you lay quietly in each other’s embrace, your bodies a sweaty mess. Time seems to slow as you breathe as one, as the sun finally sets, saying goodbye to yet another day.

You realize this is the moment you want to live in forever. Here with your lover, your best friend. Here with Hyunjin.

And as you come to this decision, Hyunjin looks up at you once more before he says with finality:

“I’ve missed you.”

taglist: @jehhskz @jeonginsleftcheek @armystay89 @palindrome969 @slut4hee @ivydoesit23 @amarecerasus @kaysungshine @fun-fanfics @baby-stay92 @velvetmoonlght @possum-playground @katsukis1wife @my-neurodivergent-world @hanniebaeee @hwanghyunjinismybae @channiesrightasscheek

taglist open! dm or ask to be tagged (ages must be pinned or in bio)

[childrenofcain-if]

After knowing that C and MC were in the same high school, I'm rooting even more for them. I'm also guessing C's confusing feelings for us in their route is them liking us since school? That's so freaking cute 🥰🥺

Can I ask for a scenario where they have a group project with other people and one of them gets very flirty with MC? Will C let that slide, I wonder 🫤

the diner sat on the corner of a street that tried its hardest to look charming but failed, the neon sign buzzing faintly against the rain-streaked window.

it was one of those places that seemed plucked from a movie set: vinyl booths, chrome napkin dispensers, and a jukebox in the corner that hadn’t worked since the last century. the smell of grease hung heavy in the atmosphere, mixing with the faint sweetness of syrup from the breakfast specials they served all day.

you sat in the booth, tapping your pen against the edge of your notebook, watching the door with mild dread. when C walked in, you knew the meeting was about to get infinitely more complicated.

C spotted you immediately, their sharp chalcedony green eyes narrowing like they’d been assigned a particularly irritating math problem. they weren’t dressed for the rain, but their aldervale prep blazer was immaculate, not a drop of water on it, as though the universe had conspired to shield them from the rain outside. although, you guessed it was most probably because of the black umbrella that they were carrying.

C slid into the booth across from you without a word, placing a pristine leather notebook on the table. their pen—silver, of course—clicked once. twice. a quick rhythm that made your teeth itch.

“you’re late,” you said.

“i’m exactly on time,” C replied, their voice clipped like the word ‘time’ had too many syllables and they were doing you a favor by saying it quickly.

your two other group members—darcy and lowe—arrived moments later, looking both nervous and excited, as though they’d stumbled into the VIP lounge of a club they didn’t belong to.

darcy, her backpack practically bursting with highlighters, was vibrating with energy. lowe looked more like they’d been dragged here against their will, though their eyes lit up when they spotted the milkshake menu.

you exchanged pleasantries, ordered drinks, and got down to business.

the topic was seattle, your city, and you were supposed to collectively dissect and analyze for the sake of some interdisciplinary project that combined geography, economics, and, for reasons you still didn’t understand, poetry.

“seattle,” you began, flipping open your notebook, “has many layers to it. you have the tech billionaires building spaceships on one side and grunge bands writing songs about the end of the world on the other. i think we should focus on how those contradictions make it unique.”

“that’s pretty reductive,” C cut in, not bothering to look up from their notebook. “seattle’s economy is primarily driven by tech, aviation, and trade. if we’re going to present a meaningful analysis, we should focus on its economic impact on washington state as a whole.”

darcy and lowe exchanged nervous glances. you clenched your jaw.

“not everything has to be about numbers, lacroix,” you said. “people care about stories, not spreadsheets. we can talk about the economy, sure, but we should start with what makes the city feel alive. the art, the culture—”

“and completely ignore the practical context?” C’s gaze lifted then, their expression somewhere between exasperation and boredom. “that’s like writing about a chess game and leaving out the strategy. completely pointless.”

“it’s not exactly pointless if it makes people care,” you shot back.

the argument spiraled from there, gaining momentum like a runaway train. darcy and lowe sat frozen, their eyes darting between you like spectators at a particularly intense boxing match.

“maybe we should, uh, toss a coin?” darcy offered weakly, her voice barely audible over your bickering.

C smirked, pulling a coin from their pocket as though they’d been waiting for this moment to occur this whole time. you selected tails and they flipped it, caught it, and slapped it onto the back of their hand.

“heads,” they announced, triumphant.

you groaned. “of course.”

“don’t be a sore loser, starkid,” C said, their tone practically dripping with smugness. “we’ll just have to do it my way this time.”

“fine,” you muttered, slumping back against the booth.

the tension eased slightly as the waitress arrived with your food—burgers, fries, and milkshakes that lowe declared were ‘the best in the neighbourhood’ despite never having tried any others.

you talked about school, about the upcoming math test and the cafeteria food which had reduced in quality after some new kitchen staff got employed. darcy was surprisingly funny, and lowe had a good bank of knowledge on obscure sports trivia.

C, however, remained quiet. they ate slowly, like each bite was a boring task to be completed. their posture was rigid, their eyes rarely leaving their plate.

it wasn’t until the conversation turned to favorite places in washington that you noticed something shift. darcy was talking about summers spent hiking in olympic national park, her voice full of nostalgia. lowe mentioned a family road trip to mount rainier.

“so, lacroix,” you said, turning towards the grumpy brunette. “penny for your thoughts?”

they blinked, clearly startled that you’d addressed them directly. “i... i’ve never been to any of those places.”

the table fell silent. even darcy looked surprised.

“seriously?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

they shrugged, their gaze fixed on the condensation dripping down the water glass. “i haven’t lived in washington as long as you all have. besides, i’m not exactly the adventurous type. i just… don’t see the point of, you know, wandering around aimlessly. it’s not like the city’s going anywhere.”

darcy, being the idealist she was, tried to lift the mood. “well, maybe you should visit some of those places one day! olympic’s amazing—especially the hoh rainforest.”

C didn’t respond. they just nodded, their lips pressed into a thin line.

for a moment, you felt something almost like sympathy. C, the untouchable perfectionist, didn’t seem know how to belong in places like this—in diners that smelled like burnt coffee, in conversations that meandered without purpose. they were as out of place here as a chessboard at a football game.

you then frowned, something tugging at the edges of your chest. you remembered hearing something once—maybe in passing, maybe during some rare moment of C opening up in class—that their parents had divorced when they were ten. that they’d moved to seattle from rochester, new york, with their mother, who worked long hours and didn’t have time for much else.

you didn’t know why you said it. maybe it was the way their voice had dipped, the way their composure seemed dulled. but the words came anyway. “maybe we could all go somewhere. for the project, i mean.”

C’s head snapped up, their green eyes narrowing like they were trying to decipher a riddle. for a moment, you thought they were going to say something cruel—an insult that’d have you getting angry again. but then their gaze softened, just a fraction.

“why?” they asked, the word almost inaudible.

you shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “i don’t know. it might help. plus, you can’t live like a hermit forever while you’re at washington.”

they stared at you for what felt like a long time, their expression unreadable. then, to your surprise, they nodded. wordlessly, awkwardly.

you thought you saw something flicker across their face then—something like a smile, small and fleeting, gone almost as quickly as it came.

for the rest of the meeting, C avoided your gaze. and as you all filed out of the diner, the rain starting up again in soft patters against the window, you found yourself wondering why you’d even offered.

but the truth was, you already knew. sometimes, your heart reached out before your brain could catch up. and for reasons you didn’t fully understand at the moment, it had reached for them.

the day began under a gauzy layer of mist that hung low over seattle. the clouds seemed reluctant to rise and the air carried a faint, damp chill.

lowe’s BMW 5 smelled faintly of peppermint gum and an air freshener that promised ‘ocean breeze’ but delivered something closer to what you’d find at a more eccentric section of bath & body works.

you sat on the passenger seat, your elbow resting against the door, the window cracked open to let in the air. darcy and C were in the backseat, the former preoccupied with her camera, snapping pictures of the dashboard, the sky, and the brunette beside her, who looked like they were already regretting agreeing to this trip.

the car wove its way through the city, past coffee shops with hand-painted signs and streets lined with rain-slicked trees.

lowe, ever the conversationalist, started talking about the destination—a landmark tucked away in one of seattle’s greener corners. but at some point, the conversation shifted, becoming less about the destination and more about you.

“y’know,” lowe said, their voice taking on a teasing lilt as they glanced at you, “i’m really happy we’re doing this. i was always curious about how it’d be to hang out with you outside of school”

you blinked, caught off guard. “um, thanks? that’s nice of you to say.” you gave them a polite smile, the kind you might offer a friendly cashier.

C, sitting stiffly in the backseat, was less amused. they had been glaring at the back of lowe’s head for the past ten minutes, their jaw tight, their arms crossed. every tap of lowe’s fingers, every casual joke, seemed to grate on them like nails on a chalkboard.

darcy, oblivious, was busy snapping pictures with her camera, capturing the rain-slick streets and the way the trees blurred as the car sped past. she hummed under her breath, the shutter clicking steadily, her energy so light and cheerful it was almost its own soundtrack.

finally, C, who had been silent up until now, shifted in their seat with a sharp huff.

“lowe,” they spoke up, their tone clipped, “maybe focus on the road instead of hitting on that idiot right in front of us.”

you squawked in indignation at being called an ‘idiot,’ not exactly getting what else they were implying.

meanwhile, lowe startled, their hands tightening on the steering wheel. “what? i wasn’t—” they caught C’s glare in the rearview mirror and quickly relented. “right. sorry. road. eyes on the road.”

you glanced back at C, confused by the sudden shift in the mood. their jaw was tight, their arms crossed over their chest, and they avoided your gaze entirely. you thought about asking what their problem was but decided against it. the day was too early, and you didn’t want to start bickering already.

the destination turned out to be kerry park. you stepped out of the car and stretched, looking around with a grin. your group followed suit and, after taking your backpacks, trudged up the steep streets of queen anne.

the park was small, unassuming—just a sliver of land carved into the hill, a place where the city stretched out beneath you like a quilt stitched together by architects, lovers of symmetry, and disarray alike.

from here, seattle wasn’t a city so much as a panorama, framed by the wide arms of the sound and the occasional, fleeting glimpses of mount rainier, pale and insubstantial like the ghost of a mountain in the distance.

the rain hadn’t yet started, though the air smelled of wet concrete and petrichor, gave you an indication that it wouldn’t hold off for long.

darcy had already pulled her camera out, its strap slung around her neck as she wandered a few feet ahead, her voice rising and falling as she described the perfect angles for her shots. lowe was by your side, gesturing dramatically at the view as if they were a tour guide instead of a co-conspirator.

C, who had followed at a distance and was now leaning against a nearby rail, their arms crossed and their face set in a scowl.

“lacroix,” you called over your shoulder, your tone light, inviting. “you should come and look around with us. it’s cool.”

they raised an eyebrow, their expression unimpressed. “thrilling, i’m sure.”

lowe shot them a weird look but said nothing, their attention soon snapping to follow darcy on her photoshoots.

you turned fully to face C. “you don’t have to be so grumpy, you know.”

“i’m not grumpy,” they snapped grumpily.

you sighed, letting it go for now. instead, you wandered over to the railing where they stood, resting your elbows on the cool metal as you gazed out at the view.

“this place means a lot to me,” you began, glancing at C. they didn’t respond, but they didn’t walk away either, so you took that as permission to continue.

“when i was little, my dad used to bring me here. we’d spend hours looking at the birds. he had this old, beat-up field guide he carried everywhere. i still remember the smell of it—old paper and leather. he’d flip through it so fast, trying to identify every bird we saw. i think he liked the challenge of it.”

C’s features softened, almost imperceptibly, as they listened.

“there was this one time,” you said, your voice growing warm with the memory, “we saw a bald eagle perched on one of the trees. it was so close, you could see the feathers on its chest ruffling in the wind. my dad was so excited, he nearly dropped his binoculars in a muddy puddle.”

you laughed. C smiled. it was not their usual arrogant smirk, but something too genuine to be described without it being an understatement.

even darcy noticed as she was snapping pictures of passers-by under the railing where you and C were leaning against.

from behind her camera, she whispered, “i think i just saw a miracle,” before snapping a picture.

in the photo, you were looking up at the sky, your face alight with wonder. and beside you, C was looking at you—not the sky, not the birds, but you. their expression was so unguarded, so tender, it made darcy pause, her finger hovering over the shutter button.

“and it’s not just the view or the birds,” you continued, your voice picking up momentum as you spoke. “there’s this whole history to it. did you know the park was named after albert sperry kerry? he was this big real estate guy in the early 1900s. probably bulldozed a lot of land to make a fortune. but this place? this tiny slice of the city? he gave it back. said he wanted people to have a place to breathe, to see things differently.”

you glanced over at C, expecting the usual sardonic remark, but they were watching you with an expression you didn’t expect—soft, almost eager, like they could never get tired of you talking about things like these.

“i guess i just like thinking about that,” you said, your voice trailing off as you turned back to the horizon. “how even someone who takes and takes can give something so beautiful.”

for a long moment, neither of you spoke. then, quietly, C said, “you really are a nerd, aren’t you?”

you laughed, the sound bright and unexpected, and while you didn’t have C laughing alongside you, you had a distinct feeling that they were too distracted by a certain someone to do so.

lunch was a quiet affair. you all sat on a damp wooden bench overlooking the trees. you plopped down beside C without a second thought, your shoulder brushing theirs as you unwrapped your sandwich.

C stiffened, their gaze flicking to you in surprise.

“you don’t mind, do you?” you asked, already halfway through your first bite.

they shook their head, though they looked puzzled, as if trying to understand why you’d willingly sit next to them when lowe was right there, still buzzing with laughter after a joke darcy shared with them.

“thanks for listening to me earlier,” you said softly.

C cleared their throat, their voice rough when they replied, “no problem.”

you still gave them a smile despite their (apparent) surly mood before turning back to your sandwich.

C looked down at their own food, their expression unreadable, but there was a faint hint of pink dusting the tip of their ears.

maybe, C concluded, the whole practical aspects of the project could take a backseat for now. it seemed like they didn’t mind focusing on the people of the city after all—or maybe it was just this infuriatingly intelligent seattle native that they couldn’t stop smiling for.

you wondered if the extreme makeover crew ever came to take darcy’s house as an inspiration for a lot of their renovations. it was a gleaming two-storey in a neighborhood where the lawns were manicured to within an inch of their lives and the houses all had names like “birchwood” or “côte d’azur.”

her parents were insanely successful real estate agents and it showed in every detail, from the perfectly symmetrical hydrangeas flanking the front door to the wrought-iron chandelier hanging in the entryway.

her room was a microcosm of the house itself: spacious and spotless. honestly, it made you want to take your shoes off just to avoid dirtying the carpet.

the walls were painted a muted teal, lined with shelves holding an army of books and a smattering of knick-knacks from trips abroad. there was a citrus-like scent around, and her plush white comforter made her bed look like a stratocumulus cloud.

you all sat cross-legged on her floor, laptops and papers spread out in a semi-circle as you planned out your presentation. ‘soren’ by beabadoobee was playing from darcy’s bluetooth speaker and the conversation was punctuated with bursts of laughter—mostly lowe’s loud, carefree chuckles and darcy’s softer, chiming giggles.

C, true to form, sat slightly apart, their long legs folded under them, their expression guarded but not unkind. they were listening more than talking, as always, their gaze darting between everyone like they were trying to keep up without wanting to look too interested.

“okay, but what if we start with the history of seattle, like the gold rush and all that, and then connect it to how the city evolved into this tech hub?” you suggested, glancing at C for approval.

the green-eyed brunette nodded once, their expression unreadable. “that works. it gives us a narrative to build on.”

lowe sidled up to you with an encouraging smile. “you’re always full of good ideas. i swear we’re going to ace this project at this rate.”

you laughed lightly, not catching the undertone. “it’s a group effort, lowe.”

“yeah, lowe,” darcy said, rolling her eyes in an annoyed manner from her spot near the window. “you’re really laying it on thick.”

you tried to smile it off but you couldn’t help but notice that she seemed almost... angry at lowe about something. the latter, on the other hand, was not meeting her eyes at all.

as if that wasn’t weird enough, you caught C stiffening out of the corner of your eye, their fingers tightening around their pen.

the awkwardness simmered quietly for a while, manifesting only in the way C’s responses grew shorter, their gaze darting less toward the group and more toward the window, where the rain streaked against the glass.

it wasn’t until lowe leaned closer to you, their voice dropping just enough to feel pointed, that the tension finally broke. “y’know, if you ever want to grab coffee or something after all this, i know a great place near pike place. it’s got this cozy corner that’d be perfect for—”

“i’m getting some water,” C announced abruptly, standing so quickly their chair scraped loudly against the floor.

the room fell silent for a beat as C walked away, their footsteps echoing down the hall. darcy glanced at you, then at lowe, and then back at you.

“you should go talk to them,” she said softly.

“what?” you asked, surprised.

“just... go,” she urged, nodding toward the door. “i think they need to hear from you.”

you hesitated, your gaze flicking between the door and the others. but there was something in the way darcy looked at you, a quiet insistence that made you realise the urgency she was feeling. besides, with the way she turned her attention to lowe with a scathing glare, you did not want to get in between whatever they had going on.

so you stood, mumbling something about being right back, and headed for the kitchen.

you found C by the sink, their back to you, their hands braced against the counter. the faucet was running, though the glass they were holding was still empty.

“hey,” you said tentatively, stepping into the room.

they didn’t turn around. “what do you want?”

“i just... wanted to check on you,” you said, your voice faltering. “you looked kind of... i don’t know, upset?”

C finally turned, their chalcedony green gaze indecipherable and cagey. “i’m fine. you can go back to lowe now. you two were having such a great time.”

their tone was harsh, and it made you blink in surprise.

“what are you talking about?” you asked, genuinely confused.

C rolled their eyes, the motion exaggerated, almost theatrical. “don’t play dumb. it was obvious you two were flirting.”

you sighed, caught between disbelief and frustration. “we weren’t flirting. that’s probably just how lowe is. they were just being friendly.”

C let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound more of a bark. “you’re an absolute dunderhead if you believe that. lowe wasn’t just flirting for fun—they meant it.”

you felt heat rising to your face, your irritation bubbling over. “okay, first of all, stop insulting me. and second, would you please stop ruining everything with your assumptions.”

C flinched, just barely, but it was enough to make you pause. their voice dropped, colder now. “maybe i should’ve asked the teacher to switch groups. if my presence bothers you that much—”

“maybe you should have,” you shot back, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “then maybe we wouldn’t have to deal with you being a burden all the time.”

for a moment, the kitchen was deathly silent except for the faint patter of rain against the window. C’s face twisted, not with anger but with something closer to hurt, and you immediately regretted what you’d said.

“okay,” they said quietly, their voice flat. “i’ll let myself out then.”

before you could say anything, before you could take it back, they were already walking up to the front door and reaching for their umbrella, their movements mechanical as they stepped toward the door. the rain outside had picked up, a relentless downpour that blurred the edges of the world.

you wanted to say something, to fix the fracture you’d caused, but the words wouldn’t come out on time.

C stepped into the rain without hesitation, the door clicking shut behind them. you stood frozen, the echo of their retreating footsteps mingling with the sound of the storm.

your fists clenched and unclenched at your sides as you stared at the front door. you wanted to curse. to rewind the last five minutes and unsay every single word.

you ran a hand through your hair, muttering something unintelligible under your breath as you paced. your foot caught on the corner of the coffee table, and in your aggravation, you stumbled forward, knocking over the pile of photographs darcy had laid out so carefully.

“great,” you muttered, crouching down to gather the scattered pictures.

they were glossy and vibrant, capturing moments from your trip to kerry park just two days ago. you hadn’t paid much attention to them before, but now, as you picked up photo after photo, a pattern began to emerge.

in nearly every image, C was looking at you.

your fingers froze on a picture where their smile was so open, so completely unlike their usual self, that it felt almost like intruding on a scene you weren’t supposed to see. their dimples were unmistakable, softening the sharpness of their features in a way that made your heart skip a beat.

in another photo, they were standing slightly behind you, their chalcedony green eyes focused entirely on you as you pointed out something in the distance, completely oblivious to their adoring attention.

for a moment, you just sat there on the floor, staring at the pictures, the edges of the glossy paper dampening under your trembling fingers. then, as if pulled by an invisible string, you stood.

darcy had made her way to the living room and said something as you made for the door, but her words were lost to the roaring in your ears.

the rain hit you like a wall as you stepped outside, cold and relentless, soaking through your clothes in seconds. but you didn’t care. your feet moved on instinct, splashing through puddles as you ran down the street. it was a foolish thing to do, running in a storm like this, but every step felt like it was carrying you closer to something you couldn’t name but desperately needed to reach.

you didn’t know which way C went exactly, but you had a feeling.

and then, through the curtain of rain, you saw them.

C was standing under their umbrella, their posture stiff as they glanced down the street. the soft glow of their phone screen illuminated their face, but they weren’t scrolling or texting. they were waiting for an uber, probably. or maybe just waiting for the storm to pass.

you skidded to a stop, breathless and drenched. when they turned and spotted you, their eyes widened incredulously like you’d just teleported there.

“what the hell are you doing?” they demanded, their voice rising over the rain as they speed-walked up to you, umbrella in hand. they immediately held it over both of you, shielding you from the worst of the downpour. “have you finally lost your mind? you’re going to catch a cold!”

you were out of breath, your chest heaving as the water dripped from your lashes, but you didn’t care. “i’m sorry.”

C blinked, their mouth opening slightly as if they were going to argue, but you kept going. “i’m sorry for what i said. i didn’t mean it. you’re not a burden, C. i’ve never ever thought of you like that. the truth is—”

your words caught in your throat, the weight of them almost too much. but you forced them out. “the truth is, i’ve had a great time doing this project with you. i really didn’t mean any of it—about switching groups, about ruining things, you being a burden. i’m glad we got paired together, even if you drive me completely insane sometimes.”

“are you done?” they asked gruffly, though their tone lacked its usual edge.

you nodded sheepishly, your heart hammering against your ribs.

they sighed, lowering their gaze for a moment before meeting yours again. “i had a great time too. you... you made me see the city in a way i never had before. you made me appreciate it. i...” they sighed, “i was being too stubborn and i shouldn’t have given you a hard time with everything. and... i don’t mind your company, even if you’re way too dense sometimes to see what’s in front of you the whole time.”

the sincerity in their voice made your breath catch. right now, all you could do was stare at them and bask in the warmth they made you feel.

you admired the way their dark brown hair curled slightly at the edges, damp and clinging to their skin. the way the rain caught in their lashes, making their chalcedony green eyes glow as though a thousand hues were shifting like sunlight through sea glass. the way their fair skin seemed to glow faintly in the dim light, the sharpness of their cheekbones, the curve of their lips, soft and slightly parted.

they shifted under your gaze, their cheeks suddenly flushing pink.

“what?” they snapped. “why are you ogling me?”

but you didn’t answer. at least not with words.

before you could second-guess yourself, you stepped forward, leaning in until your lips brushed against theirs in a kiss that felt as inevitable as the rain falling around you.

C froze, their eyes wide in shock and disbelief before they pulled back, their fingers flying to their lips.

“i’m so sorry,” you blurted out, the heat rising to your face as you realized what you’d just done. your heart was sinking in absolute shame. “i—”

but before you could finish, C let the umbrella drop to the ground with a soft clatter. rain cascaded over both of you as they grabbed your face with trembling hands as they surged forward, their lips crashing against yours in a kiss that left no room for doubt.

the world seemed to fall away in that moment, leaving only the two of you, your hands tangling in the fabric of their rain-soaked sweater as their fingers threaded themselves in your wet hair. it was cold, sure, but their kiss was warm, searing, as if it had been waiting to catch sparks all along.

your clothes were drenched and your hair was practically plastered to your face, but it didn’t matter. nothing else mattered.

it wasn’t until the honk of a car horn shattered the moment that you finally broke apart, both of you panting as you turned to see the waiting uber that C had previously booked.

C’s face turned crimson as they also turned to look at the car, their expression mortified and exasperated at the same time.

“putain,” they muttered under their breath before grabbing your arm and their umbrella. they then shut it quickly and tugged you toward the vehicle.

the uber driver, to his credit, said nothing as you both slid into the backseat, though the faint twitch of his lips and the knowing look he gave you two in the rearview mirror didn’t go unnoticed.

“could this day get any more embarrassing?” C asked as they crossed their arms over their chest, staring determinedly out the window.

“uh huh,” you mumbled, still in a daze from what just happened.

“that was my first kiss, you know,” C muttered.

you turned to them, still not registering their words. “you’re so gorgeous.”

C scowled, their blush deepening. “shut up, you dolt. you’re not even listening to me.”

but when their hand crept over to cover yours, you couldn’t stop the goofy smile that spread across your face.

[mrsfancyferrari]

Birthday Wishes

Summary: LH44 + Birthday Wishes

Song: It's My Birthday · Will.i.am

Author’s note: Happy Birthday to my Black King, my idol and inspiration! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 3.8k

The sprawling, modern house, perched on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean, felt strangely quiet. It was a stark contrast to the roaring engines and frenetic energy of the Grand Prix circuits you were accustomed to seeing Lewis dominate.

Today, however, there was no racing. Today was his birthday, and you were here, a flutter of anticipation and nervous energy churning within you.

You had been looking forward to this for weeks, ever since he’d casually, almost as an afterthought, said, "You should come over for my birthday. Just a quiet one."

Just a quiet one, he'd said. As if anything involving Lewis Hamilton could ever be truly quiet.

You wandered into the living room, its floor-to-ceiling windows framing a breathtaking view of the sea. The sun was painting the water in shades of sapphire and gold, reflecting off the sleek, minimalist furniture.

A small table in the corner was laden with a variety of pastries – croissants, pain au chocolat, and a stack of what looked like homemade scones. A single vase held a vibrant bouquet of wildflowers, a thoughtful contrast to the polished perfection of the room.

"Beautiful place," you murmured to yourself, feeling slightly out of place in your casual jeans and linen shirt. You’d debated what to wear for hours, eventually settling on something that was comfortable yet still felt like you had put in the effort.

You desperately hoped he wouldn’t notice how much you had agonized over it.

A moment later, the sound of footsteps made you turn. Lewis stood in the doorway, his smile genuine and warm. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt and joggers, his hair slightly tousled, giving him a relaxed look that you found incredibly endearing.

"Hey," he said, his voice a little husky, "You made it."

"Wouldn't miss it," you replied, your heart doing that irritating little flutter-kick. You tried to sound casual, but you knew your cheeks were probably betraying you.

"Coffee?" He gestured towards the kitchen. "Or we can just dive into the pastries."

"Coffee would be great," you replied, following him. The kitchen was equally sleek and modern, with stainless steel appliances and a large island where he began brewing coffee.

You watched him, the way his hands moved with confidence and ease, and a familiar warmth spread through you. You'd spent so much time with him at races, surrounded by teams and media, that it was strangely intimate to see this side of him, the quiet, domestic side.

"So," he said, turning towards you as he poured the coffee, "What do you think? Is it…birthday-ish enough?"

You laughed, the sound echoing slightly in the large space. "Well, there are pastries, and flowers, and the absence of any car engines... I think you're definitely on the right track."

He handed you a mug, the steam swirling upwards, carrying with it the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. "Good," he said, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, you felt like you were the only two people in the world.

He broke the gaze first, turning back to the counter. "So what do we do today? Walk down to the beach? Take the boat out?"

"Whatever you'd like," you replied, your voice slightly breathless. The thought of spending the day with him, just the two of you, was enough to make butterflies dance in your stomach.

You spent the morning talking, sitting out on the balcony, the sun warming your skin. He spoke about his plans for the future, not just in racing, but his other passions: music, fashion, his love for animals.

He was so much more than just a Formula One driver, and you reveled in learning all these hidden depths. You, in turn, spoke about your life, your dreams, your anxieties.

You were surprised at how comfortable you felt, how easily the words flowed. It was like the wall you kept between yourself and the world had crumbled in his presence.

"I'm glad you're here," he said softly, his gaze on the ocean. "It's…nice. Different."

"Me too," you admitted, the words feeling like a confession. You wanted to tell him so much more, how you felt, how your heart had been inexplicably drawn to him.

But the words caught in your throat, fear holding them captive.

Later, you walked down to the beach, the soft sand warm beneath your feet. He kicked off his shoes and rolled up his trousers, and you followed suit.

The waves crashed onto the shore, the sound a soothing rhythm. As you walked, you found yourselves in comfortable silence, just enjoying the beauty around you.

Then, he surprised you. "Want to try?" he asked, pointing at a stand-up paddle board that was leaning against a nearby rock.

You hesitated, you had never tried before. "I'm not sure I’m very good at these things," you confessed.

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Don’t worry, I'll help you."

And he did. He was patient, his hands gentle as he guided you, his laughter warm as you wobbled and nearly fell. You spent the rest of the afternoon in the water, laughing and splashing each other, the tension you’d been carrying finally melting away.

By the time you returned to the house, you were both exhausted but exhilarated.

As dusk approached, you found yourselves back on the balcony. The sky was painted in brilliant hues of orange and purple, the air cooler now. You were sitting side-by-side, sipping wine, neither of you wanting the day to end.

"This was… amazing," you said, your voice low. "Thank you."

He turned to you, his gaze intense. "Thank you," he repeated, his voice softer now. "It's the best birthday I've had in a long time."

For a moment, you just stared at each other, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. You knew, deep down, that there was something special between you, something more than just friendship.

You had felt it all day, in the shared laughter, the comfortable silences, the warmth of his touch.

You took a deep breath, gathering your courage. "Lewis," you started, your voice barely a whisper, “I…”

But before you could finish, his phone buzzed loudly, breaking the spell. He sighed, picking it up. His face changed, his smile fading.

"Sorry," he said, his voice distracted. "Work call."

You watched him as he spoke to someone on the phone, his mood shifting completely. You knew that this was the reality of his life. The world of racing was demanding, always demanding.

It was a reminder that despite the intimacy you'd shared today, his world was vastly different from yours.

He hung up the phone a few minutes later, his expression apologetic. "Sorry about that," he said, "It was…urgent."

The moment was gone. The words you had been about to say felt foolish now, too vulnerable to be spoken in the face of the realities of his life. You forced a smile.

"No problem," you said, your voice much lighter than you felt. "Work is work."

He seemed to sense your shift in mood, the slight withdrawal. He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice concerned.

You met his gaze, your heart aching with a mix of longing and resignation. You knew you couldn't keep your feelings bottled up forever.

You wanted to tell him everything, but the fear of rejection was always right there, holding you back.

"Yeah," you said finally, trying to sound convincing, but you knew he could see through the facade, "Just… a little tired. It's been a long day."

He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Yeah," he said, "It has been."

There was a beat of silence, heavy with unspoken words, before you both just went back to staring out at the fading light, the gentle sound of the waves washing over the beach.

You knew you had missed your window but you also knew with a certainty that this was not the last time, and maybe one day you would find the courage to tell him exactly how you felt.

But for now, you were content to just sit here, with him, in the quiet afterglow of the day, wanting more than anything for the night to never end.

The roar of the engines was a physical thing, vibrating through your chest and making your teeth hum. It was a sound you knew intimately, a sound that usually brought you a sense of exhilaration.

But here, in the Australia International Circuit paddock, standing amongst a sea of scarlet-clad Ferrari fans, it felt different. Foreign. Unsettling.

It was all because of him. Lewis.

Seeing him in red was a surreal experience. The sleek, aggressive lines of the Ferrari suit, emblazoned with the prancing horse, just didn't seem to belong to the man you knew.

Lewis Hamilton, the seven-time champion, the man who was synonymous with silver and black, was now a vibrant splash of crimson. The world was still reeling from the bombshell announcement.

A few months ago, it had been unfathomable. Now, here it was, the reality staring you in the face.

And you were here, a reluctant participant, forced to bear witness to this seismic shift in the Formula One landscape. You haven't seen Lewis since his birthday.

That night, fueled by too much champagne and a heart overflowing with something you couldn't quite define, you’d almost confessed your feelings.

It was a near-miss, a moment where the truth had hovered precariously on the tip of your tongue. The near-confession had scared you so badly that you'd become adept at dodging calls, making excuses about work, or simply, pretending to be busy.

You had convinced yourself that if you just kept enough distance, the feelings might fade. They didn't.

Today, however, distance was no longer an option. Lewis had called, his voice laced with a familiar charm, yet with an undertone of stubborn authority.

“You’re not going to leave me hanging on my first race, are you?” he'd asked, the question more of a statement. You'd tried to resist, even feigned a sore throat, but he had simply said, "I'll send a car."

And here you were, leaning against a barrier, trying to appear nonchalant amidst the chaos, while your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird.

You watched as Lewis, a whirlwind of energy even before he entered the car, moved through the pit lane, exchanging quick words with his engineers. He looked incredible.

He’d always been handsome, but something about the Ferrari red seemed to amplify his presence, his confidence.

"Lost in thought?”

The deep, familiar voice sent a jolt through you. You turned, your breath catching in your throat. Lewis stood there, his race suit unzipped at the top, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple.

His eyes, those intense brown eyes you’d spent far too many nights dreaming about, were fixed on you with a playful glint.

"Just... taking it all in," you managed, your voice a little too breathy for your liking.

He chuckled, a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. “I know, it’s a bit much, isn’t it? Even for me sometimes.” He gestured around at the bustling pit lane, a small smile playing on his lips.

"It's..." you paused, searching for the right word, "different."

"Different good, or different bad?" he teased, stepping closer. The scent of his aftershave, a mix of citrus and spice, filled your senses, making it even harder to think straight.

"Different… jarring," you admitted, your gaze darting down to the Ferrari logo on his suit. You weren't being intentionally cold, but it was the truth.

It wasn't about the car but about who was in it.

His smile faded slightly, a hint of disappointment flickering in his eyes. “Jarring?” he repeated, his voice softer now. "You don't like it?"

"It's not about the car, Lewis," you said, quickly lifting your gaze to meet his.

The air crackled between you two, a tangible tension that had been simmering for months, growing more intense in the claustrophobic confines of the pit lane.

"Then what is it about?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. The noise of the paddock faded into background static. It felt like you were the only two people in the world.

You opened your mouth, wanting to say it, wanting to finally confess the feelings that had been eating you alive, but the words caught in your throat.

Instead, you muttered the first thing that came to mind, "It's just... new.”

He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he sighed, running a hand through his braids, a gesture you knew so well.

“Well, new is good, right? Keeps things interesting. Besides," his eyes twinkled, “I look good in red, don’t I?”

He was doing it again, charming his way out of a serious conversation. You couldn’t help but smile. “You do,” you conceded, forcing a lightness into your voice. “Very… striking.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he said, his smile returning full force.

“Now, I need to go get ready. But,” he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I'll see you after the race, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you replied, your heart thumping against your ribs like a drum.

The roar of the crowd was a distant hum, a backdrop to the frantic energy within the Ferrari garage. You tried to focus on the data streaming across your screen – lap times, tire degradation, fuel consumption – but your eyes kept betraying you.

They kept drifting towards the track, towards the scarlet blur that was Lewis.

It was the first race of the season, his first in the iconic red of Ferrari, and the air crackled with a tension that both exhilarated and terrified you.

The red suit wasn’t just a new color; it was a visual manifestation of a new energy, a raw hunger that pulsed from him with every turn, every overtake.

He was a predator on the track, precise, powerful, and undeniably captivating. A strange mix of worry and pride swelled inside you as you watched him fight for position, pushing his car and himself to the absolute limit.

The race was a blur, a ballet of speed and strategy. You meticulously tracked his progress, biting your lip, heart pounding in your chest with every corner.

You tried to reason with yourself, telling yourself to focus on the data, on your job, but it was useless. You were mesmerized, completely and utterly consumed by the spectacle of Lewis Hamilton piloting a Ferrari.

When the checkered flag finally waved, the roar from the stands hit a crescendo. You saw it on the screen - Lewis, first across the line. A wave of relief washed over you so profound it made you dizzy.

You hadn’t realized how tightly wound you were until the tension finally snapped. You didn’t want to think about why watching him risk it all put you so on edge, you just accepted it as a part of who you were.

You found yourself drawn to the edge of the team garage, away from the frenetic celebrations unfolding between the mechanics and engineers. Your heart wouldn't be able to take it, not today.

You watched on the monitors as Lewis emerged from his car, a triumphant smile splitting his face as he was enveloped by his new team.

You saw the spray of champagne, the joyful leaps and shouts, the shared camaraderie. You desperately wanted to see him, to congratulate him, but you hung back, the familiar sting of your reserved nature keeping you rooted to the spot.

It felt like an eternity before the excitement began to die down, the celebrations slowly dispersing. You paced anxiously, hands twisting in your pockets, waiting for him to return.

You weren’t sure what you wanted to say. Congratulations felt inadequate, almost like an underselling of what you had just witnessed.

Finally, you saw him. He was still damp with champagne, his red racing suit clinging to him, making him look even more imposing than usual.

His braids was a mess, his eyes sparkling with the post-race adrenaline, and when he turned, you found yourself caught in his gaze.

You opened your mouth to speak, “Lewis-“

But before you could finish, he was there, his hand reaching for yours, his fingers wrapping around mine, sending a jolt of electricity through you.

It was a casual touch, yet it made your entire body sing.

He didn't say a word, but the pull in his hand was unmistakable, guiding you through the open door of his driver’s room, leaving you no choice but to follow, as if you were caught in his orbit.

The room was small, functional, but it felt like a haven compared to the vibrant chaos of the garage. He closed the door behind you, the sound a quiet click in the sudden silence.

His grip on your hand didn’t loosen, his thumb gently tracing your knuckles.

“Where were you before?” His voice was rough, a hint of disappointment lacing his tone.

The question caught you off guard, the intimacy of the question making your heart skip a beat.

You blinked, your mind scrambling to find an answer. "I- I was here," you stammered, your voice betraying your nerves.

"I didn't think… I didn't think you would want me there." You couldn't meet his eyes, your gaze fixed on your hands, still entwined.

He tilted his head, studying you, his eyes searching. "Of course, I wanted you there. I always want you there."

The words hung in the air, charged with an unspoken depth. You looked up at him, your breath catching in your throat.

His eyes, those incredible brown eyes that seemed to see right through you, were locked on yours.

“That was an incredible race, Lewis,” you whispered, the words barely audible.

They felt so inadequate, so clumsy, compared to the way he had just taken control of that race.

He smiled then, a slow, genuine smile that reached his eyes, and it was like the sun had broken through the clouds. It was a smile that was meant for you, and you only.

“It was, wasn’t it?” He squeezed your hand slightly. “But it would have been even better if you were closer.”

“I was in the pitlane,” you stated softly, your voice barely above a whisper, but the memory of him crossing the finish line, the sheer power and determination he radiated, still made your heartbeat erratic rhythms.

He chuckled, a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. “I mean to be there when I get out of the car, to be the first one I see,” he clarified, his gaze still locked on yours.

He wanted you there, front and centre, the first thing he sees after the adrenaline-fueled intensity of a race. It was a sentiment that sent a flutter of both hope and uncertainty through you.

“I don't think they'll let me stay in front for you,” you joked, trying to lighten the intimate atmosphere that had settled between you, the vulnerability in his expression making you feel a little overwhelmed.

You knew the protocol, the chaos that erupted after a race, the swarm of people who descended upon the winning driver. You couldn't possibly break that wall.

“I can make that arrangement,” Lewis stated seriously, his tone firm, the glint in his eyes unwavering.

He was so sure, so absolute, that for a moment you actually believed him. It was a ridiculous notion, but from him, it felt strangely plausible.

“Lewis…” you muttered, looking up at him, your eyes wide. His conviction was thrilling, but it was also terrifying.

He was raising your hopes too much, painting a picture of a reality that, you feared, could never be. 

He moved closer, the distance between you shrinking until you could feel the warmth of his breath on your face. You were trapped between the intensity of the moment and the logical part of your brain telling you to walk away while you still could.

Despite the inner turmoil, you stood your ground, your heart thumping a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

“Did you know what my birthday wish was?” Lewis said, his voice softer now, laced with a hint of something you couldn't quite decipher.

“What?” you whispered, the question trembling on your lips, afraid of both the answer and the silence that might come after.

“For you to like me back,” he said, his voice almost a caress, the words like a revelation that left you breathless.

He looked at you, his eyes searching, probing for any sign of reciprocation. “Did it come true?”

You didn’t speak for a moment, stunned into silence. It wasn't just a casual question, it was a confession, a risk taken, a heart laid bare.

You opened your mouth to answer, but found that nothing came out. You swallowed thickly, trying to find the right words, the perfect way to convey the feelings that had been building inside you.

“Lewis…” you began again, your voice barely a whisper, your gaze fixed on the floor, still scared to meet his eyes.

He took your hand in his again, his touch gentle, but firm. He lifted your face until you were looking at him.

“Tell me,” he urged softly, his eyes pleading. “Please, tell me.”

You finally found the courage to meet his gaze, to look into those deep brown eyes that held so much warmth and understanding. Your heart skipped a beat, and you felt your cheeks flush.

“Yes, Lewis,” you whispered, the words barely audible. “Yes, I like you back.”

A slow smile spread across his face, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of you, connected by a shared feeling, a mutual hope.

He squeezed your hand again, a silent promise, a shared understanding that had just changed everything. The roar of the crowd, the pressure of the race, the expectations of the season - all of it faded into the background.

All that truly mattered was right here, in this moment, with this man, the fastest man in the world, who wanted you, right here.

He laughed, a light, joyful sound that made your heart swell. “Good,” he breathed out, his smile reaching his eyes. “That’s very, very good.”

He finally closed the remaining gap between you, and pressed his lips against yours. You melted into his embrace, the kiss was soft, tender, and filled with the unspoken promise of a new beginning.

A beginning you never expected, but one you were more than ready for. Perhaps being here, so close, was exactly where you were meant to be. And you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your soul, that this was just the beginning.

The first race of the season may have been won on the track, but a much more significant race had just begun, one that was just for you and Lewis. Starting from a wish. . . .