#Tailored Cleaning Approaches

[tsunaso]

hiii, I love ur writing, could u do a fic where Jason Todd is a mafia boss, and the male reader is his most loyal 'guard dog'? Jason literally treats him like one—giving him orders, rewarding him, keeping him close. Maybe there’s a moment where he calls male reader his 'dog,' and male reader just smirk and say, ‘Yeah? And who put the collar on me?’

thank u sm!

“BARK LIKE YOU WANT IT”

pairing. Sub!Mafia Boss!Jason Todd x Top!male reader

synopsis. In Gotham's underworld, Jason Todd holds the city by its throat. But every king has a dog at his heel—and M/n is loyal, brutal, and always watching. Jason calls him a mutt. But he forgets one thing—who put the collar on who? — 2.3k

warnings. Guard Dog AU, mdni, nsfw, amab reader, dubcon, possessive behavior, praise kink, degradation kink, minor physical restraint, mutual obsession, mafia politics, overstimulation, powerplay, collar kink, facefucking, blowjob, spitting, choking, humiliation, breeding kink, dirty talk, oral fixation, crying, subspace, manhandling, aftercare

Jason Todd ruled Gotham’s underground like it owed him blood. And in many ways—it did.

The Red Hood Syndicate didn’t move without his order. Rivals were ghosts before they made it to sunrise. Contracts vanished. Witnesses disappeared. And yet, for all the stories about Jason Todd’s brutality, his trigger temper, his high body count—

There was one man even the worst of the underworld feared more.

His shadow.

His guard dog.

You.

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

"You’re late."

Jason’s voice was sharp, not raised, but biting all the same as you stepped into his office, the double doors clicking shut behind you. You didn’t answer him. You never did when he was in one of his moods—irritable, pacing, hands stuffed into his pockets, a fresh line of blood drying down the corner of his jaw like he forgot to clean it off.

Or didn’t care.

He looked you up and down once. His mouth twisted slightly.

"You smell like smoke."

You stared, unbothered. "I burned a man alive in his own Porsche tonight. You wanted it done quiet."

He laughed. Dry. A little sharp around the edges.

“Messy job for quiet work.”

“Your note said ‘make it hurt.’ So I did.”

Jason stopped pacing. The city light from the penthouse windows caught across his eyes—green-blue, sharp as broken glass. He licked his lips once, slow. Then, “Come here.”

You didn’t hesitate.

Your boots echoed on the polished floor, each step solid. Intentional. Controlled. You moved like a weapon kept in a velvet box—danger tucked into civility, teeth beneath tailored suits.

Jason sat on the edge of his desk as you approached. Still calm. Still composed.

But his fingers twitched once where they gripped the edge of the wood. You saw it. You always did.

“You want to be praised?” he asked, tilting his head, voice half-daring.

"No." Your tone was even, flat, as you stopped in front of him. “I want you to stop testing me.”

Jason’s smile twitched. “But you’re so good when I do.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

It was like this. Always.

The tension. The push-pull.

He gave the orders. You obeyed. He treated you like property—his muscle, his executioner, his dog. And you let him.

But Jason, arrogant as he was, had always mistaken obedience for submission.

And that was going to cost him.

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

His hand lifted to your collar, two fingers brushing the sharp seam of your dress shirt. His knuckles grazed your throat, casual. Thoughtless.

But that’s where his control ended.

Your hand closed around his wrist.

His eyes jumped to yours, sharp with surprise—but not fear. Never fear.

“You like to call me your dog,” you said, low and measured. Your grip tightened just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make him still. "Throw me scraps. Snap your fingers. Expect me to sit."

Jason’s breath hitched. Just a little.

Your voice dipped, threading a heat beneath the threat. "You like pretending I belong to you."

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His mouth was parted, his pupils wide, and every inch of him was screaming yes.

"So let me ask you something, Todd." You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice dark with knowing.

"Who put the collar on me?"

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

Jason shivered.

It was subtle—but it was there.

The slow exhale. The twitch of his thigh muscles. The flush creeping into his neck that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with being caught.

Owned.

He swallowed thickly. His hands clenched into fists against the desk.

And you—still gripping his wrist—lowered your mouth to his throat and let your teeth drag just beneath his jaw. Not biting. Not yet.

Just reminding.

Of what?

Of everything.

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

He jolted slightly under your touch. A sharp inhale. A curse under his breath. Then his voice—thin, almost petulant:

“You’re supposed to take orders.”

Your smirk was razor-edged.

“I do. Because I want to.”

Your grip dropped. But you didn’t move back.

Instead, you leaned in closer.

Jason didn’t flinch. He never did. But his breathing was heavier now, pulse hammering against his throat—visible. Vulnerable.

"You bark all day, but when I get too close," you whispered, dragging your hand down his thigh with deliberate slowness, "you start to sound like a mutt that wants to be bred, not obeyed."

Jason made a sound in his throat. Half-growl, half-gasp.

"Fuck you."

You grinned.

“You’d beg.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

He hated how much it was true.

He could sit on his throne all day—snapping orders, collecting blood money, running the city from his penthouse and dark alleys—but when you stepped into the room?

He was something smaller. Simmering. Waiting.

He wanted you to tear it out of him. To push him back onto the desk, force his legs open, make him say please.

You didn’t even need to touch him to get him there. He was already half hard just from your voice in his ear.

And you knew it.

You always fucking knew it.

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

“You don’t really want a guard dog,” you said, low against his throat. “You want a muzzle. You want a leash you can wrap around your own throat when no one’s looking.”

Jason’s fingers twitched again—this time reaching.

But not for a weapon.

For you.

And you let him. Just this once.

You let him grab your shirt, let him yank you in like he was desperate for something he couldn’t name. Your hand slid up the back of his neck, tangled in his hair, pulled his head back until he was looking up at you—eyes hooded, breathing uneven.

You watched his mouth part.

You watched the fight bleed out of his body.

And then, just loud enough to ruin him—

"Good boy."

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

The leash comes first.

Black leather, clean and heavy, pulled from your coat pocket like you were always planning to use it.

Because you were.

You knew Jason would mouth off. You knew he’d call you his dog again.

So now you’re going to make sure he was your bitch instead.

You’re sitting on his desk, legs spread, Jason on his knees between them—cheeks flushed, eyes glassy. Still pretending to be angry. Still acting like he’s got pride left.

"Take your shirt off."

He hesitates. Barely. Then obeys. Peels it off like it’s armor, like maybe the fabric will hold him together.

It won’t.

You pull the collar tight around his throat and let the buckle snap into place. His breath catches.

"Doesn’t it suit you?" you murmur, thumb brushing the pulse at his neck. "No tie. No suit. Just a collar. That’s how I like you."

Jason mutters something low under his breath.

You grab his jaw. “What was that?”

His mouth twists, defiant. So pretty like this. “Fuck you.”

You smirk. “You’ll get there.”

You shove two fingers into his mouth before he can talk back. He chokes slightly, but glares up at you through his lashes. You drag them deeper, until his throat works around the intrusion and his spit starts to run down his chin.

"You wanted to talk back?" you murmur. "Then earn the right to use your mouth."

Jason moans around your fingers, eyes fluttering.

His knees shift. He’s already grinding down against the floor, trying to rub the ache building in his pants. You grab a fistful of his hair and yank—his eyes fly open.

"Are you hard just from choking on my fingers?" you whisper. "Are you going to cum from being used like a toy, Jay?"

He shakes his head. He wants to say no. But you curl your fingers around the collar, tug—not hard. Just enough.

He whimpers.

"That’s what I thought."

You unzip. Jason’s eyes drop, hungry. You slap your cock against his cheek, watching the weight of it sink in before gripping his hair again.

"Open."

He does. Mouth wide, eager.

You sink in slow—and he moans. Not a groan. Not a grunt. A real, ruined moan, like he’s been waiting for this all week.

"You love this, don’t you?" you growl, hips pushing forward until he gags. "Love being on your knees like some two dollar whore. Mouth wide open. Ready to be used."

Jason’s face is dripping. Spit down his chin, lips stretched wide, pupils blown. He nods. He nods.

You grab the leash.

Just the feel of it in your hand makes him shudder.

You wrap it around your fist and pull. Not hard. Just enough.

"Good boy," you murmur.

Then you start fucking his throat.

He chokes.

Of course he does.

You don’t stop.

You let him gag, let his shoulders shake, let his tears spill over—he loves it. He’s rutting against the floor now, desperate, whining around your dick like you’re the only thing he needs to breathe.

"You gonna cum just from getting facefcked like a bitch?" you hiss.

Jason nods—fast, frantic.

You laugh. Spit in his mouth. Slap his cheek. Pull the leash again and hold him there while your hips snap forward with brutal rhythm.

When you pull out, he’s wrecked. His jaw is hanging open, tongue out, spit dripping down his neck. And he looks gorgeous like this.

You grab his face. Make him look at you.

“Say it.”

He pants. "Wh-what?"

"Say who owns you."

Jason hesitates—just a second.

Then: "You."

"Say it louder."

"You fucking own me," he moans. "I’m yours. I’m your fucking dog."

You grin.

"Now beg to get fucked."

He doesn't even pause.

“Please,” he gasps. “Please use me. Please, I—I need it—I’ll be good, I swear, just—please.”

And just like that, Jason Todd—the Red Hood, the most feared boss in Gotham—is on all fours, begging for the dick you’re about to be giving him.

Face red. Lips swollen. Hair stuck to his forehead. He’s panting now, thighs trembling as he tries to hold himself together, cock hard and leaking with no relief. The collar glints under the light, tight around his throat, leash trailing from your fist like a reminder.

Jason Todd doesn’t look like a mafia boss anymore.

He looks like a dog.

And he’s about to get treated like one.

“Get up,” you say.

He moves. Clumsy. Obedient. You shove him over the desk, chest flat, ass up, back arching perfect for you. The position makes him groan.

His pants are already gone. You never gave them back.

His thighs part without being told.

Ready.

“You were begging so sweet a second ago,” you murmur, palming his ass. “What happened to all that pride, Boss?”

Jason bites his lip. Doesn’t answer.

So you slap his ass. Loud. Sharp.

He jolts. “F-fuck—!”

“You forget how to talk?” you growl, leaning in close, letting your weight press into him from behind. “You forget who owns this?”

Your fingers drag down to his entrance. Wet. Twitching.

Jason gasps. “N-No—no, I know—I know—”

“Then say it.”

You shove two fingers inside him without warning. He screams. His back arches off the desk, legs shaking instantly.

“Fucking say it.”

“You—y-you own me,” he moans. “Please, please—I'm your fucking toy—”

You laugh against his ear.

“Yeah, you are.”

You press your cock to his slicked-up hole, teasing, dragging the head against him until he’s shivering and whining, back arched beautifully. The moment you press in—

He sobs.

"F-fuck—you're big—slow, slow—"

You don't go slow.

You grip the leash and pull as you sink in, one sharp thrust that fills him to the hilt. Jason’s scream gets buried in the desk wood, his fists clutching the edges like he’s trying to ground himself.

"You’re taking it," you growl. "Every inch. Just like you begged for."

Jason moans—high, desperate.

You start fucking into him, pace unrelenting, cock pistoning in and out as his hole squeezes around you so tight it hurts. He’s already leaking onto the desk, leaving a wet spot beneath him.

“Gonna cum like this?” you hiss. “No hands, no touch—just getting bred like the good bitch you are?”

He nods frantically, words lost in sobs and moans.

You feel the tremble before you hear the whimper.

Jason’s voice cracks. His whole body shudders. And then—his cock twitches untouched, shooting over the desk as his body clamps down around you.

He’s crying now. Quiet, desperate.

“C-Came—fuck, I came—”

You don’t stop.

“You think we’re done?” you growl, voice filthy. “You begged for it. Now fucking take it.”

You grab the leash, twist it around your fist, and pull his head back as you thrust harder, pounding into his overstimulated, raw hole until he’s a sobbing wreck on the wood, dripping and broken. You feel it building. Heat low in your spine. Jason’s still twitching, every thrust making his legs shake, tongue hanging out as he begs for more, whimpers turning breathless.

“You want it?” you growl. “Want me to fill you up?”

Jason nods frantically, barely coherent.

“Fucking say it.”

“Please—please cum in me—want it—need your cum—breed me—!”

You snarl, bury yourself to the hilt, and let go.

Hot, thick, endless—you spill into him like you’re trying to mark him from the inside out. Jason gasps, back arching beautifully as he milks you, his hole clenching greedily with every spurt of release.

The air reeks of sweat, sex, and ownership.

And he loves it. 　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

He collapses the second you pull out, limp and twitching, cum leaking down his thighs in thick streaks. His face is flushed. His eyes are barely open.

You wipe him clean with your handkerchief. Gently.

You kiss his shoulder once. Then his temple.

He breathes slow. Even. Peaceful.

And the collar? You don’t take it off.

You brush your fingers over it softly, smirking.

“You looked better on your knees than you ever did behind a desk.”

Jason—wrecked, dazed, marked from the inside out—manages a breathy laugh.

“Then put my name on the fucking tag next time.”

[dental1234]

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[gloomwitchwrites]

aftercare with the boys???

Okay, but I love this question. The wonderful thing about aftercare is that it doesn’t need to be complicated and intricate for it to be effective. Good aftercare is tailored to the couple (or multiples if there are more than two people engaging in sex). But also, not everyone is great at aftercare, and figuring out what works for you might take some trial and error. And let’s also be realistic here, not all of the 141 is going to knock it out of the park…they are human after all.

MDNI

written w/ gn!reader

John Price

Seasoned and experienced, Price understands that aftercare is the standard, not the exception.

Whether it’s just a casual one-night affair, or a long-term relationship, Price goes out his way to make sure aftercare happens.

Price doesn’t assume what your needs are. Instead, he presents options before sex happens. There are a few things that come standard like getting you a glass of water, but there are more specific things he wants to know like whether or not you want a shower afterward, and if you want to take that shower alone or with him.

His favorite form of aftercare involves physical touch. If you’re open to it, Price wants a good cuddle with lots of intimacy.

He’s more than happy to chat you up afterward if you need that. Or, if you just need to yap and for him to stay quiet, he can do that, too.

Affirmations, affirmations, affirmations.

Will follow up with you the next day via text or call to make sure you’re doing okay.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

A firm supporter of aftercare.

He’s not one to fuck and leave. Kyle prefers the long-term commitment. He likes the intimacy.

Won’t ask you before sex what you need for aftercare, but will ask after it’s all done. Kyle keeps a list of different options and will cycle through them depending on how intense the sex was. If the two of you engaged in rougher sex, he’s more likely to try and focus on taking care of you physically.

Will take the initiative on a few things like getting you a glass of water and providing snacks (or ordering delivery.)

Prefers giving massages instead of cuddling (but doesn’t hate the cuddling.)

Does enjoy watching a movie or television show after as a distraction.

Conversation and closeness post-sex is extremely important to him.

John “Soap” MacTavish

This goober doesn’t even know that aftercare is an important part of sex. It takes him a bit to figure it out y’all.

That being said, it’s not until Johnny becomes entangled in a serious relationship that the pieces start to fall into place for him.

While others may go for a more sensual approach, Johnny is all about comfort and having a laugh.

When he cuddles, he cuddles hard, and if you try to wiggle away, think again.

Lots of talking, chatting, and verbal affirmations. This man isn’t only telling you how much he loves you, or that he had a lot of fun, but also is doing his best to make you smile and even laugh.

He is the kind of aftercare partner that is absolutely looking up memes and funny videos for the two of you to watch together.

Would have edibles at the ready (if you want them) and endless snacks.

Open to watching something on television or a movie but make it low stakes. Needs to be a comedy or a trashy reality show.

If the two of you bathe or shower, it’s together. No exception.

Lots of touching.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Aftercare is a complicated topic when it comes to Simon.

If he’s only there to get his dick wet, don’t expect aftercare. He will get you off, and find his own release, but don’t expect too much after the fact. But he won’t be a brute or an asshole either.

Aftercare comes when you least expect it, when the casual starts to become serious.

It happens almost accidentally, or rather suddenly, and completely on Simon’s terms.

Perhaps the two of you were engaging in some rough sex—at least rougher than normal—and Simon notices some bruising/tender skin. Maybe when he bit down, he drew blood, even if he didn’t mean to.

He immediately starts cleaning you up, tending to any marks he finds. It’s not a quick dab of a cloth but a full onceover. Simon observers every inch of you, checking to make sure you’re fine.

He does a verbal check in as well, because he understands that a physical check isn’t always enough.

Afterwards, he’s taking you for a bath or shower.

Then, it’s an ice pack or heating pad if you need it.

Don’t expect an outpouring of affection, but he will provide a few affirmations to reassure you.

And he will cuddle. It won’t be anything tight or super close, but rather an arm around you to draw you closer to him.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

[y2kstarr]

— ᥫ᭡ say so . . . chris and matt sturniolo

where . . . Chris and Matt both spot you at an influencer party they'd gone to, and now they need to see who can bag you for the night. But what happens when, to their surprise, you want them both?

contains . . . smut, build-up to the smut, threesome (absolutely ZERO incest), Eiffel Tower position, oral (m!receiving), unprotected p in v, dirty talk, degrading and praising, heavy chratt bickering

credits to @delilahsturniolo for the marathon concept

HOT PINK WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #5

It was one of those nights in L.A. — every room lit by ring lights and camera flashes, every corner filled with people who lived for the scroll, swipe, and algorithm.

The lights at the party were dim and dreamlike, flickering between pink and gold. The pool out back shimmered beneath strings of fairy lights, dotted with floating roses that looked like someone’s aesthetic choice purely for Instagram. Voices blended into an intoxicating hum of flirtation, clout-chasing, and alcohol-fueled egos.

Having already downed a few drinks and chatted up multiple people, Matt and Chris had been scanning the party for some real fun to get their hands on.

That was when they spotted you.

You were standing by the glass railing, drink in hand, watching the crowd like a cat in a room full of mice. You looked like you didn’t belong — but in the best way. Like the party was orbiting you, not the other way around. Eyes that held secrets. A smile that could break careers. Legs for days.

Matt nudged Chris with his elbow, low and sharp. “There. The one by the railing.”

Chris followed his gaze, and his eyes instantly lit with that telltale look — like a kid eyeing a locked candy store. “Yeah,” he said slowly, almost reverently. “She’s… wow.”

“I’m going over.”

“You? I don’t think so. You’ll scare her off with your fake-deep ‘I do yoga and listen to The Weeknd on vinyl’ bullshit.”

“At least I don’t wear the same cologne as every crypto bro in this zip code.” Matt adjusted his shirt, the top three buttons undone, chest lightly glistening under the party lights. “Let’s see who she actually wants.”

Chris scoffed, fixing his hat on his head before smirking and following his brother, the both of them approaching like wolves in heat wearing designer sneakers.

Chris got to you first, his hand landing gently on the railing beside yours as he leaned in close, just enough for you to catch his cologne — clean, spicy, intentional. “So tell me something,” he said with a smooth, tilted grin, “are you always the most interesting person in the room, or is tonight special?”

You turned your head slowly, meeting his eyes with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. “Is that your opener?”

“Depends. Is it working?”

Before you could answer, Matt appeared on your other side like a scene change. He handed you a drink—something pale pink and artfully garnished. “She already has a drink,” Chris muttered even as you took the glass from him.

“This one actually tastes good,” Matt said with a wink. “Trust me.”

You took a sip out of sheer curiosity. He wasn’t wrong.

You raised an eyebrow as you took the drink away from your lips, looking between the both of them, curious as to what exactly had pulled them both over to you. “And you two are…?”

“Brothers,” they said at the same time. Then immediately glared at each other.

“Twins?” you asked.

“Triplets,” Chris corrected.

“Our brother, Nick, bailed on us to hang out with a girl in an outfit made entirely of glitter,” Matt added.

Ah, Tara, you thought, snickering and shaking your head as you took another drink, not noticing how they both looked over you and gave challenging glares once more.

Chris tried the classic charm offensive — eye contact that lingered too long, compliments that felt tailored just for you. “You’ve got this vibe,” he said, watching you closely, “like you know you’re hot, but you’re not annoying about it. It's refreshing.”

Matt countered by leaning into humor and empathy. “Ignore him. He probably says that to any girl who orders oat milk at Starbucks.”

Chris rolled his eyes before scoffing. “You fuckin' order oat milk at Starbucks, dumbass.”

You laughed, warm and unfiltered. They both visibly lit up like they’d won something. And now the game was far from over.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

They pulled out every trick in the book throughout the night.

Chris took you to the dance floor, guiding you with one hand on the small of your back, showing off the rhythm he usually showed off in tiktok videos. “I could do this all night,” he murmured in your ear as the beat dropped. You felt his confidence like static against your skin, making your laugh and just feel yourself as you swayed your body to the music with him.

Matt waited for his moment and found it when you took a break, lounging on a cushioned daybed near the pool. He sat beside you, just close enough to graze your leg. “You know,” he said, voice lower now, more serious, “most of the people here only care about how many followers you have. But I was watching the way you look at people. You see through them. That’s rare.”

Chris walked out to join the two of you, more drinks in his hands as he gave you a toothy grin, adding onto what Matt had said. "Yeah, it's like you're out of this damn world,"

You tilted your head at them both, scoffing softly. “You guys rehearsed these lines or something?”

“Absolutely not,” they both said at the same time.

Which made you laugh again. Damn them. They were too good at this.

As you all drank the shots of expensive tequila Chris had got, he told a story about them that had you nearly spitting out your drink laughing, Matt unable to not snicker along with it as well, the environment warm and thick.

By now, the tension between them towards you was crackling like the edge of a storm.

“So,” Matt said, tapping his glass, glancing over it at you as if he wasn't losing his mind hoping that you'd pick him, “who’s winning?”

You looked at both of them, smile teasing.

Chris leaned in, smug. “Come on, we both know you’ve already picked.”

You bit your lip, leaned back into the cushions, stretched your legs like a queen waiting for her court to bow. “Actually…”

Their eyes locked on you, anticipation tight in their jaws.

“…I was thinking maybe I don’t have to choose.”

Silence. Then a synchronized blink.

Chris was the first to speak. “You’re joking.”

Matt tilted his head. “Wait. Are you serious?”

You just smiled, sultry and slow. “Why pick one when I can have both?”

Their smugness melted into something else—surprise, intrigue, hunger.

“Damn...” Chris said finally, breaking into a crooked grin. “I like you.”

Matt laughed, a little breathless. “Dangerous.”

You smirked at their reactions before you stood, glancing over your shoulder to look down at both of them, raising an eyebrow. “Are you coming, or do I need to find someone else to entertain me?”

They scrambled up like excited puppies, speechless, for once outmatched.

And you? You walked ahead, knowing they’d follow.

Because they were players. But tonight? You were the game.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The bass thudded through the marble floors of the house like a heartbeat too fast from too much tequila and attention, thankfully making noise to cover up the obscene sounds coming from the bathroom you, Chris, and Matt snuck in to finally have some fun.

"Fuuuuck—" Chris groaned out as his grip tightened around the makeshift ponytail he'd made for your hair in his hand, looking down and watching the way you took his cock in your mouth like it was meant to be there.

Your nails dug into his thighs as you gripped them to hold yourself steady, your eyes glossy and fluttering a bit as you looked up at him, being met with that smirking grin on his lips.

"Look like such a pretty fuckin' slut for us, huh Matt?" Chris cooed to you, reminding your of the deliciously thick cock that was Matt's, sliding in and out of your sopping wet pussy from behind.

"Shit— Yeah she does.." He breathily responded, but his eyes stayed trained on how his cock disappeared into your cunt before he'd pull back and repeat, your warm, gooey walls making him bite his bottom lip hard, especially as you clenched around him each time Chris got a little rough with your mouth.

You moaned around Chris's cock as you felt Matt's hands on you, one gripping your hip tightly and the other sliding up your arched back underneath your scrunched up dress around your waist, your tits freed from your earlier make out sesh with Chris as Matt had been busy getting off your panties.

"Goddamn baby, you're just loving this, aren't you?" Chris groaned, his free hand holding his shirt up to his torso so that he had a clearer view of you. He chuckled at your slurred "mhmm" around his cock, your responses muffled by your full mouth.

Chris couldn't help as he gripped your hair harder, thrusting his cock a bit more into your mouth, making small gags and noises spill from you as you let him fuck your mouth, his groans mixing into the noises that filled this dimly lit bathroom.

"Fuckin' hell— y' gonna make me cum, baby—" Chris panted, earning a chuckle from Matt for not holding out as long as he was, but Chris ignored him as you gripped his thighs harder, his other hand nearly tearing his shirt with how hard he was holding it. His breathing became shaky, his legs trembling a bit as his hips sputtered against your mouth.

"I'm gonna— Gonna cum— Holy fuuuuck—" Chris gasped out, groaning loudly as you felt his cock twitch against your tongue before pumping his thick, warm cum down your throat, making tears fall down your already mascara stained cheeks, but you held out, especially with his hand keeping your head in place.

"Told you I'd last longer," Matt snickered, though groaning at the way your pussy clenched around his cock due to you swallowing Chris's sperm, missing the way Chris flipped him off.

"You try fuckin' her mouth next time, then we'll see if you're tough shit," Chris snipped back, looking down at you as he pulled his cock from your mouth, smirking at how your tongue licked up the rest of his residing cum on your lips, before helping you stand up just a bit.

"Fuck— Next time? You hear that, ma?" Matt breathily asked, watching the way you put your hands on Chris's chest to keep you upright before turning your head to look back at him, your pink, glossy lips parted as you face already looked fucked out, making him groan. "You wanna see us again?"

You nodded before moaning as Matt started thrusting harder, deeper into your cunt, suddenly feeling as Chris grasped your jaw and turned your face back to him, his lips brushing against yours.

"Good, cause I don't think I'll ever get enough of you," He purred low, earning a slurred giggle from you before your lips met in a messy, passionate kiss, your nails digging into his shirt as Matt hit that perfect spot within you, your moan swallowed into the kiss.

"Jesus, ma— This pussy's fuckin' amazing— Gonna get me addicted to this shit—" Matt groaned, his body leaning forward to press his chest against your back, in turn, making your chest press against Chris's as you continued to make out.

Your eyes rolled back as Chris's tongue slipped into your mouth, tangling with your tongue as you felt like you were getting drunk off of Matt's dick. God, this was fucking heaven.

One of your shaky hands reached back to meet Matt's that still held your hip, gripping it in an attempt to tell him you were close.

"Y' gonna cum, mama? Yeah? This dick that fuckin' good?" Matt cooed, chuckling as Chris pulled from the kiss to glare at him before delving back in to kiss you harder, your moans and whines spilling into his mouth and in between breaths, his hands palming at your tits.

As that burning ecstasy built in your abdomen, you felt as Matt kissed at your shoulder and neck, biting and kissing over the hickies both of them had made during the make out sesh earlier. The sensation of everything felt like too much, Chris's hands kneading your tits, Matt's dick pounding your sweet cunt, both of their mouths on you.

"'M gonna cum ma— Cum with me— Fuck, please cum with me—"

It hardly took much of Matt's begging to make that pleasure snap within you, your back arching hard, your legs shaking, your hands gripping Chris's shirt like a life line, your lips parting from his to let out a loud, gorgeous moan, especially as you felt Matt's hips stutter before pumping your pussy full of his cum, thick spurts painting you gummy walls.

After a few more moments of Matt riding out your highs, he stilled, all three of you panting in near unison, spent and blissed out. Matt chuckled breathlessly at your face, loving the way you looked completely fucked out now.

"Was that good for you, ma?" He asked, earning a nod and a slurred "mhmm" from you before he leaned in to kiss you, soft and deep, before parting, feeling as Chris pressed his lips to your ear, whispering sultrily into it.

"So, who was better?"

You huffed as you rolled your eyes, your voice a bit strained and tired as you answered back. "Both of you were fucking good.."

"Yeah, but I was better, right?" Chris asked like a puppy looking for validation to boost his ego.

"C'mon dude, she was moaning all over my dick," Matt protested.

"Yeah? Well, she was cryin' all over mine."

"That was cause of me."

"Like hell it was! Did you see the way she was drooling on my dick??"

You huffed as they bickered, too tired to tell them to knock it off, just resting your head on Chris's chest and closing your eyes.

Oh you were definitely going to do this again.

☆ : this one's also not proofread, so i'm really sorry if it's bad, i'm so tired chat 😭 I fuckin started my bloodbath this morning and i'm in pain- BUT IM PULLING THROUGH THE BEST I CAN FOR YALL- hope y'all enjoy, mwah <33

taglist 🏷️

[athenalvss]

TELEPATÍA (Bruce wayne !)

request: I own hc about the reader falling madly in love with Batman, and he also do but the problem is that she's not interested in Bruce Wayne more to not like him especially for his playboy persona.

summary: Bruce Wayne seems a little determined to win you over at each of the galas you share and that exasperates you, but you don't know that you are deeply in love with his secret version.

a/n: idk what I just write

pairing; Bruce wayne x hero! fem reader.

open request — batman masterlist

The first time you met Bruce was at one of the galas that the Gotham City elite had put on, and being part of it you were practically obliged to go if you didn't want to break business ties with some of them, and it was there where you met Bruce Wayne.

I mean, personally, cause who didn't know Bruce Wayne? The orphaned boy turned billionaire. The heir to one of Gotham's largest fortunes. The missing man who returned to live his life between parties, scandals, and magazine covers. They'd mentioned him to you before. "I'm sure you'll love him, he's so charming," "He has a magnetic presence," "He's fascinated by intelligent women..." But when you saw him in front of you, you only thought one thing: "How disgusting."

He arrived late, with that arrogant smile and that "the world belongs to me" air. The murmurs followed him like a shadow. He approached you with a drink in his hand, his tuxedo perfectly tailored, and a confidence that bordered on insolence.

"I didn't know Gotham's business included such interesting and beautiful women. Have we met?" he said, as if you were already exhausted.

You held his gaze without smiling. "If we'd met, believe me, you'd remember." And without further ado, you walked softly out of his sight, leaving him with the words on his lips.

From that moment on, you knew he was going to be a problem. Men have a hard time with acceptance, and he was no exception. Bruce Wayne wasn't used to being rejected. And you weren't a woman with much patience for people like him.

What you didn't know back then was that that arrogance hid someone much more like you than you cared to admit. The man who patrolled the city every night with you. The man you knew as Batman.

To you, Bruce Wayne is a symbol of frivolity and superficiality: parties, women, fake smiles. You believe there's nothing real about him; he was truly an idiot if he thought he could win you over even a little with Batman waiting for you every night.

So every time Bruce Wayne tries to flirt with you, it only makes you want to leave even more. Because if he knew who you share your early mornings with… If he knew who you truly give your time and trust to… You find it pathetic. You even feel a little sorry for him. cause there's nothing Bruce Wayne can give you that Batman hasn't already shown you…

The first time you met Batman was on one of Gotham's many dark nights. You had received information about an illegal shipment of experimental weapons arriving at the port.

You infiltrated alone. Silently. Precisely. Until everything went wrong. An ambush. Bigger bodies, more heavily armed. You were good, very good, but not immortal. When you thought it was the end, a shadow fell between you and the gunfire. Silence. Sharp blows. One movement after another. And when you were able to stand again, he was there: Dark. Tall. Utterly imposing.

"You shouldn't be here." His voice was deep, as if the city were speaking through him.

"Don't tell me what to do," you spat at him, furious that he hadn't anticipated the ambush.

Batman, your beloved Batman, a respectful, chivalrous, caring, protective man, should you follow the list? It had fascinated you from the very beginning.

You didn't know exactly when it started. Maybe it was the night he covered you with his cape when you were shivering from the cold on top of a building. Or the time he wordlessly left a clean bandage beside you after a fight. Or when, after a particularly tough mission, he just sat with you, staring out at the lights of Gotham, without saying a word.

Not knowing each other's true identities was a real mess, but you liked staying that way. There was a certain seduction game going on, and they enjoyed it that way, even though you could only see each other at night.

And when you joined the Justice League it was even cooler, you were able to meet people with the same ideals and ideas for a better world, and you could spend more time with your mysterious lover.

When you joined the Justice League, the rules were clear: No one knew anyone's civilian identities. No real names, no addresses, no pasts. It was for safety, but also out of respect. They were a team, not a family.

Well, that didn't really happen like that, maybe no one knew their real names or their faces, but it was inevitable not to create some kind of friendship, once after a gala night you returned to the watchtower and met some of the members of the league, including Batman, and you began to tell them the situation and your feelings for that man who was stalking you at the galas.

"I'm fed up," you said, slumping into one of the armchairs.

Wonder Woman raised an eyebrow, amused. "What happened to you this time, huh?"

"Bruce Wayne." You sighed, rolling your eyes. "That guy shows up at every gala, like he owns the city... which he does. But he's so... insufferable. He follows me around, smiles at me like he knows me. What does he think? That I'm going to fall for an expensive suit and a perfect smile?"

Superman laughed. "Why don't you give it a try? Maybe it won't be so bad."

"Four words Superman, he.is.a.Playboy."

And Batman sitting next to you just remained silent, as was usual when the league members were there, he had to maintain his serious image.

Everyone talked about their lives, but they had never talked about who they were, and perhaps they never knew, well... almost no one knew.

It was during an emergency meeting. A mistake on a mission nearly cost one of the members their life. And when Batman opened the information he'd stored, it revealed everything he knew: their names, their revealed faces, their abilities and weaknesses—enough information to destroy each member of the team.

That broke the League. The atmosphere in the room remained tense. The betrayal. Everyone looked at him. Some with anger. Others with disappointment, and you could only stand there with your heart in your hand. You had trusted him even without knowing who he was. Why had he done that?

And you... you could only stand there with your heart in your hand. You had trusted him. Batman. Without knowing his face, his name, his life outside the suit. You had trusted him more than anyone. You had fallen in love. And now... you knew he had spied on you, watched you, recorded you as if you were a threat.

"Why?" was all you could ask. Not as a hero. Not as a member of the League. But as someone who had just lost something too deep.

The silence was brutal. No one interrupted you. No one stood up for him. You didn't know if it was more the pain of betrayal... Or the pang in your chest that came with the certainty: he'd known who you were all along.

"I needed something safe. Something that could stop them if ever… if something bad happened." His voice was low but firm. "Someone has to think the worst, even if no one wants to. And if that means them hating me… I'm fine with that."

And without waiting for anything, he ran his hands through his hood and threw it to the ground before looking up, allowing the entire team to see his face.

You really saw him, you couldn't believe it. Bruce Wayne. The insufferable idiot at the galas. The one you thought could never understand you. The one who made you roll your eyes with every arrogant smirk...

One by one, the League members began to leave. He gave Bruce a look filled with unspoken words, and then simply nodded, as if that battle wasn't going to be fought there. And so, there was silence. Just him and you.

The silence between you grew even thicker. He took a step toward you, carefully, as if everything could still shatter with a single movement. You looked at him, at Bruce, at Batman. And it all felt too real.

"Do you know what hurts the most?" you said, your voice barely trembling. "That it was you all this time. That I looked you in the eyes, that we argued at those damn galas, that I told you things and you just stayed silent."

Before he could respond, you hit him. A sharp slap, not hateful, but with the full weight of frustration and pent-up betrayal. He didn't even flinch. He just nodded, his eyes lowered.

"I deserve it" he muttered.

"Of course you deserve it!" you responded angrily, but it was no longer pure anger... just that knot in your chest that unraveled into the words, "You made me fall in love with a version of you, and they were the same."

And then it happened. You grabbed him by the collar, pulled him close, and kissed him.

It was wild. Intense. Almost a declaration of war. And he responded as if he'd been waiting for this moment forever. Not like Batman. Like Bruce Wayne, like the man who loved you.

When they broke apart, they were so close they could feel each other's breath. And you smiled faintly. "I hate you a little."

"I can live with that," he said, with an awkward but genuine smile.

[angelsuecult]

it ain’t me babe | s. crosby

“i’m not the one you want, babe

i will only let you down”

warnings: none.

summary: you feel out of place at a wedding with Sidney, left wondering where your relationship is going.

request: We need Sid and younger girlfriend attending a wedding 👀 here realizing that maybe Sid should see other people angsty slow burn fluff smut maybe?

word count: 7.7k

song: it ain’t me - joan baez

a/n: WHY DID NONE OF YOU TELL ME MY STORIES WEREN’T UPLOADING TO SCHEDULE?? And to the original author of the question please don’t hesitate to reach out if you hate it and would like a different approach!

part one | next part

—

You’re barely fastening the clasp of your earring when the knock comes at your door.

Shit.

You glance at the time—Sid’s early. Of course, he is. The man knows you too well, knows you’d be running around last-minute, half-dressed and cursing yourself for not getting ready sooner. He does this on purpose, you swear.

“Hang on!” you call, stepping into your heels and padding toward the door. You take a second to smooth your dress down, inhaling to collect yourself before pulling it open.

And there he is.

Sidney Crosby in a suit has always been a dangerous thing, but this? Slate-gray with that slight blue undertone, crisp white shirt underneath, tie done just right. He wears it like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just knock the breath out of you for a second. The broad set of his shoulders fills your doorway, his stance easy but composed. You know his tailor probably had to fight with him to get the fit just right because God forbid Sidney spends a second longer than necessary picking out clothes.

His eyes flick over you, a slow, deliberate once-over. “Damn.”

You smirk, tilting your head. “That good?”

“That bad,” he corrects, stepping in slightly. His voice is low, edged with something appreciative. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You roll your eyes, but heat creeps up your neck anyway. “You clean up alright, I guess.”

Sid scoffs, shoving his hands into his pockets as he gives you a pointed look. “Yeah? That the best I’m getting?”

You bite your lip, letting your gaze flicker over him. “Fine. You look—decent.”

His brows raise.

“Passable,” you add.

“You’re full of shit,” he mutters, stepping into your apartment fully now, shutting the door behind him. His eyes don’t leave yours, but his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to grin. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“Oh, pretty, huh?” you tease. “Not stunning? Not breathtaking?”

Sid exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You want a fuckin’ essay or somethin’? You look unreal, babe.” He leans in, voice dropping slightly. “Like I’m about to forget we have somewhere to be.”

You roll your eyes again, but your stomach flips. “Please. You’re so punctual, you’d probably have sex with me and still get us there early.”

That gets a laugh out of him, warm and low. “Multitasking’s a skill, y’know.”

You shake your head, turning to grab your clutch from the counter. “Alright, Romeo. Let me just—”

You pause, sighing. The clasp on your necklace is giving you a hard time, and your nails aren’t helping. You feel Sid behind you before he even says anything, his presence steady and familiar.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hands brushing against your shoulders as he takes over. His fingers are warm against your skin, careful as he fastens it for you.

You exhale. “Thanks.”

Sid doesn’t step away immediately. He lets his fingers drift lightly over your collarbone, tracing the chain before dipping lower, just slightly. His voice is casual, but you hear the edge of amusement in it when he murmurs, “You smell good.”

You smile, resisting the urge to lean back into him. “You always say that.”

“’Cause it’s true.” His lips brush against the side of your neck, and you can feel his smirk. “What is it?”

“Same one I always wear.”

“Then why does it smell better tonight?”

You laugh, finally turning to face him. “Maybe I put on extra just for you.”

Sid grins, hands settling lightly at your waist. “Mm. Thought so.”

You press your hands against his chest, the fabric of his suit smooth under your palms. “Alright, Crosby. We should go before you get too distracted.”

He smirks but steps back, reaching for the door. “You sayin’ I don’t have self-control?”

“I’m saying you’re full of shit.”

Sid just laughs, waiting for you to step out before locking up behind you.

And he leads you outside, his hand firm and familiar on your lower back as he walks you toward the car. The air is cool, but you barely feel it with the heat of him so close.

He gets to the passenger side first, opening the door like a gentleman—except the cocky smirk on his face ruins the moment entirely.

"Look at me, such a gentleman," he says, voice dripping with self-satisfaction.

You snort, stepping past him to get in. "I was just about to say that. So chivalrous, Sidney. I’m swooning." He lets out a laugh, standing just behind you as you gather the fabric of your dress so it doesn’t catch.

"C’mon princess, in you go," he says, voice laced with amusement.

You give him a look as you settle into the seat. "I can get in a car by myself, you know."

"Sure you can," Sid smirks and leans down, one hand bracing the top of the door as he watches you adjust yourself. "But then I wouldn’t get to stare at your ass while you do it."

You scoff, swatting at his chest. "Jesus, Sid. Buy me a drink first."

"First of all, you love it. Second, you don’t even like the drinks at these things," he says easily, eyes glinting. Then he leans down a little further, dropping his voice. "And third, you know I’m right."

Your face heats, but you roll your eyes as you grab the seatbelt. "Unbelievable."

He laughs, shaking his head as he steps back and shuts the door. You watch as he rounds the car, taking his time, looking unfairly good while doing it. When he slides into the driver’s seat, he throws you a look—one of those easy, amused ones, where his mouth quirks up like you’re the most entertaining thing in his world.

“You always get this high maintenance before you go anywhere, or am I just lucky?”

“Oh, it’s just for you, baby,” you say sweetly.

You buckle up, getting comfortable, and then—instinctively, automatically—you reach for the radio.

Sid groans before you even touch it. "Babe."

You don’t even look at him, flipping through stations like it’s your goddamn job. "What?"

"You do this every time."

"And?"

"And—" He gestures vaguely, exasperated. "You’re not gonna find anything you like."

"You don’t know that," you argue, still pressing buttons, your face drawn in concentration.

Sid rests his elbow against the center console, watching you with an amused kind of annoyance. "You’re gonna cycle through, sigh dramatically, and then just plug in your phone like you always do."

You shoot him a look. "Not true."

He raises a brow. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright." He leans back, hands on the wheel, clearly settling in. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Take your time. I’ll just sit here, suffering."

"You’re so dramatic," you mutter, still clicking through static and commercials.

Sid just hums, watching in silence. You flip through three more stations before you sigh—dramatically, because fine, maybe he was right. You pull out your phone, scrolling through your playlists.

Sid laughs, loud and triumphant. "See? What did I fucking say?"

You huff, clicking on a song. "Shut up."

"You’re so predictable."

"You’re so annoying."

Sid just smirks, squeezing your thigh before pulling out of the parking spot.

You let the music fill the space, settling into the ride, before you reach up, flipping down the visor mirror. You check your reflection, tilting your head, adjusting an earring that doesn’t actually need adjusting.

Sid glances over. "Oh my god."

"What?" You swipe under your eye, checking for smudged mascara.

"Baby, you look fine."

"I just wanna make sure."

"You spent two hours getting ready."

"Yeah, and?"

"And—" He gestures vaguely again, exasperated. "You’re already fucking perfect. Stop fussing."

“Well, I need to make sure I stay perfect,” you say, adjusting your hair. “Can’t have people thinking you settled.”

Sid barks out a laugh. “Settled? Jesus, babe, I could show up to this thing in a fucking clown suit and people would still think I outkicked my coverage.”

You snort, capping your lipstick and tossing it into your clutch.

Which, speaking of—

Sid watches, shaking his head. "You carrying bricks in there?"

"It’s essentials."

"You don’t need all that shit."

You glance at him. "You questioning my process?"

"Absolutely."

You scoff. “It’s not that bad.”

Sid leans back in his seat, smirking. "Go on, then. Let’s see what you’ve got in there."

You narrow your eyes, but you humor him, setting your bag open on your lap and narrating as you pull things out one by one.

"Phone," you start, setting it aside. "Lipstick. Powder. Rings—"

"Why are your rings in there?"

"Because I didn’t feel like putting them on before I left, obviously," you say, slipping them onto your fingers now.

Sid shakes his head, grinning. "You’re something else."

You keep going. "Hair tie. Gum. Mini perfume, just in case—"

"In case of what? A body odor emergency?"

You ignore him. "Tampon."

Sid lets out a strangled laugh. "Well, that’s a buzzkill."

"You wish it was a buzzkill," you say, shoving it back into your clutch.

He smirks. "I do love an insurance policy."

You snort, giving him a playful shove before going back to your bag. "What else? Oh, mints."

"Why gum and mints?"

"In case I change my mind!"

Sid just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as you continue your inventory.

Finally, you zip your clutch shut and sit back, satisfied.

Sid glances at you, amused. "You good now? Got everything?"

You exhale, nodding. "Yeah. I think I’m good."

"Thank fuck," he says dramatically, throwing the car into drive.

You smack his arm, and he just laughs, shooting you a look as he pulls out onto the road.

"You love me," you remind him.

He grins, squeezing your thigh again.

"Yeah, yeah. Lucky me."

It takes about thirty minutes to get there. And, like a true gentleman, Sidney helps you out of the car and into the venue.

And it is stunning. High ceilings draped with soft white fabric, chandeliers casting a warm golden glow, round tables set with crisp white linens and floral centerpieces so perfect they look straight out of a magazine. There’s a soft hum of conversation, glasses clinking, and occasional bursts of laughter. A string quartet plays softly in the background. It’s the kind of wedding that is effortless in its elegance, the kind of wedding where you don’t just attend—you experience it.

Sid steps up right beside you, his hand tightens around yours as you take it all in. “Nice place, huh?”

You nod. It is nice—really nice.

And then, like clockwork, it begins.

“Crosby!”

A voice calls out from across the room, and before you can even register who it belongs to, Sidney is already flashing a grin, lifting a hand in an easy wave.

A guy you don’t recognize claps Sid on the back, grinning wide. You barely have a second to register his face before another man steps in, another handshake, another enthusiastic greeting.

Sid is swept up so seamlessly it’s like muscle memory for him. A laugh here, a nod there, a quick remark that makes the whole group erupt in laughter. You smile politely as introductions are made, shaking hands, exchanging names that you instantly forget.

And just like that, he’s gone. Not physically—Sidney’s still right beside you—but it’s like he’s already been swept into a current, drawn into a world that, despite standing right here, you aren’t really a part of.

You feel the exact moment Sid drops your hand. It’s not intentional, not cruel, just... mindless. Which somehow feels worse. And you’re introduced a couple of times—Sid’s younger girlfriend, the polite smiles, the pleasant nods.

Though you're sure they won’t remember your name.

Not when they’re too busy swapping stories, reliving old memories, throwing easy, teasing jabs at Sid—

“Christ, still single? What the hell, man?��

“You holding out on us, or what?”

“No wife, no kids, just hockey, huh?”

And Sid laughs because of course he does. He takes it in stride, throws a few chirps back, and makes them laugh even harder.

You stand there, hands wrapped around your clutch, a smile fixed in place.

Then, without so much as a glance in your direction, Sidney gently nudges you toward the reception area. “Why don’t you go find our table, baby. I’ll be there soon.”

It’s so thoughtless, so effortless, the way he says it. Like he doesn’t even think twice about sending you on your way.

And you? You don’t argue. You don’t tell him you’d rather stay by his side, that you’d rather be included. Because what would be the point?

So you go.

Your heels click against the floors as you weave through the crowd, offering polite nods and small smiles when necessary. People acknowledge you, but only in passing.

A couple at the bar glances your way, the woman offering a smile before turning back to her conversation. An older man—someone’s father, maybe—nods at you as you pass. Another woman, somewhere in her thirties, gives you a glance before returning to her drink.

No one stops you. No one pulls you into a conversation.

Because, to them, you’re just Sidney’s girlfriend.

Not someone with stories of their own, not someone with history or shared memories. No career in hockey so that automatically means your input isn’t welcome. Just the young woman on Sidney Crosby’s arm.

You find your table near the edge of the dance floor. It’s beautifully set—crystal glassware, gold-rimmed plates, a small handwritten place card with your name in elegant script.

But even as you lower yourself into your seat, smoothing the fabric of your dress over your lap, you feel the same lingering disconnect.

Sid is still across the room, engaged in yet another conversation. And then another. And another. And the others at your table have yet to acknowledge your presence.

It happens over and over again.

Someone calls his name, he turns, he smiles. A handshake, a laugh, a knowing nod. The conversations blend together—hockey stories, old teammates, friendly jabs about how he’s still at it, still playing, still single, still Sidney Crosby.

And maybe it’s the wedding, or the company, or the way he’s been effortlessly navigating the room while you’ve been left sitting alone even at a table full of people—but something tightens in your chest.

You take a sip of water, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of your own presence here.

Sid is still talking, still laughing. The people around him are engaged, captivated, drawn in by whatever story is being told.

And you?

You’re just… there.

And just like that, the night drags on.

One hour turns into two. Two turn into three.

In that time, you’ve hardly spoken a word.

You’re still here. Alone.

Still at this table, a glass of champagne untouched, half-eaten food sitting cold on your plate, the candle in the center of the table burning lower and lower.

Laughter, the tinkling of glasses, the low sound of music mingling with conversation. Time moves in a strange way here–too fast in some ways, too slow in others.

Sid’s still across the room. Different circle, same conversation. Or maybe it’s a new one. Maybe it’s the fifth or sixth or tenth. You’ve lost count. But he looks so at ease, so comfortable, like he belongs here in a way you never will. And as much as you love him, as much as you want to believe that you can fit in his world, moments like this make you wonder if that's even possible.

You’re pretty sure you could vanish from this chair and no one would bat an eye.

The first hour wasn’t so bad. You kept yourself occupied, playing with your utensils, checking your phone, sipping at your drink.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he dropped your hand. It might’ve been thoughtless, but that made all the difference.

The second hour was harder. You started feeling it then, the weight of being left with no one to talk to, especially because Sidney hadn’t joined the table for dinner.

Now? Now, you’re just here.

You haven’t spoken to Sidney since you arrived together. The others at your table are talking amongst themselves.

And you? Well you drum your fingers against the table, eyes scanning the room. The dance floor is packed now, couples swaying under dim lighting, some moving a little too slow for the tempo of the song. It’s romantic, in a way.

You love dancing at weddings, and well–Sidney’s far too busy entertaining his hockey groupies. Maybe you should ask that old guy sitting alone at the bar.

You wonder if Sid even knows what time it is.

You hear the sound of someone sitting down at your table. You look up, and a woman in her mid-40s, with perfectly styled hair and a glass of wine in hand, meets your eyes with a bright, curious smile.

“I hear you’re Sidney’s date tonight,” she says, her tone light but carrying that tone of curiosity.

You smile politely, already bracing yourself for the inevitable questions. “Yeah, that’s right.”

She exhales a soft laugh, something like intrigue flickering in her expression. “Wow. How old are you honey?”

The bluntness catches you off guard, but you force a smile. “Uh, twenty-four.”

“Oh!” Her eyes widen, and her hand briefly touches her chest, as if you’ve just told her you’re fresh out of high school. “What a surprise.”

You give a tight-lipped smile, unsure of how to respond. It’s not the first time someone’s commented on the age difference between you and Sid, and it probably won’t be the last. Still, the way she’s looking at you, like you’re some kind of curiosity, makes your skin prickle.

Before you can say anything else, a few other women, all in similar age brackets as the first, drift over to join the conversation. They greet the first woman warmly before turning their attention to you. Their eyes rake over you with thinly veiled interest, and you can already tell where this is headed.

“So,” one of them says, her tone laced with curiosity. “You’re Sidney’s date?”

“That’s what I just said,” the first woman replies with a knowing grin.

You nod, trying to keep your smile polite and neutral. “Yeah, I am.”

“Well, aren’t you a lucky girl,” one of the women comments, her tone a little too sweet. “I mean, Sidney Crosby! He’s, what, 35 now?”

You nod again, not really sure what to say. “Yeah, he just turned 35.”

Another woman, a blonde with sharp cheekbones and a diamond necklace that looks expensive enough to buy a house, lets out a soft laugh. “He’s practically a national treasure. I bet people just lose their minds when they see you two together.”

You smile, hoping the conversation stays at least somewhat friendly, but there’s a strange tension building that you can’t quite place.

One of the women, a brunette in a dress that clings to her figure, gives you a long, appraising look. “You know,” she says with a smirk, “you remind me of that movie with Richard Gere and the fiery redhead. What’s it called? Pretty Woman?”

Your brows knit together. “Oh, you think I look like Julia Roberts?”

She smiles, like you’re adorable. “You could say that. But I was thinking more about the other thing.”

You blink, the implication sinking in.

Oh.

Oh.

Your stomach twists.

The first woman giggles, catching on. “God, that’s awful,” she says, but she’s laughing like it’s not.

“I mean,” the blonde continues, swirling her drink, “it’s not that different, right? Gorgeous younger woman, powerful older guy…”

The third woman smirks. “Except in this version, the guy’s a hockey player instead of a businessman.”

“And he didn’t have to pay for her company,” the first woman adds with a giggle.

You laugh, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do? You laugh, because it’s easier than acknowledging the weight of their words, the way their comments slide under your skin like cold, sharp needles.

“Oh, come on,” the blonde says, nudging your arm. “You’re not offended, are you?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “No, it’s funny.”

She smiles, satisfied, then takes a slow sip of her champagne.

The brunette lets out a low chuckle, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Don’t take it the wrong way, sweetheart. It’s just that, well… you’re so young. Practically a baby. And Sidney? He’s… well, let’s just say it’s obvious why he’s with you.”

You try to laugh it off, but it sounds forced even to your own ears. “Right…”

One of the other women pipes up with a teasing grin. “Midlife crisis, right? Every man gets one eventually. They just want something young and fresh to keep them feeling young, you know?”

The second woman snorts. “Guess it was either a sports car or a twenty-four-year-old.”

“Well,” the third woman muses, tapping a finger to her chin. “A sports car probably wouldn’t keep him warm at night.”

You laugh again, though it feels hollow in your chest.

“Oh, come on, now,” the blonde chimes in again, clearly having fun with the way you’re squirming. “We’re just teasing. But really, how long have you been with Sid? A couple months? Bet he’s just swept you off your feet, huh?”

You open your mouth to answer, but one of the women cuts you off with a snicker. “Oh, I bet he has. Must be nice to have a guy like that, huh? With all that stamina...”

“God,” one of them says with a chuckle, giving you a once-over. “You are young. How long have you and Sid been together, really?”

“Over a year.”

“Over a year?” The other one lets out a low whistle. “Wow, that’s impressive. And you’re already sitting through one of these things? You must be committed.”

“Oh, come on, ladies. I think it’s sweet,” one of them drawls, swirling her wine. “Older men love a hot young thing on their arm. Keeps ’em feeling young.”

“Yeah, but at what point does it get sad? Like, at what age does it start looking more ‘divorced dad’ than ‘hot older guy’?”

“Probably when she graduates college.”

The laughter rolls through the group again, light and airy.

You hum, taking a slow sip of champagne. Though it tastes a little sour now.

“Besides,” another adds, smirking, “I bet Sid loves having someone so...energetic in bed.”

The table howls.

And fuck, you laugh, too, even though it feels more than wrong.

You feel raw, exposed, like they’ve pinned you down and picked you apart piece by piece, all while smiling, all while meaning nothing by it.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

They don’t even realize how shitty it is.

It’s not that the jokes are vicious.

It’s just that they’re at your expense.

And you let them be.

And Sid—Sid doesn’t even know. Why would he?

He’s still across the room, caught up in conversation, in familiarity, in a place that has always been his, while you sit here, drinking shitty champagne and wondering how the hell you ended up feeling this alone at a table full of people.

It's not his job to babysit you, though, is it? But would it have killed him to talk to you outside of dismissing you from his conversation? Or to sit and eat dinner with you? To ask if you wanted a drink. Or even to ask you to dance? Maybe that's why you feel so out of place. This isn’t your world; it’s Sidney’s, and that's perfectly fine. But would it be too much to ask for your date to spend a measly second with you?

Eventually, you slip out of the reception hall unnoticed.

No one calls after you, no one asks where you’re going.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

The air is cooler here, quieter, the distant hum of conversation and music muffled by the thick walls of the venue.

You don’t have a destination in mind, just an aimless need to be somewhere else—somewhere not at that table, smiling through another round of backhanded jokes and polite pleasantries.

And you find yourself in front of the coat check, a long bench against the wall offering a lonely place to sit.

You sink down onto it with a sigh, letting your head tilt back against the wall.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

The night’s almost over, anyway.

Right?

It’s been four—five?—hours. Who’s counting?

You tug your phone out of your clutch and check the time. Yeah. Five hours.

Jesus.

“You heading out?”

Blinking, you turn toward the coat check counter, where a young guy—early twenties, maybe—leans against the ledge. He’s got a tie loosely knotted around his neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a clipboard in hand. His name tag, slightly askew, reads Ethan.

“Not yet. No.”

He raises a brow, shifting his weight against the counter. “Just hanging out by the coat closet for fun, then?”

You smile, tapping your fingers against your knee. “I’m hoping my date will come looking for me, realize I’m gone, and we’ll head out.” You sigh dramatically. “Maybe in an hour or two.”

The guy snorts. “Damn. That bad, huh?”

You raise a brow. “Eh. It’s fine. You work a lot of weddings?”

“More than I can count.” He taps the clipboard against his palm. “Seen it all. Drunken speeches, fistfights, groomsmen throwing up in planters. You name it.”

You snort. “Sounds like a fun gig.”

“Oh, tons of fun,” he deadpans. “Nothing like watching a mother-in-law cry because she hates the centerpieces.”

You shake your head, lips curving.

“So,” he continues, cocking his head, “you on the bride’s side or groom’s side?”

“Neither,” you admit. “I’m a plus-one.”

“Ah. Who’s your date?”

“He’s an ex-teammate of the groom.”

He lets out a low whistle. “So, basically, everyone in there’s a hockey player.”

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

He leans his forearms on the counter, looking amused. “Failed, retired, or current?”

You grin. “All of the above.”

His eyes narrow playfully. “You’re not a hockey player, though.”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

He gives you a once-over. “Yeah, you don’t have the vibe. Too put-together. And you still have all your teeth.”

You laugh, genuinely this time.

He studies you for a beat. “So how’s your night been?”

You open your mouth to say fine, but what comes out instead is—

“Well, I just got called a hooker and a midlife crisis in one sitting, so.”

Ethan chokes. “Jesus Christ.”

You shrug.

“Who the hell’s your date?” he asks again, eyes narrowing. “Because he sounds like he fucking sucks at his job.”

You glance toward the closed doors of the reception, then back at him. “Sidney Crosby.”

Ethan stares at you. Then he exhales a laugh, rubbing the back of his head. “Well, there you have it,” he says. “Old as dirt Sidney with a… how old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

He raises his brows. “Eh. Not that bad.”

You huff. “Glad to hear it.”

“If it makes you feel better,” he adds, propping his chin on his hand, “I’ve already had to stop three drunk couples from trying to sneak into the coat closet to fuck.”

You lift a brow. “Three?”

He nods solemnly. “One of them was definitely old enough to be my parents.”

You grimace. “Christ.”

“Exactly.” He shakes his head. “So, really, your night could be worse.”

You smirk, tilting your head. “You mean I could be fucking in the coat closet?”

He grins. “See? Silver linings.”

You roll your eyes, stretching your legs out in front of you, smoothing your hands over your dress as you glance toward the coat check counter.

“So,” you say, tilting your head, “is this, like, your full-time gig?”

He shakes his head, adjusting his headset. “Nah. Just part-time. Helps pay for school.”

You perk up. “Ohh. College student.” A slow grin spreads across your lips. “You’re just a baby.”

His mouth drops open slightly before he lets out a scoff. “I’m 22, not 2.”

You hold up your hands in mock surrender, biting back a laugh. “Relax, kid.”

He points a finger at you. “You’re not even that much older than me.”

You pretend to be deep in thought. “Mmm. You say that, but I’m practically ancient in your eyes. What are 24-year-olds to you? Fossils?”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. If you’re a fossil, then Sidney Crosby is—”

“A museum exhibit,” you finish, nodding solemnly.

He grins. “Exactly. So, you're not that much older than me, then.”

You wave a dismissive hand. “In college years, two years is a lot. You’re still in that phase where you think mixing vodka with Gatorade is a good idea.”

He raises a brow. “And what phase are you in?”

You hum, pretending to think about it. “The phase where I know mixing vodka with Gatorade is only a good idea if you’ve got nothing else left in the fridge.”

He leans against the counter, shaking his head. “Jesus man, twenty-four and thirty-five is wild. That’s, like…” He pauses, pretending to do the math in his head. “That’s a whole thirteen years.”

Your mouth twitches. “11 actually. Solid math skills. College is treating you well, huh?”

He grins. “Damn right.” Then, after a beat, “So, what’s it like? Dating an elderly man?”

You snort. “Honestly? Kind of nice. Early bedtimes. Dinner at four-thirty. Always has Werther’s Originals in his pocket.”

He lets out a loud laugh. “No fucking way.”

You shrug, completely deadpan. “No point lying about it. Just last week he was complaining about his knees. His knees.”

He wipes a fake tear from his eye. “Unreal.”

You sigh dramatically. “The burden of dating an aging athlete.”

He grins. “You’re a real one for sticking around.”

You smirk. “Someone’s gotta help him up the stairs.”

“Someone’s gotta help him out of bed.”

You tilt your head. “You joke, but honestly, have you ever seen a hockey player wake up in the morning? It’s like watching an old dog stretch. Takes him, like, five whole minutes to fully stand up straight.”

He’s full-on wheezing now. “Please.”

You hold up a hand. “Swear to God. You know that snap, crackle, pop sound Rice Krispies make?”

He nods, barely holding it together.

“That’s Sidney every morning.”

That’s it. He loses it completely, practically doubled over laughing. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he gasps.

“Anyway, now that we’ve established that I’m a grown-ass man, wanna guess what I’m studying?”

You tap a finger against your chin, pretending to consider. “Hmm. Something in hospitality? Customer service? You seem way too unbothered for someone who has to deal with drunk rich people all night.”

“Business,” he says, then makes a face. “I know. Riveting.”

You shrug. “Hey, business is important. You could be running this whole venue one day.”

“Yeah, or scamming people on Wall Street.”

“Oh, so that’s the real plan.”

He taps his nose knowingly. “Gotta make that coat check money stretch.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t know, seems like a good ideas. You would get to people-watch, make fun of drunk wedding guests, witness some truly awful flirting…”

“Break up couples fucking in the coat closet,” he adds.

You grin. “Right, that too, you already have the experience.”

“It’s alright,” he admits.

You hum in acknowledgment.

“But I actually wanna do something cool with it, I swear.”

“Uh-huh.” You tilt your head. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “I wanna open my own bar. Something, like, good, though. Classy. Not just some sticky-floored shithole that only serves cheap beer and watered-down whiskey.”

You lift a brow. “So, you wanna open a fancy bar.”

He grins. “Yeah, but cool fancy. Not asshole fancy.”

You smirk. “Big dreams.”

He nods. “Huge.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Well, at least you’d be making an honest living. Can’t say the same for me, apparently.”

He winces. “Yeah, hey at least you’re escorting Sidney Crosby to weddings. Could be worse. Like some old scrub no one remembers.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Ha, ha.”

He smirks. “I mean, those people back there seemed pretty convinced.”

“Yeah, well, they can choke,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

He laughs. “Fair.”

You sigh dramatically. “If only I weren’t so well-behaved.”

He smirks. “If only you weren’t Sidney Crosby’s well-behaved girlfriend. Unlike some people at this wedding.”

You let out a sharp laugh, covering your mouth. “Jesus Christ.”

“What?” He grins, unbothered. “That’s what they think, right? You know, sell your body for some cash.”

You laugh.

He gestures at you. “See? This is a real conversation. None of that fake, rich-people bullshit in there.”

You exhale, nodding. “Yeah. It’s… nice.”

And it is. Really nice. It’s the most you’ve talked all night without feeling like you’re walking some social tightrope. No polite smiles, no fake laughs, no backhanded compliments. Just talking.

You’re just about to say something when Your phone buzzes on the bench beside you. You don’t rush to grab it, already having a pretty good guess at who it is.

Sid: You ready to head out?

You purse your lips, debating. Are you ready? Maybe. Do you care?

You: Up to you.

The typing bubble pops up almost immediately.

Sid: Where are you?

You glance up at the coat check counter, at your new best friend of the evening—who’s leaning against the back wall, scrolling idly on his phone.

You: Bathroom.

Technically, not a lie. Just… a creative interpretation of events.

Sid: Meet me at the coat desk?

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Oh, you mean the place I’ve been sitting for the past 45 minutes? What a coincidence.

Instead, you just type out a simple:

You: Sure.

“Ah,” he says knowingly. “Your date finally remembered you exist.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Yep. Miracles do happen.”

He holds a hand to his chest. “Wow. I’m so happy for you.”

You roll your eyes. “Ha, ha.” You glance around the empty hall before sighing. “Hate to cut the night short, but, y’know… duty calls.”

He nods solemnly. “Understandable. You’ll be missed.”

You smirk. “Hey, maybe one day I’ll get married here.” You gesture around dramatically. “And I’ll be sure to bring you back as my coat guy, since you’re doing such a stellar job at keeping away the drunks.”

He grins. “I’d be honored.”

You shake your head, glancing at your phone.

And then you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Because of course, Sidney saying meet me at the coat desk actually means I will take my sweet-ass time getting there.

You lean against the counter, resisting the urge to check your phone again.

Another twenty minutes pass. Then ten more.

“You sure he’s coming?” Coat Guy teases.

You shoot him a look. “Shut up.”

“I mean, I could totally give you a ride home—”

You smirk. “Do you even have a car?”

“…I could get us an Uber.”

You let out a laugh tilting your head toward him. “You know, for someone who was in a rush to leave, he’s sure taking his time.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well, he is old. Maybe he forgot where the coat desk is.”

“Fuck, you’re right. Should I go look for him? Maybe he got lost.”

“Probably wandering the halls like a confused grandpa.”

“Poor guy.”

“I know. Should I page him? ‘Sidney Crosby, please report to the coat check. Your much younger date is waiting for you.’”

You laugh. “God, please do.”

As if on cue, Sid finally rounds the corner, looking not the least bit rushed. He’s still got that stupid effortlessly charming thing going on, tie slightly loosened, jacket draped over his arm. He spots you immediately, his expression softening just a fraction.

“There you are.”

“Here I am,” you say dryly, standing up straighter.

Sid eyes you for a beat, like he can’t tell if you’re actually annoyed or just messing with him. You don’t exactly help him out, keeping your face as neutral as possible.

He turns his attention to the coat guy, nodding in greeting. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He gives him a knowing smirk but doesn’t say anything else.

Sid doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does but just doesn’t care. Either way, he turns back to you. “Got everything?”

You lift your clutch slightly. “Mhm.”

Sid nods, then slides his jacket back on, rolling his shoulders as he adjusts it. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah,” you say, not bothering to hide your exasperation.

Sid places a warm hand on your lower back, guiding you toward the exit. As you pass the desk, you shoot him a wink. “Don’t miss me too much.”

“I’ll try,” he says, grinning. “No promises, though.”

Sid glances between the two of you but doesn’t say anything. Just tightens his hand slightly against your back as he leads you out.

And just like that, you’re finally leaving.

Hours too late, but hey. Who’s counting?

Sid’s hand stays on your lower back as he leads you to the car. The night air is cool, but not unpleasant, and the walk is quiet. You don’t really reach for him. Don’t hold his arm or lace your fingers through his. You just hold onto your clutch, letting the silence settle between you. Sid doesn’t push it, just keeps his hand steady as he guides you toward the car.

The parking lot is mostly empty now, save for a few stragglers lingering near their cars, caught up in post-wedding conversations. Sid unlocks the car with a click of the key fob, and you both slide in without a word. The door shuts with a solid thunk.

Once inside, the radio hums softly in the background—some classic rock station Sid always defaults to. You don’t reach to change it this time. You just pull out your phone, scrolling for a moment before you open a text thread with a friend and start typing something, not thinking too hard about it.

You: If you ever get invited to a wedding full of ex-hockey players, politely decline.

Sid glances over at you before shifting the car into reverse, backing out of the spot. The drive starts off the same way the walk did—quiet. Not necessarily tense, just…muted. It’s been a long night, after all.

A couple of minutes in, Sid finally breaks the silence. “How was your night?”

You don’t look up from your phone. “Great.”

He waits a beat, like he’s expecting more. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, eyes still on your screen. “Food was a little dry, but no complaints.”

Sid hums. “Okay.”

The car falls back into silence, save for the steady sound of the tires against the pavement and the occasional change in song on the radio. You keep texting, your thumbs moving idly over the screen.

After a while, Sid speaks again. “Did you get to talk to anyone?”

You let out a short breath—almost a laugh. “Sort of.”

Sid glances at you briefly before turning his attention back to the road. “What does that mean?”

You set your phone down in your lap, finally looking over at him. “I mean, the three women who did talk to me were very funny.”

Sid frowns slightly. “Funny?”

You smile, but there’s no real warmth behind it. “Hilarious, actually.”

His fingers tighten around the wheel. “Okay…”

That’s the end of that conversation. Another stretch of silence. The wedding venue fades into the distance behind you, the city lights coming into view ahead.

A few more minutes pass before you shift slightly in your seat, looking out the window. “Hey, can you just take me home?”

Sid glances at you again, brows furrowing. “I thought we agreed you’d just come back to my place.”

You nod. “Yeah, we did. I just…kinda want to go home now.”

Sid’s grip on the wheel tightens just a fraction. “Why?”

You shrug. “I just want to sleep in my own bed.”

Sid exhales through his nose. “You like my bed.”

You nod again. “I do.”

“But you don’t want to sleep in it tonight?”

“Not really.”

Sid doesn’t respond right away. Just keeps driving, his expression unreadable. He’s confused, you can tell. The change of plans is throwing him off.

You pick at the hem of your dress. “It’s fine,” you say lightly. “We can just go back to your place and I’ll call an Uber to take me home.”

Sid lets out a small, humorless laugh. “I can take you home. It’s not a big deal.”

You look over at him. “Great.”

But it doesn’t feel great. It feels weird. Off.

Sid’s jaw flexes slightly as he makes a turn, the city lights casting shadows over his face. “Did something happen?”

You shake your head. “No.”

Sid doesn’t look convinced. “Then why are you acting weird?”

“I’m not acting weird.”

“You are acting weird.”

You sigh, leaning your head back against the seat. “I’m just tired, Sid. It’s been a long night.”

Sid exhales sharply. “Yeah, no shit.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, clearly confused. The tension in the car thickens, stretching between you like a tightrope. The night has been long—too long—and the last thing you want is to get into it with him right now.

But Sid doesn’t just let things go.

A few minutes pass before he speaks again, his voice edged with frustration. “You’re gonna tell me what’s wrong, or are we just gonna sit here pretending everything’s fine?”

Your fingers curl around the hem of your dress. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Sid lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”

You glance over at him, irritation creeping into your voice. “What do you want me to say, Sidney?”

“How about the truth?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “Jesus Christ.”

Sid shakes his head too, gripping the wheel tighter. “You were fine earlier. And now, all of a sudden, you wanna go home, and I have no fucking clue why.”

“Maybe I just want to sleep in my own bed for once.”

“That’s bullshit,” he mutters.

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

He rubs a hand over his jaw, voice tense. “You stay at my place all the time. You’ve never had a problem with it before.”

“Well, maybe tonight I do.”

Sid glances at you, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. “So what happened?”

You look straight ahead, jaw tight.

Sid’s fingers tap against the wheel. “Jesus,” he mutters. “If you don’t wanna be here, just fucking say it.”

Your stomach twists. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what it feels like.”

You inhale slowly through your nose, trying to keep your temper in check. You’re both tired. You’re both irritated. And this is getting nowhere.

Finally, you exhale. “Just take me home, Sid.”

He presses his lips together, nods once, and changes lanes. The rest of the drive is silent, thick with unspoken words and unasked questions pressing in from all sides as Sid pulls up to your apartment building. The soft hum of the engine is the only sound between you. The streetlights cast a dull glow through the windshield, illuminating the set of his jaw, the furrow of his brows, and the way his fingers tap once against the steering wheel before stilling completely.

You unbuckle your seatbelt, pausing briefly before grabbing your purse from the floorboard. "Thanks for a great night," you say, voice light, almost distant.

Sid doesn't answer right away, just stares ahead at the dashboard, his lips pressing into a thin line.

You're already reaching for the door handle when he finally mutters, "Yeah."

You hesitate, gripping the strap of your purse a little tighter. But you don't look at him. You can't. Not when you’re already hanging by a thread.

So you just slip out of the car, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

No I love you.

No goodnight kiss.

Nothing.

Sid stays parked, his headlights illuminating the pavement in front of your building. You know he’s waiting. He always waits. Won’t leave until he sees the light in your apartment turn on. A silent reassurance that you made it inside safely.

You fish your keys out of your purse and make your way up the short set of stairs to your building entrance, the lump in your throat growing tighter with every step.

This is the right call.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You unlock the door, step inside, and flick on the hallway light. A soft glow spills out onto the pavement outside.

You don’t have to turn around to know Sid is still there. Still watching.

You stand there for a second, fingers curling around the doorknob, waiting—listening.

Any second now, you’ll hear his car pull out of his usual parking spot.

Any second now.

But the street outside stays quiet.

Your chest tightens.

You could turn around. Walk back down the steps. Open the car door and say, Hey, sorry for being weird tonight, I just—

Just what?

You should’ve just talked it out with him. Should’ve let him in instead of shutting down. He deserves more than this. So, why do you feel like he did something wrong tonight?

You squeeze your eyes shut.

No.

You made your choice.

Maybe—maybe in some sick and twisted, selfish way, a break will be easier this way.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

Maybe if you make the distance now, if you start pulling away, it won’t hurt as much when you finally tell him what you’ve been feeling. That you’re not the one for him. That tonight made that painfully clear how you just don’t fit into his world. That you’re not the match you thought you were.

It’s not his fault. It’s just… how it is. And he deserves someone whose hand he won’t stupidly drop, whose presence he won’t carelessly dismiss.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling a slow, shaky breath. Then another.

Still, you don’t hear the car move.

Dragging in a slow breath, you step further into your apartment and close the door behind you. Your throat tightens. You press your palm flat against the door, like you can feel the weight of him still out there, just on the other side.

Even then, you don’t hear Sid drive away.

You stay exactly where you are.

Listening. Waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping he doesn’t leave just yet.

—

[everythingspokenfor]

𝓜𝓻. & 𝓜𝓻𝓼. 𝓑𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓰𝓸𝓾

Pairing: Bakugou x reader. All characters are aged up 18+. MDNI Summary: Arrange marriage doesn't seem so 'arranged' when your fiance does everything that makes you fall in love with him...

Fiance!Bakugou who starts picking you up after work once you both get engaged, initially to learn the roads in your work commute but eventually because he wants to ensure that you are engaged and soon to be married, to a particular guy at your work place that had been bothering you.

Fiance!Bakugou whom you invite over for dinner as an act of gratitude, to thank him for helping you.

Fiance!Bakugou who stands bemused, watching you hop around the kitchen to try and make him some dinner. Who finds your eagerness to cook for him and your nervousness to not mess up, endearing.

Fiance!Bakugou who eats the slightly burnt and somewhat salty meal you prepared irrespective of how much you claim that it was bad and you'll just order.

Fiance!Bakugou who teaches you, how to cook not because he expects you to cook when you are married but because cooking is an essential skill, and he wants you to be able to cook more than noodles for yourself when he isn't around.

Fiance!Bakugou who doesn't berate you when the vegetables are chopped unevenly but does berate you when you cut your fingers, doesn't suckle on your finger like those movies instead he cleans it up and puts a bandage on it. He does however kiss your finger then your forehead and ask you to sit on the counter next to him.

Fiance!Bakugou who despite his wish doesn't barge in when his mom is helping you try on the wedding dresses, he either goes to agency or works in his home office. Mind still wondering to what you would look like in the wedding dress.

Fiance!Bakugou who helps you move into his penthouse, a month before your marriage, just so you could settle in and get comfortable there. Get used to his presence, form a routine with him.

Fiance!Bakugou who introduces you to his friends, staying behind and watching you mingle with them.

Fiance!Bakugou who pulls you into the kitchen, making sure you are doing good with the crowd, asking if his friends are too much or if you want to end the night.

Fiance!Bakugou who develops the need to constantly touch, his hands always searching for you, holding your hand in a crowded train station, holding onto your elbow in a busy grocery store, hand on the small of your back when showing you around the agency.

Fiance!Bakugou who gets giddy as the wedding approaches, getting his suit tailored, matching with your dress, buying bedsheets and cutlery that you chose. Tries to add things to the penthouse that match your vibe, installs bookshelves around the house because he knows that you love to read.

Fiance!Bakugou who stands at the end of the altar, waiting for you, excited to finally call you his wife, excited to be finally addressed as your husband.

Husband!Bakugou who pulls you into a kiss when the officiator announces you husband and wife, who pulls away from the kiss to pull your into a tight embrace.

Husband!Bakugou who insists on helping you change out of the wedding dress into your reception gown, but Mina pushes him out stating how he has you for the rest of your lives but for now you'll stay with her.

Husband!Bakugou who makes you feel comfortable at the reception, a hand respectfully placed on your back, guiding around the crowd.

Husband!Bakugou who ensures that you don't get overwhelmed interacting with all the people at the reception venue, who makes sure that your voice doesn't get lost amongst the crowd.

Husband!Bakugou who still keeps an eye on your figure, when Mina whisk you away into 'girl's corner', shoves a large gift bag in your hands, "wear it tonight", she whispers in your ear, voice breaking into giggles.

You politely smile at her, talking along with other girls in the group, you absent-mindedly look around the crowd, eyes unintentionally locking with your husband.

His title making your belly flutter, despite only knowing each other for a year and a half, he has proven to be such a good man. You hope you would be good enough for him too.

Husband!Bakugou that struts towards your group, gently placing a hand against your back, fingertips hovering as to not startle you.

"Hopefully you didn't give My Wife a hard time," He spoke, other hand reaching to take the gift bag from your hands, effortlessly carrying all the bags that the girls had gotten you. He kisses your forehead, when you try to reach back for it.

"They were just talking." You move a little closer to Bakugou, head bowed down, fingers fidgeting with the lace of your evening dress, too shy to look your husband in the eyes.

"Well, sorry to interrupt but it's time for us leave." Bakugou announced, let you go to bid farewell to your girl friends. Pretending to look away, when they tease him, telling him to go easy on you.

Husband!Bakugou who helps you walk out the reception venue, one hand holding the gifts you've received all night the other holding your hand. Both of you reach the car and he helps you sit in the passenger seat, closing the door being mindful of your dress.

"What did the girls give you?" He questioned, starting the engine.

You flushed at the question, you weren't really aware of what the content of the bag were but you had a gist of what it could be. "It's just some clothes Mina picked out, I think." You answered.

"Well we'll find an occasion to wear fancy clothes again." He swayed the car out of the parking, completely oblivious to what kind of clothes you both were talking about.

"I don't think I could wear those in public." You mumbled, he looked over to you, but you avoided his eyes.

It barely took him a moment before he figured what Mina could have possibly gifted you. "Ah, it's lingerie, isn't it?", He confirmed.

"Don't say it out loud." You press your hands against your heating face, warmth spreading down your neck.

"Why are you shy? Husband and Wife can talk about lingerie." He teased, finding amusement in your shyness.

"It's just surreal, you know," you turned towards him,"the whole wedding, I mean, till yesterday I was dreaming about marrying you and told I married you." You sighed happily, the tiredness of the finally settling in.

"You were dreaming about marrying me, huh?" Bakugou teased, butterflies swarming his belly at the thought of you being just as excited to marry him.

"I was, you are too good, had to put a ring on it." You giggled, teasing him back, Bakugou looked at you with a glint in his eyes, scanning your features before turning back to the road.

It didn't take long before you both reached home, Bakugou parked the car in the garage, got out of the car and jogged towards your side, opening the door he helped you get out.

Instead of walking into your home, Husband!Bakugou pulls you towards the main entrance, confused you ask him, "Are we going somewhere?"

Bakugou looks at your face, before he dips and lifts you up, carrying you effortlessly, "Am carrying my wife home."

You giggled loudly while Bakugou walked inside the house, carrying you, ready to start your lives together.

[faebled-stories]

Turbulence

Kinkvember Day 16: Mile High Club

Nmixx Oh Haewon x Male reader

8.8k words

“Hello, everyone! Welcome back to WORKDOL!” Haewon’s voice rang out with a contagious spark of energy, her words riding the crisp autumn breeze that teased strands of her dark hair across her face. She tucked them back with a practiced flick of her fingers, her radiant smile lighting up the screen. The sunlight played across her features, a golden halo highlighting her natural charisma as she gestured toward the sleek entrance behind her.

“I’m your beautiful and loving host, Haewon, and today’s challenge is taking me to new heights—literally.” Her laughter carried an edge of anticipation, and her enthusiasm practically leaped through the camera lens. The airline training facility behind her loomed like a modern cathedral of glass and steel, its polished facade catching the sun in a dazzling display that mirrored both her energy and the grandeur of the setting. The gleaming reflection framed her figure, a dynamic blend of her bold personality and the facility’s imposing elegance.

Spinning back to face the entrance, her boots clicking smartly against the pavement, she spread her arms in an exuberant gesture. “I’ve done some pretty wild stuff on this show, but today, I’m stepping into the shoes of a flight attendant. And trust me, there’s a lot more to it than just handing out snacks at 30,000 feet.” Her grin widened as she took a confident step forward. “Safety, service, and smooth skies—I’m going to learn it all. Let’s see if I can keep up!”

The automatic glass doors slid open with a whisper, releasing a wave of cool, conditioned air that carried a faint hint of jet fuel and a clean, soapy freshness from the nearby uniforms. Pausing inside the cavernous lobby, Haewon drew a steadying breath, her chest rising and falling as she absorbed her surroundings. The space was vast yet orderly, sunlight pouring through towering windows onto sleek tiled floors. The low hum of conversations mixed with the soft beeping of security scanners, a quiet symphony of activity that spoke of precision and focus.

It was then that she saw you.

Standing near the check-in counter, your presence immediately commanded attention. Your tailored navy-blue uniform was impeccably pressed, each detail from the sharp creases of your slacks to the polished silver wings on your chest exuding professionalism. Yet, it was your demeanor that truly captured her focus—a calm, collected confidence that made the bustling environment seem to orbit around you. When your eyes met hers, there was something both grounding and electric in your gaze, a quiet assurance paired with a welcoming warmth.

“Welcome aboard, Haewon,” you said, your voice low and steady, carrying an effortless blend of authority and approachability. Extending a hand toward her, you added with a faint smirk, “Ready for a crash course in being a flight attendant?”

She took your hand, her grip firm yet lingering just a beat longer than necessary. “Oh, I think I’m ready,” she replied, her tone light with a teasing edge. A playful glance back at the camera crew underscored her words. “The question is—are you ready for me?”

The faintest flicker of amusement crossed your face, softening your otherwise composed expression. “I’ve trained a lot of people,” you said smoothly, your tone betraying nothing but cool professionalism. “But I have a feeling you’re going to be... different.”

Her laugh rang out, light and musical. “You have no idea.”

Falling into step beside you, Haewon matched your calm stride, her eyes occasionally flicking toward you as if trying to decipher the layers beneath your poised exterior. The hallway stretched ahead, its polished floors gleaming under the soft glow of overhead lights. The distant hum of simulators grew louder with each step, a low, almost hypnotic vibration that thrummed through the air.

“So,” she began, her voice playful, “do you always keep it this formal, or are you saving the charm for later?”

You glanced at her sidelong, the corner of your mouth twitching in the faintest smile. “Let’s focus on the basics first,” you replied, your tone both firm and teasing. “Charm might come later—if you earn it.”

She let out a soft laugh, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she shot you a challenging look. “Challenge accepted.”

When the training cabin came into view, Haewon slowed, her steps faltering ever so slightly as she took in the scene before her. The replica interior was a flawless facsimile of an airplane cabin, every detail meticulously crafted to mimic reality. Pristine rows of fabric seats stretched into the distance, their neatly aligned headrests giving an air of almost military precision.

Overhead compartments gleamed under the soft fluorescent lighting, their edges perfectly contoured. At the far end, emergency equipment was arranged with a precision that exuded both order and a subtle, sobering weight.

For the first time, Haewon felt the enormity of the task ahead. Her playful energy wavered just a touch, replaced by a flicker of trepidation. This wasn’t just another challenge for the cameras—this was about responsibility. Lives could depend on what she was about to learn.

“We’re starting with the safety demonstration,” you said, your voice calm but carrying a note of gravity that pulled her back into the moment. “Passengers rely on flight attendants to guide them in emergencies, so this is one of the most critical parts of the job. You’ll learn how to operate the oxygen masks, life jackets, and cabin doors.”

“No pressure, right?” she quipped, her grin returning, though there was an edge of nervousness beneath it.

You gave her a reassuring smile, stepping forward with practiced ease to open an overhead compartment. The soft click of the latch released the panel, and you retrieved a bright yellow oxygen mask. The tubing coiled slightly as you held it aloft, the rubberized surface gleaming under the lights.

“Step by step,” you said, offering the mask to her. Your hand brushed hers briefly, the contact fleeting yet charged enough to make her pause. Haewon quickly recovered, mimicking your demonstration as she secured the mask over her face. Her movements were careful, deliberate, though she couldn’t help but notice how your steady gaze stayed on her, assessing, encouraging.

“Not bad,” you remarked, a flicker of amusement in your eyes as she fumbled slightly with the straps. “You’re a quick study.”

“I’m great at learning... with the right teacher,” she replied, her smirk returning as her confidence steadied.

Your expression didn’t waver, though there was an unmistakable warmth in your tone as you handed her a life jacket next. “We’ll see if that holds true,” you said. “Let’s keep going.”

The training session continued with a steady rhythm, each task blending professionalism with an undercurrent of tension that simmered just below the surface. As you demonstrated how to secure the life jacket, Haewon’s focus wavered. Her attention was drawn to the way your hands moved—precise, confident, every gesture purposeful.

When you stepped closer to adjust the straps on her shoulders, your fingers brushed against her collarbone. The contact was fleeting but sent a ripple of heat through her skin, as if the touch carried an unspoken promise. Her breath caught for just a second, and a soft flush crept up her neck before she quickly composed herself, hiding her reaction behind a practiced, teasing grin.

“There,” you said, stepping back to assess your work. A faint smile played at the corners of your lips, a mix of satisfaction and subtle amusement. “Now you’re ready.”

“Think I’ll pass the test?” she asked, her tone light, though a slight waver betrayed her lingering nerves.

“You’re doing well so far,” you replied, your voice low and steady, the warmth in your tone an unspoken reassurance. The way your gaze lingered on hers for just a moment longer than necessary sent her pulse racing. Then, as if sensing the shift, you turned away smoothly, giving her the space to collect herself.

When the meal service portion of the training began, Haewon found herself walking a fine line between playful confidence and distraction. Carrying the serving tray through the narrow aisles of the mock cabin was surprisingly challenging, especially with you standing close. Your quiet observations, both grounding and unnerving, felt like a spotlight she couldn’t escape. She could feel your presence even when you weren’t speaking, your calm authority acting as both a guide and a silent challenge.

By the end of the ground training, Haewon was beaming with pride. Her earlier apprehension had melted into a palpable sense of accomplishment. She straightened her posture, adjusting the collar of her uniform as she turned to you. “Not bad for my first day, right?” she teased.

“You’ve done well,” you admitted, a hint of warmth softening your typically composed demeanor. But then your expression shifted, a spark of anticipation flashing in your eyes. “But we’re not done yet. In about an hour, you’ll put everything you’ve learned to the test—on a real flight.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, though excitement quickly replaced any hesitation. “An actual flight? Already?”

You nodded, your faint smirk returning. “No pressure.”

Her laugh was bright and full of confidence, though a nervous energy buzzed beneath the surface. “Bring it on.”

-----

The short break passed in a blur, and before Haewon knew it, she was standing in the aisle of an actual airplane, her hands clutching a laminated safety demonstration card. The hum of the engines filled the cabin, a low, steady vibration that thrummed through her feet and echoed in her chest. The lighting overhead cast a warm glow, softening the sharp lines of the space and lending it a strangely intimate atmosphere.

You stood nearby, your posture relaxed but your gaze sharp, watching her every move with quiet intensity. Despite the weight of your presence, Haewon felt a thread of camaraderie growing between you, a subtle shift in the dynamic that had begun during the ground training. She could see it in the way your gaze softened when she stumbled slightly, and in the faint curl of your lips when she recovered with a self-deprecating joke.

The flight was already underway, the cabin filled with the faint murmur of passengers chatting, flipping through magazines, and settling into their seats. The scent of coffee brewing in the galley mingled with the sterile metallic tang of the recycled air, creating a distinct atmosphere unique to being miles above the earth.

Haewon stood near the forward galley, her hand resting lightly on the counter. She adjusted her uniform self-consciously, keenly aware of your steady presence just a few steps away.

“Ready for service?” you asked, your tone calm, with just enough of a challenge to make her lift her chin confidently.

“Born ready,” she quipped, grabbing a tray from the counter with a playful flourish. Her confidence faltered slightly when the tray shifted awkwardly in her hands, but she recovered quickly, shooting you a grin. “No big deal—I’ve got this.”

Your lips twitched in the faintest of smiles. “Let’s hope the passengers feel the same.”

Haewon stepped into the aisle, her posture straightening as she approached her first task: offering drinks and snacks to the passengers. The tray was heavier than she anticipated, the weight testing her balance as she maneuvered through the narrow space. Her heart beat a little faster when she caught you watching her, your gaze steady, assessing, and just a touch amused.

As she handed a cup of coffee to an elderly passenger, she glanced over her shoulder. “See? Flawless,” she said lightly, her grin widening.

“Not bad,” you replied, following her at a measured pace. “You’re getting the hang of it.”

“I’m more than getting the hang of it,” she retorted, her voice playful as she breezed past you to the next row. “I’m a natural.”

The subtle challenge in her tone drew a soft chuckle from you, though your expression remained composed. The exchange felt like a dance, her energy bouncing off your calm reserve in a way that kept her sharp and on edge.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you said, your voice low enough that only she could hear. “The day’s not over yet.”

By the time the aisle service was complete, Haewon’s steps carried a bit more confidence. She returned to the galley, her tray empty, and set it down with a triumphant flourish. “Mission accomplished,” she declared, turning to face you.

“You’ve done well,” you acknowledged, a note of approval in your tone that made her pulse quicken. “But the real test is consistency.”

“Oh, I’m all about consistency,” she replied, tilting her head challengingly. “Care to test me?”

Your gaze lingered on hers for a moment longer than necessary, the tension between you thickening with every second of silence. Just as the moment threatened to stretch into something unspoken, a chime from the cabin interrupted. You glanced away first, your professionalism snapping back into place like a shield.

“Passengers first,” you said, your tone lighter now, though the flicker of warmth in your eyes remained.

Haewon followed your lead for the rest of the flight, her confidence growing with every completed task. Yet, no matter how routine the work became, she couldn’t ignore the charged undercurrent in your interactions. Every time you brushed past her in the galley or caught her gaze across the cabin, her heart skipped a beat. The professionalism you maintained only heightened the tension, leaving her thoughts spinning and her pulse racing.

-----

As the plane leveled out and the hum of the engines steadied into a calm rhythm, the cabin lights softened, casting a warm, golden glow over the space. The passengers had settled into a quiet lull, the initial excitement of the flight giving way to a tranquil, almost meditative calm.

Haewon stood near the galley counter, her hands loosely gripping the edge as she exhaled, letting the whirlwind of the day finally catch up with her. Her body hummed with a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration, the tension of performing ebbing away to leave a buzz of satisfaction.

A few steps away, you leaned casually against the galley wall, your posture at ease but your gaze sharp, still assessing her as though the challenge hadn’t quite ended. The subtle intensity in your expression made her pulse quicken, though your silence carried no judgment—only a quiet, thoughtful admiration that sent her nerves fluttering.

“You did well,” you said finally, your voice low and steady, breaking the stillness like the first ripple in calm water. “Better than I expected.”

Her lips curved into a playful smile, the rare note of praise filling her with a quiet thrill. “Was there ever any doubt?” she teased, tilting her head as she leaned back slightly against the counter.

The faintest chuckle escaped you, soft and warm, like an echo of her own energy. “Maybe a little,” you admitted, the flicker of amusement in your expression lighting your features.

The honesty caught her off guard, her grin faltering for just a second before returning with a bolder edge. For a fleeting moment, the dynamic between you shifted, the playful air giving way to something deeper. Your expression softened, the lines of your usual composure blurring into something unguarded. The change drew her in, the hum of the plane fading into the background as the tension between you thickened—unspoken but palpable.

“You know,” she said, her voice light yet laced with teasing, “I think I’ve earned a little celebration for surviving my first day. Don’t you?”

Your brow arched slightly, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. “What kind of celebration are we talking about?”

Her response caught in her throat for a moment, and the faint heat that bloomed in her cheeks only added to the weight of her words when she finally spoke. “Something… exclusive,” she said, her voice steady but rich with a daring undertone.

The meaning behind her words hung in the air, unmistakable and electric. Your gaze deepened, amusement giving way to something more deliberate. You leaned in slightly, your voice dropping to a quiet murmur that seemed to wrap around her. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

Her heart thundered against her ribs, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she stepped closer, closing the space between you with a confidence that surprised even her. The smile on her lips grew, soft yet determined, her voice barely above a whisper. “I think I’ve been ready all day.”

For a moment, the cabin around you seemed to fade. The muted golden light cast soft shadows across your face, highlighting the quiet intensity in your gaze as you studied her. Neither of you moved, the charged silence between you tightening like a drawn bowstring.

Then, with deliberate calm, you extended your hand toward her. Your touch was firm yet gentle, grounding as you guided her away from the galley. She followed without hesitation, her pulse racing as you led her toward the back of the plane.

At the rear, you pushed open the small lavatory door, the soft creak of its hinges cutting through the hush. Your hand lingered at the small of her back as she stepped inside, the warmth of your touch sending a shiver up her spine. When the door clicked shut behind you, the energy that had simmered between you all day finally erupted.

The confined space sharpened every sensation—the soft rustle of fabric as you turned to face her, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the sterile metallic air, the heat radiating from your bodies in the tight quarters. Her breath hitched as your eyes locked, the tension that had stretched between you snapping in an instant.

Your hands found her waist, pulling her to you as your lips claimed hers in a kiss that was both searing and deliberate. Her gasp was muffled against your mouth as her fingers threaded into your hair, drawing you closer. Her body arched into yours, every inch of her responding to the intensity of the moment.

Your lips trailed from hers to her neck, lingering along the sensitive skin as you placed slow, deliberate kisses. Each touch drew a shiver from her, her breath catching when your teeth grazed her pulse point. “Are you sure about this?” you murmured against her neck, your voice rough with restraint.

Her reply came shaky but resolute, her hands clutching your shoulders like an anchor. “I’ve never been more sure,” she whispered, her pulse hammering beneath your lips as she tilted her head to give you better access.

The cramped space seemed to vanish as the moment consumed you both, the world outside forgotten in the wake of the energy unleashed between you.

The space was impossibly small, the metallic walls almost brushing against your shoulders, and the occasional jolt of turbulence only heightened the intensity of the moment. The space smelled faintly of disinfectant, mingled with the subtle trace of Haewon’s perfume—a delicate floral scent that teased your senses.

As you leaned back slightly against the narrow counter, Haewon knelt before you, her movements deliberate, her gaze unwavering. Her eyes, dark and filled with a mix of longing and playful confidence, locked onto yours, and the weight of her focus sent a shiver down your spine. Her breath was steady but quickening, her lips parting slightly as she settled into position.

The rustle of fabric was almost deafening in the otherwise quiet space as you undid your belt, the metallic clink of the buckle punctuating the silence. Haewon’s hands moved lightly to your thighs, her touch sending an electric jolt through your skin. Her fingers curled slightly, their delicate pressure grounding you even as your pulse quickened.

Her lips parted with deliberate intent, her breath warm against your skin as she began, her tongue tracing the underside of your length in slow, purposeful strokes. The first touch sent a shiver through you, your breath catching as she took her time, savoring each movement. Her tongue flattened against you, the slick glide paired with soft, teasing flicks that made your pulse pound. The confined space seemed to amplify everything—the wet sound of her tongue, the low, needy hum vibrating in her throat, and the sharp inhale you couldn’t suppress as her mouth enveloped you.

She started with an almost agonizing slowness, her lips forming a tight seal as she slid over you, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she sucked with increasing intensity. Her tongue danced in deliberate patterns, tracing every vein and ridge as if committing them to memory. Each time she withdrew, she paused to press soft, open-mouthed kisses along your length, her lips lingering as if savoring your taste. The contrast between the wet heat of her mouth and the cool air when she pulled away only heightened your sensitivity.

Her arousal became evident as she worked, her thighs pressing together as if seeking friction, a faint sheen of moisture beginning to darken the fabric at the apex of her legs. She shifted slightly, her hips grinding subtly against the floor as if responding to the growing heat building within her. A quiet, breathy moan escaped her lips as she took you deeper, the vibration against your skin sending a wave of pleasure surging through you.

Haewon’s movements became more confident, more urgent, her lips sliding over you with a rhythm that left no room for hesitation. She adjusted herself, her knees pressing firmly into the floor as her fingers dug into your thighs, holding you steady. Each time she took you into her throat, her muscles relaxed just enough to accommodate you, her moans growing louder as her arousal deepened. The faint scent of her arousal mixed with the confined air, a subtle but intoxicating reminder of how much she was enjoying this.

She pulled back slightly, her tongue flicking against your sensitive tip before she plunged forward again, her pace quickening. Her movements were fluid yet hungry, her cheeks flushed with exertion and desire. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple, catching the dim light, her effort and arousal written across every inch of her face. Her thighs shifted again, the friction of her movements drawing faint, involuntary gasps from her lips. You could see the way her body responded, her nipples pressing against her shirt, and the faint wetness between her legs growing more pronounced with each passing moment.

Reaching down, you tangled your fingers in her hair, guiding her rhythm as she moaned around you, the vibrations sending sparks of pleasure racing through your body. She glanced up, her eyes glassy with desire, locking with yours as her lips stretched around you. That single look—filled with submission, need, and the unmistakable hunger to please—nearly undid you. Her mouth worked with a relentless precision, her tongue swirling in ways that left you gasping, her moans becoming increasingly desperate as if her own pleasure was tied to yours.

Her free hand slid up her own thigh, disappearing beneath the fabric of her shorts. You could see the subtle movement as her fingers pressed against herself, her hips rolling slightly to meet her touch. The sight of her pleasuring herself while her mouth remained focused on you sent a fresh wave of heat surging through your core. Her moans grew louder, muffled by your length, the vibrations intensifying as she worked herself closer to the edge.

“Fuck, Haewon,” you groaned, your voice thick with desire. She responded by taking you deeper, her throat relaxing as she let out a low, guttural moan that sent your head spinning. The slick heat of her mouth combined with the knowledge of her growing arousal pushed you closer to your breaking point.

As you felt the tension cresting, you tugged her hair gently, guiding her upward. Her lips released you with a wet, lewd pop, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen and glistening, and her eyes dark with lust. Her thighs pressed tightly together, her arousal evident in the way her breath hitched, the damp spot on her shorts impossible to miss as she rose to her feet.

You tilted her chin upward, your thumb brushing along her jawline as you gazed into her eyes. “You’re fucking perfect,” you murmured, your voice thick with need. Her lips parted, her breath quick and shallow, as she leaned into you. The heat radiating from her skin matched your own as you claimed her mouth in a searing kiss, your hands sliding down to grip her hips, pulling her flush against you.

Haewon’s breaths came faster now, shallow and uneven, her flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips betraying the storm of emotions building within her. The vibrations of the plane beneath your feet, steady and unrelenting, seemed to mirror the pulse racing through her body, each tremor adding fuel to the fire already burning between you.

As you lifted her onto the counter, her body trembled beneath your touch. Her thighs pressed against your hips, her wet heat already evident even through the thin layers of clothing. The way her legs instinctively wrapped around your waist made your heart pound harder. Her hands gripped your shoulders for support, her fingertips digging into your skin as though anchoring herself to you. Her chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms, her breath catching with every soft, involuntary sound that escaped her lips.

Her arousal was undeniable in every movement, every soft gasp and whimper filling the small space. Her hips shifted forward to meet yours, the friction building with every press of her body against yours. The scent of her, faintly sweet and musky, mingled with the sterile air of the lavatory, creating a heady atmosphere that heightened your senses.

When your hand slid beneath her skirt, brushing against the damp heat of her panties, her body jolted at the contact. She let out a shaky moan, her hips arching instinctively to press herself closer to your touch. Her wetness had already soaked through the fabric, clinging to her folds, and as you slid the thin material aside, your fingers were met with slick, yielding warmth. “Please,” she gasped, her voice trembling, her thighs quivering around you as you teased her.

You lined yourself up, the heat of her body radiating against you as you pressed the tip of your length against her entrance. Her breath hitched sharply, her nails digging into your shoulders as she gazed into your eyes. There was a flicker of vulnerability in her expression, one that gave you pause, but when she nodded, her lips parting to whisper, “I want this,” it was all the reassurance you needed. Slowly, carefully, you began to press into her.

Her body was tight—almost unbearably so—and the resistance you felt made you move even slower, your hips advancing inch by inch. Haewon’s lips trembled as her hands clutched at your back, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. “You’re so tight,” you murmured, your voice soft as you paused, letting her adjust to the intrusion. She nodded faintly, her eyes fluttering closed as you sank a little deeper, her slick heat enveloping you inch by inch.

Just as you were making progress sheathing yourself inside her, the plane lurched violently, a sudden jolt of turbulence rocking the small room. The unexpected motion drove you completely into her, the force of it pushing past the last barrier. Haewon cried out sharply, her back arching as her hands flew to your shoulders, gripping you tightly. Her cry wasn’t just from pleasure but something deeper, more visceral. You froze immediately, your heart pounding as you registered the slight quiver in her body.

Something felt different—there was a heat, a tightness, an overwhelming sense of newness that struck you all at once. When you pulled back slightly, you caught a glimpse of a faint sheen of blood on yourself. Your eyes widened in shock, and you instinctively met her gaze. Tears shimmered in her eyes, from pain and something softer, more emotional. “Haewon…” you murmured, your voice trembling slightly. “Are you… were you a virgin?”

She bit her lip, her cheeks flushed as she nodded, her thighs still trembling against you. “Yes,” she admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “But… It's okay. I wanted this. I wanted you.” Her words were firm despite the tears in her eyes, her expression filled with trust and desire. “I knew it would hurt a little, but I didn’t care. I wanted you to be my first.”

Her confession hit you like a wave, a mix of emotions flooding through you—pride, awe, and a deep, possessive protectiveness. “Are you sure?” you asked, brushing a hand along her cheek, your thumb wiping away a stray tear. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She smiled faintly, her hands reaching up to cradle your face. “You’re not hurting me,” she said softly. “I’ve never wanted anything more. Please… don’t stop.”

Her reassurance steadied you, her soft, trusting smile anchoring you in the moment. You leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss that was slow but deeply charged, your tongue brushing against hers in a rhythm that matched the gentle rocking of her hips. Her breath hitched as you trailed kisses down her jawline, your lips mapping the contours of her skin with deliberate precision. When you reached her neck, you paused, your breath warm against her pulse point, feeling the rapid flutter beneath her skin.

Your teeth grazed the delicate flesh there, and she let out a soft, startled gasp, her hips pressing forward as though urging you on. You closed your lips around the spot, sucking gently, your tongue soothing the faint sting as your teeth pressed into her again, deeper this time. Her fingers tightened in your hair, her quiet whimper sending a jolt of heat straight through you. The small bruise that bloomed against her skin was a mark meant only for the two of you, a memory hidden in plain sight.

She shifted against you as your lips moved lower, trailing across the sensitive curve of her neck. Each press of your mouth drew a soft moan from her lips, her body responding instinctively to your touch. The marks you left were subtle but unmistakable, scattered along the line of her neck with care, the kind of marks that would be easy to conceal yet impossible to forget. She shivered beneath your touch, her skin warm and slightly damp, her arousal palpable in every movement.

“Hold me,” she gasped suddenly, her voice raw and trembling with need. Her arms wrapped tightly around your neck, pulling you closer as her fingers tangled in your hair, gripping you as though she couldn’t bear to let go. The way she clung to you, her nails digging gently into your scalp, sent a wave of possessive desire surging through you.

Her hips began to move with more urgency, grinding against you with an unrestrained eagerness that left you teetering on the edge of control. Each thrust drew her closer, her moans growing louder as the rhythm between you became chaotic, driven by both the unpredictable sway of the plane and the unrelenting heat building between you. Her breath mingled with yours, her cries becoming softer, more desperate, her body melting into yours as she surrendered to the moment completely.

The sensation of her trembling against you, the heat radiating from her skin, and the intimacy of the marks left on her neck—all of it combined to push the tension higher, until every movement felt like a tidal wave, crashing through both of you.

Just as her moans reached a fever pitch, a loud knock on the lavatory door broke through the haze. “Is everything alright in there?” came a muffled voice from outside.

The sudden interruption sent a shock through both of you, and Haewon’s eyes snapped open, wide with surprise. The tension in her body, already at its peak, pushed her over the edge. Her inner walls clenched around you violently, her body trembling as the rush of adrenaline mingled with the overwhelming pleasure. “Oh god,” she whimpered, her voice breaking as her head fell back against the wall, her lips parting in a strangled cry.

Her release was sudden and explosive, her moans rising uncontrollably as her entire body shook. “I can’t… it’s too much,” she gasped, her nails raking down your back as her hips bucked against yours. The act of nearly being caught seemed to strip away the last of her restraint, her climax crashing over her with unrelenting intensity. Her wetness flooded over you, her thighs tightening around your waist as she rode out the waves of her release.

“Occupied!” you barked, your voice rough and commanding, echoing in the small space. The sound of it seemed to ripple through Haewon, her body jolting at the force of your tone. Her legs locked tighter around you, her inner walls fluttering as the vibrations of the plane and the moment’s urgency drove her deeper into ecstasy.

Her eyes met yours, glazed with pleasure and slightly dazed, her lips trembling as she tried to catch her breath. “I… I can’t,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. The sight of her—flushed, trembling, her neck marked with faint hickeys, her body still quaking with aftershocks—was enough to push you past the brink. Your thrusts became erratic, each movement driven by instinct as you chased your release. A guttural groan tore from your chest as you buried yourself deeply inside her, your climax hitting with a force that left you shaking.

The warmth of your release filled her, the intimacy of the moment heightened by the chaotic rhythm that had brought you both to this point. Your breaths mingled, the two of you clinging to each other in the aftermath, your bodies still pressed together as the world outside seemed to fade away.

The plane seemed to hum in harmony with the beating of your hearts as you held her close, your forehead resting against hers. The world outside the door ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you in the aftermath of your passion. Haewon’s breathing was still uneven, her cheeks flushed and her lips slightly swollen from the force of your kiss. Her hands slid up to cup your face, her eyes searching yours as a lazy, satisfied smile played on her lips.

You stayed like that for a moment, savoring the closeness, the intimacy of being completely wrapped up in each other. Outside, the distant murmur of passengers and the steady hum of the engines reminded you that the world hadn’t stopped for your moment, but inside the small lavatory, it felt like time had paused just for the two of you.

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies pressed tightly together as you caught your breath. The confined lavatory felt even smaller in the aftermath, the walls seeming to hum with the warmth of your shared passion. Slowly, you pulled back, your hands still resting on her waist as she leaned against the wall, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

Your eyes softened as you took her in—her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, her lips swollen and glistening, and her hair slightly tousled. She looked utterly radiant, the glow of satisfaction mingling with a soft vulnerability in her expression.

“You okay?” you asked gently, your voice low and filled with concern, though the satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth betrayed your lingering exhilaration.

Haewon nodded, her lips curling into a lazy, blissful smile. “More than okay,” she whispered, her voice still breathless and soft, tinged with the lingering traces of pleasure. Her legs trembled slightly as she shifted, her body still adjusting to the aftermath of what had just transpired.

As her gaze dropped briefly, you reached up, your fingers gently brushing a few strands of her tousled hair away from her face. The gesture was soft and unhurried, your touch lingering as you tucked the wayward strands neatly behind her ear. Haewon’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and when they opened again, they were filled with something deeper—an affectionate warmth that made her cheeks flush anew.

A small, shy smile tugged at her lips, and she couldn’t help but whisper, “You’re so gentle.” Her voice was soft, barely audible over the low hum of the plane’s engines.

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead, your lips lingering there as if to seal the quiet moment between you. “Only with you,” you murmured, your voice low and filled with meaning.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment longer, her hands resting lightly against your chest as she savored the intimacy of your touch. But as the seconds ticked by, her gaze flicked to the small mirror on the wall, and her expression shifted. “Oh my god,” she whispered, her hand flying to her neck as she caught sight of the faint bruises left by your lips. “Are those…?”

You followed her gaze, your eyes catching the small, dark marks scattered along the curve of her neck. Her cheeks turned crimson, and her hand trembled as she traced the marks. “People will see,” she muttered, her voice rising in a soft panic. “What am I going to do? I can’t—”

“Haewon,” you interrupted softly, your hands coming to rest on her shoulders. “It’s okay. Look at me.” She hesitated, her breathing uneven, but when her eyes met yours, the panic began to ebb. “I’ll fix it. Trust me.”

You glanced toward her flight attendant scarf, folded neatly on the small counter. Picking it up, you unfolded it carefully and turned back to her. “Here,” you said gently, moving to drape it around her neck. Her eyes widened slightly as your hands brushed against her skin, adjusting the fabric with deliberate care. You knotted it carefully, the silk falling into place perfectly.

“There,” you murmured, stepping back slightly. “No one will know.”

She turned toward the mirror, her fingers brushing against the scarf as she inspected it. The marks were completely hidden, and she let out a soft, relieved breath. “Thank you,” she said quietly, turning back to face you. Her voice was filled with gratitude, but there was still a hint of vulnerability in her eyes.

You reached out, brushing your fingers along her jaw, your touch light and reassuring. “You don’t have to thank me,” you said softly, your voice warm but tinged with something more serious. “But, Haewon… earlier…” You hesitated for a moment, searching her gaze. “I didn’t know it was your first time.”

She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing deeper as her eyes dropped briefly before meeting yours again. “I know,” she admitted softly. “I didn’t tell you because… I didn’t want it to change anything.” Her voice wavered for a moment, but she steadied herself, her gaze unwavering. “I wanted this. I wanted you.”

Her words hit you hard, a mix of emotions swirling in your chest—pride, awe, and an overwhelming protectiveness. “Are you sure?” you asked gently, your thumb brushing against the side of her face. “I just… I don’t want you to regret this. Not here, not like this.”

Her lips curved into a faint, reassuring smile as she shook her head. “I won’t,” she said firmly, her voice soft but resolute. “I knew what I was doing. I wanted this moment with you. And I don’t regret it. Not for a second.”

Her sincerity left you momentarily speechless, the weight of her words settling deep in your chest. You didn’t respond with words. Instead, you leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was tender and deliberate, lacking the earlier urgency but brimming with something far deeper. Her lips parted softly beneath yours, and when you pulled back, you rested your forehead against hers, your hands steadying her trembling frame.

Her brows furrowed suddenly, and she crouched slightly, glancing around the cramped lavatory. “Wait…” she muttered, her voice tinged with embarrassment as her hands brushed over the floor and edges of the counter. “Where are my panties?”

You leaned back against the door, crossing your arms with a teasing smirk. “How could you lose that?” you asked, your voice playful but low, watching her as she searched.

Haewon shot you a quick glare, her cheeks burning brighter. “They were here! They couldn’t have just disappeared!” Her tone was exasperated but softened by the lingering flush of earlier.

Her hands continued to skim over the limited space, but after another minute, it was clear they were gone—lost somewhere in the heat of your earlier passion. A nervous laugh bubbled up from her as she stood, smoothing her skirt down again. Her hands paused against the fabric as she realized there was no time to keep searching.

“I guess I’m going without them,” she admitted in a quiet voice, her cheeks glowing as she avoided your gaze. The mix of embarrassment and exhilaration in her expression made you grin.

“You’ll be fine,” you reassured her, your tone warm but teasing as you placed your hands on her arms. “Besides,” you added with a smirk, “it’ll be our little secret.”

Haewon rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. She adjusted her hair again with a shaky hand, though your earlier touch had already smoothed it into place. Her eyes flicked toward the door, her nervous energy returning as she cracked it open.

Just as she was about to step out, she hesitated, turning back toward you. Her cheeks flushed deeper, her lips curving into a shy, almost hesitant smile. You reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before leaning in to press a quick but tender kiss to her lips. It was brief, yet filled with warmth and reassurance, a silent promise that lingered as her lips parted slightly beneath yours.

When you pulled back, her eyes softened, the nervous energy in her frame easing slightly. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice quiet and filled with meaning.

“Always,” you replied just as softly, your hand brushing against her arm before she turned back toward the door.

She peeked out, glancing left and right to ensure the coast was clear, before stepping out into the aisle. Her stride was careful and measured, though her legs still trembled slightly beneath the polished professionalism of her steps. Her face was flushed, her hair still slightly a mess despite your attempts to fix it, and her lips retained the faint swelling of your kisses. Beneath her composed demeanor, the absence of her panties and the slickness between her thighs teased her with every step, a constant reminder of the intimacy you’d just shared.

You lingered for a moment, adjusting your cuffs and belt before stepping into the aisle yourself. Your gaze immediately sought Haewon, who was already walking ahead with a subtle confidence that belied the faint tremor in her legs. Her eyes met yours for the briefest of moments, a knowing spark passing between you that only deepened the warmth lingering in your chest.

As you resume your duties, the hum of the cabin returns to fill the air, but the quiet connection between you remains, a secret woven into the fabric of your stolen moment in the skies.

-----

After the plane had landed, Haewon moved to her place by the exit, ready to thank the passengers as they deplaned. It was a routine she had done countless times before—bowing, offering polite words, and smiling—but today, every movement carried an undercurrent of thrill. With each graceful bow, she became acutely aware of the warmth between her thighs, the undeniable sensation of your essence still inside her. Each slight pull of gravity as she bent forward sent a slick, teasing reminder of your earlier passion, and she fought to keep her expression neutral.

The sensation was impossible to ignore. As she straightened each time, she could feel it shift within her, threatening to escape, a subtle but constant tease that made her cheeks flush and her steps slightly more measured. The absence of her panties only heightened the awareness, the cool air beneath her skirt brushing against her skin, amplifying the delicious sense of exposure.

Each “thank you” and polite smile was laced with the secret she carried—the memory of your hands gripping her waist, your lips trailing over her neck, the way her body had clung to yours in the cramped lavatory. Her heart raced as the passengers filed past, oblivious to the intimate connection she now carried. The sensation of your lingering presence made her hyper-aware of every subtle shift in her body, each movement a vivid reminder of what had transpired.

Finally, the last passenger stepped off the plane, leaving the cabin quiet save for the soft shuffle of the crew tidying up. Haewon exhaled deeply, a faint sheen of sweat glistening at her brow as she leaned briefly against the wall to steady herself. Her knees still felt weak, her legs trembling slightly beneath her polished composure. She pressed her thighs together, trying in vain to quell the sensation that only seemed to grow stronger in the silence.

You approached her then, your expression calm and professional as always, though the teasing glint in your eyes spoke volumes. As you drew nearer, Haewon’s breath hitched slightly, her body betraying her despite her best efforts to appear composed. The memory of your touch, of the closeness you had shared, was written in every glance, every subtle tilt of your head.

“You did great,” you murmured, your voice pitched low, meant only for her. The rich timbre of it sent a fresh shiver coursing through her. “Though I couldn’t help but notice that extra sway in your step.”

She turned to you with a playful smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief despite the warmth creeping into her cheeks. “It’s a bit hard to focus,” she replied, her tone laced with sultry teasing, “when I’m walking around with a little… souvenir from my favorite instructor.”

Your grin deepened, the heat behind your gaze barely masked by your composure. Leaning in slightly, your breath ghosted over her ear, warm and intoxicating. “You’ll have to come back for more lessons sometime,” you whispered, your words curling through her like a spark igniting.

“Oh, I plan to,” she said smoothly, her voice steady despite the fluttering excitement in her chest. Turning away, her hips swayed ever so slightly, a calculated movement that let you know she was fully aware of your lingering gaze.

The conclusion of the episode approached, and Haewon effortlessly shifted back into her on-camera persona. Her radiant smile lit up the space as the crew positioned the camera for her signature closing moment. It was time for her to receive her payment for completing the challenge.

You stepped into frame, handing her a sleek black envelope. The thick paper was cool against her fingers, and as they brushed yours in a fleeting but electric touch, her pulse quickened. Your eyes locked with hers briefly, and the subtle curve of your lips—a barely-there smile—made her heart skip a beat. It was a silent reminder of the secret only the two of you shared.

Turning to the camera with her usual playful grin, Haewon slipped her fingers into the envelope, preparing to retrieve her reward. But as her hand delved inside, her breath caught for just a fraction of a second. Alongside the crisp weight of folded bills was something soft and unmistakable: her panties. Still damp, intimate, and undeniably deliberate.

As she pulled the panties slightly closer, the faint but unmistakable scent of the money mingled with hers, wafting subtly into her senses. The blend of clean linen bills and the warm, musky reminder of her own arousal sent a fresh wave of heat racing through her. Her eyes flicked briefly toward you, catching the faintest curve of your lips, the smallest glint of mischief in your gaze.

She noticed, stuck to the crotch of the fabric, a small sticky note that had absorbed some of her arousal. The faint ink of your handwriting was still visible, the note bearing nothing more than your phone number. Her cheeks flushed deeper, the intimate touch making her heart race, though her composure didn’t falter. With a practiced ease, she slipped the envelope—and its contents—into her pocket, her movements fluid and confident.

“Well, this was definitely the most fun I’ve ever had earning my paycheck,” she quipped to the camera, her voice steady even as her pulse raced.

The crew chuckled at her lighthearted remark, none the wiser to the true weight of her words. She turned back to the camera for her final moment, flashing a grin that was equal parts charm and mischief. “Looks like I’ve learned more than just safety procedures on this flight,” she said with a laugh, her delivery flawless, leaving the audience to wonder what secrets lay behind her words.

As the crew called a wrap, Haewon turned, stepping gracefully down the aisle and off the plane. Her pace was poised, her smile intact, but inside, her mind was a whirlwind. Every subtle movement reminded her of your hands, your breath, and the fire that had burned between you in the cramped lavatory.

Each step was a vivid reminder, the absence of her panties adding to the thrill as the sensation of your essence still inside her teased her with every bow and motion. She could feel it shift subtly, a lingering heat that made her cheeks burn and her chest tighten with the memory of your closeness.

As she descended the jet bridge, she slipped her hand into her pocket, her fingers brushing against the damp fabric tucked alongside the envelope. Her fingertips grazed the sticky note, the faint smudges of her arousal making it more intimate than you likely intended. A rush of heat coursed through her at the tangible proof of your connection. She withdrew her hand, carefully adjusting her uniform as she glanced around to ensure no one was watching.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted you off-camera, leaning casually against the cabin doorway. Your calm demeanor belied the glint of mischief in your gaze. When her eyes met yours, you gave her a subtle wink—a fleeting gesture that sent her heart racing all over again.

Once she was alone in a quiet corner of the terminal, Haewon exhaled deeply, her thoughts still spinning from everything that had happened. She glanced around to ensure she had privacy before stepping into a staff lounge to change out of her uniform.

Peeling off the polished exterior of her flight attendant persona, she let the neatly pressed pieces fall away, leaving her bare under the soft light of the room. Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye, her cheeks still flushed, her hair slightly tousled. As she stared at herself, a glimmer of boldness sparked in her mind, her heart pounding at the thought that took hold.

Her fingers brushed over the scarf that still hung around her neck, the same one you had adjusted for her earlier. Loosening it slightly, she let the ends drape down over her chest, framing her bare skin in a way that felt both daring and intimate. The soft fabric teased the curves of her breasts and the line of her hips. The undone scarf added an air of playful confidence, the perfect balance of teasing and boldness.

Reaching for her phone, she pulled out the sticky note with your number, her lips curving into a small smile. Entering the digits carefully, she paused for a moment, considering what to name the contact. After a brief flicker of thought, she added: ✈️🥵.

Lifting her phone, she angled herself in the mirror, capturing every detail. The undone scarf hung loosely on both sides of her neck, framing the faint marks you’d left on her delicate skin. Her bare shoulders, the curve of her waist, and the contours of her breasts and lower section were bathed in the soft light of the room. Her expression tied it all together—a sultry, mischievous smile, her gaze filled with an undeniable spark of boldness.

Her heart raced as she typed out a message.

See you soon

She hit send and let the thrill of what she’d done wash over her. With a deep breath, she reached for a soft hoodie from her bag. Pulling it over her head, she felt the fabric settle against her skin. Tugging the hood up, she let it fall around her face, a subtle shield for the marks on her neck.

Satisfied that her secret was safely hidden, she took one last look in the mirror. Her reflection, now casual and relaxed, masked the fire still smoldering beneath the surface.

As she stepped out of the lounge, her strides were steady, every step carrying a sense of empowerment. When she exited into the warm afternoon air, she smiled to herself. The message had been sent, the connection made. Whatever came next, she was ready.

[hismercytomyjustice]

Can I just say how much I adore the domesticity Lee Majdoub brings to his role as Agent Stone?

Especially knowing how he approached the role as him and Robotnik both being orphans, which gave them a point of connection from the very beginning.

Sure, his character could look at him and just be in awe of his brilliance (even tho our boy Stone canonically has 1 IQ point higher than him) or just fall over himself to appease him. But he doesn’t.

It might look like he does. He’s constantly bending over backwards to accommodate him and take care of him, but it’s not because he’s a mindless sycophant. It’s because he knows what it’s like to be alone and he doesn’t want Robotnik to feel that way anymore.

When we first meet Robotnik, everything about him is all shiny and chrome. But as Stone becomes more involved in the series, we see all these soft little touches being added. He takes those sterile spaces and makes them an actual home with additions like the granny square blanket.

(It’s not confirmed but regardless the man has shown he’s proficient in the textile arts, dammit. And who else is that crab is gonna make a granny square blanket?! WHO???!!!)

He cooks, he cleans, he tailors, he makes coffee, he helps him with his evil plans, he supports him and his dreams, he takes care of him.

Most importantly, he’s there for him, no matter what.

Robotnik consistently laments the fact he never had a family throughout the series, but he does.

Agent Stone took the time to learn how to do all of these things and also to share them with Robotnik. Because he understands home and family are what you make, not about who you share genes with.

And like, even when Robotnik bounces to go hang out with his long lost grandpa, Stone’s only concern is that he’s not being completely honest with him and that Robotnik could get hurt and he’s right.

He doesn’t tell him to stop spending time with him or that he shouldn’t care about him. He knows how much Robotnik has always craved a familial connection and now he has one! He’s willing to step back, even though it pains him, so Robotnik can realize that dream.

And when he’s proven right, he doesn’t gloat or act betrayed (even though tbh he has every reason to). He’s still there for him. Because Robotnik is his family.

The movies are all about found family and how, even if you lose the people important to you, that doesn’t mean you’ll never find someone to love and be loved by in return. We see that with both Sonic and Shadow. And especially in Maria’s quote about how “The light shines, even though the star is gone.”

Love is a choice. How you express love is a choice. This is especially true in the third movie. Robotnik’s grandfather is ready to burn everything to the ground so everyone else knows how Maria was taken too soon and feels his pain. But he had an opportunity to build a new relationship with his other grandchild. To take the love he had for Maria and her love for him and to share it with Robotnik. He can choose to love and be loved in return.

It’s not like Robotnik doesn’t freely give him his love. Even when his grandpa is about to straight up murder him, he still has a moment where he wants to tell him he loves him. Even after all his grandpa has to say to him is “You’re no Maria.”

(TOP TEN ANIME BETRAYALS OF ALL TIME)

Stone and Maria are great parallels too. Robotnik in the first movie feels so removed from humanity. His #1 priority is himself. And I think if he’d met his grandpa in the first movie, before he’d built his relationship with Stone, he truly would’ve believed his grandfather when he said, “There’s no one down there who cares about you.”

Instead he sacrifices himself (hopefully he‘s still alive somehow, please please please) for the sake of humanity. Or, tbh for the sake of his real family. He murked his grandpa without batting an eye the second he realized Stone was in danger.

We see this paralleled with Sonic too after Tom is hurt. He lets his grief and fear get the better of him and he initially makes the same decision as Shadow and Gerald did. He chooses to act in hurt and anger. Shadow calls him out on it too, telling him he made the same choice to take revenge, regardless of what the people he loves would actually want him to do.

IDK MAN. I just love these movies so much and I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS. T^T

[zyafics]

I LOVE YOU SO | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Imagine)

Pairing — Ex!Rafe x Engaged!Female Reader

Content — ex-lovers au, hurt/no comfort, right person/wrong time

Word Count — 1.6K

lıllılı I Love You So by The Walters

THINKING ABOUT... when Rafe heard about your engagement, he nearly drank himself to death.

THINKING ABOUT... how the invitation sat on the kitchen counter, next to empty bottles of whiskey. He hoped to drown himself in liquor and forget the taste of you—but nothing remedied that pain. His fingers traced over the sharp edge of the card to the calligraphy that spelled your name alongside your soon-to-be-husband's.

THINKING ABOUT... how it should've been him.

THINKING ABOUT... how Sarah found him. It had been days since she heard from her older brother and decided to drop by Tannyhill. When she discovered wasn't a pretty sight. He was still feeding himself on alcohol—and alcohol alone—while staring at the name on the card, gripped in his hand as if it was his own personal damnation. He knew, without a doubt, that the invitation was a common courtesy. Forged out of respect and generational relationships on Kildare. It wasn't a true invite—not to him, at least.

THINKING ABOUT... how Sarah tried to help him clean up. Tried to take the glass from his hand, which he accepted. Tried to pull him up from the couch and push him into the bathroom, which he agreed. Tried to rip the card from his hand—which he refused. She never liked seeing her brother in such despair, and despite knowing the long history you shared with him, she didn't want him to get wasted on the forgotten thought of you.

THINKING ABOUT... when Rafe exited the shower, fresh and clean from the oozing smell of alcohol, Sarah had the card in her hands. She noted that Rafe hadn't checked a box—an ACCEPT or DECLINE. And when she asked him if he was going to attend, he didn't give an answer.

THINKING ABOUT... how you're marrying a man who loved you. He cherished you and saw you as the apple of his eye. It was different from your other relationship. Granted, you only have one before him, but you can tell the difference. It was calm, safe and warm. It didn't shake you to your core, it didn't have you screaming at three am, it didn't have to be hard. It was good. Healthy. It was soon to be yours.

THINKING ABOUT... how this wasn't the dream wedding you wanted since you were a little girl. Sure, it had most of the elements: the ceremony at the church, the gorgeous bouquet in your hands, the perfect ensemble of bridesmaids. But it wasn't exactly how you pictured it. It wasn't within the season you wanted, it wasn't outdoors like you imagined. It didn't have the specific floral arrangement you asked for, and it didn't have the boy you were going to meet at the end of the aisle.

THINKING ABOUT... how it felt all wrong.

THINKING ABOUT... how you couldn't breathe in your room. All the guests had settled in, all of them waiting for the bride to begin her descent. You were pacing around, to the comforting reassurances of your bridesmaids, but to no avail. You needed air. You needed to step out.

THINKING ABOUT... how you saw him when you stepped into the empty courtyard. Everyone had taken their seats, but not Rafe. He was standing outside, holding something you were certain to be a flask. You hadn't expected him to show. You weren't sure if you wanted him to. But when your heels clicked against the cobblestone and alerted Rafe of your presence—he twisted his head and your eyes finally locked.

THINKING ABOUT... how it was a slow and mesmerizing descent. You approached him with caution, as if you were approaching a wild animal and one wrong move could cause him to run. You shared no words, no thoughts, nothing. But the silence was communal and appreciated. When you made it against the barricade, Rafe did nothing but offer you his flask.

THINKING ABOUT... how his hand stretched out, flexing underneath his tailored suit. You stepped up to gingerly accept it—tasting the bitter alcohol slid down your throat and the closest remnant of his lips. You didn't say anything for the next few minutes, not even a paid gratitude, because you didn't know how to. it was Rafe who decided to speak up first.

THINKING ABOUT... how Rafe didn't look at you as he talked. His attention paid to the lot of the church, his words a whisper against the whistling wind. He depicted his own imagination—how he would've done it. How he would've gotten on one knee in that little park the two of you always went together. How it would've been a beach wedding because you always loved the ocean. How he would've gotten a wedding band with sapphires because you adored the color.

THINKING ABOUT... how Rafe rambled about the what ifs until you told him to stop.

THINKING ABOUT... how there was a palpable silence that sat between you as you handed him back his flask. Your head a little light, your heart a little heavy. You should've gone back to the church, to the awaiting audience of your family and friends, but you stood still. You wanted this time, this space, this moment with Rafe because you were certain it was going to be your last.

THINKING ABOUT... how Rafe had enough and stepped forward to cup your face. His cerulean eyes fell to your lips before eyeing every little expression, memorizing every little detail. "It should've been me," he murmured, running his thumb across your bottom lip, collecting the last drop of his whiskey. His jaw ticked as he forced out the next sentence. "Why isn't it me?"

THINKING ABOUT... how you said nothing. You both knew the reasons, but neither of you wanted to accept it. Rafe had prioritized himself over your relationship, again and again, and there was nothing but a hollowness by the end of it. He loved you, you knew that for certain, but it was also not enough.

THINKING ABOUT... how you had to step back. You pushed him away, needing another clarifying breath of air. Rafe didn't move from his spot, simply slipped his thumb into his mouth, tasting the last drop, before you shook your head. "What are you doing here?" You demanded, because despite knowing everything going on inside the church, everyone waiting for you, you still were the same person you were years back—with him.

THINKING ABOUT... how Rafe couldn't answer fully. He didn't know why he was here. He didn't know what compelled him to put himself through the agonizing pain of seeing the love of his life walk down the aisle of her wedding, toward a man that wasn't him. It was sadistic, a need to feel the depth of his mistakes, and perhaps, even a last shot of hope for him to remedy it.

THINKING ABOUT... how he apologized. It had surprised you to hear the words spill from his lips because Rafe had always been stubborn in handing them out. He saw himself above such expressions and held his pride too high. But it was his last shot. And he wanted to make his amends before it was too late.

THINKING ABOUT... how there was a silence when he finished his speech. How he expressed regret for how he treated you, how he made you feel, in how he was as a past partner. You had nothing while you held onto those words because they were something you wished for all your life. But, now it came. A little too much. A little too late.

THINKING ABOUT... how you forgave him. And it wasn't fair. You had always been too kind and understanding. He was the one repenting but you had already given him the forgiveness he hadn't yet sought for. You've been told that you should make him suffer. Beg for it. But you didn't. Because you knew what he had been through. What good does it do to inflict suffering when neither of you enjoys it?

THINKING ABOUT... how Rafe had nothing else to say. Didn't know what to think of. Wait, yes, he did—he had hoped it would be enough. That you would hear his words and be a runaway bride for him. But you didn't. You remained stationed in your spot, your eyes intermittently flickering toward the entrance of the church. It wasn't until one of your bridesmaids came to collect you—warning you it was time, that he realized there was nothing else to do.

THINKING ABOUT... how you hesitantly bid him goodbye. You were going to see him during the reception, but Rafe didn't answer you. When you finally close the distance towards your bridesmaid, you spare one last glance at him—Rafe Cameron, your first love, the person who had half of your heart, the one who didn't do enough—and step back into the church.

THINKING ABOUT... how you didn't see him when you walked down the aisle. Or when you came around to take pictures. Or when the reception was held. You should feel ashamed for seeking out another man when your fiance—now husband—had his hand on your waist, his eyes filled with adornment for you. But you couldn't help yourself.

THINKING ABOUT... how you tried to forget. Tried to enjoy your day, your wedding. As the night came to an end, your husband carried you back to your new home. But what you weren't expecting was a surprise.

THINKING ABOUT... how there's an arrangement of bouquets outside your new home. It was in the exact precise order you wanted for your dream wedding. It was littered all over your front lawn, spilled with rich colors and florals that you gasped at the sight. You didn't know who it was from—neither did your husband. But when you approached the door, there was a note taped to the front.

THINKING ABOUT... how it was from Rafe. An apology and a gift wrapped in one. It didn't say much, but you didn't need it to. You knew his guilt, you knew his regret, but you knew his concession. And this, this was his last offering before he finally let you go.

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[sourcherrybites]

Legally Binding Affairs

Character: Jason Todd x DA! Reader

Disclaimers: My knowledge of the US legal system is based on Law and Order, Criminal Minds and Legal Eagle. I wrote more words than I usually do so the end is kinda sloppy, my apologies babes

Word count: 1.181

➜ Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2

Masterlist

Jason hates you; he despises your very existence because you make his job miserable and eight times more complicated than it should be. Ever since you got to Gotham, you have caused anything but trouble for him, his family, his business AND his crime-fighting activities.

It all started when that dumb fuck of New Jersey's governor announced that to fight the overwhelming crime rate in Gotham they would appoint a brand new DA, the starlight, the ace, the beloved child of the country's justice system; you. A prodigy since law school, with a 98% conviction rate, not reaching 100% because not even you could fight the unfairness when prosecuting rich folks or false allegations.

There you were, standing next to the Governor on TV with a serene look on your kind features, and a body language that said nothing could disturb your peace, a suit tailored to your shape, clean and ironed until perfection, fixed and organised hair and a straight pose. You. Were. Perfection. And maybe that's why they sent you off to Gotham —you were just too good. (suspiciously good)

You made it your goal to turn the Gotham court system into your personal renovation project, From the very moment you stepped out of that courthouse, determination etched on your face, the whole City watched as you won case after case. Your conviction remained unshaken, even in the pervasive corruption that seemed woven into the very fabric of the city. Nothing could stop you —not even the countless attempts to end you. In fact, you managed to reduce Gotham's crime rate by a staggering 1% in just two months—an achievement that was basically historical. (and again, suspicious)

You were stubborn and couldn't mind your own business, and Jason didn't really care; at the end of the day, you became a small spark of hope for Gothamites — that until you threw one of his guys behind bars, then it became personal.

Were you just that stupid that you couldn't grasp the danger you put yourself into by going after high-profile criminals? He was sure that every Rouge in Gotham had a bounty on your head, and you didn't care! You just didn't care! Like you were some sort of masochist, suicidal maniac! But he would make you care, on God, he would; one, because no one wanted the new favourite child of the city becoming another Harvey Dent, and two, he was just absolutely tired of you messing up his stuff.

Drug operations were busted, fights for keeping territories were more common, and the attempts to get the most clients by dealers became more desperate, selling harder and harsher drugs. You were just messing it all up! You just had to stop before you got everyone killed.

"Pretty nice home you got here. The federal government pays well, it seems." His modulated voice echoed through the emptiness of your apartment, it wasn't expensive, you weren't one of the luxurious lifestyles because you just couldn't afford it, but it was neat and well taken care of, the most expensive thing you had was your Computer on your desk, a long, caramel coloured structure next to the window looking at the city.

"Should I add trespassing to your file, Mr. Red Hood?" You asked calmly, in the same calm voice you used when talking to the defence attorneys. He was sitting on your couch, manspreading on your couch, one hand on the back of it to keep up the relaxed posture and the other on the gun that sat comfortably against his left thigh. "Funny little one." He let out a smug chuckle, an edge of annoyance in his voice that couldn't be hidden by the modulator. He stood up, the thud of his boots loud as he approached slowly, probably trying to make you feel smaller, which it did because he was the size of a double refrigerator, but you were, by far, more worried about the files hidden under your couch, in the special plastic pocket in which it usually is the information about the furnishing, him finding that made you nervous.

"Should I offer you a glass of water, sir?" You asked with faked courtesy, barely holding back the subtle shake of your voice, to which he chuckled again. "Thank you, doll, but I have other things to talk with you." He said, clenching and unclenching his fists.

He took another few steps, "You're tense. Are you scared?" Yes, absolutely terrified, about to pee in your expensive suit pants that you wore only once every millennium. You wanted to jump out the window before spending half a second longer with that beast. "Somethin' to hide?" He inquired again. You shook your head, keeping your eyes locked into the whites of his mask. And then you looked back at the couch, a little too low.

Shit.

Both of you pounced at the same time, struggling for two different reasons, you were doing your best to keep him from reaching the files and him barely struggling to keep you away with only one arm. You kicked, pulled, pushed, and clawed at him to keep him from flipping the couch. Meanwhile, he barely did some force to keep you away with the arm which was holding the gun.

He reached one of the files from under the couch, and you yanked his hand away, twisting his elbow at a painful angle and making all the pages fall and scatter around the floor. "You little sh-" He wanted to growl, looking over the mess on the floor until his eyes met the deep blue ones of a picture. Bruce's picture. He violently pushed you away, making you hit the floor with a thump and kicking the air out of you whilst he read the notes, and every page he read made him panic more. Somehow you had noticed things no one else picked on, his pattern of picking up children just at the same time as a new robin hit the streets, analysis on his posture, his voice, coincidences and discrepancies you had found. You had figured The Batman out.

He grabbed another file, the one labelled Grayson, the same story. Drake. Damian. Gordon. Brown. Sionis. Todd. There was no point in keeping the helmet on now so he just took it off and threw it somewhere else in your living room as he flipped on his file. You knew who he was, you knew who his family were and for the first time since he knew about you, he panicked.

"How did you get this....?" He muttered, barely above a whisper, his shaky hand pointing the gun at your face. "Did you show this to anyone else?" His grip on the barrel tightened, his index pressing against the trigger as he snarled. You coughed, placing a hand on your chest. "Lower your gun... and I tell you..." you managed to gasp, sitting up against the wall. "Let's just... talk... Mr. Todd... and I promise I'll explain everything." And that was it, He just needed to hear you out.

But would he?

©sourcherrybites 2025

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty-nine: blind spot

word count: 4.4k(?)

warnings: this chapter contains mentions of drugs, weaponry, and other illegal activities. reader discretion is advised.

twenty eight | twenty nine | thirty

He kept telling himself he was doing the right thing.

Give her space. Let her breathe, for fuck’s sake. Don’t make this about you.

But it was a joke, really. Because no matter how many times he told himself to back off, Lando couldn’t stop wondering what she was doing, how she was feeling, whether she’d eaten something that could actually be considered food. Whether she’d eaten the bread still warm from the bakery or left it to go stale on the table. Whether she cried when she was alone. Whether she cried at all.

He told himself to grow up. This wasn’t some teenage crush. He had blood on his ledger, weight on his name. He ran half the city’s undercurrent from behind the veil, stitched the streets together with money and fear and brute control.

So he acted like it.

Thursday came bitter and sharp, all wind slicing through his coat as he ducked down an alley off La Rousse and into the backroom of an old tailor’s shop – a legitimate front. It was run by an elderly man named Niki who had been running the business since back in the early 1980’s, long before Monaco ever gained their nefarious Reaper. 

Lando just happened to be a loyal business partner of his – a humble young man who paid a generous amount in exchange for exclusive access to the basement of the old property. Niki had the added bonus of being a man who knew how to mind his own business.

Lando liked that in a partner.

The real business was three floors beneath—cold, concrete, and buzzing with quiet tension. His people were already gathered around the long steel table: Max Fewtrell leaning back in a chair, Logan with his arms folded, Carlos hunched over some schematics.

“News?” Lando asked, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it onto the rack behind him.

Carlos looked up, tapping the paper with his knuckles. “Got movement near Mile End. New shipment of knockoff tech—headsets, tablets, black market shit. I say we intercept and flip it.”

Lando nodded. “Do it quiet. No fireworks. I don’t want more noise than necessary this week.”

That’s when Verstappen stepped up to inform him that the warehouse on the docks had been hit. Two of Lando’s runners had gotten picked up and one of them was singing like a songbird. To make matters worse, their local books weren’t clean— for that matter, nothing was clean— but it meant that some fool had tried to skim off the gambling profits again. 

Lando stood at the edge of the table, leaning forward on his fists as he surveyed the projected losses and the photograph evidence. With the way his sleeves were rolled up and his fists were clenched, Logan had to approach him, cutting off his train of thought.

“Mate, you have to take a breath, you're going to kill someone and then paperwork becomes my problem.”

“...Mate?”

“Boss. I meant boss. It’s, uh, a different way of pronouncing it. Yeah! Uh, French. Very French.”

The glare Lando shot him was so potent and so familiar that Logan didn’t need a language to understand it.

Shut up, Spin.

Logan sighed.

Why is it always me?

By noon, his phone buzzed with a familiar unknown number. There was no contact name, but the area code was French, and Lando was smart enough to know who would be so bold as to call him again.

Gasly.

The French always were so full of themselves.

It’d been a while since he’d heard from him. The Frenchman wasn’t one to just call up without a reason. And Lando had a feeling this wasn’t going to be a friendly chat about old racing memories.

With a roll of his eyes, Lando finally answered the call, placing the call on speaker before leaning back in his chair. 

“Gasly,” Lando greeted succinctly, tone unreadable.

“Ah, now you pick up, huh? I have been trying to get your attention for some time now, Mr. Norris,” There was a slight chuckle, then a shift to seriousness. “Lando,” came the smooth, almost cocky voice on the other end. “You are busy?”

“Always,” Lando replied, his tone flat. “What do you need?”

“We should meet.”

He paused. The warehouse around him stilled.

“Where?”

“Neutral ground. Tomorrow night. Hmm, Le Voile d'Or? Not one of your places. Bring one of your own. Just one.”

“I’ll think about it,” Lando said, his voice low and cold. “But don’t think for a second I’m gonna let you walk all over me, Gasly.”

Gasly laughed, as if the challenge didn’t faze him. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The line went dead before Lando could respond.

Bastard.

That night, Lando was back at the head of the intimate table setup in the meeting room, the dark mahogany reflecting the warm light of the ornate overhead chandelier. He folded his sleeves casually, rolling them to his elbows, his knuckles still raw but healing. Logan, Carlos, and Max Fewtrell sat with him, a fresh set of printed diagrams spread across the table—half club schematics, half distribution routes.

“He’s been running the street scene uptown with those modified imports and the fancy kid drivers,” Daniel added, leaning back. “Why would he want to fold into our operation now?”

“Because we’ve got infrastructure,” Lando said. “He’s got speed and no discipline. We’ve got routes, clean-ups, and an intel network he couldn’t build in a decade.”

Max tilted his head. “You thinking we bring him in for delivery work? Or enforcement?”

“Neither.” Lando’s jaw tightened. “We make him a runner. Use Gasly and his Garage to move product across districts fast. Street races’ll double as cover. We don’t touch the actual racin’—we let him handle that circus.”

Daniel let out a low whistle. “That’s pretty ambitious.”

“It’s efficient,” Lando muttered. “We’ve lost two outer routes in the last month. We need speed without, like, needin’ to rebuild everythin’ from scratch.”

Lando leaned forward, resting his forearms against the edge of the table, rings tapping a dull rhythm on the steel. “He said his crew is fast, low-profile, and looking for more work. But I think he wants protection—someone to watch his back if things go south.”

Carlos frowned. “Could be good.”

“Could be bait,” Logan muttered.

Lando considered both. In this life, everything came with a price. 

Trust, especially.

Still, he needed to keep moving. Staying still made him think too much—about her, about that night, about the blood on her hands and how small she’d looked on his bathroom floor, knees drawn to her chest, his name barely a whisper.

At least he could keep the rest of the world in order. That much, he could still control.

“He’s smart,” Max Fewtrell said, interrupting his thoughts, tracing a path from the docks through to the northern districts. “Gasly’s been running his racing ring lean. Tight crew. Fast drivers. They're ghosts, half’a the time.”

Carlos, leaning against the lockers, nodded in agreement. “They are a fast crew. Young. Aggressive, too. They know the roads better than most of our guys do. And the bikes they run with?” He let out a low whistle. “Custom-built, half of them. Perfect for the tight runs.”

“What, you trust ‘em?” Daniel half-laughed, skeptical.

“No,” Lando rolled his eyes, as if Daniel had asked some stupid, childish question. “But I don’t need to trust ‘em. I need him to know we could make each other very, very rich, ” he smiled smugly.

Logan looked up from the tablet. “Using his drivers as runners could cut our drop times in half…”

“And also draw heat,” Carlos pointed out. “They crash one car, we will lose the route and the product.”

Lando leaned back, eyes flicking over the blueprints again. 

Logan folded his arms. “ I dunno… could be useful. If we want to up our speed game, y’know.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Or it’s a setup. C’mon, I thought I was our car guy!”

Carlos only laughed.

Lando cracked his knuckles. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll hear him out. He wants to meet at a neutral place, suggested Le Voile d'Or. I want two exits, working comms, and I want eyes on the building an hour before Max n’ I even step foot in it. Logan and Oscar will go tonight and set up early. Got it?”

He could feel his heart rate pick up, the adrenaline that always came with making deals like this. But at the same time, he couldn’t escape the thought that kept gnawing at him—he wasn’t doing this to move forward anymore. He was doing it to outrun what was closing in behind him.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, the shadow of the city growing darker behind him. Everything he was doing now was just a distraction. A way to ignore the fact that, no matter how many deals he made or how many punches he threw, it was never enough. 

Lando gritted his teeth. He didn’t have time to think about that. Not now.

Gasly had his attention, and that was enough for tonight.

“Yuki!” Pierre barked, stepping over a tangle of brake lines. “The NSX is still sputtering in third—didn’t I tell you to fix that two days ago?”

Yuki, crouched under the hood with grease smudged across his cheek, didn’t flinch. “Yeah, you did. And I am, but maybe if Esteban didn’t screw with the ECU mapping behind my back—”

“That was an improvement,” Esteban waved off, leaning against the wall with a bottle of water and a smug tilt to his mouth. “Unlike your tuning, which sounds like a dying blender.”

Pierre groaned, pacing past the two. “If you two can go thirty fucking seconds without pissing on each other, maybe we would have a car ready before Lando and his crew show tomorrow.”

Tucked into a half-abandoned industrial lot on the outskirts of the city, the place didn’t look like much from the outside. But inside, rows of souped-up cars lined the walls, glittering under harsh fluorescent lights. Toolboxes clanged, beats thudded from an old speaker rigged in the corner, and the murmur of French, Japanese, and the occasional curse in English hung low in the air.

The scent of gasoline and burnt rubber hung heavy in the air, thick with adrenaline and sweat. Neon light spilled from under the cracked roll-up doors of Gasly’s Garage, casting eerie pinks and greens over the collection of customized engines and half-assembled machines inside. It looked like chaos, but every screw, wire, and rev was calculated—Pierre wouldn’t allow otherwise.

This was Gasly’s world. And tonight, he was not fucking around.

“We need to look tight,” Pierre said sharply, pacing between two low-slung Hondas with custom body kits and matte finishes. “Like… we belong in that league, same as him.”

Yuki, now crouched under the open hood of a deep purple Acura NSX, didn’t even look up. “We do belong in the same league. You just want to look prettier.”

“Prettier gets us in the room,” Pierre snapped. “The rest comes after.”

From the far side of the garage, a socket wrench clattered to the floor. Esteban straightened up, rubbing his grease-stained hands on an already filthy rag.

“I thought the whole point of us was not needing his approval,” he said, too loud on purpose. “But sure. Let us beg for Norris’s scraps. I’m sure he’ll be flattered.”

Pierre’s jaw flexed. “It’s not begging. It is business.”

Esteban gave him a look. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, mon frère.”

Yuki rolled his eyes, muttering something in Japanese that probably wasn’t flattering.

“Putain,” Pierre swore under his breath, rubbing the side of his face. “Where the fuck is Jack? Tell me the rookie isn’t late. Again.”

“He’s not late,” came Yuki’s voice, straightening up to take a step back from the hood and check his work. He was still admiring his handiwork when he plainly told Pierre, “You are just anxious.”

Pierre shot him a look. Yuki didn’t flinch, just wiped his hands on a rag and dropped the hood with a satisfying thunk, before coming to stand beside Pierre.

“I’m not anxious,” Pierre said, voice low but clipped. “I’m focused. There’s a difference.”

“You are pacing like my grandmother used to before Sunday Mass,” Yuki deadpanned.

“Your grandmother also used to smuggle hash through airport security in her rosary beads,” Esteban muttered from the side, leaned against a stack of tires with a lazy smirk. “Ah, I know! Maybe she should be running this crew instead.”

Pierre turned his head sharply. “Say that again, Ocon. I dare you.”

Esteban lifted both hands in mock surrender. “I am just saying. If Lando Norris is coming all the way down from his big castle to check us out, maybe he’s expecting more than… this shit.”

Pierre stepped toward him. Yuki, with the patience of someone who’d seen this a hundred times before, simply pulled out his vape and took a long drag.

“You think you could run this place better?” Pierre asked tightly, jaw set. “Sois mon putain d'invité.”

“Je ne veux pas de ton travail, mon pote. I just want to survive the night without you starting a pissing contest in front of a guy who could bankroll half the East District.”

“Guys,” Yuki interrupted. “Maybe focus up? If we screw this up, we lose our only shot at this.”

The hangar doors creaked open with a mechanical groan before Pierre could respond. Jack Doohan rolled in then, stepping out with a backpack slung over one shoulder, hair damp like he’d just showered in a gas station sink. His car was flashy, over-tuned, too much chrome.

“You’re late,” Pierre snapped.

“Sorry,” Jack offered with a crooked smile, dropping the bag with a thud. “Cops shut down the shortcut. Had to take the long way ‘round.”

Pierre just glared. 

Jack raised both hands. “Hey, I’m here now. What’d I miss?”

Yuki stood up, wiping car grease off his hands. “Everything important. But mostly Pierre yelling.”

Pierre shot him a warning look, cutting them off. “We’re here to make this look good. Lando Norris isn’t just some suit with a penchant for fast cars. He’s a calculated bastard. He’ll smell desperation from a mile away, so get your heads on straight.”

A beat of silence passed. The only sound was the low hum of the cars still cooling and the faint beat of music shifting to something darker.

At the back of the garage, Jack stood quietly, knuckles skinned from a rushed brake swap, eyes wide as he tried to absorb everything. This was his third week with Gasly’s crew, and it felt like a masterclass in organized madness. Pierre didn’t trust easily, but Jack had shown he wasn’t just another rich kid with a turbo’d Civic and something to prove. He listened. He learned. And most importantly, he earned his bruises.

“Oi,” Pierre called to him. “Check the tire pressure on the GTR. If we’re gonna show Lando we can move fast, we need to look like we live at 300 kph.”

Jack nodded immediately, wiping his hands on his jeans before jogging over to the corner.

The Garage was more than just their base—it was sacred ground. A Frankenstein’s lab of torque and tension. The walls were lined with old race trophies and Polaroids: half the people in them long gone, half still hanging on by blood, rivalry, or debt.

“You have got two hours,” he said instead. “We meet Lando and his guy at midnight sharp, comprendre?”

Esteban crossed his arms. “And what do we do when Lando starts asking questions we can’t answer? You think he is just going to just hand over his distribution lines because we brought him pretty toys?”

“No,” Pierre said. “I think he’ll listen if we show him we’ve got speed, discipline, and something he doesn’t. He knows this city better than anyone — but we know the streets. Every alley, every cop rotation, every crew too young or too desperate to turn legit. That’s what we offer.”

Jack looked around, cracking his knuckles. “You, uh, think they’ll bring Spin?”

Yuki raised an eyebrow. “No, I don’t think so. Lando doesn’t let anyone talk for him.”

“Except the Fewtrell boy,” Pierre muttered. “That’s his second, from what I hear.”

Esteban snorted. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Yuki closed the RX-7’s hood with a clang. “Why are we even trying so hard with this guy? You know he doesn’t play well with others.”

Pierre shot him a look. “Because Lando Norris doesn’t just run a syndicate—he is the syndicate. We get this deal, we stop bleeding cash on side bets and finally start –how they say– playing in the big leagues.”

“And if he says no?” Esteban asked, too casually.

“Then we make him say yes.” Pierre’s voice was calm, too calm.

Yuki exhaled, long and low. “You always say that before something explodes.”

“That’s because something always does,” Pierre grinned, flashing gold where his canine used to be. “Now get the hell to work. Tomorrow’s not just a meeting. It’s our audition.”

With that, Pierre was already walking toward his own car — a sleek silver Nissan GT-R with a cobalt blue underglow, hood up, engine gutted and humming as his crew fine-tuned every detail. He stood there for a moment, one hand resting on the roof.

This had to go right.

Because Gasly’s Garage wasn’t just a bunch of kids racing for pink slips anymore – not since the money started moving, not since the bets turned serious. Not since the first time someone crashed, and the body disappeared before sunrise.

They were in it now. And Lando Norris — the Reaper himself — was the next step.

So yeah, they’d play nice. 

For now.

But only because they planned to run this city one day.

And when they did?

They’d remember exactly who looked down on them.

The chosen meeting, an unconstructed club called Le Voile d'Or was nothing more than a skeleton — steel beams, concrete floors, and open air where the ceiling should’ve been. No neon signs, no thumping bassline. Just construction tape fluttering in the breeze and the sound of sawdust spreading about. Lando liked it that way. No distractions. No corners to hide in.

The meet was set for midnight.

He arrived at 11:43, naturally. Max was already pacing near the car, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

“They’re not here yet,” Max muttered, eyes scanning the lot. “You sure this isn’t a trap?”

“It’s always a trap,” Lando said evenly, pulling off his gloves as he stepped onto the gravel. “S’why we lay ours first.”

Oscar was already in position. Rooftop a block out, four floors up, a clean sightline, silencer on. One text and he could stop a heartbeat mid-sentence.

Logan had swept the perimeter earlier — camera blind spots mapped, back exits sealed, with Daniel and Verstappen posted by the service stairs. With Carlos positioned near the front entrance, nothing got in or out without them knowing.

Still, Lando’s eyes never stopped moving. Even in this hollow, half-built ruin, he was all edges. Sharp jaw, sharper gaze. His coat moved like a shadow when he walked, his boots steady and deliberate. You could tell just by looking at him: he wasn’t here to negotiate unless he wanted to.

11:56.

The hum of tuned engines echoed off the walls before the headlights appeared — three cars, low and fast, cutting through the dark. One was black with a burnt-pink stripe. The other, a silver Nissan, purred like a threat.

Gasly stepped out first. He didn’t hurry – he didn’t have to. He had that swagger particular to people who knew they were dangerous in ways others hadn’t even figured out yet. Yuki emerged just behind him — shorter, tenser, but clearly not a sidekick. Not with the way he scanned the site like he was already calculating escape routes.

Pierre approached with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, giving the Brit a once over. “Is that a gun? Or you are just happy to see me?”

Lando raised a brow. “Only as happy as you are,” he shot back, pointing his gaze to the handgun tucked into the band of Pierre’s baggy jeans.

Pierre chuckled. “Ah, touché.”

Max stayed silent behind Lando, eyes locked on Yuki, who looked like he might pull a knife just for fun. He made a point to stretch, the lifting of his jacket enough to show off the gun tucked in his own pocket, even if he couldn’t spot one on Pierre’s second. Tension crackled beneath the false politeness — a quiet understanding that everyone here had killed someone, directly or not.

Still, they went through the motions.

“Gasly,” Lando greeted.

“Norris.”

They shook hands — cool, quick, firm. No warmth.

“I hear you’re looking to expand,” Pierre said, tone smooth. “And I hear you’ve had trouble keeping up with demand lately.”

Lando didn’t react. “You offering t’help or just here to gloat?”

Pierre smiled. “Help, of course. I’ve got roads you don’t. Drivers you haven’t met. Eyes in places your boys would never pass unnoticed. You’re good at staying clean. I’m better at staying untraceable.”

Max Fewtrell looked over at Lando, unimpressed. Lando reflected that same look back to Gasly.

“Did you call me here just to make y’self feel nice, or do you actually have something f’me?

Gasly chuckled. “I have been thinking. You know how we used to roll together, back in the day? The racing, the high stakes? I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Lando unbuttoned the front of his suit, leaning against a makeshift table as he stared up at the Frenchman with a look that told to get on with it quickly. Lando Norris didn’t take kindly to have his time wasted, especially by posh wannabes looking to be somebodys.

“Go on.”

“I’ve got a network, a big one – street racers, quiter routes, plenty of guys who know not to play by the rules.” He glanced over at Yuki, who nodded, before he continued with his pitch. “We’ve got the runners, the cars, the cash flow, but we’re looking for someone who can push things, make it worth the risk. And you… well, you’ve got a reputation.”

Pierre had slowly been making his way closer to where the two Reaper boys were standing, and it was making Max antsy. Gasly saw Max’s hand twitch for his handgun and laughed, waving him off. “We are old friends here, non? No need for such things.” 

Within moments, Lando’s mind clicked over the options. This was exactly the kind of thing he’d been looking for: leverage, power, control. A street racing ring under his influence meant more money, more influence, more control of the territories he was still trying to solidify. Gasly could help him gain an edge over rival crews who were too weak to understand how to play the long game.

“I’m… listening,” Lando muttered carefully.

“There’s potential in this for both of us, Lando. We can talk the bigger numbers when you agree. But you and I, we’ve always worked well together. Let us make something bigger than just a few races, hmm? Let us make it profitable for both of us.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. He could hear the pitch—Gasly was selling the idea of partnership, but he was also a businessman. If Lando played his cards right, this could open doors for all sorts of opportunities. But he had to be careful. Gasly was clever, slippery. And Lando wasn’t sure he trusted the guy enough to dive in without a second thought.

“And in return? Somehow I get the feelin’ you’re not doin’ this out of the goodness of you heart,” Max asked.

“Product. Routes. A seat at the table. Not the whole table — I know who I’m talking to.” Pierre tilted his head, smiling. He took a step closer, his voice lowering. “But… perhaps a slice.”

Yuki stepped forward, holding out a tablet with a map — color-coded, clean, and too detailed for Lando’s liking. Lando didn’t touch it. He simply nodded for Max to take it.

“I’ll have someone vet it,” he said.

“Of course,” Pierre replied. “And if you don’t like what you see?”

Lando met his gaze. “I’m sure you’ll be the first to know.”

The air held its breath for a moment.

Then Pierre smiled again. “I always like a man who’s polite when he threatens me.”

“Oh no, I’m not threatening,” Lando said, his smile sickly sweet. “Yet.”

Pierre laughed. Yuki didn’t, his eyes flitting between the two Brit’s momentarily.

One mistake, and it could all fall apart.

They talked numbers next — shipments, timing, how many people were on Pierre’s crew, what kind of muscle they had, whether they had clean fronts or needed cover. Pierre answered everything easily, like he’d been rehearsing for this moment.

Lando noticed it,  clocked it, but didn’t call it out.

Pierre’s boys had made their pitch, and Lando—cool, unreadable, two steps ahead as always—had picked it apart and rebuilt it in his favor. On paper, they’d be allies. In reality, Gasly’s Garage would be working under him without realizing it. Lando had danced circles around sharper men. Pierre might’ve been slick, but Lando was surgical.

He slid his hands into his coat pockets, posture relaxed. Beside him, Max gave the faintest nod, as if to say we’ve got this. Across the concrete skeleton of the unfinished club, Pierre was still talking—something about logistics, runners, trust but Lando had mostly stopped listening by then.

They’d already won. His work here was done.

But he let Pierre talk anyway, because letting a man believe he’s in control is often the final stroke in tightening the noose.

By the time they finished, the night had shifted — the air less hostile, the power still clear but… tentative. Like everyone had shown their cards, but kept a few aces tucked into their sleeves.

Yuki appeared more closed off, standing more like a protective Doberman by Pierre’s side, while it was Pierre who approached so he and Lando could shake on it..

“Looking forward to working with you, Lando.”

“We’ll see,” Lando said. His designer shoe clacked against the concrete underneath as he too took a step closer, and then—

“Lando—”

Two clicks sounded before Oscar’s voice crackled to life in his ear – urgent and out of breath.

Why was he out of breath?

Lando barely had enough time to wonder when Max looked at him with a matching expression of realization.

“It’s an ambush! You guys need to get out, now!”

a/n: yippee! a new chapter, and some new (familiar) faces! what do we think?

[lxndonorris]

just Friday things - Max Verstappen

Y/N x Max Verstappen Theme: Smut~ish Max wears his special white suit for the japanese gp and he looks absolutely stunning - and he knows it. Will you keep your cool helping him getting ready for the race weekend? word count; 3900+ taglist: @cloud-55 @pitstopreality-f1 open for requests :)

It's a slow Friday morning inside Max's motorhome, quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric and the faint hum of paddock life outside. The blinds are still half-closed, filtering in a moody, grey light that softens everything. It feels like your own little world—just you and him.

He stands a few feet away, feet planted on the soft floor, stripped down to his white Nomex underlayer. It clings to every inch of him like it was made just for his body—thin enough to see the way his muscles shift beneath it, but thick enough to keep that little layer of mystery.

His back is to you at first, giving you a full view of his shoulders, broad and powerful, tapering down to that narrow waist that you can never stop thinking about.

His arms stretch slightly as he reaches for the new racing suit—white, clean, and sharp, lined with red and black that catch the light with every movement. It's unfamiliar, and it's stunning.

He steps into it, one leg at a time, and you watch the way the material slides up over his thighs—firm, defined, every muscle evident beneath the snug fit.

You can't help it.

"That suit should be illegal," you murmur, half under your breath.

He hears you. Of course he does.

Max turns his head just enough to throw a grin over his shoulder—lazy, knowing, that little crooked smile that melts you every time.

"Too much?" he teases, voice low and smooth, still heavy from sleep. There's a rasp to it, the kind that curls at the edges of your stomach.

"No," you breathe, watching as he tugs the suit up fully. "Too good."

He pulls it over his hips, adjusting the fabric as it stretches snugly over his ass, and then up his waist. The cut of the suit frames him so perfectly it looks tailored just for this morning.

His thighs are carved into the material, every line exaggerated by the lighter color. His waist is tight, defined, and when he reaches back to smooth the fabric down, you catch the flex of his triceps through the clingy Nomex shirt.

Lazily, he lets the upper half of his suit hang down his waist. Unbothered, he stretches his arms over his head, every muscle on his back on display—oh, he knows what he's doing.

Then, he stands still for a moment in front of the mirror, and you study him—every angle, every shadow on his body, every detail of his expression. His lips part just slightly as he breathes, then curl into a shy, satisfied smile again when he sees what you see.

"I'm not used to this," he says, turning side to side, checking out the way the white makes everything pop. "Feels weird. Flashy."

You get up and walk over to him, slow, like approaching something holy. Resting your hands on his waist, fingers brushing the seam where the fabric curves just right, you smile.

"You look like a god," you tell him, voice soft but steady. "Strong, gorgeous, confident. This suit doesn't just fit you—it worships you."

He lets out a quiet laugh, the kind that vibrates in his chest. His hands come up to touch yours gently, grounding.

"You're full of compliments today."

"Can you blame me?" You say, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

He glances down at himself again. The way he studies his reflection—it's not vanity, it's curiosity, like he's seeing himself the way you do for the first time.

The way his suit hugs his thighs like a second skin, how it draws a line from his chest to his core, and the way it catches every shift of his muscles when he moves.

You run your fingers down the front of his suit, brushing against the hard plane of his chest. Even through the material, you feel the way his heart beats just a little faster.

His eyes follow the path of your fingers as they drift down the front of his chest—slow, deliberate, tracing the curve of each muscle through the firm stretch of his Nomex. You let your touch linger at the waistband of his suit, then give it a soft tug.

Just enough to make him raise an eyebrow.

"This suit intrigues you, huh?" He says, amused, that smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. His voice is still warm, laced with sleep and something deeper.

He tilts his head, looking down at you like he's trying to read the rest of your thoughts on the space between you.

You meet his eyes, steady, a slow smile spreading across your lips. "You know I love seeing you in your suits," you tell him. "But this one..." Your hand smooths up over his stomach again, feeling the tight line of abs beneath the suit. "This one's something else."

He chuckles softly, stepping just a little closer, like he's testing your words. "Something else, huh?"

"The way it fits you," you say, fingertips brushing the sharp seam along his hip. "It's not just how good you look—which, don't get me wrong, is insane—it's how confident you move in it. Like you were built for this."

He holds your gaze, and for a moment, the teasing edge in his smile fades into something quieter. His free hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch light and grounding.

"You really see me like that?"

"Every day," you whisper. "But especially like this."

He takes a breath, deep and steady, and then exhales with a small laugh, almost disbelieving. "You're gonna make me blush."

"It's true though," you say, grinning now, tugging gently at his waistband again. "You're handsome."

He laughs again, dropping his forehead to yours for a second, that crinkle forming near his eyes the way it always does when he's happy in that quiet, genuine way.

"You're trouble, you know that?"

"And you love it."

He hums in agreement, lips ghosting just above yours before he pulls back and straightens up, rolling his shoulders as he adjusts the suit.

But then, he turns to you with that familiar, playful glint in his eye and tilts his head just a little, hands resting lazily on his hips. The upper half of his suit still hangs loose around his waist, exposing the full length of his Nomex-covered torso—the snug, white fabric clinging to every contour of muscle like it was painted on.

"Think you could help me with the top?" He asks, voice casual, but there's nothing innocent about the way he's looking at you. "It's easier with two hands."

You raise a brow. Both of you know he doesn't need help. But he knows exactly what he's doing—and worse, so do you.

"Sure," you murmur, stepping closer, pretending to play it cool even as the heat rises beneath your skin.

Your hands find his arms first, fingertips brushing along his biceps, slowly gliding down. His muscles are warm, solid under the thin Nomex, and you can feel the way they tense slightly at your touch. Not performative—just reactive. Instinctive. He's sensitive to you, the way you are to him.

You trail along the outside of his ribs, your thumbs brushing the sharp lines of his obliques, and his breath catches—barely, but you hear it. You reach the crumpled sleeves of the suit bunched low on his hips and gather the heavy fabric in your hands.

It's a different texture than the Nomex—cooler, thicker, with a faint stiffness to it that resists slightly in your grip. You lift the suit up and gently guide one sleeve over his arm, then the other.

He shifts slightly, and the movement rolls across his back in a wave of muscle. You smooth the fabric down over him, palms pressing along the line of his spine, feeling the quiet strength beneath, the warmth of his body heating the suit almost instantly.

He turns to face you again, and you have to steady your breath. The suit is still unzipped, hanging open just to show the Nomex shirt beneath. The white clings to his chest, damp now where heat builds under the layers.

His pecs flex slightly as he rolls his shoulders, and the zipper tab sways lightly with the motion.

Max smirks—slow, wicked—and his eyes catch yours.

"You okay?" he asks softly, voice a little lower now, the edges of it rough like gravel.

You nod, but your throat feels dry.

"You're doing that on purpose."

"Doing what?" he asks, all false innocence, even as he steps closer, enough that you feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of his cologne—of him. His voice dips again, a low rumble in his chest. "Standing here? Letting you touch me?"

Then he growls—not loud, but low and under his breath. It's involuntary, like a sound pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, right where his power lives.

His eyes never leave yours.

Your stomach flips.

The suit hugs his body tighter now, framing every muscle. His arms, his shoulders, the shape of him outlined in bold white and shadow.

The contrast between the soft stretch of the Nomex and the rigid lines of the race suit make every inch of him stand out more—dangerous, beautiful, and completely in control of how much it affects you.

He leans just a little closer, voice just above a whisper.

"You blush so easily."

You swallow hard, your fingers still resting against his chest, feeling the heat of him through layers of fabric.

"And you like making me."

He doesn't answer.

He just smiles—and it's devastating.

Max walks toward the mirror again; as he shifts slightly, fingers hooking into the waistband of his suit to adjust the fit, tugging the thick fabric into place around his hips. He runs a hand down his side, then across the front- smoothing out the creases, aligning the fit to his frame with the kind of attention to detail only a driver like him would have.

But then something falters. His brow twitches—just barely—but you notice. He pulls again at the fabric, slower this time, just below his waist, his jaw tightening for a split second.

That's when you see it.

Subtle, but unmistakable. The white suit, so tight, shows every reaction. And this one... is clearly not just from nerves or adrenaline.

His bulge is showing, bold and unfiltered under the cling of the fabric.

Your breath catches. He sees you notice.

He turns his head slightly, his eyes finding yours in the mirror with a slow-burning look that's half a challenge, half amusement.

"Told you this suit was a problem," he says, voice low, thick with something that sends a thrum through you.

You bite your lip to keep from grinning too wide.

"You said it was a problem," you tease gently, stepping up behind him, eyes locked on the reflection. "But I think you're the one misbehaving."

He watches you through the mirror, expression unreadable for a moment—until the corners of his mouth curl up, devilish and slow.

"Can't help it," he says, barely above a whisper, eyes dark and full of heat. "You were running your hands all over me like that; what did you expect?"

He shifts his hips subtly, adjusting again, but it's no use—the white fabric gives nothing to modesty. You can see the way he fights to maintain that thin layer of composure, but the physical evidence tells a different story.

The driver, the champion, the composed machine on track—right now, he's undone by something as simple as your touch, your attention.

Max turns halfway toward you, letting the suit hang open at his waist still, the Nomex clinging tighter now from the heat building between you.

"You've got me all worked up, schat. And I haven't even left the motorhome yet."

Your pulse kicks up, warmth blooming in your chest—and lower.

"Maybe I should stop distracting you," you say softly, but your fingers are already brushing his side again, trailing just under the hem of the suit.

Max hums, the sound low and dangerous.

"Maybe," he says, eyes locking with yours, "you shouldn't."

He shifts again, adjusting the suit low on his hips, and this time, he doesn't even try to hide it.

His fingertips brush over the front of the suit, just a light pass—absentminded, like he's just checking something. But it lingers a moment too long to be innocent. His eyes flick to yours with a spark of wickedness, and a slow, smug smile curls across his lips.

"Eyes up, Y/N," he murmurs, voice teasing, velvet-smooth. "Unless you're planning to help me deal with this."

You open your mouth, but no words come.

Your cheeks burn.

He knows exactly what he's doing.

Max lets out a quiet, throaty chuckle, clearly pleased with himself, then lifts both hands up and runs them back through his hair, letting his head fall slightly as his fingers rake through the soft, messy strands.

It's the kind of movement that should be casual, unconscious—but with Max, everything becomes magnetic.

The stretch of his arms makes the suit pull tighter over his chest and shoulders, the white Nomex underneath flexing with his movement. The muscles in his forearms tighten as he smooths his hair down. His face, flushed with heat and that little edge of mischief, is all sharp cheekbones and soft lips, eyes dark and dangerous.

And then, he grabs his white cap from the nearby counter, flipping it backwards in his hand before fitting it snugly onto his head. The clean white contrasts with his golden skin, the messy strands of hair peeking out beneath it.

He looks devastating.

He knows it.

"You're staring," he says as he meets your eyes again, grin tugging wider. "Still thinking about how this suit fits?"

You swallow hard, nodding once without shame.

"You're unfair."

He steps closer again, standing right in front of you, and lets his thumb trail gently under your chin, lifting it so your eyes lock fully.

"You haven't even seen me in the car yet."

His hands slide onto your waist, fingertips warm, confident, curling around you with a quiet possessiveness. His touch is grounding and electric all at once, like he knows exactly how to settle you and stir you up in the same breath.

You place your palms against his chest to steady yourself—solid, warm, the tight stretch of Nomex flexing over the ridges of his pecs. He feels strong, firm, confident.

Your hands drift lower, gliding past the seam of the open suit, fingertips brushing down along the carved lines of his waist. Then you let them slip around behind him, slowly, until they find their place—cupping the round curve of his ass, firm and perfect under the tight white suit.

He freezes for just a second. Then—

An eyebrow arches, that signature Max look of playful disbelief. His lips twitch with amusement.

"Really?" he murmurs, voice dipping low, almost smoky. "We're doing this now?"

"You said the suit was the problem," you whisper, squeezing just slightly. "I'm just... confirming."

He laughs, that deep, quiet kind that vibrates deep in his chest and warms the space between you. His grip on your waist tightens slightly, pulling you just a little closer until there's barely a breath of space between you.

He glances down, watching the way your fingers linger on him, then looks back up at you with that same maddening grin. "So," he drawls slowly, eyes dancing, "should I zip it up, or... do you need another minute?"

His voice is thick with teasing, but there's tension humming under it too—like he's just barely holding back, testing the edge of restraint.

You match his look, unbothered, heart pounding.

"You look so good half-dressed... maybe I'm not ready for you to ruin it with that zipper just yet."

He hums, one hand slipping around to the small of your back. "I could be late to the garage," he murmurs. "Blame it on you again."

"You love blaming me."

He leans in, his breath brushing your cheek, lips close enough to tempt but not touch. "Only when you make it this easy."

Max doesn't move right away. He just stands there in front of you, heat simmering between you, that same smirk lingering on his lips as his hand drifts downward—slow, casual, like he's doing nothing out of the ordinary.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he slips one hand past the open edge of his suit, sliding it under the waistband.

You inhale softly.

His fingers move, shifting, adjusting himself with a smooth, practiced motion that somehow feels more intimate than anything else you've done this morning.

The fabric shifts slightly with the motion, stretching tighter, revealing just how much the teasing—your teasing—has affected him.

He exhales through his nose, lips parting slightly, but it's not frustration—it's measured, controlled, deliberate. He's not in a rush. His fingers flex once more, and he hums to himself like he's not quite satisfied yet.

"Still not sitting right," he mutters, mostly to himself, though the glint in his eyes tells you exactly who the comment is really for.

You blink, heat blooming low and slow in your stomach, watching the way his hand moves beneath the crisp white suit, hidden but not hidden enough. You can see every single move of his hand, adjusting the fabric so all of him has enough space.

"You could've just said you needed a minute."

He smirks wider.

"And miss the look on your face right now?" His voice dips, lazy and rich. "Not a chance."

He finally withdraws his hand, dragging it slowly back out, fingertips brushing over his stomach as he does. He gives one last tug at the fabric, smoothing it over himself with a little extra flair.

Then he pauses, eyes locked on yours.

"Okay," he says, licking his bottom lip slowly. "Think I'm ready now."

You barely manage to breathe as he reaches for the zipper.

"Unless," he adds, fingers resting at the tab, "you'd rather keep admiring the view a little longer?"

You can't even answer—your pulse is pounding too loud in your ears, and he knows it.

He laughs under his breath, wicked and warm, and just begins to zip—slowly, teasingly—watching your face the whole time.

The zipper slides up with a smooth, quiet sound, locking into place as he seals himself inside the suit. There is something final about it—the way the fabric molds instantly to his frame, hugging every muscle with sharp precision.

Max exhales slowly, fingers brushing lazily over his stomach, then his chest—just a casual sweep, like he's feeling the fit, but you know him.

It's intentional.

He's showing off.

Absently running his hand across the strong lines beneath the suit, the zipper nestled between the firm cut of his pecs.

He doesn't say a word—just watches you with that smug, knowing smile, his eyes glinting with quiet mischief.

You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth twitching as you force yourself to take a step back.

"We need to go, Max."

His chuckle is low, lazy, and completely unbothered.

"Mmh," he hums, not moving. "You forgetting something, love?"

You pause, turning halfway back, confused for a split second—until you see him still standing there, arms crossed, one brow raised like he's caught you red-handed.

Your eyes instinctively drop.

He is still just in his socks.

"I haven't put my shoes on yet," he adds with a lazy shrug, as if it's a minor inconvenience and not a trap he's very clearly laid out just for your benefit.

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Just a small, breathless laugh.

You blush, and he grins.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he bends down to retrieve his white shoes from the bench. The suit tightens across his back, stretching perfectly over every sharp, sculpted line. The way it clings to his thighs, his ass, his calves—it's like it was tailored for this exact moment.

For you to look.

And you do.

Oh, you look.

He crouches for just a second too long, rolling his neck before slipping his foot into the shoe.

"Comfort is key," he mutters, not even glancing up—but that smirk still plays at the edge of his lips.

He's enjoying this far too much.

He leans forward, lacing slowly, flexing just enough that the suit follows every movement like a second skin. Then the other foot—same performance.

Max Verstappen, four-time world champion, king of the grid... turning the simple act of putting on shoes into something sinful.

When he finally stands again, brushing his hands together, you're frozen in place. He walks past you slowly, his shoulder brushing yours on the way to the door.

His voice dips right beside your ear.

"You were staring again."

You swallow hard.

"You wanted me to."

He glances back, over his shoulder, cap low, eyes gleaming.

"Guilty."

You roll your eyes and turn to grab your things, shaking your head, trying to ignore the warmth still flooding through you. But you glance back—just once—and there he is.

He stands just inside the doorway, fully suited now—white cap pulled snug over his tousled hair, race shoes laced, and that damn suit zipped all the way up. And God, he looks hot.

The fabric clings to every inch of him like it was painted on, sculpted to his body with not a single wrinkle out of place. His chest is puffed out slightly—just enough to draw attention, just enough to remind you of the strength underneath. His shoulders look broader, more commanding, the curve of his pecs pressing subtly beneath the zip line.

You don't even know what's worse—or maybe it's what's better—the way his bulge still hints through the thick fabric with the faintest outline... or the way his ass looks from behind. Perfect. Lifted. Taut. The white of the suit makes every curve pop, the tight seams drawing your eyes exactly where they shouldn't be looking right before he walks out into public.

He shifts his weight slightly from one leg to the other, and the suit moves with him, hugging his thighs, stretching over the muscle, that small pull of fabric at his hips doing very, very little to hide the tension there.

"You okay?" he asks casually, hands on hips, clearly pretending not to notice the silence that's settled over you.

You blink once. Twice.

"No," you mutter. "Not even a little."

He laughs—really laughs, low and smug and ridiculously pleased with himself.

"Is it the front or the back?"

"Both."

He turns slightly, enough to give you a side view—and that really doesn't help. Max glances down at himself, inspecting the snug fit across his hips like he's only just now realizing the suit's effect.

As if he wasn't already fully aware.

"Might be better to stick to the dark suits," he muses, fingers ghosting over his bulge like brushing away some dust, his voice too innocent to be real. "White's a little... unforgiving."

You groan, dragging a hand down your face.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

He tilts his head, biting back another grin.

"It's a very good thing. Especially if it keeps you staring like that."

And just like that, he turns, walking ahead like nothing's out of the ordinary. While you follow, torn between admiring the view and praying nobody notices what you can't stop seeing.

For a brief moment, all you can think is:

God help me, it's only Friday.

[drdemonprince]

how might someone who’s middle class learn to survive on less? I feel like growing up middle class & being able to land a good job after college has killed my survival instincts. Makes it really hard to prioritize things like not working because I don’t know how I would survive without health insurance. There’s probably plenty of things I’ve wasted money I could’ve gotten for free but didn’t know it was possible and had means to pay so I just did it? I feel like I need to learn how to survive better so I can help others & be able to have work that is more flexible with my mental illness & disability. I should have the means but it’s like even on a better salary than many I still spend too much

Honestlyyyy read Mr Money Mustache. Ignore his own overly optimistic tech pro economic politics, and just dive into his whole stoic way of living to give you a sense of how far it can go, then tailor to what you can manage. Like, you don't have to replace your gym membership with a set of free weights in the back yard that you use even in 10 degree weather, like he does, but you could maybe start doing free weight exercises in your living room instead! or switch to a local park district gym or ymca! You can replace all your cleaning supplies with vinegar & dish soap and be pretty well set. A lot of MMM's advice is about not allowing lifestyle inflation creep to unconsciously happen to you simply because every middle class person around you is spending ridiculously and consuming a lot of things wastefully.

A lot of the big money-hemorragers are things you are probably aware of like car payments, cell phone payments, monthly membership services, food delivery, and so on. Eliminate that shit as much as possible. Nobody imo should be leasing a car or a phone, it is a complete scam. There is NO reason to pay for ANY media of any kind really if you're in need of tightening your budget significantly. F movies, Z Library, SteamUnlocked, Archive dot org, Libgen, Sci Hub, etc etc etc.

The Poverty Finance and LeanFire subreddits are great, the piracy subreddit is too. Start with things you won't even miss, or that have really easy workarounds, and then build your way up. use libraries. join some buy nothing groups in your area. go thrifting. it's easier than ever to get access to free/cheap used stuff, and find people who know how to make things or DIY various processes and services on their own. I grew up with the assumption that nothing should or could be paid for, and so my default approach the second I need something new is to try and figure out how I can weasle my way out of paying for it -- though I did take this way too far for a long time and am now practicing how to actually spend money on things like household items or doctor's appointments. So the pendulum can swing too far, to the point where it's just costing you more in the long run anyway.

good luck!