#and I’m not even going to talk about the handbag

[sluttery-withoutshame]

I’m sorry, but not even Eric has worn a hat this ridiculous.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 24: June 2024 - Part 5

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

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

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

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpiller:  GUYS. BELLE LECLERC JUST CHANGED HER INSTAGRAM USERNAME. SHE'S NOW @/belleverstappen. I REPEAT. @/belleverstappen.

🔗 (screenshot)

@/MonacoRoyalty:  WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT

@/RedBullTroll33:  So you’re telling me… Isabelle. LECLERC. is now VERSTAPPEN?????

I need to lie down.

@/FerrariF1Pain: I THOUGHT I WAS HALLUCINATING WHEN I SAW THE NAME CHANGE. SHE REALLY MARRIED MAX. AND THEY DIDN’T TELL A SOUL. ICONIC BEHAVIOR TBH.

@/F1MemeLord:  Charles: forgot Belle’s birthday Belle: changed her last name to Verstappen in front of the entire internet Me: poetic cinema.

@/gridgossip: 

EVERYONE WAKE UP

BELLE LECLERC IS NOW BELLE VERSTAPPEN

MAX MARRIED CHARLES' SISTER AND DIDN'T TELL ANYONE

IM SHAKING

@/gridgossip: 

This is the softest, coldest, most brutal reveal of all time.

No announcement.

No photo dump.

No grand post.

Just a silent name change.

And now the whole grid is screaming.

@/f1memequeen:  MAX VERSTAPPEN SECRETLY MARRIED CHARLES LECLERC’S BABY SISTERAND THEY SOFT LAUNCHED WITH A HORSE AND A USERNAME UPDATE

THIS IS CINEMA.

@/F1ChaosClub: how it started: "whose hand gave max tea on stream??"

how it's going: "max verstappen is married to belle leclerc and nobody knew and now the internet is on fire"

@/TifosiTears: charles leclerc is about to log on and have the worst 24 hours of his life i fear 💀

@/MaxIsWinning: max verstappen winning on and off the track as per usual 😌

@/WifeGuyMax: max verstappen, known cat dad and now confirmed wife guy. we love character development 💍🐎🐈

@/GridChaosDaily: the grid when they realize belle verstappen = belle leclerc = max’s wife = charles’s sister = absolute chaos

(photo attached: stock photo of a man having a breakdown)

@/FerrariTears: Charles finding out his sister is now Belle Verstappen because of Instagram is the level of sibling drama we deserve in 2024.

@/TifosiMess: Prediction:

Charles: 🧍‍♂️😭

Arthur: 🧍‍♂️😵‍💫

Lorenzo: 🧍‍♂️😳

Pascale: 🧍‍♀️🫠 Meanwhile Belle and Max: 🏇🏡❤️

@/MonacoRoyalty: So let me get this straight:

Belle disappears for weeks

Drops a horse like it’s a handbag

Soft launches her new life

NOW SHE'S A VERSTAPPEN?? I NEED TO LIE DOWN.

@/LandoSimp44:  some of you OWE the soft launch detectives an apology. they said it. they were RIGHT.

@/RedBullUpdates MAX. VERSTAPPEN. MARRIED. BELLE. LECLERC. AND THEY HID IT FROM US FOR HOW LONG???

@/FerrariPain: the way the Leclerc brothers are probably finding this out at the SAME TIME AS US 😭😭😭

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: HOLY SH*T

Lando: HOLD ON

Lando: SHUT UP EVERYONE

Lando: sends screenshot of @belleverstappen

Oscar: OH MY GOD

Daniel: I AM SCREAMING INTO A PILLOW

Lewis: I’m sorry. Am I hallucinating?? Because that says Verstappen. Not Leclerc.

George: BELLE. VERSTAPPEN. BELLE. FREAKING. VERSTAPPEN.

Carlos: Belle… changed her name…

Zhou: I THOUGHT I WAS READY BUT I WAS NOT READY

George: DID THAT JUST HAPPEN LIVE???

Carlos: I need a drink.

Alex: I AM SCREAMING.

Sebastian: Honestly? About time. Good for her.

Oscar: SHE CHANGED HER USERNAME TO BELLE VERSTAPPEN. THAT'S IT. THAT'S THE ANNOUNCEMENT.

Fernando: Max said "no press release, no statement, just pure chaos."

Daniel: Can we talk about the absolute audacity???

Zhou: Max dropping "I’m married" casually during a press conference and Belle changing her name quietly the night before Spain is PEAK Verstappen behavior.

Lando: I’m gonna cry. She’s not even dramatic about it. Just boop name change.

George: Meanwhile Charles is somewhere punching a wall.

Carlos: somewhere? Try several walls.

Lewis: No but seriously—Belle just silently won the whole internet.

Logan: It’s not even loud drama. It’s silent nuclear bomb energy.

Nico R.: Charles is probably Googling "how to politely kidnap your sister back."

Checo: Max playing 4D chess while Charles plays Candy Crush.

Fernando: And still losing at Candy Crush.

Kimi: Wake me up when someone crashes a press conference about it.

Oscar: Okay but real talk. I’m SO proud of her.

Lando: Same.

Lewis: She chose her happiness over their comfort. Respect.

Esteban: Someone check on Charles.

Fernando: No, no, let him suffer a bit longer. Character development.

Lance: Wait does this mean Max is Charles’ BROTHER-IN-LAW now???

Oscar: i just had a full body shiver

David: I would pay so much money for footage of Fred Vasseur reading this right now.

Mark: I would pay more to see Christian Horner's face.

George: NO ONE TELL PIERRE. Let’s just see what happens.

Logan: What if Belle walks into the paddock tomorrow wearing Verstappen merch. I would pass away.

Lewis: Max really married the one girl Charles forgot to look at properly. Poetic.

Nico R.: This is better than any soap opera I’ve ever seen.

Sebastian: Not Max breaking Ferrari and Leclerc family morale in one move. That’s championship material.

Oscar: Belle really said "forget my birthday? Watch this."

Carlos: Reminder: Max said he’s bringing her to the paddock tomorrow.

George: THEY’RE GOING PUBLIC IN PERSON TOO???

Oscar: CHAOS. COMPLETE CHAOS.

Alex: I have popcorn ready.

Lando: I'm not ready.

Daniel: None of us are.

***

Charles didn’t mean to open Instagram.

It had become a form of self-torture lately—every scroll a reminder of the silence on the other end of his unanswered texts, of the messages left on read, of the birthday that no one in the family had remembered except Belle herself.

But his thumb moved on autopilot during breakfast, and there it was.

Not a post. Not a story.

A name.

@belleverstappen

Charles blinked. Froze. Then blinked again.

No. That couldn’t be right.

He opened her profile.

Same photos. His sister’s profile. 

Charles stared at the screen.

Then he read the handle again.

@belleverstappen.

Verstappen.

A cold sweat started to gather at the back of his neck.

“Non… non non non…” Charles muttered, sitting bolt upright in his chair.

Across the hotel room, Alexandra looked up from her hair straightener. “What now?”

“Arthur,” he said, too sharp, holding his phone up like it was infected. “Look at this.”

Arthur, still halfway through a bowl of cereal, leaned over and squinted. He choked immediately.

“No. No, no, no. She didn’t.”

“She did!” Charles said, nearly tripping over his chair. “She changed her name!”

Arthur shoved his cereal away like it had personally betrayed him. “Wait—what does that mean? Did she get married? Wait, is this real?”

“What does it mean?” Charles asked, genuinely baffled. “Why would she—what—Why Verstappen?”

And then, like a bolt of catastrophic lightning:

“Oh my god. Is Jos Verstappen her sugar daddy??”

A sound of pure horror came from behind him.

“CHARLES!” Alexandra snapped. “What the hell?!”

Arthur looked like he had been personally insulted by the sentence. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I’m just saying—Verstappen! She’s going by Verstappen!”

Charles was already pacing. “She was always weirdly polite to Jos. Maybe he—maybe it’s him.He’s always lurking around the paddock! And she moved out a year ago and never told us. She quit her job. Someone’s clearly supporting her!”

Arthur looked horrified. “Charles. Please. That’s insane.”

Alexandra looked at Charles like he’d grown a second head. “You do realize Jos Verstappen is married, right? Like, currently. Publicly. Has been for years.”

“I saw her smile at Jos in Monaco!” Charles snapped. “And she said he was polite to her at the garage and she’s been so—so secretive and she quit her job and she got a horse—”

“CHARLES,” Alexandra interrupted, hands in the air. “Jos Verstappen is married.”

Charles blinked. “What?”

Arthur groaned and threw a pillow across the room. “Oh my god. This is actually the stupidest conclusion you’ve reached this month, and I was the one that thought Belle was being kept by a sugar daddy with a skincare routine.”

“IT MAKES SENSE AT THE TIME,” Charles insisted.

There was a knock, and Nicholas Todt stepped into the room, holding his tablet with the solemn expression of a man walking into a fire.

“Tell me this is not real,” Nicholas said, holding up a screenshot of Belle’s Instagram page.

“Oh, it’s real,” Arthur said, grimacing.

“Charles, please tell me this is not the first time you’re hearing about this.”

Charles opened and closed his mouth.

Nicholas pinched the bridge of his nose and sat down heavily. “This is a PR disaster. If the media connects her to Max—”

“Wait,” Charles said slowly. “Why would the media connect her to Max?”

Everyone turned.

“You’re joking,” Alexandra said.

“What?” Charles asked, defensive.

“She changed her name to Verstappen,” Nicolas deadpanned. “What do you think it is?”

“She can’t be married to Max!” Charles blurted. “Someone would’ve told me!”

Joris, who had been quiet until now, finally looked up from his coffee with the most satisfied look on his face.

Joris shrugged. “Good for her.”

Charles stared. “Good for—what?”

“She’s been invisible to all of you for years,” Joris said bluntly. “And now she’s making herself seen. About damn time.”

Charles looked between them all, suddenly feeling like he was at the center of a soap opera everyone else had watched already.

“No,” he whispered. “It can’t be Max.”

Arthur looked vaguely nauseous. Joris looked like he had several things to say and none of them were polite.

Charles could feel the room closing in. “This is not happening.”

“I actually thought it might be Zhou,” Alexandra said mildly. “Or Lewis. They’re both polite. Hot. Emotionally intelligent.”

“Okay, please stop talking,” Charles groaned.

Arthur sat down beside him. “Do you think she’ll be at the paddock tomorrow?”

“If she shows up wearing Verstappen gear, I’m gonna throw myself in the gravel,” Charles muttered.

Alexandra raised an eyebrow. “No, you’re going to smile, and wave, and act like a supportive brother who didn’t forget she existed.”

"Max," he repeated dumbly. "Max Verstappen. My biggest rival. The guy who stole my karting trophies when we were twelve."

Arthur shrugged. "Apparently, he didn’t just steal your trophies."

Alexandra smirked behind her hand.

Nicolas rubbed his temples like he had a migraine.

Charles sat down heavily in the nearest chair, completely and utterly defeated.

Belle was married. To Max Verstappen. And the whole world knew.

Everyone except him.

She hadn’t said a word.

She’d just changed her name.

And somehow, that said everything.

****

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: hey you up?

Lorenzo: I am now. What’s going on?

Arthur: don’t freak out but we need to tell maman something before she finds out from the internet

Lorenzo: Arthur. Tell me now.

Arthur: Isabelle changed her Instagram username. It’s belleverstappen now.

Lorenzo: … what.

Arthur: like not “dating” Verstappen not “soft launch” Verstappen I mean she married him she’s married like legally. emotionally. spiritually. all of it.

Lorenzo: What do you MEAN she’s married to Max Verstappen?! When?! How?! WHY didn’t we KNOW?!

Arthur: because we were all too busy forgetting her birthday and ignoring her for years? just a theory. 🙃

Lorenzo: Jesus Christ. Does Charles know?

Arthur: not until like five minutes ago. he thought she was dating JOS I’m not kidding.

Lorenzo: … of course he did.

Arthur: look can you please talk to maman like right now because the whole paddock is going to know soon and if she sees this online first she’s going to cry and then go full French Catholic guilt spiral and none of us are emotionally prepared for that

Lorenzo: On it.

Arthur: thank you. 

Good luck

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

Members: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Logan Sergeant, Daniel Ricciardo, Nico Hülkenberg, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Sergio Pérez, Esteban Ocon, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Pierre Gasly, Yuki Tsunoda, and Valtteri Bottas

Charles: MAX. ANSWER YOUR PHONE.

Charles: TELL ME THIS ISN’T TRUE. TELL ME THIS IS SOME STUPID INTERNET RUMOUR. MAX. DID YOU MARRY MY SISTER?

Max: Yes.

Charles: AND YOU LET ME WALK AROUND THE PADDOCK FOR WEEKS LIKE AN IDIOT.

Max: We got married in Monaco. She wanted to keep it private.

Charles: YOU GOT MARRIED AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME??

Charles: YOU DIDN’T THINK I DESERVED TO KNOW THAT MY BABY SISTER WAS MARRYING MY BIGGEST RIVAL??

Pierre: wait wait wait what do you mean married Isabelle???

Yuki: SOMEONE EXPLAIN WHAT IS HAPPENING

Carlos: Charles—

Charles: HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN TOGETHER? HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN A THING??

Carlos: Over a year.

Charles: I’M GOING TO SCREAM.

Charles: I’m going to absolutely LOSE MY MIND. You’ve all been lying to me. For MONTHS.

Charles: WHO KNEW?? I WANT A FULL LIST. RIGHT NOW. I SWEAR I WILL GO THROUGH PHONE RECORDS.

Lewis: It wasn’t our secret to tell.

George: They weren’t hiding it to hurt you. They were protecting each other.

Lando: Also, you literally forgot her birthday. You don’t exactly have the moral high ground here.

Charles: SHE’S MY SISTER.

Max: She’s my wife. Stop yelling like you own her.

Charles: SHE’S FAMILY.

Max: This isn’t about you, Charles.

Charles: SHE IS MY SISTER. MY FAMILY. AND NONE OF YOU THOUGHT I MIGHT WANT TO KNOW SHE MARRIED SOMEONE WHO’S BEEN TRYING TO BEAT ME SINCE KARTING.

Oscar: She didn’t forget to tell you. She chose not to.

Charles: SHUT UP, OSCAR.

Carlos: Hey.

Charles: NO. YOU TOO. YOU REMEMBERED HER BIRTHDAY. AND YOU SAID NOTHING.

Carlos: Because she asked me to. Because she knew you’d react exactly like this.

Charles: SO MY SISTER MARRIES MAX VERSTAPPEN AND I’M THE VILLAIN??

Max: You remember that now?

Charles: You think this is funny?

Max: No. I think it’s sad. That it took a ring on her finger and a horse on Instagram for you to realize she was gone.

Charles: You went behind my back. You should have told me.

Max: She didn’t want to. And I respect her choices. Which is more than I can say for you.

Charles: I’M HER BROTHER.

Max: Then maybe act like it. Because right now? You’re just noise.

George: Charles, this isn’t about you anymore.

Alex: It’s about Belle. And how she had to build a new life because her old one didn’t see her.

Oscar: And Max did.

Max:If you're done shouting, maybe try asking yourself why she trusted me with her future and not you.

Charles: …

Yuki: can someone please give me a recap. i feel like i skipped six seasons.

Pierre: I JUST FOUND OUT HE MARRIED HER AND NOW HE’S DRAGGING CHARLES INTO THE VOID I NEED TO LIE DOWN

Daniel: someone get Pierre a fan, he’s hyperventilating.

Charles: EVERYONE SHUT UP. EVERYONE JUST STOP.

Charles: I’M FINDING HER. SHE’S AT THE TRACK, RIGHT? I’M FINDING HER RIGHT NOW.

Lewis: Charles.

Charles: WHAT.

Lewis: Do not ambush her. You don’t get to demand explanations from someone you forgot how to see.

Charles: I DIDN’T—

George: You forgot her birthday, Charles.

Oscar: You didn’t notice when she moved. You didn’t notice when she quit her job. You didn’t notice when she stopped showing up to family events.

Carlos: You didn’t notice her.

Charles: I just want to talk to her.

Max: Then wait until she’s ready. You’ve taken a lot of things from her, Charles. You don’t get to take this, too.

Charles: You don’t get to talk to me about what I’ve taken.

Max: No? Then let me talk to you about what you didn’t give her.

Max: Time. Attention. Respect. Support.

Max: All the things she gave you without question. All the things you never gave back.

Yuki: i’m so uncomfortable but also very invested

Pierre: i feel like we should log off

Charles: ...is anyone going to back me up here?

Esteban: You kind of lost the moral high ground at “is she dating Jos.”

Logan: ngl we all knew but we also knew you’d react like this.

Lewis: This isn’t about us. It’s about her. You need to let her decide if and when she wants to let you back in.

Charles: She’s my sister.

Max: She’s my wife.

Max: And if you ever want a place in her life again, maybe start by realizing you don’t get to gatekeep her happiness.

Carlos: Max. Enough.

Max: I’m done.

The rest is up to her.

Not me.

And sure as hell not you.

***

Pascale Leclerc had always prided herself on knowing her children.

She had lived through the chaos of karting and exam seasons, through Arthur’s scraped knees and Charles’ broken hearts, through Lorenzo’s silent strength and Isabelle’s quiet brilliance.

She had watched them grow up like a garden — each one different, wild in their own way, but hers.

And yet now, as she stood in her kitchen — untouched tea cooling in her hands — she felt like she was staring at a house that had quietly caught fire.

And she hadn’t even smelled the smoke.

Lorenzo stood by the doorway, tense but calm in that way only he could be. 

He had always been the family’s voice of reason, the one who didn’t panic, who showed up with logistics when the others brought emotions.

But tonight, there was something sharp beneath his composure. A tightness around the mouth. A shadow in his voice.

“Something happened,” Pascale had said, the moment he arrived.

Lorenzo didn’t answer right away.

He looked at her — really looked at her — like he wasn’t sure how to begin. Like he was about to hand her a truth that couldn’t be unspoken.

“Isabelle got married,” he said quietly.

The words didn’t register at first. Not fully.

They sat in the air, strange and unfamiliar, like hearing a sentence in a language she hadn’t spoken in years.

“What?” Pascale asked, blinking.

“Isabelle,” Lorenzo said again, slowly. “She got married. A few weeks ago. In Monaco.”

Her breath caught.

“To who?”

Lorenzo hesitated. “Max Verstappen.”

The name hit harder than the sentence.

Pascale lowered herself into the nearest chair like her legs no longer trusted her.

“She’s… married,” she said, tasting the word. “To Max. And we didn’t even know?”

Lorenzo sat across from her. “We didn’t even know she was in a relationship, Maman. We didn’t know she moved. That she quit her job. We didn’t know anything.”

Pascale stared at the table, at her own hands folded around a now-cold mug.

It was her fault.

Hers.

Because she had believed silence meant peace. She had assumed that just because Isabelle didn’t complain, she was content.

And in doing so, she had let her daughter disappear. Slowly. Quietly. Without fanfare.

“She didn’t want us to know?” Pascale asked, voice small.

“No,” Lorenzo said gently. “Because we’ve given her every reason to believe we only care when it’s convenient. When it’s public. When it’s about Charles.”

Pascale felt her eyes sting. “I thought… I thought she would come to me, if it was serious.”

“She did,” Lorenzo said, not unkindly. “She just stopped waiting for us to see her.”

Pascale pressed a hand over her mouth.

“I didn’t even know she still believed in love,” she whispered. “After everything we asked her to give up. After everything we never gave back.”

“She did,” Lorenzo said. “And he gives it to her.”

Silence stretched between them — thick with guilt and revelation.

“I missed her wedding,” Pascale said softly.

“We all did,” Lorenzo replied. “But we don’t have to miss everything else.”

Pascale’s hand trembled as she set the tea aside. It sloshed slightly over the rim — unnoticed.

“I missed her wedding,” she repeated, more to herself than to Lorenzo.

He didn’t speak. He knew better than to offer hollow comfort.

“I missed her,” Pascale whispered. “I missed everything.”

The silence sat heavy between them, stretching until it felt like a second skin. Pascale reached for her phone on the table — out of habit, out of desperation — and stared at the screen like it might offer her redemption.

A single name burned in her memory.

Isabelle.

Her thumb hovered, hesitating over old messages, until finally, she opened the thread.

It was all still there. Every breadcrumb of her failure.

Ma chérie… I didn’t realise. I thought I messaged you, but I sent it to Charles by mistake. That’s not an excuse. You deserved more. Always. Please let me come see you. I miss you.

Even reading it now, Pascale felt the shame wash through her like floodwater.

It was a lie. She had forgotten.

Not just the day. Not just the message.

She had forgotten her daughter — in the way that mattered most.

“I lied to her,” Pascale said aloud, her voice cracking.

Lorenzo closed his eyes like he was bracing for a storm. “Maman…”

“When I messaged her,” Pascale said,  tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “After I forgot her birthday. I didn’t want her to think I forgot.  I told her I meant to text her — that I accidentally sent it to Charles instead. But that wasn’t true. I did. I forgot. I forgot the day she was born. And then I lied because I couldn’t bear the thought of her knowing that. I didn’t remember until Charles reminded us. I lied to make it seem like I hadn’t failed her. But I did. I have. Over and over again.”

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I told myself she was strong. That she didn’t need as much,” Pascale continued, tears now slipping freely down her cheeks. “She didn’t fight for attention. She didn’t make noise. She just… quietly endured. I thought that meant she was fine.”

“She wasn’t,” Lorenzo said softly.

“I know that now,” Pascale whispered. “But it’s too late to be there for the little girl who cried when we sold her horse. Or the young woman who spent her graduation alone because we were all watching a race.”

Pascale looked up, eyes brimming.

“But maybe it’s not too late for the woman she’s become. The one who found someone who sees her. Who loves her enough to ask for her forever, even when she felt invisible.”

Lorenzo nodded slowly. “You’ll have to show her. Not just say it.”

“I don’t even know if she’ll want to hear from me,” Pascale said.

“You’ll try anyway,” he replied. “Because that’s what she deserved all along. Someone who didn’t need a reminder to show up.”

The air shifted slightly — still heavy, still painful, but no longer suffocating.

Pascale exhaled shakily and picked up her phone again.

“I want to fix it,” Pascale said eventually. “I don’t know how, but I want to try. I don’t want her to think we only care now because she married someone famous.”

“Then don’t start with an apology for missing the wedding,” Lorenzo said, voice low but steady. “Start with an apology for everything before it.”

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: (sends screenshots)

Lando: okay so we all agree that was��� A Lot™?

George: “Then maybe act like it.” Cold. Accurate. Deserved.

Lewis: I was hoping Charles would reflect Not double down on the yelling and gaslighting

Carlos: He kept yelling “SHE’S MY SISTER” like it was a spell It’s not. It’s just a fact. And not one he treated with care.

Zhou: I’m honestly mad at him. Belle deserved better than that meltdown.

Daniel: She’s been waving white flags for YEARS. The fact that she had to marry Max Verstappen for him to finally notice is… tragic.

Logan: He tried to make it all about himself. Again.

Esteban: And he really told Max “you went behind my back” like Belle is property

Sebastian: Disrespectful. Self-centered. Deflecting guilt into rage. I like Charles. But this? This was ugly.

Lance: You could see the second-hand shame through the screen

Valtteri: Honestly, I don’t blame Max for losing patience.

Nico R.: He gave Charles every opportunity to calm down. Charles chose violence.

Oscar: “Which is more than I can say for you.” Yeah. That line still lives in my head.

Fernando: Max protected her. Period. Charles tried to make it about rivalry. One of them is married. The other is playing victim.

Mark: I love when people forget that Max is scary when he loves someone Not just when he races

David: Charles thought the betrayal was the secret The real betrayal is that she stopped counting on him, and he never noticed

George: And now he’s blaming everyone except himself.

Lando: What exactly did he expect? That she’d send a save-the-date and beg for attention?

Lewis: She already did. Every time she showed up and got ignored.

Sebastian: She didn’t disappear. She just stopped asking to be seen.

Alex: And I’m done coddling Charles about that.

Carlos: Same.

Oscar: She chose happiness. He called it betrayal. That says everything.

Zhou: Should we be worried about today?

Daniel: We should be prepared. Max said he’s bringing her to the paddock. And Charles? He’ll implode.

Fernando: Let him. Maybe he’ll finally listen if it’s in public.

Lewis: He doesn’t deserve answers. He deserves the silence he gave her.

George: And if she does say anything to him, it’s her choice.

***

Belle had never liked the paddock.

Not because it wasn’t impressive — it was. Efficient, loud, organized chaos. But because it had never really felt like hers. Not even when Charles had brought her around as a teenager, wide-eyed and silent, watching her brothers shake hands and pose for cameras while she trailed two steps behind.

She knew how invisible you could be in a place like this.

But not today.

Not now.

She stepped through the gates with Max beside her — her fingers laced in his, steady and certain — and the hush that fell over the paddock was immediate.

Belle could feel it.

The weight of eyes. The slow, sharp recognition rippling outward from person to person like a silent explosion. Some turned to look, others tried not to, but they all felt it. The shift. The fact that something had changed.

That she had changed.

Max didn’t break stride. Neither did she.

The sun was warm on her shoulders, but the Red Bull jacket she wore — his, oversized and soft — felt like armor. Familiar. Safe. She’d tugged it from his closet that morning while he was brushing his teeth, said nothing as she slipped it on, and Max had only smiled at her like she was everything in the world worth looking at.

He hadn’t let go of her hand since.

Belle didn’t smile, but she didn’t flinch either.

She looked ahead, chin high, expression calm. If they wanted something loud — a statement, a spectacle — they weren’t going to get it.

They’d get this.

Her wedding band catching the light. Her hand in Max’s. Her name — Belle Verstappen — already echoing through the internet.

Let them talk.

She heard someone near the McLaren garage whisper, “Oh my god, it’s really her.” Heard another murmur, “She’s wearing his jacket.”

Belle didn’t look. She didn’t have to.

She could feel the stares. Could feel the quiet scramble of the media trying to decide whether or not to speak. To ask. To breathe.

She kept walking.

Max leaned in slightly, barely tilting his head toward her, and said under his breath, “Still with me?”

Belle’s lips curved — just slightly. “Always.”

His thumb brushed along the side of her hand in response. The smallest touch. But enough.

They moved through the paddock like a weather system — calm on the surface, but electric underneath. Some drivers straightened up when they passed. Some looked away. One engineer dropped their tablet. Someone near the Ferrari garage gasped.

Belle didn’t look toward it.

She didn’t need to see Charles to know he was watching.

She could feel it — that specific burn of a sibling’s shock, of betrayal, of too-late recognition. And it hurt, somewhere deep in her chest. But it didn’t undo her.

Not this time.

Max gave her fingers a gentle squeeze.

She kept walking.

Every step felt like reclaiming something. Every heartbeat steadier than the last.

Let them stare. Let them wonder.

They hadn’t seen her before. They hadn’t heard her.

Now they would.

Quietly. Unapologetically.

This was her life.

And Belle Verstappen wasn’t hiding anymore.

***

@/GridGossip: 🚨BREAKING: BELLE VERSTAPPEN JUST WALKED INTO THE PADDOCK HOLDING MAX’S HAND She’s wearing his jacket An emerald engagement ring And a gold wedding band I’m shaking. I’m actually shaking. 📸 (zoomed photo)

@/F1TeaSpiller: Forget soft launches. Belle Verstappen just HARD LAUNCHED HER ENTIRE MARRIAGE That’s a wedding ring, babes. A wedding ring.

@/RedBullTroll33: Max Verstappen didn’t post a wedding photo. Didn’t do an announcement. Just walked into the paddock with his wife wearing a rock the size of my student debt. Power move.

@/FerrariF1Pain: The Leclerc family watching Belle walk in like: 👁👄👁 With a RING With MAX In his jacket Wearing the smirk of a woman who’s been underrated for too long

@/f1memequeen: That emerald engagement ring is screaming “I don’t need your approval, I already have his last name” And honestly?? Obsessed.

@/WifeGuyMax: Everyone: when will Max post Belle? Max: I’ll bring Belle. Max: To the paddock. Max: With a gold band on her finger. Max: Say hello to my wife.

@/GridChaosDaily: Belle is wearing a gold wedding band and an engagement ring the size of a walnut and hasn’t blinked once Meanwhile Charles looks like he’s on the verge of spontaneously combusting

@/MonacoRoyalty: THE RING THE JACKET THE HAND-HOLDING THE WALK SHE’S THE MAIN CHARACTER

@/MaxIsWinning: Max Verstappen said:

Emerald ring ✔️

Gold band ✔️

My jacket ✔️

My hand ✔️

My wife ✔️ Legend.

@/f1memequeen: Belle: walks in calmly Internet: 💍😱🔥👗👀💀💍👑 The power of SILENCE

@/LandoSimp44: me: I’m over the Verstappen-Leclerc marriage drama also me: zooming in on the ring like it’s the Mona Lisa

@/FerrariTears: Charles is looking at that gold band like it personally betrayed him Arthur’s gone full ghost mode Pascale is probably praying in a dark room Meanwhile Belle’s just casually wearing a 5-figure emerald like it’s nothing

@/F1MemeLord: Belle: marries Max Verstappen in secret Charles: forgets her birthday Belle: walks into the paddock with a ring and a husband The plot arc is insane. The payoff? Cinematic.

@/gridgossip: MAX WALKING IN WITH HIS WIFE AND ZERO APOLOGY IS THE MOST VERSTAPPEN THING TO EVER HAPPEN

@/TifosiTears: Belle really said: you forgot me? let me introduce you to my husband and this giant green rock

***

The moment they stepped inside the Red Bull garage, Belle felt the shift.

It wasn’t like entering a room. It was like crossing a threshold — one she could never go back from.

There were voices, radio chatter, tire warmers humming. Mechanics moved with sharp efficiency. But as Max walked in with her hand still folded in his, everything… slowed.

Heads turned. Not in shock — they all knew by now. But in curiosity. 

She was part of it now.

Max dropped his bag with practiced ease, nodded at one of the engineers, and then looked back at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the room.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, just for her.

Belle nodded, though her heart was fluttering too fast. “Yeah. Just—this is a lot.”

“You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” she said quietly. “I want to meet the people who know the version of you I don’t get at home.”

Max smiled like that meant more than she realized — like she’d just handed him something no one else ever had.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Time to meet the chaos.”

Belle only had a second to steel herself before she heard the gruff voice.

“About time you brought her here.”

Jos.

He was already standing near the back wall of the garage, arms folded, mouth tugged up in something that resembled a smile. As he looked at her properly, something softened in his expression. Something almost proud.

“See you survived the vultures,” he said drily, and she couldn’t help but laugh. 

She blinked — caught off guard — and then smiled. “I’m told it’s a survival skill.”

Jos chuckled — actually chuckled — and nodded. “Good. You’ll need it.”

“Papa,” Max greeted casually, unbothered by the tension humming in the air. “Thanks for being here. You’ll keep an eye on her while I’m in the car.”

Belle blinked, surprised. “You didn’t tell me that.”

Max smiled slightly. “Didn’t want to stress you out.”

Jos’s lips twitched. Just barely.

“Sit where you want,” he said to her. “It’s quieter at the back. And if anyone annoys you, tell them you married a Verstappen. That’ll scare them off.”

Max gave him a look. Jos ignored him entirely.

Before Belle could respond, a familiar voice called out from just inside the garage.

“Well, well. You’re finally in the right garage.”

She turned — and smiled fully for the first time that day.

Gianpiero Lambiase stood near his station, headset already slung around his neck, amusement lighting his usually serious expression.

“Hi, GP,” Belle said warmly.

He approached, offering a half-hug, half-handshake that was somehow the perfect balance of affection and professionalism. “Max said you’d be here, but I figured he was bluffing.”

“I almost backed out,” Belle admitted. “Then he bribed me with his jacket and pancakes.”

“Classic Verstappen tactics,” GP deadpanned. “Food, flattery, and limited emotional vocabulary.”

Max, passing behind them, muttered, “I can still hear you.”

GP grinned, unfazed. “Welcome, Belle. We’ve all been betting on when you'd show up.”

She arched a brow. “And who won?”

“Helmut,” GP said, disgusted. “Which is horrifying.”

Max returned, tugging lightly on her sleeve. “Come on. Christian wants to meet you.”

Belle exhaled, nerves fluttering again, but she followed Max past rows of screens and engineers until they stopped in front of Christian Horner, who turned to greet them with the ease of a man who’d already been briefed but was pretending he hadn’t.

“Well, you’ve caused quite the storm.”

Christian Horner.

He approached with that signature half-smile of his, hands in his pockets, a subtle look of curiosity behind the polite charm.

“So this is the mysterious Mrs. Verstappen,” he said warmly. “Finally. The woman who managed to tame our reigning champion. Or so the rumors say.”

“I don’t think anyone tames Max,” Belle said dryly.

Christian laughed. “You might be right. But clearly, you’re the exception.”

She extended a hand, and he shook it firmly.

“Christian Horner,” he added, even though she obviously knew.

“Belle Verstappen,” she said quietly — testing the name again. Feeling it settle.

Christian’s gaze flicked to her left hand, where the emerald caught the overhead lights. “Well, it’s official now. Welcome to the madness.”

Belle took a slow breath as they stepped deeper into the garage, Max’s hand briefly grazing her lower back before he peeled off toward his car.

She watched him go, then looked around at the controlled chaos of Red Bull’s world — the data streams, the techs, the noise, the anticipation.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was standing on the outside of someone else’s life.

She was here.

She was his.

And the garage was exactly where she was supposed to be.

***

Arthur wasn’t sure what he expected.

Maybe denial. Maybe chaos. Maybe the internet was wrong — maybe Belle hadn’t really married Max Verstappen. Maybe someone had faked the name change. Maybe it was a fever dream.

But then he saw them.

Isabelle. Walking into the paddock like she belonged there. Wearing Max’s jacket. Wearing a wedding band. Holding his hand.

Arthur froze mid-step outside the Ferrari hospitality unit. His coffee trembled in his grip. For a second, he genuinely forgot how to breathe.

Because it wasn’t just that Isabelle was there.

It was the way Max glanced at her every few steps, the way she leaned in slightly when the crowd pressed too close. The way their fingers didn’t untangle, not once. Not even when flashes went off or someone whispered her name like it was blasphemy.

She looked calm. Not smug. Not afraid. Just… calm.

And that was what undid Arthur most.

Because she’d never looked like that before — not at races, not around the family, not anywhere she’d ever been expected to play the silent sibling to Charles’ glory.

She looked like herself. Like someone who had finally been given permission to take up space.

And beside him, Charles looked like he was about to snap.

“Unbelievable,” Charles muttered, voice too low and too bitter. “He couldn’t even tell me. He had to parade her in front of everyone like this?”

Arthur tore his eyes away from Isabelle — reluctantly — and turned toward his older brother.

“Are you serious right now?” he asked.

Charles flinched. “What?”

“She’s walking in with her husband, Charles. Not doing a press tour. What did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought maybe—” Charles stopped, jaw tight. “Maybe she’d have the decency to talk to me first.”

Arthur stared at him. “Decency? Are you hearing yourself?”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “She’s my sister—”

“And you’re acting like she’s your possession.”

Charles turned on him. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are!” Arthur snapped, stepping closer, voice sharp. “You’re acting like she owed you something when all she ever wanted was to be treated like she mattered!”

“Don’t twist this, Arthur,” Charles said, low and warning.

Arthur laughed — harsh, disbelieving. “You forgot her birthday. We forgot her birthday!”

“That was a mistake—”

“We forgot her birthday, and then when she finally chooses herself, finally chooses someone who sees her, you make it about you?”

“She married Max—”

“She married someone who shows up for her,” Arthur interrupted. “Which is more than we’ve done in years.”

Charles’ face tightened.

Arthur kept going. “You don’t get to be the victim here. Not when she’s spent years watching you get cheered while she was ignored. Not when she begged for scraps of attention and we gave her nothing.”

Charles looked like he wanted to argue. He didn’t.

“She stopped trying to be seen by us,” Arthur said quietly. “Because she found someone who already sees her.”

Charles swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the Red Bull garage where Belle had disappeared with Max minutes ago. “I just… I didn’t think she’d leave us like that.”

“She didn’t leave,” Arthur said. “We just never noticed when she stopped waiting.”

Silence.

Thick. Tense. Regretful.

Charles looked down, jaw clenched. He didn’t say sorry. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Arthur sighed and set his coffee down on the table beside him.

“If you want to be part of her life now, Charles,” he said. “You’re going to have to show her that you’re finally willing to see her. Not as your sister. As herself.”

Then he walked away, leaving Charles in the middle of the paddock — alone, surrounded by people, and for the first time, not the main character.

***

Belle had just sat down with a cup of tea in the quiet corner of Red Bull hospitality when she heard it.

A voice. Sharp. French-accented. Not loud, but unmistakably firm.

She looked up instinctively — and wasn’t surprised.

Arthur.

Standing just outside the entrance, shoulders tense, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets like he was trying to shrink into himself. He’d clearly made it through the first layer of staff with that Leclerc charm that used to get him everywhere.

Unfortunately for him, Jos Verstappen was standing by the doorway.

And Jos did not do charm.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing here?” Jos asked, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Arthur hesitated. “I just—I wanted to talk to her.”

“This isn’t Ferrari,” Jos said, voice calm but cutting. “You don’t get to stroll in here after throwing a tantrum across half the paddock and acting like your sister’s marriage is some kind of betrayal.”

Arthur flushed. “I didn’t throw a tantrum—”

“You don’t belong here,” Jos said. “Not after this morning. Not after the way your brother behaved.”

Arthur’s face flushed. “I came her to…”

“To what?” Jos stepped closer. “Apologize on behalf of Charles? Defend him? Make excuses for how you treated her?”

“No!” Arthur said quickly, hands up. “No. I’m not here for Charles. I’m here for her.”

Belle stood before she even realized she’d moved.

“Jos,” she said, voice soft but clear. “It’s fine.”

He turned toward her, frowning. “Belle—”

“I want to talk to him,” she said.

And for the first time in a very long time, she saw someone else hesitate when talking to her.

Jos studied her face for a beat. Whatever he saw must have been enough, because he gave a terse nod and stepped back. Not far. But far enough to say I’m still watching.

Arthur looked like he was bracing for impact as she walked toward him.

Belle stopped a few steps away, arms crossed loosely. She didn’t hug him. Didn’t cry. 

He stopped a little too far away, hands in his pockets, guilt etched into every line of his face.

“You weren’t really trying to sneak past Jos Verstappen, were you?” she finally asked dryly.

Arthur groaned. “I thought maybe if I moved fast enough, he wouldn’t see me.”

A faint smile tugged at Belle’s mouth. “He used to spot Max sneaking out after curfew with a hoodie pulled over his head. You never had a chance.”

Arthur groaned. “I thought maybe if I moved fast enough, he’d blink.”

“He never blinks,” she said.

He cracked a smile, brief and sheepish. “You look good.”

Her expression softened, barely. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t,” he admitted. “Charles is sulking like it’s a championship sport. Maman’s crying into a croissant. Lorenzo’s trying to schedule a family meeting like it’s a UN crisis summit.”

Belle sighed, gaze drifting past him for a moment. “I figured.”

He hesitated. “I didn’t come to defend anyone. Not Charles. Not Maman. I just… I needed to see you. For myself.”

She studied him in silence. Arthur had always been a little caught in the middle — younger than Charles, louder than Lorenzo, trying to carve space where there was none. He wasn’t blameless. But he hadn’t been cruel. Just… complicit.

But he was trying now.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable — just full. Full of all the things left unsaid for too long. All the messages never sent. All the birthday calls missed, the family dinners where she was present but not seen.

“You used to hide in my bed during thunderstorms,” Belle said quietly. “You’d ask me to read the same chapter of Le Petit Prince three times until you fell asleep.”

Arthur blinked, surprised. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything,” Belle said. “I remember the good things. I always tried to.”

His throat worked around the lump there. “Why didn’t you tell me? About Max. About the wedding. About… any of it?”

Belle looked down at the rings on her finger — the green of the emerald glinting faintly under the hospitality lighting, the simple gold band beneath it warm against her skin.

“Because you weren’t really looking,” she said. “None of you were. And I was tired of asking to be seen.”

Arthur didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue.

“I know,” he said instead, voice low and thick. “I think… I’ve known it for a while. I just didn’t know how to face it. But seeing you with Max — the way he looks at you, the way you look at you — I get it now. And I hate that it took this for me to see it.”

“It’s not about hating yourself,” Belle said, gentler this time. “It’s about doing better now. If you want to.”

Arthur looked at her like she was someone new. Someone stronger. Someone who had stopped waiting for the world to recognize her and built a place where she didn’t need permission.

“Are you happy?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

He exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding that breath all morning.

“Good,” he said. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

Belle stepped forward then, arms uncrossed, and opened them. The offer was quiet. Soft.

Arthur didn’t hesitate.

He pulled her into a hug like he was afraid she might vanish again. His arms wound around her, shoulders trembling just slightly. Belle hugged him back — firm and steady.

And it felt like something beginning again.

Not perfectly. Not fixed.

But trying.

When they finally stepped apart, Belle offered a quiet, teasing smile. “Next time, use the front entrance. Jos might not be so forgiving twice.”

Arthur groaned. “I’m still recovering. I think he aged me ten years with one sentence.”

She laughed — really laughed, for the first time that day.

Behind them, Jos gave a small grunt from where he stood — arms crossed, unimpressed — but Belle didn’t miss the way one corner of his mouth almost curved.

***

Max didn’t usually seek people out for conversations. Not personal ones, anyway.

He’d spent most of his life guarding things that mattered — like they were fragile, like they’d break if anyone else got too close. But this was different. She was different. And what they had now — what was growing quietly inside her — felt too big to carry on his own.

So he found GP.

It was a lull in the afternoon, the last briefing before the sim work, engineers rotating through data stations like gears in a perfect machine. But GP was by himself, leaning against the telemetry table, one brow raised as Max approached with the kind of expression that said, you better not be about to request a new steering wheel setting.

Max didn’t say anything right away.

GP waited.

“I need to tell you something,” Max said finally. His voice was lower than usual. Not tense — just held close.

GP straightened a little. “What happened?”

“She’s pregnant,” Max said.

The words came out smoother than he expected. Maybe because they’d been sitting on his tongue all day.

GP stared at him. Blinked once. Then again.

And then — grinned.

“Seriously?” he asked, already smiling. “Belle’s pregnant?”

Max nodded once, his throat tight. “Yeah. She told me a few weeks ago.”

GP exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Bloody hell. I should’ve seen that coming.”

Max raised a brow. “You didn’t?”

“I figured it was either that or you bought her a horse farm.”

Max laughed — properly, finally, the weight of the day cracking just a little. “I might still do that.”

GP was still smiling, but there was something else in his face now — something softer. Warmer.

“Kids are great,” he said, voice lower, more personal now. “I mean, chaotic and exhausting, but… they’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Max blinked. “You’ve never said that.”

GP shrugged. “Didn’t seem relevant when you were nineteen and trying to beat Lewis Hamilton into turn one.”

Max huffed a laugh. “Fair.”

There was a pause. A weight in the air — not heavy, but full.

“She’ll be a brilliant mum,” GP added, quieter now. “She’s got that calm strength to her. The kind you don’t notice until it’s the only thing holding you together.”

Max nodded slowly. “I know.”

“And you,” GP said, tapping a finger to Max’s chest, “are going to be fine. More than fine.”

Max hesitated. “Even with…”

“Even with your past? Your dad?” GP finished for him. “You’re not him. You never were.”

Max looked down for a moment, jaw tight. Then, after a long breath, he met GP’s eyes again. “I just want to give that kid something different. Something better.”

“You already are,” GP said simply. “You chose Belle. That’s your first good decision. Choosing that baby every day — that’s your next.”

“I’m scared,” Max admitted.

“Good,” GP said. “That means you give a damn.”

Max nodded once.

“I’m happy for you, mate,” GP added, reaching out and clasping his shoulder. “Really.”

Max nodded again, grateful in a way he didn’t know how to say.

“And just for the record,” GP added dryly, “I had a bet with my wife that you two would get pregnant before Charles figured out you were married.”

Max burst out laughing. “Did she win?”

“She always wins.”

Max was still grinning when he turned to leave, lighter than he’d been all day.

There was so much left to do — more secrets to tell, more people to face — but for now, it was enough that someone knew.

Someone who didn’t just understand racing.

Someone who understood him.

***

From the hospitality suite above the Red Bull garage, Belle had a near-perfect view of the final laps.

The Spanish heat shimmered off the track, waves of it rising like ghosts in the air, but Belle barely noticed. Her fingers gripped the arm of her seat, headset slightly askew, Max’s voice crackling faintly through the speakers — clipped, calm, focused.

She had never liked watching him race before she knew him. 

Now, she knew better.

Now, she could hear it in the way he spoke to GP. The way he adjusted. Reacted. Fought, not like a man trying to prove something — but like someone who knew exactly who he was, and who he had waiting for him at the end.

You’ve got three laps left, mate, GP said calmly in her ear.

Copy. Leave it with me.

Belle swallowed hard. Her hand settled instinctively over the front of her stomach, hidden by the loose navy blouse she wore. She hadn’t told many people yet — just Victoria, Sophie, Jos, and Emilie, and now GP, thanks to Max.

But this felt like a secret the whole world would eventually know.

The final sector flew past in a blur. Tyres screamed. Crowds surged.

And then, the chequered flag.

“YES! That’s P1, Max. Well done.”

Belle exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her hand flew to her mouth, and then, just as quickly, to her chest — right over her heart.

He’d done it.

 Again.

The team erupted around her — mechanics cheering, hugging, high-fiving, lifting cans of Red Bull like champagne flutes. Christian was already halfway out the door, and even Jos, who’d been watching beside her with arms crossed, allowed himself a rare smile.

But Belle?

Belle didn’t move.

Not until someone nudged her gently — a team assistant with wide eyes and an even wider grin. “He’s asking for you,” the girl said. “Go. Go!”

Belle blinked. “What?”

“Parc Fermé. He’s already out of the car. Go!”

She didn’t hesitate after that.

The hallways blurred past her — wide corridors filled with team personnel and security and overheated energy. Her flats slapped against the concrete. Her pass flashed in the light. People parted without even realizing it — as if they could feel she belonged to this moment.

She reached the barrier just as Max pulled off his helmet, hair damp with sweat, fire suit unzipped halfway down his chest.

And then he saw her.

His eyes lit up in a way Belle didn’t think he realized he saved for her. He started toward her before the cameras could swarm, before the journalists could shout, before anyone else could get between them.

He crossed to her like he knew she’d be there. Like he’d been driving toward her the whole time.

And Belle didn’t think. Didn’t care about the cameras or the crowd or the fact that Charles was likely still in his car wondering where it all went wrong.

She stepped past the barrier and met him halfway.

And then she kissed him.

There was no hesitation. No coy look at the cameras. No soft-launch subtlety.

Just her hands on his face, his arms wrapping tight around her waist, and the kind of kiss that felt like a homecoming.

The paddock erupted.

Somewhere behind them, a Sky Sports presenter squeaked. David Croft nearly dropped his mic. 

Belle pulled back only when Max laughed against her mouth.

“You kissed me in Parc Fermé,” he murmured.

“You won,” she said simply, brushing sweat-mussed hair off his forehead. “You deserve to be kissed.”

Max looked at her for a long moment, then down — briefly, instinctively — at her stomach, where no one else had noticed her hand lingering.

And then he whispered, just for her: “Both of you.”

Belle smiled. “You came home to us safe.”

Max kissed her one more time, softer now, and then turned back toward the swarm of cameras and celebration.

And Belle?

Belle stood at the edge of it all — her lips still tingling, her heart full — knowing the headlines tomorrow would be chaos.

But for now?

She had kissed her husband in front of the entire world.

And she didn’t regret a single second.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/RedBullTroll33: i thought the name change was chaos BUT THIS??? BELLE JUST WALKED IN AND KISSED HIM LIKE THEY WEREN’T HIDING FOR A YEAR I’M LOSING IT

@/FerrariTears: charles leclerc being forced to watch max verstappen win the race and then watch his baby sister kiss him like it’s a romcom finale is actually greek tragedy level storytelling

@/f1memequeen: Belle: soft-launched a horse and an emerald ring Belle: quietly changed her last name to Verstappen Belle: walks into parc fermé and kisses her world champion husband Me: sobbing okay queen I GET IT

@/WifeGuyMax: MAX VERSTAPPEN KISSED HIS WIFE IN FRONT OF EVERYONE AND LOOKED LIKE HE’D JUST WON SOMETHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN A RACE i’m unwell

@/f1memehub: sky sports: mid-sentence belle: kisses max crofty: glitches karun: gasping social media admin: pressing post like their life depends on it

@/LandoSimp44: the paddock was like “max has a secret wife” max said “here she is. in my arms. deal with it.”

@/MonacoRoyalty: SHE KISSED HIM IN PARC FERMÉ AFTER THE WIN AND HE LOOKED AT HER LIKE SHE PUT THE SUN IN THE SKY i’m crying this is cinema

@/MaxIsWinning: max verstappen doesn’t do drama he does declarations first her name now the kiss next stop: world domination

@/FerrariF1Pain: charles watching belle kiss max in parc fermé after forgetting her birthday is the most older brother consequences i’ve ever seen

@/GridChaosDaily: “Belle kissed Max after the Spanish GP” is now officially my favorite F1 moment no context. just vibes. just love

***

Instagram Post: @/belleverstappen

@/maxverstappen1: Every lifetime, every circuit. Every time. 💍❤️

@/redbullracing: Belle Verstappen supremacy. (also congrats Max 👀)

@/emilie_abadie: this is my new phone background. and lock screen. and wallpaper. and religion. thanks.

@/pierregasly: i need everyone to stop posting this before i start believing in soulmates again

@/landonorris: i was THERE. i SAW IT. i’m never recovering.

@/f1: most liked paddock kiss of all time? confirmed.

@tifositimes: I didn’t expect to cry over a Verstappen kiss post today but here we are.

@/chaoticgridgirl: SHE POSTED IT. THE KISS. THE LEGENDARY KISS. I NEED A MINUTE. ACTUALLY I NEED A WEEK.

@/f1softlaunchdetective: this is what soft-launch girlies do when they hit their final form. she dropped ONE photo and burned the paddock to the ground.

@/maxielflamequeen: the ring. the kiss. the caption.

@paddockwhispers: arthur liked it. charles didn’t.

@softverstappen: i will never emotionally recover from this post. ever. she wins. every time.

@maxsvillainera: look at the way he’s holding her look at the way she’s smiling into the kiss no notes. pure poetry.

***

FIA Press Conference — Post-Race | Spanish Grand Prix 2024

Drivers: P1 - Max Verstappen (Red Bull Racing), P2 - Lewis Hamilton (Mercedes), P3 - Lando Norris (McLaren)

Moderator: Congratulations, Max. A win today. How are you feeling?

Max:  Good. Yeah, car felt great, team executed perfectly. Always nice to win in Barcelona.

Moderator: We’ll open the floor for questions.

Journalist #1: Max, first of all, congratulations. But obviously everyone’s talking about the moment in Parc Fermé. Can you confirm — was that your wife? And are the rumors true that you and Isabelle Leclerc got married in secret?

Max: Yes. That was my wife. And yes — we got married in Monaco a few weeks ago. We’re very happy.

Lando: (muttering into his mic) Understatement of the century.

Lewis: (grinning) Congrats, man.

Journalist #2: Max, there’s been a lot of talk online about Belle’s birthday being forgotten by her family and this being the reason she pulled away from them. Any comment on that?

Max: No.

Journalist #2: Nothing at all?

Max: (calmly) No. 

Journalist #3: There’s a narrative online that Belle’s been overlooked for years. Some say this entire paddock entrance and Parc Fermé kiss was a statement. Was that intentional?

Max: (dryly)  We walked in holding hands. We kissed. We’re married. If that counts as a statement, I don’t know what to tell you.

Journalist #4: Do you think this will affect your dynamic with Charles Leclerc?

Max: (expression flat) We’ll see. That’s between him and his sister. I’m just here to race cars and go home to my wife.

Lando: (quietly, to Lewis) He’s in his “husband first, world champion second” era.

Lewis: (laughing into his mic) He really is.

Journalist #6: Do you plan on making any public statement about the family fallout?

Max: No. That’s her story to tell, not mine. And frankly, it’s not gossip. It’s real life. So maybe let’s show a little respect.

Journalist #7: What was going through your mind when she kissed you in Parc Fermé?

Max: (finally smiling) That I’m the luckiest guy in the world.

Journalist #8: Will your wife be traveling with you to more races now?

Max (still polite, still done):  We‘ll decide what works best for us as a family. That’s between us.

Reporter #9: Was Belle’s presence in the paddock today a signal? Especially given what happened with Charles—

Max: (cuts in, voice calm but firmer) Belle doesn’t need to signal anything. She’s not a statement. She’s a person. And she came today to support her husband. That’s all.

Moderator: Alright, I think we’ll wrap it there before anyone pushes their luck. Congratulations to all three drivers. Max, Lando, Lewis — thank you.

Lando (leaning into mic): Congrats again, mate. On the win and the wife.

***

Fred Vasseur closed the door harder than necessary.

The sound echoed through the otherwise silent room like a gunshot.

Charles looked up from where he was sitting on the small couch, still in his fireproofs, helmet discarded beside him. He was sweaty, tired, irritated — and entirely unprepared.

“Qu’est-ce que tu fais, Charles?” Fred said sharply. What are you doing?

Charles blinked. “What—?”

“You want to explain to me,” Fred continued, voice calm in the most dangerous way possible, “how your sister kissing Max Verstappen became the story of our weekend?”

Charles sat up straighter. “That’s not fair—”

“No?” Fred crossed the room, standing over him now. “Because I think it’s very fair. You let your personal drama become a paddock sideshow, and now everyone’s talking about the Leclerc family meltdown while we limp home with a P5 and a ruined PR day.”

“I didn’t ask for that to happen!”

“But you made sure it did,” Fred snapped. “You didn’t know Belle got married. Fine. You didn’t approve of who she married. Fine. You could’ve said nothing. But instead, you threw a tantrum. In the paddock. In group chats. Loud enough that half the drivers are mocking you and the other half are wondering if you even see your sister as a person.”

Charles flushed. “That’s not—”

“You forgot her birthday, Charles.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Fred didn’t yell. He didn’t need to.

“You forgot her birthday. You forgot her job. You forgot she moved. And when she stopped chasing your attention, you acted like she betrayed you.” His voice didn’t rise, but it sharpened with every word. “And now you’re shocked that the only person she trusted to hold her hand through it all was the man who sees her every single day?”

Charles looked away, jaw tight. “It wasn’t supposed to be public.”

Fred laughed — once, bitter and short. “And yet you’re the one who made it public. Max didn’t. Belle didn’t. You did. And now you’ve made us look like amateurs — not because of strategy, but because you couldn’t handle the fact that your sister’s life isn’t orbiting around you anymore.”

Charles opened his mouth. Closed it. No words came.

Fred sighed — not in exasperation, but in disappointment. And that hurt more.

“I expected more from you,” he said quietly. “As a driver, yes. But more than that — as a man. As a brother.”

Charles flinched like he’d been hit.

“You want to fix this?” Fred said, stepping back. “Then stop sulking. Start listening. And for the love of God, don’t let Max Verstappen be the better man in every single room you enter.”

He turned and walked to the door.

“Because right now?” he added, hand on the handle. “He’s not just beating you on track. He’s beating you in every other way that matters.”

And then he left.

Charles stayed seated, eyes burning, the silence pressing heavier than any helmet ever had.

***

Dinner had started out exactly the way Belle expected.

Loud. Warm. Slightly unhinged.

They were tucked into a quiet corner of a restaurant just off the Barcelona marina — the kind of place Max loved because no one there cared about racing unless it blocked traffic. The table was round, the lighting dim and golden, and the laughter had already started before the appetizers arrived.

Lando had barely let Max sit down before declaring, “You’re disgusting. You win a race and then get kissed like it’s a Netflix finale. Get out.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Max had said, completely unbothered.

Oscar, seated beside Lily, just smirked. “It was kind of romantic.”

Lily looked between the two of them with a soft smile. “Kind of? It broke the Internet.”

Daniel had toasted “to hard launches, soft kisses, and Verstappen chaos,” and Belle had nearly snorted water through her nose.

But now dinner had mellowed. Plates cleared. Dessert on the way. The kind of soft lull that usually came right before someone said something life-changing.

Max glanced at Belle. That look — gentle, checking, asking without words.

She nodded once.

He cleared his throat lightly. “We actually… wanted to tell you guys something.”

Four pairs of eyes snapped to attention.

“Tell me you’re moving to the countryside and buying a farm,” Lando said immediately. “Please. I need this arc.”

“Better,” Max said, eyes flicking toward Belle.

Belle rested her hands on the edge of the table. Her heart was fluttering, not with nerves exactly — more like awe. Like the moment was finally catching up to her.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

There was a pause.

A moment of stunned silence.

And then—

“NO YOU’RE NOT,” Daniel half-shouted, nearly knocking over his wine glass.

Lily gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Are you serious?!”

Oscar just stared, mouth slightly open like his brain had hit the brakes.

Lando blinked twice, then pointed between them. “Like… with a baby baby?”

Belle burst into laughter — the tension cracking wide open. Max was already grinning like he’d been waiting for this chaos all night.

“Yes, Lando,” Belle said, wiping at her eyes. “A baby baby.”

Oscar finally found his voice. “How long have you known?”

“A few weeks,” Max said. “We’re keeping it quiet for now. But we wanted you to know first.”

Lily leaned across the table, eyes wide and shining. “You’re going to be parents. Oh my god. That baby is going to have cheekbones and a death stare.”

“And probably a kart by age two,” Daniel added, now fully beaming. “Holy shit. Max Verstappen’s going to be a dad. I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down,” Oscar said, still blinking like he hadn’t caught up.

“I need to sit down harder,” Daniel muttered.

Lando reached for Belle’s hand across the table, squeezing it. “You’re going to be amazing.”

Belle swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “I’m scared,” she admitted. “But… I’m also happy. Really happy.”

Max’s hand found her thigh under the table, grounding and steady. She didn’t have to look to know he was watching her with that same soft, almost reverent expression he’d had ever since she told him.

Oscar was smiling now too, the initial shock melting into something warm. “Congratulations,” he said. “Both of you. Really.”

“And selfishly,” Lily added, “I’m just glad we get to love this baby too.”

Daniel raised his glass. “To the official grid baby.”

“We’re not calling them that,” Belle said immediately.

“To Max spiraling when the baby kicks for the first time,” Oscar added, grinning.

“To all of it,” Lando finished. “To them.”

They clinked glasses — softly, gently.

And as Belle looked around at the people who had chosen her — not because she was someone’s sister, not because she was attached to a name — but because they loved her, her heart felt impossibly full.

The world could stay outside tonight.

This was theirs.

***

[stargirlygirl]

you walk out on him

zayne x fem!reader

⭑.ᐟ part one of my 500 follower special

summary: after months of neglect from your boyfriend, zayne, you walk out on him

contains: angst, hurt no comfort, swearing, 2.6k words

from this poll + pt.2

For the past month, you’ve barely seen Zayne. He’s been waking up at god awful hours and coming home late at night, only to sleep for a few and then do it again the next day. And let’s be real, you’re missing him. A lot.

His good morning kisses pressed against your forehead before the sun rises are not enough to sustain you anymore. Nor are the quick texts he sends you on his break or murmured apologies as he climbs into bed with you.

You can’t take it anymore.

Putting your day off to good use, you bake some muffins. Their yummy scent disperses throughout your apartment, making you sigh as you touch up your lip gloss. After dressing in your shortest mini skirt and fixing your hair, you place a few warm muffins in a container and head down to Akso Hospital.

Rapping on his office door, you hear a quiet “Come in” from the other side.

You push the door open, chirping, “Surprise!”

Zayne gazes up at you before returning his attention to his computer, mumbling, “Hey.” Your mood dampens as the door thunks closed, and you come over to him. Retrieving the muffins from your bag, you set them down on his cluttered desk.

“Look, I baked muffins for you,” you say sweetly. He looks at the muffins and gives you that micro smile.

“Thanks.” You pop the sides and take off the lid; the delicious scent of baked goods fills the air.

You grin, “Do you wanna try them?” You watch him click away on his mouse before typing with fervour.

He murmurs, “Maybe later.”

“Oh, okay,” you nod. Your shoulders slump as you snap the lid back on. He hasn’t invited you to sit down. You glance back and forth between the doctor and the empty chair across from him, mentally screaming at him to just notice your uneasiness.

He doesn’t.

The clacking of his keyboard permeates the silence. You’re waiting for him to ask you how your day has been or comment on how pretty you look. But he just keeps typing away, as if his girlfriend, positively radiant in the afternoon light streaming through the windows, isn’t standing there.

“So,” you start. “Busy day or?”

“Mhmm.” His mouse clicks before he returns to smashing the white keys on his keyboard. The sound it makes begins to get on your nerves. Crossing your arms beneath your chest, you slowly walk around to his side of the desk and lean against it.

Gazing down at him, you say, “Aren’t you going to ask how my day’s been?”

Zayne responds robotically, “How was your day, honey?”

Clack! Clack! Clack!

You’re about to throw his keyboard out the window in your fury.

You bite the insides of your cheeks, mouth twisting as you sigh, “Fine.”

“Good,” he replies, his hazel eyes never leaving his screen. You push off his desk, your heels clicking as you grab your handbag.

“I’ll see you at home, okay?” You huff. He curtly nods, not even glancing up as you walk toward the door and inevitably shut it behind you.

That night, you planned to confront him. But lo and behold, you didn’t see him for the next few days. And when you finally did, it was a quick peck on the cheek as he grabbed the lunch you made him last night out of the fridge and left for work.

What had been a month of barely seeing each other spiralled into months of barely any contact. A few texts here and there. “Sorry, I’m so busy. I’ll be home early so we can chat.” You go to bed at 1am after waiting up for him (he fell asleep on his desk).

You feel like you’re going insane, more angsty than the day before last, every day, as work and poor communication drive a wedge between you two. You miss talking with Zayne. You miss getting brunch together on your off days and cuddling on the couch. You miss the little snow creations he would give to you after you’ve had a hard day at work. And of course, you miss being intimate with him.

After another gruelling day at the Association, you come home to an empty apartment. As always. Frustrated, you hit send on your phone, texting your boyfriend about having a date night. Within minutes, he responds, eager to see you, too. Stripping off your uniform, you two work out the details of your date over text.

This Friday, 7pm, that nice restaurant you’ve been eyeing for a while.

That’s what you repeat to yourself as you take a soothing, hot shower. It’s like a prayer, a chant, a mantra you say to yourself daily in the lead up to your date. You let Jenna know you’re taking the day off in advance; that’s how excited you are.

And finally, it’s Friday!

To start the day off, you sleep in till 11am. You wanna be well-rested for your date, especially since you’re hoping that Zayne will keep you up all night. To pamper yourself, you cook your favourite breakfast and enjoy it while watching your comfort film. Afterwards, you paint your finger and toenails, blowing on the wet coat as Netflix auto-plays the next episode of your current show.

And then somehow, it’s already 5pm?! You have a quick snack before hopping in the shower, exfoliating and then shaving. Drying yourself off, you do your face and body care routines. Next, you get dressed and then apply your makeup, finishing off with your hair.

It’s 6:15pm and Zayne isn’t back yet. You send him a quick text, and your phone pings instantly, saying that he’ll meet you at the restaurant. After drenching yourself in jewellery, you giggle to yourself about whether he’ll still be in his doctor’s coat when you see him. With one last glance in the mirror, you snag your shoulder bag and book it to the door. You make sure to lock up and turn all the lights off before catching the elevator down to your car.

You sigh, relieved that you made it in time, as you catch your breath at the restaurant’s door. Giving the waiter your name, they inform you that you’re the first to arrive. It’s no big deal, really. You brush it off as you’re seated at a cosy little booth toward the back. Low lighting, comfy cushions, and warm jazz overhead. The waiter couldn’t have picked a better spot.

You pull out your phone. 7:05. Okay, no reason to stress.

7:10. Alright, maybe he got stuck in traffic.

7:20. Whoa, the streets must be backed up for miles. Or maybe he got held up at work. You send him a quick message, about to rest your cheek on your palm before you remember that you’re wearing makeup.

7:30. No reply. The waiter asks if you’d like to order. You haven’t even looked at the menu.

7:35. You decide on the scallions for an appetiser and request some table water. Still, nothing from Zayne.

“For fuck’s sake,” you mumble beneath your breath. You text him again. He’s not about to stand you up, is he?

You wait until 8pm, sadly munching on your scallions before ordering dessert. The waiter apologises like it’s their fault your fuck ass boyfriend didn’t show up. You thank them for their kindness.

8:30. You pay the bill (a whopping $84) and leave. Sending one last message to Zayne, you drive home, talking to yourself animatedly about what the fuck just happened and what you’re going to do about it.

Past midnight, you finally hear the jingling of Zayne’s keys as he unlocks the front door. You sit on the couch, your presence only illuminated by a nearby lamp. He pushes the door open; you don’t move. It thuds shut, and he switches on the overhead light.

Seeing the top of your head poking over the back of the couch, Zayne sighs, “There you are.” He comes over to you, setting his bag down on the edge of the couch before sitting down on the coffee table, right in front of you. He grabs your hands, but you shrug him off and avoid his tired gaze.

“Honey,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry about tonight.”

You huff, eyes glued to the philodendron in the corner, “It was supposed to be our first date in months, Zayne.”

Turning to face him, you say sternly, “Where were you?”

He replies in that clinical tone, “I had an emergency surgery.” You scoff, shaking your head and looking away. Any other day, you’d be cuddling him and congratulating him on saving another life, but not tonight.

“Of course you did,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

“Darling—”

“No, Zayne. I don’t wanna hear it.” You lean back, crossing your arms over your chest as you scrutinise him. Slightly dishevelled locks, like he’s been running his hands through his hair. Dark under eyes. He deserves it. Chapped lips. You hope his throat burns from dehydration.

“Four fucking months, Zayne. That’s how long it’s been since we’ve had a proper conversation. Four months?! Where have you been? “I had an emergency surgery” I don’t fucking care!” You spit out.

He pushes up his glasses, sighing, “Do we have to do this now, love?”

“Am I fuckin’ chore to you?! Is that what this is?!” You ramble. He places his cold hand on your knee, but you push it off.

“Don’t,” you say, seething with venom. You lick your lips, at a loss for words. So many things you’ve been meaning to say to him. So many times you’ve rehearsed this. But facing perfection, you forget. All of your witty comebacks and cutthroat lines dissolve into raw emotion. You can feel the tears clawing at your eyes, hounding to be released.

“Are you l-losing interest in me? Is that it?” You choke out, unable to look at him.

“No,” he remarks without hesitation. “No, I… I’ve been too ambitious, I’m afraid. And in doing so, I’ve neglected the most important person in my life.” The tears spill, streaming down your cheeks before you can stop them. Zayne’s fingers twitch, the urge to wipe your eyes and kiss your sorrows better, overpowering. But he disciplines himself.

“I-I don’t—I don’t wa-wanna do this anym-more, Zayne,” you sob, bringing your legs up to your chest and wrapping your arms around yourself. You lay your forehead against your knees, crying as the weight of these past few months crashes down on you.

“I know. And I’m sorry, darling. I should have realised how much I was hurting you much earlier. I wish you had told me sooner how you felt.” His words only make it worse.

“Told you?!” You cry out, lifting your head to gaze at him with glassy eyes.

“How-how c-could I have-have told you? Y-you didn’t ev-even look at me? In-in your office,” you explain through the shuddering sobs racking your chest. Zayne’s brow creases, unsure of what you’re referring to. You haven’t been in his office for months. Not since you dropped off those delicious muffins and—

Oh.

“How w-was I sup-supposed to t-talk to you?” You ask, trembling. Your lips curl as more tears spew from your eyes. Before he can see you crying all ugly, you dip your head back between your knees.

After a long pause, all he mutters is, “I see.” The sound of your sadness ripples throughout the quiet apartment. Once a home: wafting jasmine, gentle sunlight, and lazy mornings in bed on the weekend. Now, it’s like a cage, keeping you trapped in an unhappy relationship.

“I-I don’t wanna do-do this anymore,” you repeat.

He sighs, “I know. We’ll fix it, honey. I’ll fix this.” You shake your head, pulling back and meeting his mellow gaze once more.

“I-I wanna take a-a break,” you sniffle. His eyes widen, and his body goes rigid. Even you notice through your cloudy vision.

“A break?” He clarifies sternly. You nod, the emotions swelling in your throat becoming too much to bear.

Zayne’s pink tongue darts across his dry lips, wetting them as he sighs, “Look, I know that this has been quite hard for you—”

“For me?! Wh-what? This has-hasn’t been h-hard for you either?” You retort. His brow furrows as he leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“No. That’s not what I meant. This has been difficult for both of us. But, I don’t think taking a break will solve anything,” he explains. You shake your head as you sniffle. God, your nose is so fucking runny right now it’s embarrassing.

He goes on, “More space will not bring us closer, love.”

You choke out, “B-but I nee-need m-more space to c-come back t-t’you.”

After a moment, Zayne huffs, “Generally, partners take breaks to see other people or to compose themselves before ending the relationship. I know that I’ve hurt you, but I believe that we’re strong enough to move through this. Don’t you agree?” Your sobs intensify tenfold. You curl back into a ball, rocking gently as you grapple with his words.

Are you about to do this? Are you about to break up with your boyfriend? Akso’s most handsome, young, and successful cardiologist. The man you’ve been with for almost two years. The man you love so much it eats away at you when he’s not close.

I guess you are.

Rational thinking has gone out the window as you stand up. Wiping your snotty nose and puffy eyes on your sleeve, you grab the bag you spent the last two hours packing. The one Zayne didn’t even notice sitting close by on the couch.

You murmur, “’M going,” as you head for the door. Panicking, Zayne grabs your wrist. You whirl around, gazing up at him while traitorous tears run down your cheeks.

“Sleep on it. Please,” he mumbles. His thumb caresses your wrist, feeling your rapidly beating pulse. You shake your head and tug your wrist back, but he catches your forearm.

“I love you,” he blurts out. Little whines escape your lips as you stare at him. Oh, how soft his black locks look in the warm light. You want to reach out and mess them up even more, but you stop yourself before you even move.

Your lips tremble as you deliver the finishing blow: “It’s not enough.” Yanking your hand back, you turn around and open the front door. It slams shut behind you. And you don’t even look back until you’re in the elevator.

An empty hallway. The grey doors close.

As you cry in your car for the next half hour, quietening down to text Tara and then bursting back into tears waiting for her reply, Zayne stands there. Right where you left him. In the living room, gazing between the closed door and his hand, the hand that still feels your lingering warmth.

After getting the a-okay from Tara, you pat your eyes dry and breathe deeply before setting off for her place. When you arrive, she invites you in with a warm hug and pats your back knowingly. You two chat into the early hours of the morning, until you eventually clean up and head to bed. Exhausted, you doze off into a dreamless sleep.

Zayne, meanwhile, doesn��t sleep at all. Your words play on loop in his mind, repeating until it drives him up the wall. As he lies in his empty bed, your scent still soaking the sheets, he thinks of all the ways to mend your broken heart.

Because you didn’t officially break up with him, right? You’re just taking a break. Like you wanted to. Like he didn’t want to. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself as he cuddles your pillow.

masterlist

a/n: thank you so much for all of the love!! this fic is not exactly an original idea, but i wanted to have a crack at it. lmk if you'd like a part two.

here are a couple similar fics:

you try to break up with them (zayne/sylus) by @heartyluv you ask him for a divorce mid-argument by @kaiist

[darlingdream1010]

He was just fourteen.

Danny had moved on, taken the high road from his little place in Amity Park to Gotham. City of dark and damp, festering alleyways of crime. He left behind swooping battles with rogues and late nights catching up on late homework. He gave it up for a normie life.

Danny lives the right way.

In his apartment, paycheck to paycheck.

At his school, passing grade to passing grade.

He’s living his dream, he tells himself. He doesn’t have to fight evil, he whispers. Bats fly by his window at night. Sometimes, gas creeps in and the rest of the neighborhood screams. He can’t hear them over his own.

Isn’t it humiliating, having a grinning hero coddle you through triage as if you were just like everyone else?

Danny feels ashamed. For the first time, he feels a fiery pettiness pushing him to help.

He resists.

He studies for midterms instead, not like he’s much better at that than…

…he needs to stop thinking about it.

It doesn’t help when the very next night, he sees Red Robin grapple right past his window with a gaping wound in his side. He looks back down at his study guides and textbooks splayed out before him, filled with jargon and equations that would never apply in daily life. Equations don’t stitch wounds up. It’s stupid, but it sticks in his head and festers.

When he looks at them, even he only half understands them. Just like how he gets only half-decent grades, and places near the middle of his class.

He loves this.

But sometimes…

Sometimes it seems like he should be better at it.

If it’s his favorite thing, he should be amazing at it.

If he’s going to pursue something so useless when vigilantes risk their lives and swing with open wounds, he ought to be a prodigy.

Be better, or do something useful.

Save the world as a scientist, or save the world as a hero.

Either way, it feels like everyone’s suffering is his responsibility.

All these thoughts corner him deep into the night.

They push and prod him with visions of Dan and Freakshow, and he closes his eyes and can’t breath fast enough.

He falls asleep plagued by them. His dreams are filled with visions of him swooping in and saving Red Robin in a tight spot. He imagines countless victims vying for his help. He pictures himself saving every last one, stretching himself as far as he can just so he can help everyone.

The flowing ideas of being one of Gotham’s saviors, being the untouchable one amongst human vigilantes, lured him into sleeping far past dawn.

Far enough, that by the time he awoke, his alarm clock was screaming at him.

“Oh, goddamnit,” he cursed, smacking the thing till it stopped and stumbling out of his chair. His back ached from the hunched sleeping position.

“This sucks,” he muttered to himself, aggressively brushing his teeth and spitting into the sink.

No time to rinse his mouth out, he threw pants and a hoodie on before rushing out the door. He was beyond late—and what a wonderful start to his day.

He just managed to catch the subway train running to the University, and he nearly consumed billions of germs thriving on the subway floor when the train started moving. He staggered to the side and caught a hold of the pole, apologizing to those he bumped into.

“Do you see this shit, Dauna? All because you’s making me stand.”

For a heart-quickening moment, Danny thought the burly, potbellied man was talking to him.

A young woman in a seat evaded his gaze. “It’s just for one more stop, Andy,” she muttered.

“What’d you say, bitch? You wanna speak up?” A glob of spit from the man’s mouth landed on her cheek.

“I said, it’s just for one more stop! My foot hurts and I sat here first, okay? I’m sorry, but it ain’t worth pitching a fit over,” she reasoned, clutching her purse tightly.

The man eyed her handbag and made a swipe at it.

“Ugh—“ the woman struggled, but the man was stronger.

He waved it around and smirked cruelly. “Not so stubborn now, huh? Get outta my damn seat or I’ll empty this hog’s mound of a purse right here, woman.”

She didn’t budge, and he followed through with his word. He shook it like it was filled with money, when really all that came out was a precious few lipsticks, a ring, and coupons.

Danny watched in abject horror. He wanted to help—he should just tell that man off right then! Yet, something held him back.

She would be happy, perhaps, but what about when they went home together? Where Danny couldn’t see, wouldn’t he just take out his anger two-fold, leaving her worse off than before?

So Danny doesn’t budge. Danny glances away politely when the woman cries while he empties her stuff all over the place.

The only thing he can do is silently pick up the pieces and hand them back to her. She’s left to put them back together herself.

Danny feels empty when he steps out that train.

Was that really the right choice?

A sticky note flutters in front of his face—

You tried your best, Danny. It’s worth more than you think.

Clockwork? That’s Danny’s first thought, but surely, that couldn’t possibly be the case.

“Time, out,” a ghostly voice echoes across the station, eerily familiar.

A robed blue ghost floated out from behind a column, smiling slightly at Danny.

“Clockwork? But, I thought I—“

“I know your teenage self proclaimed your heroic days were over and left the Infinite Realms, but I thought for today, you might appreciate a familiar face and a head start to make it to class.”

Danny stared, flabbergasted. “You’re helping? You never help.”

“I think I should feel offended.” The ghost flickered to his child self and chuckled.

“Wait, no, I mean, thank you, just-I have a few questions I need to ask you,” Danny said.

“You’ve got ten minutes to make it to class, Daniel,” Clockwork evaded his request. He then took a step back and walked to the column he’d appeared from. “Remember, you’re always welcome in the Ghost Zone.”

He was gone.

Danny stared aimlessly for nearly an entire minute before he remembered Clockwork’s words. Ten minutes.

The two morning encounters were momentarily forgotten as Danny ran for his classes. He swerved around pedestrians and hopped over cars. Ultimately, he decided to take to the air for the fastest trip. Danny didn’t intend to get sidetracked, as this was one of his favorite classes, but when he saw Signal midair about to catch a projectile to the face, he couldn’t help hovering up and moving it out of the way.

Danny snickered at the silly expression on the hero’s face and flew extra fast to class, not regretting the delay at all.

Maybe it was okay that he got to enjoy the life of a normal citizen. Didn’t these people fight for students like him to bomb tests and cry over ice cream and throw stupid parties like normal people?

Danny Phantom would live his normal life to the fullest.

After all, he was just nineteen.

[sixxels]

it girl

nerd!gojo x popular!model!reader

part 1 ! part 2 !

wc~ 14k

!!disclaimer!! will include heavy mentions of fling!sukuna, mentions of drug use, alcohol consumption, smut, angst/eventual confort.

summary so far: you’re the campus icon, glamorous, untouchable, always in the spotlight. but your world tilts when you fall for satoru gojo, awkward, brilliant, weirdly hot. what starts with flirty banter spirals into unexpected intimacy, and something real. you invite him into your life, your world, even your heart. but your past isn’t finished. sukuna, your toxic, magnetic almost-ex, crashes back in with chaos and temptation. now, torn between danger and devotion, you face a choice, the storm you know or the calm you crave.

the music feels louder now, like the bass is trying to drown out the lingering tension. satoru, suguru, choso nanami and shiu go back to their drinks, to their idle conversation, but there’s a charge in the air that hasn’t settled. you can feel it under your skin, buzzing hot and erratic, and it all traces back to him.

sukuna.

you clench your jaw, fingers curling around your drink too tight, and you know if you don’t get away right now, you’re gonna explode.

“i’ll be right back,” you mutter, not really waiting for anyone to answer. gojo blinks up at you, concern flaring in his pretty blue eyes, but you can’t look at him right now. not when your blood’s boiling and your vision’s turning red.

you sit up quickly, your pink bedazzled handbag left abandoned next to satoru as you stalk towards the exit of the kappa house.

you spot sukuna by the hallway, leaning against the wall like he owns the place. some girl’s trying to talk to him, all doe eyes and giggles, but he doesn’t even glance her way. his attention is on you, and the second your eyes meet, his mouth curves like he’s already won.

“you have five seconds to get your ass outside,” you hiss, storming past him. “or i’ll make a scene even you can’t top.”

he follows, of course he does, cocky and quiet, slipping through the crowd behind you like a shadow. you shove the door open and step out onto the porch, cold air rushing to your cheeks like a slap. it’s quieter here, but the anger still rings loud in your ears.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap, spinning around to face him.

sukuna lets the door fall shut behind him with a lazy click. “you’ll have to be more specific,” he says dryly. “i do a lot of things wrong.”

“don’t play coy,” you spit. “what the hell was that in there? you humiliated satoru, you embarrassed me, and you ruined the entire fucking vibe. why? because i brought someone new around?”

he raises an eyebrow. “i didn’t ruin anything. you brought a stray into the lion’s den, and i treated him accordingly.”

you blink at him, stunned. “you’re so fucking arrogant it’s unreal.”

he laughs, a dark, humorless sound that makes your chest tighten. “and you’re so naive. do you even know who that guy is? do you really think he gives a shit about you, or is he just riding the high of being seen with the school’s favorite wet dream?”

“fuck you,” you snap, voice rising now. “you don’t get to talk about him like that. you don’t get to act like you know anything about what i want or who i want.”

“i know you,” sukuna says sharply, stepping closer. “i’ve seen every version of you, the real ones. and you don’t fall for soft boys who flinch when someone looks at them sideways. you fall for assholes. you fall for people who can fight you and fuck you up at the same time.”

your chest heaves, fists clenched. “so that’s what this is about? jealousy?”

he smirks. “don’t flatter yourself.”

“you’re insane,” you hiss. “you think you get to waltz in here, throw a tantrum in front of everyone i care about, and still act like you’ve got some fucking claim over me?"

“i don’t have to act,” he growls. “i know what’s mine.”

“i’m not yours, sukuna!” you scream, voice echoing off the porch walls. “i never was!”

there’s a beat of silence.

his eyes flash, dark and dangerous. “then why the fuck do you keep coming back to me?”

you falter, lips parting, but nothing comes out. the words shrivel on your tongue because goddamn it, he’s right. you hate him. you want to rip his stupid smug face off. but your feet never seem to know how to walk away.

he steps forward again, close enough that your breath stutters. “you think gojo’s ever gonna get you? you think he could ever handle the mess that lives in your head? he doesn’t know you. not like i do.”

you open your mouth to fire back, but his hands are already on your face, rough and sudden, and before you can think better of it, you’re kissing him.

or maybe he’s kissing you. it doesn’t matter. it’s all teeth and fury, lips bruising against each other like a war cry. you shove at his chest, but it only pulls him closer, his hand sliding to your jaw, tilting your face up like he’s starving and you’re the only thing left on earth.

your back hits the porch railing, the wood biting into your spine, but you don’t care. you claw at his shoulders, your anger spilling out through every movement, every breath. he bites your lip and you moan, half in pain, half in something you don’t want to name.

“i hate you,” you gasp against his mouth.

“liar,” he breathes, and then he’s kissing you again, harder this time, like he wants to destroy every thought that isn’t him.

you hate this. you hate how his mouth fits against yours like it was made to, how every furious breath you take just drags him in deeper. your fingers are in his hair, pulling hard, like maybe you can hurt him enough to make yourself feel better. like maybe pain will make sense of the ache that’s been festering under your skin since the last time he touched you.

but it doesn’t. it just makes you hungrier.

your head is spinning, chest heaving, your lips swollen and stinging. it’s like trying to breathe underwater, like drowning in something you swore you were done with. you tell yourself this is a mistake. that you don’t want this, don’t want him. but your body isn’t listening.

because this is sukuna. it’s always sukuna.

every time you try to run, he finds you. every time you try to choose someone softer, safer, someone who smiles with his whole face and says your name like it’s something sacred, someone like satoru, you end up back here. back in the fire.

his hands are all over you now, possessive and rough, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he’s not touching enough of you. like he can keep you with his grip alone. but it’s not enough. it never is.

your heart is a snarl of guilt and want and why can’t i let this go?

“you ruin everything,” you whisper into his mouth, breath hitching.

his laugh is low, bitter. “then stop letting me in.”

you could. you should. god, why don’t you?

because you know what this is. what it’s always been.

it’s not love. it’s not soft. it’s a fucking car crash. it’s the chaos after a storm. it’s ugly and loud and burning, and you’ve always been too vain to admit how much of you is built like that too.

he sees it. he sees you. not the filtered version in the magazines, not the perfect smile you wear for the camera, not the queen bee everyone fawns over at parties.

he sees this. the bite in your voice, the tremble under your fury, the craving that lives in your bones. he matches it. mirrors it.

and you fucking hate him for it.

your fingers slip under his shirt without thinking, nails scraping along his stomach, and he growls into your mouth. it’s a mess—tongues, teeth, heat radiating off both of you like a fever. your back slams harder into the porch railing, and it almost hurts, but you like it. you need it.

your name leaves his lips like a threat and a prayer. like he’s begging and taunting you in the same breath.

you gasp. “you’re not allowed to say my name like that.”

“i’ll say it however the fuck i want,” he mutters, his mouth dragging along your jaw, biting at your skin. “you gave it to me.”

“i didn’t give you shit,” you snap, even as your thighs press together, as your hands fist in his shirt like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff.

he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are glassy and sharp all at once, drunk on you, on this, on the violence that lives between your mouths. “you don’t kiss someone like that if you want them gone.”

you stare at him. lips parted. breath ragged. the porch light flickers behind his head like a bad omen.

your chest aches. your stomach twists.

he’s right.

and you hate that he’s right.

but he’s wrong, too. wrong in the way he believes he’s the only one who sees you. like he’s the only one capable of wrecking you.

because gojo sees you too. in a different way. in a way that makes you feel safe, and not just seen. and suddenly the memory of those bright blue eyes flashes behind your lids, and it’s like a bucket of cold water.

you feel sick.

you shove sukuna off you.

he stumbles back a step, dazed, lips bruised and wet, his chest rising like he’s just come up for air.

“don’t,” you whisper, voice cracking.

he blinks. “what?”

your hands are shaking. your whole body’s shaking. “don’t pretend this means anything.”

his face twists. “are you fucking kidding me?”

“you’re not—” you bite down hard, fists clenched at your sides. “you’re not good for me. you know that. i know that. this—this thing we keep doing, it doesn’t go anywhere.”

he’s silent for a second, just staring at you like he’s trying to memorize you. or maybe figure out what the fuck you’re doing. his jaw ticks.

“you kissed me back.”

“i always kiss you back,” you snap. “and it always ends the same.”

he steps closer again, but this time you flinch.

“don’t,” you say, softer. “please.”

he stops.

your breath hitches again. “you’re supposed to be the bad choice. the one i got over. the one i left.”

“then why are you still here?” his voice is raw now, low and wrecked. “why do you keep choosing me?”

you don’t answer.

you can’t.

because this isn’t a choice. it’s an addiction. a wound you keep scratching open. a ghost you keep trying to fuck into silence.

and for a second, you almost say it. almost tell him that you don’t know how to stop. that you’re tired of hating yourself every time you leave his bed. that you wanted tonight to be different. to feel new. to feel clean.

but you don’t.

you just turn around.

your palms are sweaty. your face is hot. your lips are sore. and you want to cry.

you make it three steps before his voice catches you like a hook in your spine.

“he’s not gonna make you feel like this.”

you pause.

“he’ll never make you burn like this.”

your jaw clenches. your eyes sting.

you don’t turn around. you just whisper, “good.”

then you open the door, walk back into the party like you weren’t just sobbing on the inside. like your heart isn’t caught between a boy who looks at you like you’re made of gold, and one who touches you like he wants to ruin you.

like you aren’t already ruined.

~

you slammed the porch door shut, taking deep breaths as you try to calm yourself down again, trying to make the thought of that asshole go the hell away. heels clicking against the wooden floor, you navigate your way back to the couch where satoru and the rest were supposed to be sitting. 

everyone seemed to be there, except satoru. you scanned the couch once, twice, no sign of him. 

'shit, shit, shit.' you knew he wasn't a baby, but this was a new experience for a nerd like him, so where the hell was he? your pace quickened as you approached the couch, disrupting whatever dumb story chico was telling the others.

"where is he?" you pant.

they all give eachother looks, then point to the back entrance.

your eyes trailed to a retreating satoru, looking distraught as he pushed past people towards the exit, and he did not look happy. 

'fuck? did he see? does he know?'

all the worst thoughts came flooding into your mind like a tidal wave, and before you new it, you were chasing after him. 

you catch up to him just as he’s shouldering through the side door, the thud of it swinging shut behind him echoing in your ribs like guilt. the backyard is dark, string lights swaying in the breeze, but he’s already halfway across the lawn, walking like he doesn’t want to be followed.

“toru, wait—” your voice is too loud in the night, but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t turn around.

you jog after him, breath catching, dress hitching, heart still beating erratic from sukuna’s mouth and the shame curling under your skin.

“satoru!” you grab his arm.

he freezes. not the soft, playful kind of freeze, not the kind where he turns with a dumb grin and says something that makes you roll your eyes. no, this is cold. stiff. like touching him burned you both.

he turns around slowly.

his glasses are gone, tucked away in his pocket. you can see his eyes now, wide and blue and hurt, and it knocks the wind right out of you.

“why did you kiss him?” he asks.

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. your lips part, the taste of sukuna still clinging to them like blood.

satoru huffs a breathless laugh and shakes his head. “don’t lie. just don’t.”

“i wasn’t—i didn’t mean to,” you say quickly, weakly, and you hate how it sounds, how pathetic it feels on your tongue.

“right,” he scoffs. “you accidentally made out with the guy who’s been staring at me like he wants me dead since the second he walked in.” he scoffs lightly. "I thought you'd at least be decent enough to at least try stay away from him while i'm here."

you flinch. “it wasn’t like that. i didn’t—he—god, satoru, he cornered me, and i was mad, and—”

“and you kissed him,” he says, like that’s the only part that matters. maybe it is. "y/n, you know how much i like you, how much ive spent obsessing over you. i'm not mad that you have flings and maybe ours didn't matter as much to you as it did me, but really? did you have to do that when you're supposed to be here with me?"

you don’t know what to say. the words are a mess in your mouth. you feel like a mess, standing here in your perfect outfit with your makeup smudged and your heart unraveling.

“do you still want him?” he asks, voice low. serious. it’s not a joke. it’s not a tease. it’s real. “because i need to know what the fuck i’m doing here.”

“i don’t want him,” you say. “not really.”

“‘not really’?” he repeats, blinking like he can’t believe this is happening. “jesus.”

“you don’t get it,” you say, chest tightening. “he’s in my head. he knows where all the broken parts are, and he uses them. he’s... he’s toxic.”

“and you kissed him anyway.”

you fall silent. the string lights hum above you. the muffled bass from inside is a heartbeat you can’t keep in time with.

“i thought maybe—” he starts, then cuts himself off. presses his lips together. swallows.

“what?” you ask, too softly.

he looks at you, eyes glassy, like he wants to say something brave but doesn’t know how. “i thought maybe i could be good for you, someone you could rely on, not just someone to bring around like a new handbag then go make out with another guy.”

you close your eyes. that’s the worst part. because he is good for you. he’s so fucking good it makes your chest hurt. and you—god, you’re the one who keeps reaching for the fire even though you know how it ends.

“you are good for me,” you whisper.

“then why do you keep running back to the guy who isn’t?” he snaps.

because you’re scared. because sukuna doesn’t ask you to be soft. because he meets you in the dark and doesn’t flinch. because being loved by someone kind feels like walking into the light with all your scars exposed.

you open your mouth, but he’s already stepping back.

“don’t,” he says. “it’s okay. i get it now.”

“satoru, please—”

“you don’t have to choose me,” he says, quiet. “just don’t pretend like you’re trying.”

and then he turns around.

and you let him go. because maybe that’s all you’ve ever known how to do.

but god, it fucking hurts.

~

you don’t go back inside.

you just sit there, out on the back steps, wrapped in silence like a punishment. the string lights flicker above you, dull and golden, casting little shadows across your knees as you lean forward and press your forehead into your hands.

your lipstick is smudged. your mascara’s probably ruined. the breeze lifts the hem of your dress and you don’t even care. you feel… hollow. like something vital has been scooped out of you and replaced with shame.

what the fuck was wrong with you?

you kissed sukuna.

you kissed him.

after everything. after the photo shoot, the café, the way satoru looked at you like you were the only girl in the world. after he made you laugh in front of your friends and actually held his own and didn’t even flinch when choso and suguru weee scoping him out.

you kissed someone else.

and not just someone else.

him.

you curl your fingers into your scalp, breathing hard. it wasn’t even worth it. sukuna was angry. you were angry. it wasn’t tender or special or even satisfying. it was just messy. bitter. a collision of teeth and heat and ego and old wounds. it tasted like guilt before it even ended.

you think about satoru’s face.

not just the hurt in his eyes, but the way he tried to hold it in. the way he looked at you like he was bracing for impact. like part of him already knew.

he told you how much he liked you.

satoru told you.

and you still...

you press your palms harder against your eyes until your vision pulses. maybe you’re a bad person. maybe sukuna was right all along, that you’re good at breaking things, even better at pretending you didn’t.

you don’t know how long you sit there. the party thumps on behind the walls, and eventually someone opens the door and asks if you’re okay. you say yes. you lie.

you always lie.

~

later that night in satoru’s dorm, he can’t sleep.

he’s tried.

he took a shower, burning hot, like he could scald the night off his skin. changed into clean clothes. even microwaved one of those sad little dorm ramen cups, just to have something to do with his hands.

but it’s almost 2 a.m. and he’s still wide awake, staring up at the ceiling like it might start answering questions if he looks long enough.

his room is quiet. too quiet.

no music, no phone calls, no stupid tiktok edits of you playing in the background as ambiance. just the hum of the mini fridge and the occasional creak of the floor above him.

his mind won’t shut up.

he keeps seeing her face.

god, your face.

the way your eyes looked when you grabbed his arm. panicked. guilty. pretty.

he hates that he still thinks you’re pretty.

that’s the worst part.

you could probably ruin him a thousand different ways, and he’d still think you look like art in the aftermath. like the kind of pain you’d thank for teaching you something.

he rolls over, groans into his pillow.

'why did you kiss him?'

he knows it’s stupid to ask. he already heard the answer. or at least part of it. the excuses, the guilt in your voice, the way you stood there like you’d already lost him and couldn’t figure out why.

but he’s not mad, not really. not anymore.

he’s just… embarrassed.

he replayed it in his head all night. how proud he’d felt showing up with you. how lucky. how fucking cocky, thinking he could handle this. that he could actually keep up with someone like you.

everyone was watching.

and he swore he could hear it, when it shifted.

the mood. the tension. the way suguru and choso exchanged glances like they knew. like something was wrong.

and then you came back without him.

lipstick smeared. breathing like you’d just sprinted through a storm.

and he knew.

he knew.

god, he’s such an idiot.

he’d been so sure it was going somewhere. that he wasn’t just another phase, another fling, another accessory in your glittering, chaotic world.

maybe he was just the nerd you flirted with for a week because he said something funny and liked your instagram pictures from 2019. maybe he was your rebound. your charity case. your soft, safe thing to play with until someone more exciting pulled you back in.

he rolls onto his back again, arm flung over his face.

he hates this.

he hates how his chest aches.

how he misses you already.

how every part of him wants to text you, even now, even after everything. not to yell. not to guilt you. just to ask if you got home okay. if you’re warm. if you’re still thinking about him.

he wants to delete your number. block your stories. act like he doesn’t care.

but he can’t.

because it wasn’t fake for him.

not even a little.

the way you looked at him over the coffee cup. the way you sat on his lap and whispered things that made his brain short-circuit. the way you smiled when he made you laugh, like you couldn’t believe he was real.

he felt seen.

he felt wanted.

and now…

now he just feels stupid.

his phone buzzes once on the desk.

he flinches. hopes it’s you. knows it’s not. still hopes anyway.

but it’s just yuji.

“u okay?”

he stares at the message. doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t know how to say 'yeah, i’m fine' when his chest feels like it’s full of glass.

he gets up, pacing.

his dorm is small, cramped, still smells faintly like instant noodles and cologne. the window’s cracked open but the night air does nothing to cool his thoughts.

he’s spiraling. he knows he is.

but how is he not supposed to? how do you go from being kissed like a secret in someone’s bedroom to being forgotten like background noise in the span of two days?

he sinks into his desk chair, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

he can still feel your skin.

the way you smiled at him in that dress.

he didn’t imagine that.

he knows you’re not perfect.

knows you’ve got a past, and messy people in it.

he just thought maybe… maybe you wanted to leave some of that behind.

he thought he could be something solid for you. not flashy. not dangerous. not the guy who sets your world on fire, but the one who stays behind to put out the flames.

and maybe that was the problem.

maybe you don’t want to be saved.

he sits like that for a long time.

the sky outside goes from navy to gray, like the sun can’t quite make up its mind. the city’s still half-asleep. he’s exhausted but wired, rubbed raw with disappointment.

he doesn’t know what happens next.

doesn’t know if you’ll call. if you’ll say sorry. if you’ll even want to fix things.

and he’s not sure if he should let you.

~

~

two weeks.

that’s how long it’s been since the party. since you kissed sukuna. since you chased after him, breathless and guilty, and he walked away with that look on his face like you’d gutted him clean through.

since then, you’ve hardly seen him. you tried ,once, twice, but the timing was never right. or maybe it was and he just didn’t want to see you.

and satoru? he’s been surviving.

not in a dramatic, falling-apart kind of way. more like he’s forcing himself into the shape of a normal person. waking up, brushing his teeth, putting on clean clothes, going to class. no more daydreaming about you between lectures, no more rereading your old messages or checking your instagram like it’s gospel.

okay... maybe he does that last one. but only sometimes. only late at night when he’s half-asleep and weaker than usual.

what’s surprised him most is suguru and choso.

he wasn’t expecting them to reach out. they were your friends first, after all, your ride-or-dies, the intimidatingly cool guys who always hovered somewhere at the edge of your spotlight, sharp and beautiful and effortlessly magnetic.

but the night after the party, he got a text from suguru.

suguru [3:04am]: you free tomorrow? come kick it with us. no drama. just chill.

and satoru had stared at it for a full ten minutes, wondering if it was a trap. but the next morning, choso had caught him outside the dining hall, handed him an iced coffee, and nodded like that was that.

they were both surprisingly normal.

well, normal for two guys who looked like they walked out of a cursed gucci ad campaign.

suguru was cool in a dangerous kind of way, always calm, always watching. and choso was dry, a little deadpan, but had a weirdly comforting presence. they didn’t talk much about you, at first. just dragged him to their favorite ramen place off campus, introduced him to their movie night rituals (choso had incredibly niche horror taste), and made him feel like he wasn’t completely drowning.

he learned that choso actually did art, really well. but the brown haired boy had to quickly put away his sketch pad when showing satoru some of the stuff he's done when sketches of you suddenly flipped past. 

surprisingly, suguru was lowkey a genius who edited most of your essays when you didn’t feel like doing them yourself. they made fun of satoru’s nerd tendencies, but in a gentle way. never cruel. never dismissive.

it made something in him loosen.

“you ever gonna stop moping?” suguru asked one night, a week and a half in, stretched out on the floor of choso’s room with a joint between his fingers and his laptop open to a cursed playlist full of slow jam remixes.

satoru was curled up in a beanbag chair with a bowl of stale popcorn, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. “not moping.”

“you’re a little mopy,” choso said, sprawled on his stomach like a sleepy cat, paint under his fingernails.

“i’m trying to move on,” satoru muttered, cheeks hot. “this is me moving on.”

suguru snorted. “you’re sulking and stalking her instagram. that’s not moving on. that’s… spiraling with extra steps.”

satoru groaned and shoved his face into a pillow. “i hate that you’re right.”

they didn’t press the issue after that. just let him lie there, halfway stoned and emotionally gutted, while slow music thudded in the background and the lights flickered like a lullaby.

the thing is, he liked hanging out with them. not just because it was a distraction, but because they were actually good company. smart. grounded. weirdly funny. they made him feel like maybe he wasn’t completely lame, even if he still wore anime hoodies and overthought everything to death.

but no matter how much fun he had, no matter how many late night hangouts or inside jokes they built, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

you were a background hum. a ghost in the static. always there, just out of reach.

he’d be laughing at something choso said and suddenly remember the way you used to scrunch your nose when you were really amused. he’d be scrolling through his phone and see your story, half your face in golden hour, lips glossy, eyes unreadable, and his stomach would drop like a stone.

it wasn’t fair.

he knew you weren’t perfect. he knew sukuna was a whole mess of a situation. he knew you’d made your choices, and maybe it should’ve been enough to just… let it go.

but he missed you anyway.

he missed the way you looked at him like he was interesting. like he wasn’t just some nerd you found amusing but someone who could actually keep up with you. he missed the way you teased him, the way you touched him, like you weren’t afraid of breaking something delicate. like he wasn’t fragile at all.

and he hated that he still wanted you.

hated that every time someone mentioned your name . in passing, in stories, in whispers across campus, his chest tightened just a little. hated that every hallway he walked down, he scanned for a glimpse of your outfit, your laugh, your perfume.

hated that the night you kissed sukuna still lived behind his eyelids when he closed his eyes.

“you’re doing better,” choso said, two weeks in, as they sat on a campus bench under a gray sky, sketchbook open in his lap. “you don’t look like you’re gonna cry when someone says her name anymore.”

“wow,” satoru said dryly, sipping his third coffee of the day. “glowing review.”

“seriously, though,” suguru added, standing nearby with his headphones around his neck. “you’ve come a long way. just… don’t trick yourself into thinking she’s your only shot.”

satoru nodded. because he knew they were right.

he’d gone from completely crushed to almost functioning. from heartbreak to the hazy kind of ache that feels survivable, even if it still hurts.

but late at night, when the music’s off and his phone’s quiet and the dorm room feels too still, it’s your name that sits in his chest like a song stuck on repeat.

you, in that ridiculous mcbling outfit the first time he saw you.

you, grinning behind your phone at the cafe. you, on his lap during the photoshoot, skin warm, voice low. you, whispering that some of those pictures were only for him.

he exhales, pressing his forehead to his pillow.

you’re not his anymore. maybe you never were.

but god, he wishes you had been.

~

now, it was late. later than it should’ve been for three college guys to be cramped into a diner on a tuesday night, the air heavy with the smell of grease and cheap cigarettes from the patio two tables over. satoru stirred the straw in his milkshake for the fifth time, his long fingers twitching around the paper cup. he hadn’t taken a sip in fifteen minutes.

choso sat across from him, hood up, dark circles under his eyes. suguru leaned back beside him, stretched out like he owned the booth, but there was a tension in his posture that gave him away, his knuckles were tight around the root beer glass, jaw clenched.

they hadn’t talked about you all night. they’d been talking about some dumb movie suguru wanted to drag them to next weekend, about choso’s lab partner who smelled like onions and always messed up the titrations. they laughed, satoru forced a smile or two, but it all kept coming back.

your name was on the tip of his tongue.

he couldn’t stop seeing you in the back of his mind. that same bright, filtered version of you, laughing in the latest instagram reel, posing in low lighting with sunglasses on inside some house party, tagging friends he’d never met, showing off outfits and drinks and that same fucking smile. like none of it had happened. like that night on the lawn hadn’t torn something open between you.

“can i ask something?” satoru finally said, voice too soft for how loud the question felt in his chest.

choso looked up first, eyebrows raised. suguru stopped stirring his drink.

“for sure,” suguru said carefully.

satoru hesitated, tapped his finger on the table. “how’s she doing?”

neither of them responded right away. choso blinked, eyes sliding toward suguru. suguru’s lips pressed into a line, his jaw ticking once. they looked at each other like they were silently deciding who would speak first, like the question was loaded. like they hadn’t expected it.

that’s how satoru knew.

“guys?...” he said softly. "i've seen her stories, her tiktok's, it looks like everything's fine-"

“it’s not,” choso said, and his voice was so quiet, so flat, it made satoru’s stomach drop.

he looked between them, his milkshake forgotten. “what do you mean?”

“she’s not doing great,” suguru said simply. his fingers toyed with the condensation on the side of his glass. “she’s trying to make it look like she is. but it’s bad.”

satoru felt his mouth go dry.

“how bad?”

choso exhaled through his nose. “she parties almost every night. not even with us anymore. she goes out with friends we've never even met, or ends up crashing wherever there’s noise. doesn’t text back. won’t answer calls unless she’s blacked out and sobbing.”

“drugs, too,” suguru added. “she’s not subtle about it. ket, molly, sometimes coke. whatever keeps her numb enough to not think.”

satoru looked down at his hands.

“why?”

suguru glanced at choso. “you really wanna know?”

he nodded. “i do.”

“because she feels like shit,” choso said bluntly. “like she ruined everything with you and now she doesn’t know how to deal with it.”

there was a silence after that. just the low hum of the diner lights, the soft clatter of dishes in the kitchen. satoru felt like something heavy was pressing against his ribs, like all the air had been sucked out of the booth and he was stuck inside a vacuum of his own thoughts.

satoru doesn’t breathe. his throat tightens. “but she looks—”

“yeah,” choso cuts in, voice low. “she looks great. viral. perfect. whatever. but the second she’s off camera, it’s like someone shuts the lights off inside her. she’s barely sleeping. barely eating unless someone forces her. the other night she had to be carried out of a club because she blacked out in a stairwell.”

satoru’s heart cracks so hard it echoes in his chest.

he tries to picture you like that, not the version with glossed lips and glittery eyeshadow, not the one who called him baby and straddled his lap like she owned him, but the one behind all that. the girl with shaking hands. the girl who’s hurting.

“and sukuna?” he asks, quietly. “are they…?”

suguru snorts. it’s bitter. “they’re done.”

choso nods. “she blew up at him. told him to go fuck himself. said he ruined everything. blocked him on everything. hasn’t spoken to him since.”

satoru’s eyes sting.

“it wasn’t pretty,” suguru adds. “they were screaming at each other outside some gallery opening. like, full scene. she was shaking. he tried to touch her and she slapped him.”

something inside satoru goes cold. “jesus.”

satoru swallowed hard. his throat was tight. “why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“because we didn’t want to make it worse,” suguru said. “we know how you felt about her. still feel, probably.”

satoru didn’t say anything to that.

he didn’t need to.

choso leaned forward a little. “we didn’t pick sides. we’ve been trying to hold her together without enabling her. but honestly, she’s falling apart either way.”

“she asks about you sometimes,” suguru said. “not directly. just… in passing. like she’s pretending she doesn’t care but hoping we’ll slip up and say something.”

“we don’t, though,” choso added. “she’s not ready.”

satoru let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, elbows on the table, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms. “i hate that i still care,” he admitted.

“you don’t,” choso said. “you just hate that she doesn’t care about herself.”

satoru stared down at the milkshake between his hands.

“yeah,” he whispered. “that too.”

they sat in silence again, the three of them surrounded by the buzz of fluorescent lights and clinking silverware. the outside world moved on around them, uncaring, fast, dizzying. and still, satoru felt stuck.

“she ever gonna stop?” he asked eventually. “the partying, the drugs, the… self-destruction?”

“we’re trying,” choso said.

“but it’s not about us,” suguru added. “she has to want it. and right now? she’s just trying to block everything out.”

satoru nodded slowly.

he understood that.

maybe more than he wanted to.

“you think she’s gonna be okay?” he asked.

neither of them answered right away.

then suguru looked him dead in the eyes. “maybe. if she gets out before it eats her alive.”

satoru closed his eyes.

he could still see her, laughing in a video from just two days ago. some party, some guy’s lap she was half-sitting on, a drink in her hand and too much glitter on her cheeks. you looked like you were having the time of your life. you always did.

but now, it didn’t look fun anymore.

now it looked like drowning.

he opened his eyes again, staring blankly at the drink in front of him.

“i miss her,” he said quietly.

choso didn’t say anything.

suguru just nodded.

“we know." he murmured.

~

you wake up in a stranger’s bed. again.

the sheets smell like stale sweat and cheap cologne. your head pounds, a dull throb that echoes the bass of last night’s club. you sit up, the room spinning, your mouth dry and tasting of regret.

flash.

you’re in the club, lights strobing, bodies pressing against you. someone hands you a drink—you don’t ask what it is. you down it, chasing the numbness.

flash.

you’re laughing, too loud, too bright. someone’s lips are on yours, but you don’t care who they belong to. it’s not him. it’s never him anymore.

flash.

you’re in a bathroom stall, powder on your fingertips. you tell yourself it’s just to keep the night going. to keep from feeling.

flash.

you’re dancing on a table, bottle in hand, screaming the lyrics to a song you don’t know. your 'friends' cheer, but their faces blur. they're not your real friends, you're ignoring them right now.

flash.

you’re alone in your room, the silence deafening. you stare at your phone, his name still blocked. you want to call, to hear his voice, but pride and shame hold you back.

flash.

you’re at another party, another drink in hand. someone offers you something stronger. you take it without hesitation.

flash.

you’re in a car, the city lights blurring past. you don’t know where you’re going, and you don’t care.

flash.

you’re back in bed, the stranger beside you snoring softly. you slip out, gathering your clothes, avoiding the mirror.

you tell yourself you’re fine.

you post a selfie, filters hiding the bags under your eyes, the hollowness in your gaze. the likes pour in, affirming the lie.

but the emptiness grows.

you see him in your dreams, his eyes filled with hurt. you wake up crying, the ache in your chest unbearable.

you try to fill the void.

more parties, more substances, more meaningless encounters. more more more. each one leaves you feeling emptier than before.

your real friends notice.

they try to intervene, their voices filled with concern. you brush them off, insisting you’re just having fun.

but deep down, you know.

you’re spiraling, losing yourself in the chaos. the pain you’re trying to escape consumes you.

you miss him.

his laugh, his touch, the way he looked at you like you mattered. you wonder if he thinks of you, if he regrets walking away.

you want to reach out.

but you’re scared. scared of rejection, of facing the consequences of your actions.

so you continue the cycle.

numbing, partying, pretending. hoping that one day, the pain will fade.

but it doesn’t.

and you’re left with the fragments of who you used to be, trying to piece yourself back together in the aftermath.

~

now you were drunk at some house party, you don’t remember what he said, this random asshole.

something stupid. something smug. something about how he “always knew you’d come back,” like you were some broken thing crawling back to its owner.

it’s not sukuna, but it might as well be. same type. same eyes. same voice that makes you feel like your ribs are cracking under the weight of old mistakes.

you’d laughed at first. that sharp, detached laugh you’ve perfected over the past two weeks, where your teeth gleam and your eyes stay dead. but then he touched your waist and said it again, said something about how “girls like you always need attention,” and something just snapped.

“fuck you,” you’d hissed.

he grinned. smug. wide. “god, you’re a mess. weren’t you, like, crying over some nerd last week?”

and that was it.

something inside you went cold and then red-hot all at once.

you don’t remember lunging at him, not really. don’t remember screaming. don’t remember shoving your drink into his chest or the sound of the cup hitting the floor. just your voice cracking and screaming “you don’t know shit about me!” as everything else blurred out.

the music stopped.

the room hushed. just like that.

you were shaking. mascara streaming down your face, hands clenched at your sides, chest heaving as you stared at him like you wanted to kill him, but mostly like you wanted to disappear.

he was laughing. of course he was. brushing you off like you were nothing. like your breakdown was a punchline.

and that hurt more than anything else.

everyone was watching.

you stumbled backwards, caught someone’s shoulder, shrugged off the hand that tried to steady you. you muttered something, maybe fuck all of you, maybe i’m fine, and bolted out the front door, into the cold.

the walk back to your dorm is a blur of static. your heels in your hand, feet bleeding. phone dead. everything else too loud.

the second your door clicks shut behind you, you collapse against it, sliding down the wood until you’re a heap on the floor.

you breathe.

and then you sob.

your dorm smells like laundry detergent and fake perfume and something rotting in the trash. it’s a mess. like you. discarded outfits on the floor, makeup-stained tissues, a magazine with your own face on the cover torn in half and stuffed under a pillow.

you pull your knees to your chest and press your face to them.

and finally, the silence hits you.

and the silence says: you did this.

you let go of the good thing. you fucked up the only love that ever felt real. you kissed a ghost and chased it straight into hell and now you’re here, screaming at strangers and crying on the floor of your overpriced dorm because no one loves you enough to stop you.

no one loves you like he did.

no one ever has.

and you didn’t know how to handle it. didn’t know how to be held that gently without flinching. didn’t know how to believe someone like satoru could really want someone like you.

not after everything.

not when you’re like this.

because what are you, really, without the followers and the outfits and the fake smiles? you’re just a girl who doesn’t know how to be soft. who only knows how to survive. who only knows how to run when things get too quiet.

you think about that afternoon in the library.

how warm he looked. how he looked at you like you were a secret he wanted to learn by heart. how careful he was when he touched you. how he blushed when you teased him.

how safe you felt.

and then you remember how he looked when he asked, “do you still want him?”

and how you said “not really.”

god.

what the fuck is wrong with you.

your body feels like it’s giving out. like there’s nothing left.

because no matter how many parties you go to or bottles you finish or people you let touch you, you still feel empty. still feel haunted.

he’s in everything.

you see him in your notifications, even when they’re not from him. in the mirror, when you put on that shade of gloss he liked. in the way your fingers still hover over his contact at 3am. in every guy you ignore because he isn’t tall enough or kind enough or awkward enough.

he’s in the way your chest aches when you’re alone.

he’s in the way no one else has ever made you feel like you were more than pretty.

you curl up tighter, sobs wracking your ribs.

you want to call him.

you want to say i’m sorry and please come back and i think i’m in love with you and i don’t know how to live with that.

but you don’t.

because he deserves better.

he deserves peace. he deserves mornings with someone who doesn’t disappear at night. he deserves someone who won’t break his heart just because she doesn’t know how to hold something so gentle.

you deserve the emptiness.

you stay on the floor until your legs go numb.

~

~

satoru doesn’t think twice when suguru texts him.

suguru [6:23pm]: party tonight. u coming?

he stares at the screen for a while. it’s not like he wants to go. he’s not really in the mood to pretend he’s fun or normal or even okay. but it’s been three weeks now since everything cracked open. two weeks since that night he saw you pressed up against sukuna like nothing had ever mattered. two weeks of trying to breathe through the ache.

suguru and choso have been good to him. better than he deserves. they don’t mention you unless he does. they keep things easy. movies, ramen, lazy afternoons in suguru’s apartment. they never pressure him to talk about it. they just sit with him when the silence gets too heavy.

maybe that’s why he says yes.

he wants to be normal. wants to be fine. wants to believe he can be in a room with people again without thinking of you.

so he throws on a hoodie and jeans, meets them outside the apartment, and pretends he’s not thinking about you when suguru says, “you sure you’re up for this?”

“yeah,” satoru says, forcing a grin. “i’m not gonna cry in the bathroom, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

choso snorts. “please do. it’ll give the party some depth.”

the three of them laugh, and for a second, it almost feels okay.

~

the bass was thudding through the floorboards. lights were low and hazy, smoke curling around the ceiling like the whole house was about to levitate. bodies pressed in on all sides, moving like one dumb, brainless thing. the stink of alcohol, sweat, perfume and something sharper thick in the air. he hated it. he used to imagine parties were exciting, glamorous even. that’s how you always looked in them, anyway. perfect lighting. perfect makeup. perfect body. always with a drink in your hand, someone whispering in your ear, laughing like your world wasn’t on fire behind your ribs.

he’d forgotten for a second. just a second. forgotten this was your scene. your territory.

and then he saw you.

it knocked the air right out of him.

you didn’t see him. not even close. you were across the room in a dress that barely stayed up, mascara smudged under your eyes, glitter on your collarbones like dust. and you were smiling. at least, your mouth was. your eyes didn’t look like they were part of your face anymore. they were glassy, unfocused, empty. like someone had taken the real you out of your body and left a wind-up doll in your place.

he watched as you tossed your head back and laughed too loud at something a guy said, someone he didn’t know, someone with his hand way too low on your waist. he watched you throw back a drink, wince, then immediately go for another. he watched you stumble when someone bumped into you and laugh like it was the funniest thing in the world.

suguru nudged him. “hey,” he said. “you okay?”

satoru didn’t answer.

his hands were in his pockets, jaw clenched so tight it ached. he couldn’t look away.

“you didn’t know she’d be here,” choso said quietly, from his other side.

no, he didn’t. they hadn’t told him. maybe they hadn’t known. maybe they had. he didn’t care. what mattered was that you were here, and you were unraveling in front of his eyes.

“she looks like she’s having fun,” suguru said, but even he sounded like he didn’t believe it.

satoru scoffed under his breath. “yeah. a real blast.”

he watched you take a shot like it was medicine, watched you lean into the guy you were with, whisper something in his ear, pull back and laugh like it was a game. you weren’t like this before. not like this. even in the middle of chaos, you had always looked composed. seductive. untouchable. now you just looked… lost.

you looked like you were trying to disappear.

“you sure you wanna stay?” choso asked, voice low.

satoru nodded once. too stiff, too quick. “yeah,” he muttered. “i’m fine.”

~

he wasn’t. every second was hell.

he didn’t want to see you like this. didn’t want to feel this sick, weighted thing sinking deeper into his chest with every minute. he hated you a little, just then. hated you for not seeing him. for not noticing. for making him watch.

and then he saw it.

some guy, some random fucking guy in a hoodie, holding something small and white in his palm, offering it to you like it was a secret. and you, laughing like none of it mattered, plucked it from his hand without hesitation. like it was candy. like it was nothing.

satoru snapped.

he didn’t remember moving, didn’t remember the plastic cup slipping from his hand or the way the music turned into a dull, echoing thud behind his ears. all he knew was that he saw you tilt your head back, laughing like the world wasn’t burning around you, and that little white pill disappearing past your lips like it meant nothing. like you meant nothing.

he was moving before he could think. heat rising under his skin like fire. maybe suguru called after him. maybe choso did, too. he didn’t hear. he just moved.

you didn’t even notice. of course you didn’t. you were busy spinning in slow, unbalanced circles near the kitchen, holding onto a stranger’s arm like it was your lifeline. your mascara was smudged. your lip gloss was all rubbed off. your dress was crooked on one shoulder. and you were smiling.

like you weren’t slowly breaking in front of everyone.

satoru shoved past the guy closest to you without hesitation and grabbed your wrist, not rough, never rough, even now, and pulled you out of the noise, down a dim hallway that smelled like dust and perfume and old beer.

“heyyy,” you giggled, stumbling into his chest with a hiccup. “wait—where’re we goin’?”

he backed you gently against the wall. not to scare you. just to make you stop. to see you.

“what the fuck did you just take?” he asked, voice low and shaking. “do you even know what that was?”

you blinked at him slowly. your lashes stuck together a little with old mascara. your smile stayed soft, dreamy.

“whoa… y’re really pretty,” you murmured, completely dazed. “d’you always yell at girls you just met?”

satoru froze. “you don’t recognize me?”

you tilted your head and giggled again, swaying a little. “no… but you... you kinda sound like...”

he stared at you, heart kicking.

you kept smiling, glassy-eyed and soft. “mm. like—like my toru…”

satoru’s breath hitched. your toru.

“w-who do i sound like?” he asked carefully.

you blinked slowly, lip gloss smudged. “my toruuu,” you whispered like it was a secret. “he talks like you. all bossy. gets mad when i do stupid stuff. but he’s sooo cute about it. he used to get all flustered and blushy when i called him pretty. ‘s’so cute…”

satoru couldn’t breathe.

“he always looked at me like i hung the moon or somethin’. he used t’get sooo serious when i was sad. even when i was tryin’ to hide it, he knew.”

you wiped at your face with the back of your hand, eyes getting wet. “he’d just—ugh, he’d hold my hand real tight under the table. or text me hearts in class. one time he ran across campus in the rain to bring me my stupid lip balm ‘cause i left it in his bag—so dumb, right?”

your voice cracked, but your smile stayed. dreamy. faraway.

“i love toru,” you whispered, eyes unfocused.

satoru’s chest was splintering.

“what happened?” he asked softly.

you leaned your head back against the wall and giggled through your tears. “i messed it alllll up. kissed the wrong guy. made my toru sad. real sad. now he’s gone and i’m like... y’know, jus’ floatin’ around. bein’ a mess. tryna party him outta my brain.”

you swayed again. satoru caught you before you could fall.

“everyone thinks i’m sooo fine,” you slurred. “they’re like, ‘wow, she’s soooo fun, she’s soooo cool, look at her little outfits, she’s sooo hot.’ but i’m like… dying inside. literally dying.”

you said it with a giggle. like it was funny. like it wasn’t killing you.

“i miss him so bad,” you sighed. “his dumb glasses. his dumber shirts. the way he used t’get so excited about science crap, ugh, it was so hot when he nerded out.”

satoru’s throat was raw.

“y'know you kinda smell like toru...he made me feel so…” you paused, eyes fluttering. “safe. like i didn’t have t’be anything but me.”

your voice broke. “i don’t feel like me anymore.”

he didn’t know when he’d started shaking. he just knew you didn’t see him. really see him. you were too far gone. too out of it. too wrapped up in the haze of loss and liquor and longing.

“he’s prolly moved on,” you whispered, slumping against him, head to his chest. “prolly forgot all about me. ‘s’okay. i get it. i’m messy. i’m a lot.”

you looked up at him eyes completely unfocused, lip trembling. “but i miss him.”

your voice was barely audible.

“miss him every’ day.”

he caught you as your legs buckled again, arms cradling you like glass. your perfume was familiar. your weight against him felt like everything he’d ever wanted and everything he’d lost, all at once.

“i still sleep in his shirt sometimes, he- he left it at my dorm when we slept together for the first time...” you mumbled. “even tho it don’t smell like him no more.”

satoru held you tighter.

“i jus’ want my toru back,” you sobbed. “i promise i’ll be good this time.”

and when your voice cracked, when you whispered “i love him” like it was the only truth left in you, satoru closed his eyes and held you close, because he couldn’t say anything. not yet.

not when you didn’t even know he was there.

so he stayed. trembling. breaking. aching.

and you clung to him like he was a stranger.

still calling his name. still calling him yours.

~

satoru didn’t even remember getting out of the house.

he just knew you were in his arms.

you’d passed out sometime between the end of that hallway and the front door, your body slack against his chest, face tucked against the crook of his neck. you smelled like tequila and cherries and perfume, your perfume. the one that made his heart ache now with every inhale.

someone said something as he carried you through the living room, choso, maybe. suguru was behind him, he thought, offering to help. but satoru didn’t stop. he didn’t look back. he just held you tighter and walked out into the cool night air like a man with one purpose.

the city buzzed quietly in the background. neon lights flickered off rain-slick pavement. everything felt slowed down and far away.

he got the passenger door open with one hand. it was clumsy, fumbling, but he didn’t want to let you go. not even for a second.

you didn’t stir as he laid you back gently against the leather seats of his car. you just breathed softly, cheek pressed to your shoulder, a little smudge of glitter still clinging to your eyelids. you looked so small like this. so far from the glossy, untouchable girl on everyone’s feed.

he sat in the driver’s seat for a moment before starting the engine. his hands were shaking.

you loved him.

you said it over and over, like a spell. and you hadn’t even known it was him you were talking to.

satoru had tried so hard these past weeks to let you go. he’d gone out with suguru and choso. laughed. trained. even flirted with some girl at the bookstore who asked about his glasses.

but none of it stuck. nothing filled the space you left behind.

he watched the streetlights blur past the windshield as he drove, one hand tight around the steering wheel, the other resting on your thigh to steady you. like you’d vanish if he didn’t keep you grounded.

you missed him.

you still slept in his shirt.

he let out a breath that was half a sob and blinked hard to keep his eyes clear. he couldn’t cry. not now. not when you needed him steady.

he pulled into the male dorm parking lot, parked, then walked around the car. you shifted a little as he opened the door and scooped you back into his arms, but you didn’t wake. just buried your face deeper into his chest like your body still knew him even if your mind didn’t.

the elevator ride felt endless. the whole building was quiet. just the soft hum of fluorescent lighting and the occasional shuffle of his sneakers on tile.

he carried you down the hall, fished out his keys, and nudged the door open with his foot.

his dorm was still the same. clean, minimal. a few books stacked on the counter. 

satoru laid you gently on his bed, brushing your hair back from your forehead with shaking fingers. your lashes fluttered but didn’t open. your lip gloss had mostly worn off. your breathing was steady now, quiet and warm.

he kneeled beside the bed and stared.

you loved him.

you were falling apart without him.

how had he not seen it? how had he convinced himself that your pretty stories and perfect posts were real? that you were just moving on while he was losing his mind?

you weren’t okay. not even close.

his chest cracked wide open. all the things he’d buried over the last few weeks came rushing back in like a flood, every moment he missed you, every time he started to text you and couldn’t, every time he saw someone else look at you like you were a prize and had to pretend it didn’t kill him inside.

he pressed the back of his hand to your cheek. you were still warm. still here.

you loved him.

your toru.

he let out a slow breath and leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against your temple.

“i love you,” he whispered. “god, i love you so much.”

he stayed like that for a while. breathing with you. trying to memorize the sound of it.

then, gently, he stood.

he brought you water, set it on the nightstand.

he found wipes in the drawer. he cleaned your face carefully, wiping away the smeared mascara and glitter. then he slipped one of his shirts over your dress, warm from the dryer and smelling like him, and tucked the blankets around you.

you looked so peaceful now. no pain on your face. no glassy, fake smile.

just you.

satoru sat on the floor beside the bed, knees pulled up, arms draped over them, watching you breathe.

he didn’t know what came next. didn’t know what he was supposed to do tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that.

he just knew you were here.

and that was enough, for now.

~

you wake up slowly.

your head is pounding, mouth dry, and there’s a bitter taste in the back of your throat that makes your stomach churn. everything aches. the air smells faintly like clean linen and something warm, cologne maybe, expensive, familiar. your fingers twitch against the duvet, soft and foreign, and when you blink your eyes open, you’re not in your dorm.

you’re in his.

the light filters through sheer curtains you’ve never seen before, washing everything in muted gold. the bed is big, too big for just one person. there’s a hoodie slung over the desk chair. a textbook cracked open on the floor. a sleek pair of glasses folded neatly beside a stack of manga.

your heart lodges in your throat.

satoru.

you sit up too fast. the nausea hits you like a punch to the gut, but you bite down on it. memories come in fragments, shots, music, spinning lights, a hand offering a pill. then a hallway. then him. a voice you’d swear belonged to your memories. the warmth of arms around you. not cruel, not cold. safe.

a creak.

your head snaps to the doorway, and there he is.

satoru, standing there like a ghost you wished for too hard.

his hair’s a mess. he’s still in the shirt from last night, wrinkled and slightly damp at the collar like he’s been rinsing his face over and over. his eyes lock onto yours and his expression break, just a little, like he wasn’t ready to see you awake. like he’s been pacing the edge of this moment and now he’s fallen in.

“hey,” he says softly.

your throat tightens. “hey.”

silence. thick. heavy. his fingers twitch at his sides, and you grip the edge of the duvet like a lifeline.

“i—” you start, but the words crumble. shame floods you, hot and choking. “was it really you? last night?”

he nods. his voice barely makes it out. “yeah.”

you drop your head. your hands tremble as they pull the blanket up higher. “god. i thought—you—I thought i was talking to a stranger.”

“i know.”

“i said so much.” your voice cracks. “i didn’t know it was you.”

he steps forward then, cautiously, like you might vanish if he’s too quick. he sits on the edge of the bed, not too close, not too far. you glance at him, and he looks… wrecked. like he hasn’t slept. like he’s been hollowing himself out to make space for this grief.

“you meant it though,” he says, quietly. “everything you said.”

you nod slowly. “every word.”

you don’t mean to cry, but you do. the tears come fast, hot and silent, trailing down your cheeks as your lip trembles. you wipe them away quickly, but he sees.

of course he sees.

and when he reaches for you—hand slow, careful—you let him. his fingers brush yours, warm and steady, and it’s like breathing for the first time in weeks.

“i didn’t know how to live without you,” you whisper. “after that night. i kept trying to be okay and i just… fell apart.”

his hand shifts, cups your cheek, thumb swiping away a tear. “i saw. at the party. i saw you.”

“oh my god,” you bury your face in your hands. “that’s so fucking embarrassing.”

“no,” he murmurs. “it’s not. it was awful. watching you like that. i wanted to pull you away the second we got there.”

you lower your hands. his eyes are glassy. you’re not sure when he started crying too.

“you shouldn’t still care,” you say, quietly. “after what i did.”

“i couldn’t stop if i tried.

he leans forward, forehead pressed to yours, breath hitching against your lips.

“i love you,” he says. it spills out like a secret too heavy to hold. “i love you so much it fucking ruins me. i tried to forget. i tried to move on. but every time i close my eyes it’s just you. laughing. posing. slurring about your toru like he hung the stars.”

your breath shakes. “he did.”

his lips are soft when they kiss your cheek. then your jaw. then the corner of your mouth. not greedy. not hungry. just there. grounding.

“you looked so happy when you talked about me,” he whispers. “even when you didn’t know it was me. like i meant something. like i wasn’t just—temporary.”

“you’re not,” you breathe. “you never were.”

your fingers find his shirt and tug him closer. your body curls into his, all shaky breath and uneven heartbeats. he gathers you into his lap without hesitation, arms wrapped around you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear again. your face presses to his shoulder, and his palm runs up and down your back.

“i should’ve fought harder,” you murmur. “i let you go because i didn’t think i deserved you. and maybe i don’t. but i missed you so much, toru. every day felt like drowning.”

his voice is thick, soft. “then let’s come up for air. together.”

you clutch his shirt tighter. “i don’t wanna do this without you anymore.”

“you don’t have to,” he whispers into your hair. “i’m here. you hear me? i’m here.”

you nod. your tears soak into his shoulder, and his thumb strokes your spine gently, his breath shaking each time you shudder against him.

and when you finally pull back to look at him, eyes puffy, nose red, breath uneven, he cups your face with both hands and kisses you. really kisses you. slow and deep and aching, like a promise.

like home.

you don’t know how long you stay wrapped in his arms, the sun just barely starting to rise through the blinds, painting the room in soft streaks of gold and pink. your head is on his chest, and you can feel his heart, solid and steady, under your palm like it’s trying to hold yours together too. everything still feels fragile. delicate. like if you moved too fast, it might all fall apart again.

his hand is stroking your hair, fingers so gentle it makes your eyes sting.

“can’t believe you’re here,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from sleep and crying. “thought i lost you.”

you close your eyes, squeezing his shirt in your fist. “you almost did.”

it’s honest. there’s no point in lying now. not when everything’s cracked open and raw between you, not when his scent is all around you and his arms feel more like home than anything else has in weeks.

“i was so stupid,” you whisper. “i ruined everything.”

he exhales slow, presses his lips to your forehead. “you were hurting.”

“i still am,” you admit, voice shaking. “i was trying not to feel anything at all.”

he doesn’t say anything for a second. just holds you tighter. “you think i didn’t notice?” he says quietly. “you think i didn’t see it all over your face that night?”

you curl into his chest, ashamed. “i didn’t think you’d ever want to see me again.”

“god,” he breathes, “i never stopped wanting to.”

he rolls onto his side, gently shifting so he’s facing you, hand sliding up your arm, your neck, until his fingers are cupping your jaw. his thumb traces your cheekbone, like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.

you look at him, really look, eyes soft, mouth parted, the vulnerable kind of handsome that makes your chest ache.

“i thought about you every day,” he says, and his voice cracks on it. “even when i hated myself for it. even when i wanted to stop.”

your breath hitches. “me too.”

his forehead presses to yours. “i thought about your laugh. the way you talk. the way you looked at me like i was something special, even when i didn’t know how to be.”

you close your eyes, a tear slipping out. “you are special. you’ve always been.”

his hand moves down to your waist, drawing slow shapes through the thin fabric of your shirt, his shirt. “you looked so happy online. all those stories, those parties… i wanted to believe you were okay. but i knew.”

you swallow. “i wanted to forget.”

“you took something from a stranger,” he says softly. “that night. you could’ve…”

“i didn’t care,” you say, voice small. “nothing mattered without you.”

he’s quiet for a moment. then, “you told me all of it. in the hallway. you didn’t even know it was me.”

you blink, eyes wide. “i—what?”

he nods slowly. “you were out of your mind, but you told me about how much you loved your toru. how good he was to you. how much you missed him. you cried in my arms and didn’t even realize it was me.”

your lips part, a breath caught in your throat. you remember slurring something. you remember crying. but not that.

“fuck,” you whisper. “i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry.”

his thumb catches the tear slipping down your cheek. “don’t be. it was the most honest thing i’ve heard in a long time.”

you reach for him then, hand threading into the soft white hair at his nape, pulling him closer until your noses brush, until his breath is warm against your lips. “i still love you,” you say. “i never stopped.”

he kisses you.

it’s not rushed or messy. it’s slow, deep, like he’s drinking the words from your mouth, like he needs them to breathe. his hand tilts your chin, the other anchored to your waist, and he kisses you like he’s making a promise, one he’s been aching to say for weeks.

your hands slide up under his shirt, pressing to the warm skin of his back, and he shivers at the touch. you feel him melt into you, the tension draining from his shoulders, and it makes you pull him even closer.

“toru,” you breathe into his mouth, voice soft and trembling.

he exhales your name like a prayer. kisses you again. and again.

his lips move down your jaw, to your throat, open-mouthed and reverent. every touch is careful. every breath against your skin feels like it means something.

“you’re everything to me,” he murmurs, voice shaking. “you don’t even know.”

“show me,” you whisper.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching, ocean-blue and so full of pain and love and want that it makes your heart clench. “i don’t want to hurt you.”

“you won’t,” you say, threading your fingers through his hair. “i trust you.”

his forehead presses to yours again, breath uneven, and then he kisses you like he’s pouring all of it into you — the fear, the sorrow, the love that never died.

you let him. let him hold you like you’re made of something precious, like he’s terrified of losing you all over again.

your hands roam his back, his shoulders, memorizing the shape of him again. and when he leans down to kiss the hollow of your throat, you gasp, tears slipping free again because it’s just so much. everything you thought you’d lost. everything you’ve missed. he pulls you into his lap, arms firm around your waist, grounding you. your noses brush. your lips meet again. and again.

and somewhere between the kisses and the whispered apologies, the soft gasps and trembling hands, something inside of you starts to heal.

not all at once. not completely.

but enough to let the light in again.

enough to believe that maybe — just maybe — you can have something good.

with him.

with your toru.

m.list !!

ong fic number two DONE YAYAYA

guys idk how to do tag lists SOMEONE TEACH ME 🙏🏼🙏🏼

omg all your sweet comments make me cry i'm so happy you like my writing 🙁❤️❤️

[brunchable]

Play Dirty | Steve Rogers x f!reader [18+]

Words: 8.7K Warning: SMUT. Public teasing with use of sex toy, jealous!steve, a bit of gaslighting, steve being very demanding, hard edging, overstimulation, Oral (M and F), Cunnilingus, fingering, tit fucking, deep-throating, dirty talking, spanking, praising, unprotected piv. Sneak Peak: Steve shifted in his seat, his hand slipping casually into his pocket. You didn’t think much of it at first—until a large shock vibrated through your core and made you gasp in surprise from the intense pleasure. For a second, you froze. A wave of heat rushed through your body as you realized exactly what was happening. Steve had the remote—the small, discreet device that was supposed to be in your handbag—and now, he has it and he was using it. Here. In front of everyone. A/N: whew.

Bucky’s grin widened as you approached, his usual charm on full display. “Look who finally decided to show up,” he teased, offering you a drink. You took it, brushing your hand against his as you did, and laughed at something he said, the two of you falling into easy conversation like always.

Steve, standing a few feet away, felt his stomach tighten painfully at the sight. You and Bucky had grown closer—closer than Steve had anticipated, especially since your recent missions together. He hadn’t realized how much that closeness bothered him until tonight. It wasn’t that Steve hadn’t accepted the "break" you both agreed on, but seeing the way you leaned into Bucky’s space, laughing at every joke, brushing your hand against his arm, it was like salt on an open wound.

The knot in his chest tightened further with every glance you gave Bucky. It was the easy way you talked to him, the subtle, lingering touches. Little things that shouldn’t have meant much—unless you knew how Steve was feeling. And God, he was feeling everything right now.

As the evening wore on, the air around Steve grew thick with tension. He wasn’t the only one who noticed. Natasha, ever perceptive, caught Steve’s darkening expression from across the room. She smirked knowingly as she wandered over.

“Cap, you alright?” she asked, keeping her tone light but teasing. She knew exactly what was going on.

Steve grunted, his gaze never leaving you and Bucky. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice made it clear he was anything but.

Natasha chuckled softly. “You sure? Because it looks like you’re about to burn a hole through Barnes with that stare.”

Before Steve could respond, Tony, as usual, appeared just in time to stir the pot. “Hey, Rogers,” he called out, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You don’t look too happy. What’s up? Jealous that your old pal’s getting all the attention?”

Steve clenched his jaw, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not jealous,” he replied, though the tension in his voice betrayed him.

Tony grinned wider, sensing weakness. “Oh, come on, Cap. It’s written all over your face.”

Steve didn’t respond, but the uneasy feeling only grew as the night wore on. Every laugh you shared with Bucky, every small touch, seemed to deepen the knot in his chest. He hadn’t even meant to dwell on the past, but here it was, staring him in the face. 

The final straw came when Sam, ever the observer, caught on to the tension and decided to add his own bit of teasing. “Hey, Steve,” he called from across the room, “You gonna survive the night? Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Bucky’s got quite the new partner-in-crime.”

Bucky, always attuned to the energy around him, caught Steve’s glare. Sensing the tension, he leaned in closer to you, his hand resting gently on your lower back, a gesture that Steve noticed instantly. It was subtle, almost protective, and the sight of it made Steve’s blood boil.

“Yeah,” Bucky added with a playful grin, “We’ve been working very well lately.”

You laughed, completely unaware of the unspoken battle happening right next to you. “Bucky’s a good partner,” you agreed, nudging Bucky playfully.

Steve’s hand clenched in his pocket, fingers wrapping around the outline of the device that you dropped which he still hadn’t returned to you. His composure remained intact, but jealousy and frustration were etched into his features, plain for anyone paying attention to see.

It wasn’t just the obvious things getting to him—the laughing, the touching—it was the small details. The way your smile lit up when you were around Bucky, the way you leaned into his jokes. They might’ve seemed innocent enough, but to Steve, they felt like a subtle reminder of the growing distance between you and him.

Tony, always quick to sense when things could be pushed further, glanced at Steve with a smirk. “Well, Steve,” he said, voice dripping with amusement, “I guess you don’t really have the same… control over things anymore, huh?”

Steve’s eyes darkened, Tony’s words hitting a little too close to home. He said nothing, swallowing down the jealousy and frustration as the night wore on, watching as the bond between you and Bucky only seemed to deepen. The growing distance between you and him was becoming painfully clear, and there was little he could do but stand by and let it unravel in front of him.

× × × ×

You and Bucky sat close on the couch, exchanging teasing comments and unaware of how effortlessly you were riling Steve up. His friends had noticed too, and the teasing directed at Steve had only gotten more relentless as the night wore on. Steve, ever the calm and composed leader, sat across from you, trying to act unbothered as Tony and Sam continued their playful jabs.

“You sure there’s nothing going on, Cap?” Tony asked, grinning as he threw a look between you and Steve. “Because it’s looking like Barnes is making a move.”

Steve’s jaw clenched hard, though his face remained otherwise neutral. “There’s nothing going on,” he said calmly, but the tension in his voice was unmistakable.

Bucky, picking up on the shift in the atmosphere, leaned in just a bit closer to you, giving you a sideways smirk. “You hear that, Y/N? Seems like nothing’s going on with Steve. Guess we’re free to keep having fun, right?”

“Seems that way.” You chuckled softly, leaning into Bucky’s shoulder just a little more while giving his knee a squeeze, knowing exactly what effect it was having on Steve. 

Steve’s eyes flicked to you, his blue gaze intense, his lips curving into a smirk that sent a shiver down your spine. You knew that look—like he had something up his sleeve. The game had been fun, but there was always a part of you that wondered when Steve would decide enough was enough.

Steve shifted in his seat, his hand slipping casually into his pocket. You didn’t think much of it at first—until a large shock vibrated through your pussy and made you gasp in surprise from the intense pleasure. 

For a second, you froze. A wave of heat rushed through your body as you realized exactly what was happening. Steve had the remote—the small, discreet device that was supposed to be in your handbag—and now, he has it and he was using it. Here. In front of everyone.

You internally smacked your head for even trying the new toy last minute. You shot him a quick glance, your eyes narrowing, but Steve’s expression remained smooth, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face. He looked completely unfazed, as though he hadn’t just flipped the entire dynamic on its head.

“Something wrong, Y/N?” Steve asked, his voice as casual as ever, but there was a glint in his eyes—he knew exactly what he was doing.

You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure as the buzzing in your panties began again, on a low setting, with more intense pulses spread throughout. It was enough for your lips to part in a sudden gasp, though you promised yourself that you wouldn't allow any other sign of his tormenting you to show. 

One look back at Steve and an unspoken message passed between you. He intended to make this evening as humiliating and tormentful as it would be pleasurable.

“No,” you managed, your voice a little strained, “nothing at all.”

Bucky glanced at you, raising an eyebrow. “You sure? You’re looking a little flushed.”

Your cheeks burned, but you quickly shot Bucky a smile, trying to play it off. “Just warm in here.”

Bucky chuckled, completely unaware of what was happening beneath the surface. “Right.”

Meanwhile, Steve’s hand remained in his pocket, casually increasing the intensity just a notch, making it harder for you to focus. Your legs shifted slightly, and you fought to keep your expression neutral, but Steve didn’t let up. His gaze locked on yours, a quiet challenge in his eyes as if daring you to keep up the act.

You clenched your fists, digging your nails into your palms to keep from reacting too visibly, but your body was betraying you. The low, steady vibrations were becoming more insistent, and every time you thought you could push it aside, Steve would change the intensity, keeping you on edge.

As your fists clenched on top of your legs Steve felt his cock begin to stiffen in his trousers. A memory of the last time he had plunged his cock into your  tight little pussy swept over him and determined that he shouldn't suffer alone, he cranked the torment up cruelly high.

With satisfaction he watched as your back arched once, against the seat. You calmed yourself as much as you could a moment later. Steve could see the heaviness of your breath and the tell-tail tremors rocking up through your pussy all the way to your shoulders. He longed to bury his fingers in your long hair, while you licked and sucked and pleasured his cock. But he bit back his fantasies for later and stopped the vibrations for the time being. You weren’t going to get off that easy. You were going to suffer this whole evening like his hungry cock was suffering. You weren’t going to orgasm without him buried inside you. No way.

× × × ×

Steve smiled devilishly with smoldering eyes across the room as the heat built unbearably in your pelvis. All evening Steve had now been teasing you, vibing you on soft vibes some of the time and then intense waves so intense you had had to shove a fist in your mouth so as to not cry out. But always, always, he would end the bliss before you reached any sort of climax.

It was devastating and he knew it. You hid your feelings as best you could, but not from him, because he knew what to look for. He could see you biting your lip, and one hand holding the other in a punishing grip to keep it from straying south to finish the job he had started.

Bucky continued chatting away, completely oblivious, while Tony and Sam moved on to a different conversation, leaving you in this silent battle of wills with Steve. 

Finally, unable to take it anymore, you shot Steve a look again—one filled with frustration. He responded by raising an eyebrow, that smirk deepening as he gave the control in his pocket another small flick.

A barely audible gasp escaped you, and Steve’s smirk turned downright devilish. He leaned back, as though nothing unusual was happening, and gave you a look that said New toy huh?—you naughty girl.

You pressed your lips together, determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much he was affecting you. But Steve didn’t make it easy. He kept the vibrations going, perfectly timed, perfectly controlled, and all you could do was sit there, trying to keep your cool as your pulse quickened.

Satisfaction and possession twisted through him, a darkness that had him yearning to pin yoy down on the floor and fuck you until you screamed. His cock began filling, lengthening in pulses that matched his heartbeat.

Steve finally spoke again, his tone calm and collected as he leaned forward slightly. “You alright, sweetheart? You look like you’ve forgotten something.”

The double meaning wasn’t lost on you, and you shot him a glare, though it was hard to be truly mad when every nerve in your body was buzzing with anticipation.

Bucky, still oblivious to the power struggle happening right in front of him, glanced between you and Steve, looking amused.

You forced a tight smile, barely able to form words. “I’m fine, Steve. Thanks for asking,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady despite the tension.

The breathless tone of your voice stilled his fingers. Your chest rose and fell swiftly, and the points of your nipples were evident against the fabric covering you. Steve chuckled softly, his hand still casually in his pocket, the vibrations still going strong. “Are you sure? You seem a little… tense.”

You bit your lip, resisting the urge to react to the next wave of vibration as it hit. “Not quite,” you managed to say, your voice breathless, but with just enough edge to let him know you weren’t backing down.

Steve’s smirk widened. “We’ll see about that.”

Steve had delighted in teasing you by sending vibration after vibration through your slit when you had just opened your mouth to receive food. Several times you had been unable to prevent moans from spilling forth, which had brought the occasional eye from the others. 

Now however, something clicked into place. 

Every time you went further away from where Steve was now stationed—by the cooling balcony—the vibrations had become more intense, and whenever you'd approached Bucky, the waves had been so intense you'd had to hide away until you regained your composure. 

Certainly you didn't want to experience an orgasm in front of all your colleagues. If Steve would let you come that was. Your eyes locked with him and you knew what game he was playing. He was now drawing you in. Enticing you, teasing you, daring you to meet with him.

Your legs felt shaky as you stepped out onto the balcony, the cool night air doing little to cool the heat raging in your body. Every step closer to Steve, he had intensified the vibrations that pulsed through you, sending you to the brink of losing control several times already. And now, standing here, knowing what he was doing—how he was doing it—you realized he’d been pulling you in, little by little.

He was leaning against the railing when you found him, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips, like he’d been waiting for you all along. His eyes flicked over you, taking in the way your chest rose and fell, the tension in your posture, the faint flush on your cheeks. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched as you struggled to keep your composure.

“Finally,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “I was wondering how long it’d take for you to come find me.”

The soft hum of the vibrations continued to pulse between your legs, but here—out on the balcony, away from the others—it was somehow even more intense. Your breath hitched as you pressed your thighs together, trying to resist the overwhelming sensations that had been driving you crazy all night.

“You’re an asshole,” you managed, though your voice came out breathier than you intended. “You have no right to do that. You’ve been torturing me for hours.”

Steve chuckled deeply, pushing himself off the railing and taking a slow step toward you. His eyes were dark with amusement, and something else—something far more dangerous. 

“Torturing you? No, baby. This isn’t torture. It's your fault you dropped your little control for me to find.” He reached out and brushed his fingers down your arm, his touch sending shivers across your skin. “I'm just giving you what you need.”

Your pulse quickened, but you stood your ground, refusing to back away. “And what’s that?”

Steve’s grin widened, his voice dropping even lower. “Pay back. You’ve been playing dirty games all night, teasing me, testing my patience. . . Bet you didn't think I could play dirtier?”

Your breath hitched as the vibrations suddenly increased, the intensity causing you to press your lips together to keep any sounds from escaping. You glanced at the door behind you, knowing the others were just inside, but the fear of being overheard only added to the tension between you and Steve.

“Fuck you, Steve.” 

“By all means,” He took another step closer, his hand finding your waist, pulling you toward him until your bodies were pressed against each other. “I can see it in your eyes, Y/N. Don't pretend you weren’t enjoying it. I bet you were thinking about how you miss my cock inside you.”

You trembled, both from the force of the sensations and the heat of his words. He was right, of course. As much as you hated to admit it, Steve had known exactly what you craved.

His thumb stroked lazily along your hip as he leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. 

“I'm so surprised you’ve been doing so well tonight,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “But I don’t think you’re ready to come yet, are you?”

You gasped softly, your body tensing as he gave the control another flick, sending a pulse of pleasure through you that had your knees threatening to give out. 

“Damn it, Steve…” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.

His hand slipped down to the small of your back, holding you up, keeping you steady even as he pushed you further to the edge. You felt him pressing his solid erection on your thigh, your hand seemingly having a mind of its own, palmed his hard erection through the fabric.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his tone teasing but dark with intent. “Say my name again. Remind me who you belong to.”

You clenched your hand around his cock, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it was slipping fast. “Steve, please…”

“Please what?” he asked, his lips ghosting over your neck, his voice dripping with amusement. “Do you want me to stop? Or do you want me to keep going?”

You didn’t answer right away, your breath coming in a shallow, uneven exhale. You could barely think, let alone form a coherent response. The vibrations continued relentlessly, driving you closer and closer to the edge, but Steve held all the power, and you knew he wasn’t going to let you fall unless he wanted to.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw as he pulled you tighter against him. “So desperate. So ready to fall apart, but you’re holding back too, aren’t you? You don’t want them to hear you, do you?”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you nodded, the humiliation of being overheard mixing with the arousal that Steve’s teasing had been building all night.

He chuckled huskily. “You know what I love about you, baby? You try so hard to pretend like you can control, but right now…” His hand slid lower, his fingers brushing the hem of your dress, teasing. “Right now, you’re mine.”

You whimpered, your body trembling as the vibrations grew even stronger. You were so close, teetering on the edge of release, but Steve wasn’t going to let you go that easily.

“Do you want to come?” he whispered, his lips brushing against your neck. “Tell me, sweetheart. I want to hear you say it.”

You gasped, barely able to form the words, your body aching for release. “Yes…” you breathed, your voice shaky. “Please, Steve.”

He hummed softly, clearly pleased with your answer, but he wasn’t finished with you yet. His hand slid up your thigh, his fingers brushing the sensitive spot between your legs where the vibrations pulsed strongest. 

You whimpered again, your entire body trembling with the effort of holding back. The sensations were too much, too overwhelming, and you were so close, but Steve’s hand on your hip kept you grounded, reminding you that he held all the power.

“Good girl,” he whispered, pressing his lips against your neck,“Now, be patient.”

You let out a soft, broken whine, your head falling back against his chest as you struggled to hold on, every nerve in your body alight with anticipation and desperation.

“Steve,” you whispered, your voice breaking, but he only smirked, his lips still brushing against your ear as his hand stayed poised on the control, his fingers lingering over the button.

“Should we just take this somewhere else?” his voice was dark with satisfaction.

You whimpered, barely able to hold yourself upright. Every nerve in your body was on fire, and all you wanted—all you needed—was for him to let you come. But Steve wasn’t going to give you that satisfaction just yet.

“I think…” he started slowly, his hand sliding down to grip your waist, “you’re not feeling too well, Y/N.” His tone was soft, but there was no mistaking the authority behind his words. He was making the decision for you, and you had no choice but to follow.

You blinked up at him, your body still trembling, trying to understand where he was going with this. “What… what do you mean?” you managed, your breath shaky and uneven.

Steve chuckled, brushing his thumb over your cheek as he pulled you closer, his voice dropping even lower. “You’re going to go home. You’re not feeling well. Isn’t that right?”

It took you a moment to process what he was saying. He wasn’t giving you an option—he was telling you how the rest of the night was going to go. You weren’t going to get your release, not here, not now. Steve was going to draw this out, make you wait, make you need it even more.

Your heart pounded as you nodded, too overwhelmed to argue. “Right,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I’m not feeling well.”

Steve’s smirk deepened, clearly pleased with your compliance. He brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing down the side of your neck before stepping back slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, his tone dripping with satisfaction.

Without breaking eye contact, Steve reached into his pocket and pressed the control one last time, sending a sharp, teasing vibration through you that nearly made your knees buckle. You gasped softly, gripping the railing for support as a fresh wave of need coursed through your body.

But just as quickly as it started, Steve turned the control off, leaving you trembling and on the brink, but without the release you so desperately craved. His eyes darkened as he leaned in, his voice low and full of promise. 

“I'll take you home now,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “And when we get there later… then you’ll get what you’ve been begging for, if you remain a good girl.”

The breath caught in your throat at his words, your entire body trembling with anticipation and frustration. Steve pulled back slightly, his thumb brushing over your lower lip as his eyes locked with yours, dark and full of intent.

“You understand me?” he asked softly, his tone a quiet command. You nodded, unable to find your voice, your body still humming with the sensation he’d built up all night. 

“Yes,” you whispered. “I understand.”

Steve smiled softly, almost tenderly, as he straightened up, giving you a once-over before taking your hand. He led you back toward the door, his touch firm and guiding as he stepped inside. The warmth of the party greeted you once again, the noise and chatter a stark contrast to the intimate darkness of the balcony.

But Steve didn’t let go of your hand. 

He glanced around the room, catching Bucky’s eye first, then Sam’s. 

“Y/N’s not feeling well,” he announced, his voice steady, calm, and in complete control. “I’m going to make sure she gets home safe.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed slightly as he glanced between the two of you, suspicion flickering in his eyes, but he didn’t question it. 

“Yeah, alright,” he said slowly, shooting you a quick look. “Take care of her, Cap.”

Steve gave a small nod before turning back to you, his grip tightening just slightly around your hand as he guided you toward the exit. The others said nothing but waved bye as you passed, and you kept your head down, your face flushed and your body still trembling with the effects of his teasing. 

Once outside, the cool air hit your skin again, and for a brief moment, you felt like you could breathe. But the moment was short-lived as Steve led you to the car, his hand still firmly wrapped around yours. 

You had to lean on him a bit as he led you to his car. He helped you inside and strode around to his side exceedingly quickly for someone with a stiff load in their pants. One moment of heavy breathing passed as you looked at each other. You both knew what would happen. He was offering and you were accepting. Though there wasn't really a choice for either of you. 

Steve unzipped his fly challengingly as he pushed the start button and vroomed the engine. You eyed him coyly, and lowered your lips agonizingly slowly onto his full blown erection. He was so big and tall, you'd actually forgotten. Carefully you licked his shaft and caressed it with your hands before dipping the head into your mouth. You looked up innocently towards him, eyes wide, Steve had one hand gripping the steering wheel so hard you thought it would break. He saw the way you were looking at him and in punishment set the controller to one of the higher settings. 

Heat and pleasure spread through your pelvis and you approached his huge cock with a renewed desire. You dipped it in your mouth again and again, licking it, stroking it and teasing it. All the while you were wriggling in your seat with the intense pleasure from the vibrating underwear. 

Steve roared out of the parking lot, eager to reach the destination as soon as possible. And though part of him was worried about causing a car accident due to his distraction, he had a much more pressing sense of urgency. And it's in your mouth. He buried his fingers in your hair as you sucked him off, despite the fact that his cock was far too large for your poor little mouth. But just when his cock was quivering and ready to come and deliver its payload all down your throat, you pulled back and stopped. Mischief in your eyes.

"No coming until you're inside me." You purred. "Your rules, not mine."

He grinned despite himself, and set the control to the highest setting. With pleasure he watched as you writhed in your seat from ecstasy. Your back arched and your hands flew out to hold on to something. One braced you against the roof, and the other against his shoulder. But just like before, just before you came he shut the vibrations off. This time for good. You turned to him indignantly.

"Oh my go—Steve! Please." You begged.

"Almost there." He promised, as he pulled into the driveway.

A quick look out the window revealed to you that you were at his apartment and not yours. You shrugged. So much the better.  

Steve reached out a hand, his eyes locking with yours as he offered a reassuring smile, though the hunger in his gaze was impossible to ignore. You took his hand, but as soon as you swung your legs out of the car and stood up, the overwhelming sensations from earlier came rushing back. Your legs wobbled beneath you, unsteady and weak from the teasing Steve had put you through all night. 

The second you tried to take a step, your knees nearly buckled. A soft gasp escaped you as you stumbled, but before you could collapse down, Steve’s arms were around you, strong and steady. He caught you easily, one arm slipping beneath your knees as he scooped you up without a second thought.

“Easy there princess,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm. His lips brushed against your temple as he pulled you against his chest, holding you like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve got you.”

You felt the heat of his body against yours, his strength cradling you effortlessly, and for a moment, you melted into him, letting the safety of his embrace calm the lingering tremors in your legs. Your head rested against his chest as he carried you, his footsteps steady and purposeful as he made his way across the driveway.

Steve tossed you onto the large, plush bed. You landed softly against the sheets, breathless as you watched him with eager anticipation. Satisfaction coursed through you as he began to strip, his eyes never leaving yours. 

His jacket was the first to go, shrugged off and dropped to the floor without a second thought. Then came his shirt, fingers working quickly to unbutton it, his shirt slid off, revealing the defined, powerful muscles of his chest and arms—broad shoulders tapering down to sculpted abs that flexed with every movement. His skin was smooth, taut over the ridges of muscle that seemed to ripple with restrained strength. Each breath he took made his chest rise and fall, drawing your eyes to the hard lines of his torso. His biceps, strong and veined, flexed subtly as he tossed it aside, leaving you breathless, completely captivated by the raw power and grace he carried effortlessly in every inch of his body.

Next were his shoes and socks, kicked off with the same impatience, as though every layer of clothing was a barrier between the two of you. His gaze remained locked on yours, intense and commanding, he unbuckled his belt and tugged off his pants in one motion, leaving him standing there, muscles taut.

Jesus Christ, his body was unfair. His flat stomach had more definition than before, his hips more pronounced. That cock, though. Fully hard, it stood out from his body, every bit as perfect as you remembered—more than big enough to be a challenge. You can see his cock jutting out at you, long and girthy. Your pussy clenched, the stretch of his dick having imprinted there, and you had to grip the sheets to keep from lunging at him.

You were breathing hard, and your heart is beating so fast you feel like it might jump out of your chest. You were looking at each other—predator and prey, the conqueror and the conquered. He closed the distance between you hungrily, his powerful body even more beautiful without clothes in the way. You can feel the heat of his body, smell the scent of his skin—male and musky, strangely appealing. His chest muscles flex under your fingers, and you can feel his heart beating faster.

“Your turn.” He growled huskily.

Steve's hands moved to the hem of your dress, pushing it up slowly, his lips leaving soft, lingering pecks along your stomach as he worked his way up to your waist. With deft efficiency, he slipped the dress over your head in one smooth motion, leaving you breathless. Your bra followed just as quickly, discarded with ease, his touch confident and controlled, leaving you exposed beneath his gaze.

Last but not least he lifted your legs and pulled off the vibrating panties, which were soaked. He tossed them away with a rueful smile before spreading you out so that he could admire you. He took in your breasts that fell to a narrow waist, before flaring out in generous hips that echoed your breasts. 

Steve's fingers trailed up your inner thigh and between your legs, and he let his breath warm the skin of your stomach. He brushed his thumb over your slit until he found your clit. He rubbed back and forth a few times, letting you have a taste of the pleasure he planned to give you more of. 

Your eyes spoke of impatience, and then he spoke, almost sounding disappointed.

“You’ve really tested my patience tonight, but I guess we're even. Now, shall I take care of you?” Steve stroked you again, harder this time.

“I-I'm sorry, Steve, please—” you whispered, your body swaying slightly. He kept stroking your clit, the smell of your arousal filling his nostrils and making him crazy. 

“I am dying to taste you. I bet you're dying to know how good it will feel when my tongue flicks your clit.” he rasped, his mouth watering, pushing to his feet. “Be a good girl and go further up the bed.”

You turned and crawled on the bed, nearly making him come with the seductive sway of your ass as you positioned yourself. When you were on your back, he ordered, “Now spread your legs.”

You complied eagerly, showing him the flesh between your thighs, which was already glistening from arousal. He was ready to make a meal out of you. Wedging himself between your thighs, he lowered himself until his stomach met the mattress.

Steve kissed your inner thigh, his strong hands held you in place. Hands that have been calloused through years and years of combat. The tip of Steve's tongue touched your folds—and you jumped. 

“Relax,” he breathed. “Put your hands on your tits and feel what I am doing to you.” 

You cupped your breasts, which were already heavy and aching, and squeezed your nipples. Pleasure streaked through you. Steve dipped his head and licked you, and heat suffused your lower half. Growling, he pressed closer and tongued your entrance. 

“Fuck, you are so wet for me.” Then he began moving his lips and tongue, exploring your folds, until he reached your clit. The first swipe of his tongue over that tiny bundle of nerves caused you to slam your eyelids shut and throw your head back. Tingles ran up and down your legs and you could only lie there as he did it again and again, flicking and circling the nub with his tongue. His finger worked its way into your pussy, stretching me, and you moaned. 

“Oh, my God. Steve!”

The reaction earned you another finger and a long suck of your clit. Your toes curled and you could feel the orgasm building in your belly.

“I’m so close,” you told him. “Keep going, please.”

Unbidden, your hips started rocking against his face, your body desperate for release. You thought you would have to agree to anything at that moment, but luckily Steve didn’t try and take advantage. He continued to work your clit and pump his fingers into your pussy.

It wasn’t enough though. You really wanted him to fuck you. The thought of his muscled body, so manly and strong, pounding into you pushed you over the edge. 

You shouted as your walls convulsed around his fingers, your limbs trembling uncontrollably. The euphoria washed over you, more intense from the teasing he's done to you all night. These weren't the gentle waves of an orgasm. This was a tsunami dragging you to depths you had never imagined before, drowning you in endorphins you hadn’t felt in so long.

When it finally ended, you sagged into the mattress, limp. Steve's mouth gentled but didn’t stop as he lapped up the wetness at your entrance. His eyes were closed as if he were savoring you, and you couldn’t look away from his beautiful face. Why did he have to be so incredibly good looking?

His lids opened and blue eyes pinned you to the spot. They were wild and hungry. Feral. A little scary, even. He continued to taste you while staring up at you, as if he were gauging your reaction. You couldn’t move, your muscles are now lax.

Then he crawled over you, kissing your skin along the way, until he reached your breasts. Your hands were still on your breasts, so he nudged your palm aside with his nose to draw a nipple into his mouth. He sucked hard, with long pulls that echoed between your legs, directly in your clit. 

Everything was heightened, your body even more sensitive now that you'd come, and he seemed in no hurry to move on as he lavished attention on your breast. Soon you were writhing, your heart racing as you panted, your nails digging into his shoulders. He switched to your other breast, his tongue flicking your nipple then biting it before bringing the nipple into his mouth to suck. 

You were a shuddering, mindless mess, unable to stop moaning as it wore on. Was he trying to foreplay you to death? His fingers slipped between your legs, rubbing your clit with light steady pressure, and you came a second time. When you finally calmed, he released your breast and kissed your neck.

Steve crawled over you, not stopping until his knees were on either side of your ribcage, his cock inches away from your face, “Suck my cock and make it slippery for me.” 

You opened your mouth and he thrust inside, the warm salty taste of him gliding across your tongue. Fuck, you liked that. you closed your eyes, but he snapped, “Eyes on me, hands on your tits.”

Your clit pulsed in happiness, your body drunk on him, completely turned on by his dominance. You complied, keeping your gaze on his and putting your hands on your tits, massaging it in circular motions as he started to tunnel in and out of your mouth. You tried to keep your jaw and throat relaxed, and Steve took advantage, thrusting deep until you gagged. 

“That’s it,” he said. “I want to see tears streaming down your cheeks from having your mouth fucked.” 

You couldn’t help it—you moaned. His nostrils flared. He pushed and you gagged, but he didn’t withdraw. Instead, he waited until you recovered and took another breath. Then he advanced a tiny bit more. Tears spilled over your lashes and you struggled to breathe. You started to shake your head no, but Steve just smirked down at you as he held you in place. 

“You can do it. Fill that filthy mouth with my cock.” He shoved in deeper and you tried to relax and breathe through your nose. You tried to swallow, it took a few tries but you managed and he slipped in deeper. Then you couldn’t breathe at all and you started to panic, your eyes searching his face. His expression was soft, pride shining in his eyes as he watched your mouth. You shook your head again, tears falling faster, your hands slapping on the mattress so Steve withdrew himself. 

You coughed violently as he left your mouth, you felt his demeanor shift as he caressed your cheek while shushing you.

“I-I'm sorry.” you tried to say but it came out broken due to the fire in your throat.

“Shh, you’re okay, baby, you're okay.” Steve hunched down and kissed you, long licks of his tongue against yours, it was gentle, your lips locking before he pulled away, “Are you okay?” 

You look him in the eye, nodding with a weak smile, “Yeah, I'm okay—Continue.”

Steve stares at you for a few seconds, raising his eyebrow, “If you say so.”

He gets into position but instead of getting a mouth full of dick, his cock slapped between your breasts. 

“Let’s save that for a different time.” He winks at you, “Now hold them. Press them tight.” 

You squeezed your boobs around his cock, and he groaned, his arousal coming back to him. His stare was fixed on your chest as his hips started to move, his stomach muscles flexing. 

“Tighter,” he rasped. “Pinch your nipples like I would.” 

You did as he asked, gasping at the electricity that jumped in your veins as a result. It was like you were stroking your  clit without using your hands. You pinched harder and your head rolled back as the bliss washed over you. He pushed a thumb into your mouth and you sucked instinctively, swirling your tongue over the rough skin like you couldn’t get enough. Which wasn’t really an act. You were desperate, your sex throbbing for relief, and you craved his touch everywhere. 

“Look at me when you suck,” he ordered and you instantly obeyed. His bright eyes burned fire while he watched your mouth and he reached to stroke two fingers over your clit. You tensed and made a desperate noise in the back of your throat. He continued to pet you, and you could feel how wet and slippery you were, the sounds of your slickness as loud as your breathing. The climax was right there, just a few seconds away….

The fingers between your legs disappeared and you let out an angry growl around his thumb.

“Get up.” he told you, retreating down your body until he stood on the floor. You rose up on your knees, mindless to anything but having your craving satisfied. 

“Feet on the floor.” 

You scrambled to do as he asked, and his hands positioned you between his legs as you leaned over on the bed. You sagged onto the bed and let him do as he wished. His slick erection slid into the crevice between your cheeks, which he pushed together. Then he was sliding between your ass cheeks the same way he’d fucked your tits. His strong hands held you still while his rough thighs met the backs of your legs. It was like he was fucking you from behind, but without the stimulation. 

Miserable, you shoved your ass higher. Hair covered your face and you could feel the sweat on your temples. 

“Roll your hips,” he panted. “Work my cock and I’ll reward you.” 

Steve didn’t need to ask twice. You started rolling your hips, giving him friction while he held still. You were gyrating and sliding your flesh over his, that thick rod hot and heavy between your cheeks. You barely felt his hand leave your skin before he slapped your ass, fire exploding under your skin. 

You sucked in a breath and lost your rhythm. 

“Don’t stop.” Another slap. “Keep going and make me come for you.” The pain from the slaps turned into heat, the kind that made your knees go weak. Your clit throbbed in response, and the slickness between your thighs ran down your legs. You kept moving, and he spanked you again and again, his palm landing blows all over your backside. 

Your body burned, but there was no pain. your skin sang with pleasure, sensitive and bright, and as if on instinct you slid your fingers down between your legs, the need to come undeniable. 

“No,” he said, pinning your arm down as he covered your back. Your sore ass pulsed against his cool skin. “Not yet.” 

You humped the mattress, your urges uncontrollable. This caused his tip to skim the entrance to your pussy. You both froze, the temptation right there.

All he had to do was push a tiny bit forward and he would fill you. Stretch me. Give you every bit of his hard cock. You couldn’t stand it. You needed him like you needed air. “Please, Steve. Put your cock inside me.”

“Are you mine?”

You pressed your lips together, unable to say the words, while you clawed and tore at the comforter, your miserably body at war with itself as your lust remained unfulfilled. 

“I will not fuck you until you tell me. I want to hear the words.” 

“No, please. Just once.” 

“Say it, and I will fuck your pussy. I will make you come so hard.” He teased you with a shift of his hips, the tip of his erection skimming your entrance again. “I will make it so good for you.” 

Your resistance folded. 

“I’m yours, Steve.” You blurted. “Please. I’m yours.” 

Before you could blink, he shoved inside you, your walls stretching to accommodate his girth. It wasn’t easy. He was large and you hadn’t been prepared, so it took a few pumps of his hips before he was fully seated. 

“Look at you letting me inside. Sucking me in.” Steve straightened and grabbed your hips with both hands, “Do you like it? Do you like taking my cock in your tight little pussy?”

If only the others knew about his filthy, filthy mouth. But if you’re being honest with yourself, everytime he talks to you like that you would do anything he asks. And he probably knew it.

He drove deeper, making you gasp. 

“Yes,” you whispered, dragging the word out on a long whine. “I like it very much.”

You clutched the duvet, your fingers sinking into the plush fabric, the sensation of having him inside you was something you hadn't felt in so long. You could feel him everywhere, from your swollen lips and aching breasts, to your sore ass and full pussy. It was like an overload for your nerve endings. Then he started moving, and it felt even better. 

Your nipples scraped against the sheets as he worked himself in and out of your body, his grunts mixing with your gasps. 

“So tight. You are squeezing me so hard.” He pulled out slowly, leaving in just the head, and then plunged forward once more until he bottomed out. You both groaned. “Tell me who is fucking your pussy, Y/N. Tell me who you belong to.”

“You, Steve.” The words fell from your lips, partly because you knew they would drive him wild. And partly because you loved this game you played. 

He spanked you, hard, “That’s right. Now, play with your clit and make yourself come.” 

He didn’t need to tell you twice. Your hand shot between your legs and you circled your clit. Steve spanked you again and again, his palm raining slaps on your butt cheeks. The heat spread from your skin through your groin as your fingers worked over the taut nub. 

When he wrapped your hair around his fist and pulled, using it to jerk you back onto his cock, riding you, you came so hard, the orgasm deep and intense. You clenched around him and he thickened inside you, his hips growing uncoordinated as you heard him suck in air. 

“That’s it come all over my cock, you dirty little slut.” Steve grunted in the heat of the moment.

Steve fucked you like he was punishing you, each punch of his hips slapping into the skin he’d spanked a moment ago. He drove deep, holding your hips still so he could pound as hard as he wanted. You loved it. He was rough and unforgiving, everything you needed. The bed rocked, the frame creaking as he worked himself in and out of your body. 

His fingers slipped between your legs and found your clit. He pinched the swollen nub then circled it, and the world exploded. Sparks shot through your limbs as they convulsed, and your brain completely shut down, the pleasure almost brutal in its intensity. Changing his rhythm, he flexed his hips, withdrawing slightly before returning, the thick length dragging over your sensitive walls. 

“Oh,” you moaned, clenching around him tightly. “I liked that. Will you do it again?” 

“Fuck, Y/N.” he hissed, his eyelids slamming shut as if he were in pain. He hissed through his teeth when your body clamped down on him. “Yes, squeeze my dick again.”

You did it once more and he groaned. 

“You are trying to make me come? Because it is working.” he grunted when you did it a third time he smacked your butt cheek and pulled out. 

He looked bigger than before, you couldn’t do more than roll your head to watch him shuffle to one side of the bed, spitting on his hand before jacking himself, coating his cock and making it slippery. You watched the muscles of his forearm shift as he worked, and you swallowed hard, finding it absolutely hot. You made a mental note to ask him to masturbate in front of you.

“I want you to ride me. I want to see your face when I claim that pussy again.” Steve got into position on the bed, flat on his back, then lifted you over him until you straddled his hips. Bringing you toward his face, he kissed you hard, his tongue invading your mouth and letting you taste his desperation. The tips of his fingers probed your entrance, smoothing, massaging, opening you.

Eager, you rolled your hips, dragging your slick pussy over his shaft. 

“So needy,” he murmured against your mouth when you whimpered. “Don’t worry, princess. I am going to fill you up.” His fingers slipped inside, but there was only pressure. It was as if the pleasure center of your brain was firmly in charge. He pumped his fingers slowly, widening your, while his mouth remained demanding. You took it gladly, letting him use you. 

He broke off and grabbed your hips. “Up, baby. Take me inside.” 

You braced one hand on his stomach, then reached with the other to take his thick cock, lining him up at your entrance. His warm skin was slick and hard, and you began pushing down, hissing when the head slipped in. He threw his head back, his expression nearly feral in its intensity, and you loved watching this powerful man come undone by your body. You dropped down a little more, gave yourself time to adjust, again, then continued, working steadily, with Steve’s big chest heaving the entire time. 

His fingertips sank into your skin, pressing on your hip bones and you knew you would have bruises there tomorrow. The thought sent a punch of arousal through your core and you lowered your hips all the way down, meeting his pelvis. 

“Fuck, Steve, it feels so good,” You whined as your sore ass rubbing against his rough skin. The width of him split you open and you panted, loving the way he overwhelmed you. 

“Baby,” You whispered, hoping he understood. He knew. Of course he did. No one could read you better than Steve. 

He cupped your breasts with both hands, pinching your nipples. “Tell me, baby. Ride me and tell me. Don’t hold anything back from me.” 

You began moving then, churning your hips slowly, dragging his shaft in and out of your pussy, all the while watching his face. His eyes burned hot as they raked over your body, possession stamped on his features, and you let the words fall out. 

“Fuck, I love you and your cock.” His reaction was instant. Snatching you in his big hands, he leaned up and brought you to him for a blistering kiss. Then he braced his feet on the mattress and began pounding into you, his body thrusting upward in short jabs that bounced your tits up and down. His hands kept your hips steady, your bodies straining and working together. Whatever spot he was hitting deep inside you sent sparks down your legs, along your spine, sending you higher and higher.

When you started trembling, he said, “Your clit, baby. Play with it and make yourself come. Right now.” 

You didn’t question him. Your hand flew between your legs and you rubbed your swollen flesh, desperate for release. The rush was instant, a wave of color and light that exploded behind your eyes. Your muscles contracted around him, clamping down, and you heard Steve grunt wildly as his movements became uncoordinated, his cock swelling inside you. Then he held you still, his back arching, as his cock pulsed in your pussy, hot jets filling you. 

Your back arched as you trembled, your walls convulsing around his cock. He threw his head back and shouted, his body sealed tight to yours like he never wanted to leave. Like he didn’t want to waste a single drop, like all his come needed to stay inside your pussy.

“Fuck,” he panted. “I hadn’t expected you to say that.” He pulled you down to lay on top of him and wrapped his arms around you, his cock still buried deep inside you.

You allowed yourself to catch your breath before laying beside him, glancing at Steve, who now looked more like his usual self—calm, collected—not the hungry, sexually frustrated asshole he had been just moments before.

“What now?” he asks, his voice softer now, the tension between you both having settled.

“Yeah, what now?” you echoed, unsure of what to do next but still riding the energy from earlier.

“Are you tired?” he asks, turning his head toward you, a hint of something playful in his eyes.

“No. Are you?” You faced him, the corner of your mouth twitching into a small smile.

“No,” he says, smiling sheepishly, both of you sensing the same lingering spark.

“Should we… take it to the shower?” you suggest, the thought hanging in the air between you.

Steve’s grin widens, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “After you.”

[pitlanepeach]

From Eden | Chapter Seven pt.1 (7/8)

Oscar Piastri x Francesca Gold (OFC)

Summary — Francesca Gold is an introvert with a quiet life and a Youtube channel where she talks about books, drinks too much tea, and rarely ever shows her face. She prefers it that way - tucked into her London flat with her cat, Henry, and safely hidden behind a screen.

Oscar Piastri is a Formula 1 driver. Fast-paced, high-stakes, always on the move. He hasn't read a book in years, but he's watched every single one of Francesca's videos. Just for the sound of her voice.

Following her on Instagram was a moment of weakness. He didn't think she'd notice.

She did.

Chapter Warnings — Agoraphobia, severe social anxiety, references to a skin-picking relapse, antidepressants, therapy sessions, bad family situations, panic attacks, sexual content.

Notes — Yes, Ch7 will be split into two halves, because I’m good to you guys like that, and have so much of their story left to tell. No social media posts in this one (hope u don’t mind). Enjoy — Peach x

iMessage — Oscar & Mark 

Mark

How’s things mate? 

Oscar 

Really good. 

Really, really good. 

Mark 

You’re all in for this girl then?

Oscar 

All in. 

Mark 

Let me know when you want her in the paddock. I’ll make it work for her. 

Oscar

Thanks. Means a lot 

Mark

Anytime kid. 

— 

Francesca felt like everything was moving in slow motion. 

The revolving doors of the Harper Collins offices loomed. She chewed on the inside of her cheek. God, why was everything was so clean? And bright. There were too many reflective surfaces. She caught a glimpse of herself in one of the chrome panels — pasty skinned, wide-eyed, white knuckling the strap of her handbag.

“You’re doing great,” Katie said beside her, breezing along in a bright yellow pantsuit, the epitome of an actual boss-babe. “You didn’t even throw up on the tube.” 

“I’m sweating through my bra,” Francesca muttered back, voice tight. “I’m going to get… patches. Sweat patches.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “No, you won’t. This building is definitely air conditioned.” 

They stepped into the marble-floored lobby. Francesca tried not to visibly recoil at the echoing sound of high-heels and the very serious man behind the reception desk. Her heart was thudding. 

Over the past week, she’d done a lot of hard things. More walks to the cafe. More talking about her feelings. Upping the frequency of her therapy sessions to twice a week instead of once. 

She could survive a publisher meeting.

The receptionist, not as intimidating once Katie had introduced them and he’d beamed at them (teeth and all), led them up in a mirrored elevator to the 14th floor. Francesca tried not to think about how long the fall would be if she had to resort to throwing herself out a window. Katie, probably reading the expression on her face, reached over and squeezed her hand. 

When they stepped into the meeting room, everything smelled like coffee and expensive paper.

Two editors, a publicity manager, and a junior marketing exec were seated around the polished table, smiling like this was completely normal and not the most terrifying thing Francesca had ever done in her entire life. 

“Francesca,” said the older of the editors — Laura, the woman they’d had a handful of zoom meetings with over the past few weeks. She stood and offered her hand. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you in person.”

Francesca smiled and hoped that it didn’t look to wobbly around the edges. “You too.”

She sat down. Katie followed without hesitation, plopping beside her like she belonged there; she did. None of this would be happening if it wasn’t for her. She was as big of a part of this deal as Francesca was. 

There were questions about tone and voice and back cover copy. Francesca nodded along, offering thoughts when she had could actually manage to form them into words, Katie chiming in like a practiced publicist even though she technically wasn’t one. 

When Laura mentioned the projected release date — June 2024 — Francesca blinked.

“That’s so soon,” she said softly. It was already November. 

“That’s exciting,” Katie corrected her, nudging her under the table. “Right?”

Francesca nodded slowly. “Yeah. Exciting.”

She let the word sit there in her mouth, tasting it. 

Laura smiled. “We think your audience will be more than ready. We’re already seeing a lot of positive engagement following your announcement, and that established platform that you have really does give us a great foundation to build on.”

Francesca swallowed. “That’s… amazing. I just— I want it all to go well.”

“It will,” the marketing exec said, with a nod that was full of certainty. “Your draft — what you’ve created — it’s vulnerable and funny and deeply human. People are going to see themselves in it. That’s rare in fiction, even rarer in contemporary romance. It’s impressive.”

She blinked hard. Looked at the table. Pushed through the hitch in her breath.

Katie covered her hand under the desk, her thumb brushing reassuring circles against Francesca’s knuckles. It was small, almost imperceptible, but it anchored her more than she could explain.

The meeting stretched well into the afternoon. Coffee and biscuits appeared partway through. When Francesca shyly asked if they happened to have oat milk, one of the assistants dashed off without hesitation, returning five minutes later with two cartons and an apologetic smile like it had been some kind of emergency.

Francesca didn’t know what to do with that level of accommodation. She sipped slowly, kept her shoulders down, and tried to answer every question directed her way with a level of professionalism that didn’t come naturally. 

By the time they wrapped, her brain felt like soup. There were quick hugs goodbye, promises to follow up by email, someone scribbling a phone number onto a scrap of paper and handing it to Katie with an instruction to “get in touch” with any urgent follow-ups. 

She let herself be ushered into the lift, then out through the revolving doors, and only when the cold November air hit her face did she let out a breath that had been building in her lungs for hours.

“I didn’t cry,” she murmured, almost in disbelief. Her eyes lifted to the slate-grey sky, where the clouds had settled low and heavy. London in November — foggy and damp.

Katie bumped their hips together gently, her tone somewhere between teasing and proud. “They loved you.”

Francesca laughed, shaky and a little stunned. “I guess. Maybe.”

“They did. You’re talented and lovely and weirdly charming when you’re nervous.”

“I’m always nervous.” Francesca deadpanned. 

Katie grinned. “Exactly. It’s kind of your brand.”

Francesca let out a breathy laugh and tipped her head against her friend's shoulder for a moment.

“My brain’s doing that thing where I can’t remember anything I said,” she admitted.

Katie hummed. “You were great. You only said the word ‘vibes’ twice, and one of those times it actually worked in your favour.”

“Generous of them to let me get away with that,” Francesca said, the words half-laugh, half-relief. 

Katie snorted. “They’re publishing your book and expecting it to make them millions, babe. You could’ve walked in there and recited the alphabet backwards and they still probably would’ve given you a round of applause. You had all of the power.”

Francesca glanced sideways, skeptical. “I was, like, shaking half the time. I spilt the oat milk.”

“You were adorable. And powerful.”

Francesca huffed a laugh, but didn’t argue. Instead, she looked up, gaze drifting over the familiar skyline — grey, fog-drenched. 

She exhaled slowly. “I’m glad you were there with me.”

Katie, walking beside her with that usual casual grace, bumped her shoulder gently. “Always.”

The entrance to the tube station came into view at the end of the street, bustling and loud, people pouring in and out like water. 

“You realise you’re in the acknowledgements, right?” Francesca said after a beat.

Katie arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “I’d better be. I want at least two full paragraphs.”

Francesca snorted. “Greedy.”

“Supportive,” Katie corrected primly, nose tilted in the air like she expected applause.

Francesca rolled her eyes, biting back a grin.

They reached the steps leading down to the underground platform, and Francesca’s pace faltered. Her hand landed on the rail, knuckles whitening as she gripped it. Her chest fluttered with that too-familiar tremor — the one that liked to remind her it could show up anywhere, anytime.

Katie noticed immediately. Of course she did.

She slowed too, watching her with gentle eyes. “We can get an uber,” she said quickly.

Francesca didn’t answer right away. Instead, she closed her eyes, grounding herself like Dr. Kapoor had taught her.

Three breaths, slow and deliberate. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again.

Your fears are valid, she reminded herself, but they don’t get to dictate your day. They don’t have the power to actually hurt you.

She squeezed the railing, not out of panic this time, but as an anchor. Then she looked over at Katie and nodded, barely, but firmly. “No, it’s okay. I want to take the tube.”

Katie’s expression softened with something like pride — quiet and unspoken, but unmistakable. “Alright then,” she said. “Let’s go.”

— 

She woke up sweating. Disoriented. Nausea clinging to her. 

The dream was still sticky around the edges, too vivid to shake.

Oscar — in a glittering white tuxedo. An Elvis impersonator officiating. A woman Francesca didn’t recognise, tall and stunning, in a rhinestoned mini-dress and platform heels, blowing kisses to a fake crowd of cardboard cutouts.

There were fog machines. Lando Norris was playing “Viva Las Vegas” on a kazoo. Oscar looked confused. Then resigned. Then he said “I do.”

— 

iMessage — Francesca & Oscar 

Francesca

i had a dream

and by dream i mean horrifying nightmare

and i am blaming my new sertraline dose ok

but i need you to be honest with me

Oscar

You okay baby?

Ask me anything. I’m always honest with you

Francesca

does lando know how to play the kazoo

Oscar

Right. Literally would never have guessed that was where this was going

One sec. I’ll ask.

He does not.

He’s also deeply confused and a little afraid. 

Francesca

okay phew

because in my dream you got VEGAS MARRIED

like i turned on the tv and there was a LIVE BROADCAST

of you wearing a glitter tux and holding hands with a woman named Brandi (with an i?????????)

and lando was your kazoo player slash ring bearer

and there were sparklers

Oscar

…I don’t even know where to start

First of all: never been near a kazoo

Second: you think I’d name someone named Brandi? 

Francesca

idk. you looked so smug though

like “oh sorry babe i had no choice, she had great bone structure and her dad owns a boat dealership”

and THEN the wedding cake was shaped like your helmet.

i feel violent. i’ll kill her. 

Oscar

Lando is finding this very funny. 

Really? A helmet cake?

Francesca

okay but the crocs were the worst part

she was wearing white crocs with rhinestones that spelled out “WIFEY 4 LYFE”

i woke up sweating

Oscar

I would rather eat a kazoo than be legally bound to someone who wears crocs

Francesca

thank you.

i needed to hear that.

Oscar

Are you having any other side effects?

From your medication, not the dream

Francesca

um some nausea and headaches ig 

nothing too bad

can u remind me what time i need to wake up to watch fp1

Oscar

6:30 baby

I’ll text u at 6 before I get my phone taken

Love you

Francesca 

love you. don’t get married pls. 

Oscar 

I promise you that I won’t. 

Get some sleep baby

—

The Zoom window opened with a quiet pop and a small ping. Francesca sat cross-legged on the sofa, laptop balanced on a cushion in her lap, a cup of chamomile tea going cold on the coffee table. The Las Vegas GP coverage was playing on mute on the TV — just FP3. 

Dr. Kapoor smiled at her, framed by warm-toned bookshelves and a tall potted plant. 

“Good morning, Francesca," she said, with that steady, velvet voice that had become an anchor of emotion. "How are you today?"

Francesca gave a half-shrug. “Floating. Not in a bad way, though. Like… a little bit light-headed. Like someone took my brain out, dipped it in disinfectant, and then put it back in. Upside down.”

Dr. Kapoor chuckled. “Ah. You increased your sertraline dose this week.” She recalled. 

“Yup,” Francesca said, popping the ‘p’. “Per your suggestion. I know you warned me about the side effects, but the dreams have been, uh, pretty vivid.”

Dr. Kapoor’s brow lifted, amused. “That’s not unusual. Dosage changes can be a little problematic until they settle. Have you had any other symptoms?”

Francesca hesitated. “Some nausea. I’m drinking a lot more ginger tea than usual, but it’s manageable. Also headaches.”

“All very normal, and if I’m remembering correctly, exactly what you experienced when you started taking your very first dose.” Dr. Kapoor leaned in a little, eyes kind. “Are you doing well otherwise?” 

“I— I think so,” Francesca said, then fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. “But I feel like there’s a limit on how far I can, like, push myself. You know how crazy these past few weeks have been; I feel like it might be too much, too soon.” 

Dr. Kapoor’s expression softened, but her voice turned firm. “Francesca, I want to challenge something you just said.”

Francesca blinked. “Okay?”

“There is no ceiling on what you’re capable of,” Dr. Kapoor said. “You’ve internalised this idea that there’s a glass wall between you and the life you want — and sure, right now, some things might feel hard, maybe even impossible. But that wall? It’s not real. It’s just fear. And fear doesn't have control over you, not unless you want it to.”

Francesca swallowed, feeling off-centre. “I just don’t want to mess it all up. Especially when things feel… good. I don’t trust it.”

“That’s okay. Trust, even in ourselves, has to be earned over time,” Dr. Kapoor said, her voice steady. “But don’t mistake the discomfort of growth for danger. You’ve outgrown certain patterns, Francesca. Your world is expanding very quickly. It’s only natural to feel unsure.” 

Francesca looked away from the screen for a second, blinking fast. “Sometimes I don’t even recognise myself lately,” she admitted.

“A million versions of you can exist all at once, in perfect tandem,” Dr. Kapoor said gently. “The scared version, the brave one, the writer, the woman in love, the one still healing — they’re all you. You don’t have to pick just one. You’re not a contradiction, Francesca. You’re human.”

Francesca let out a shaky breath, the tension in her shoulders loosening just a fraction. “So I’m allowed to be both terrified and… really, really happy?”

Dr. Kapoor smiled. “Absolutely. In fact, that’s usually how we know we’re moving forward — when both can exist at the same time.”

— 

The living room was dim, lit only by the flicker of the race on her TV. It was still dark outside despite it technically being morning. Francesca sat cross-legged on the sofa, a blanket half-pulled around her shoulders, her phone resting nearby, screen dark.

She was trying not to be anxious. Really trying.

She knew Oscar was good — not just talented, but smart. Careful. Strategic in the way he drove. 

Still, like they did during every race, her fingers had curled into the blanket without her noticing. Her knuckles had gone white.

It was an eventful first three laps. Chaos on every corner. Francesca kept her eyes locked on the timing sheets in the corner of the screen, watching Oscar’s number creep forward, her heart lifting every time he overtook someone cleanly.

He was going to get himself into the points if he kept driving that way for the rest of the race. Pulling something brilliant out of a back-of-the-grid start.

And then—

And then the crash happened.

It was sudden — jarring. One moment, the cars were slicing through the neon chaos of the Vegas strip, all controlled precision and searing light. The next, a blur of motion went sideways, smoke billowed, sparks flew. A car snapped against the barrier like a toy, wheels skidding, debris scattering. The camera cut wide. The commentators shot up in pitch, sharp and immediate, overlapping in alarm.

Francesca’s blood turned to ice.

“—McLaren in the wall—heavy impact—”

She couldn’t breathe.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

Oscar.

Oscar.

Her heart thundered against her ribs as she scrambled for the remote, nearly dropping it, fingers numb. She turned the volume up so fast the speakers on the TV crackled. The image on screen was too far away, the impact too quick — she couldn’t tell who it was. Couldn’t see the number, or the helmet.

The camera stayed wide. No confirmation. No replay. No name.

She felt sick. Her pulse roared in her ears.

Please not him. Please not him.

“And that’s the McLaren of Lando Norris—”

The relief hit so fast she almost keeled over. Her whole body folded forward, shoulders shaking, hand covering her mouth like it might hold her together.

It wasn’t Oscar. He was still driving. Still safe.

The rush of it — the overwhelming, selfish relief — made her dizzy. She wasn’t crying, not exactly, but her eyes burned, throat tight, breath coming in shallow gasps.

And then… slowly… it shifted.

The camera zoomed in on the wreckage.

She sat upright again, eyes narrowing as she took in the sight. The smoke was clearing, marshals were running. No movement from the cockpit yet.

Her relief soured into guilt.

It wasn’t Oscar… but it was still Lando.

Lando. 

Her chest ached again, but for a different reason now.

“Come on,” she whispered to the screen. “Come on, get out. Be okay.”

The replays started. She flinched. The way the car had hit. The angle. The bounce.

She imagined Oscar watching it from the cockpit of his car. She imagined the silence in his radio. The breath that must’ve caught in his throat.

The guilt doubled.

It wasn't Oscar — but it could’ve been.

And now Lando was somewhere in that shattered car, and she didn’t know if he was okay.

They deployed the safety car. 

The McLaren — what was left of it — sat limp in the runoff, sparks still flickering beneath it. The halo was intact. The front wing was gone. Smoke rose in gentle, mocking spirals.

Then, finally, movement.

The camera zoomed just slightly, shaky and grainy in the low light of the Vegas circuit — but there he was. Lando. Climbing out. Slowly, stiffly, but moving under his own power.

Francesca let out a sound she hadn’t meant to make — a breathy, gasping laugh that cracked down the middle. She leaned forward, hand gripping the edge of the coffee table like an anchor, eyes locked on the screen.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. She covered her face with both hands, sucked in a lungful of air, and let it go with a shaky exhale. “Thank god.”

The screen showed him walking, slowly, toward the medical car. A marshal steadying him. He was probably bruised to hell. Maybe concussed. But he was alive.

She watched the rest of the race with her heart in her throat. 

— 

Incoming FaceTime from Oscar 

Her phone lit up just as she started pacing the kitchen for the third time since Oscar had passed the chequered flag. 

Francesca answered instantly.

Oscar’s face filled the screen — a little sweaty, a little flushed, hair damp and stuck to his forehead, still in his race suit, half-unzipped to the waist. His fireproofs clung to his body like a second skin. The familiar chaos of a post-race backdrop buzzed behind him.

But his eyes were calm. Warm. Focused entirely on her.

“Hey, baby,” he said softly.

She didn’t return the greeting — not yet. “Is Lando okay?”

Oscar nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s alright. Bit winded. They’ve taken him to the hospital for checks, but he was up, talking, walking. Properly okay.”

Francesca let out a long breath and closed her eyes for a second. “I— I saw it happen. Thought it was you for a second. My heart stopped.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured you would’ve. You okay?”

Her hand trembled just slightly as she pushed her hair behind her ear. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay now. Just— needed to hear that he was okay from you, not the Sky Sports people, you know?”

He smiled gently, and even with the grainy front camera and the low lighting, it made her feel steadier. “He really is. Pretty sure he’s already on his way back to the paddock.” 

“Good,” she said, her voice softer now. “And— hey. Points finish. P10. You did really well, Osc. I’m so proud of you.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched, like he was trying to bite down a grin and failing. His ears turned red. “Thanks, beautiful.” 

— 

iMessage — Lando & Francesca 

Francesca 

hey its francesca, oscar gave me ur number 

rly glad ur ok, that looked scary

Lando 

haha yeah im all good!

thanks for checking, means a lot 

Francesca

u scared the shit out of me lol

Lando

😭😭😭

yeah sorry about that

wasn’t my best work

Francesca

do me a favour and try not to do that again

Lando

noted

Francesca

anyway, genuinely glad you're okay

Lando

cheers mate :) u ever need anything just lmk 

Francesca 

ty! 

— 

The call connected before Francesca could brace herself.

“Francesca,” her mum said immediately, like she’d been waiting by the phone for hours. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Hi, Mum.” Francesca tucked her legs beneath her, one hand already curled into the sleeve of her jumper. “Just wanted to call and check in. See how you and Dad are doing.”

“We’re managing,” her mother said with a pointed sigh, already shifting the tone. “Your father’s been having more trouble with his back again, of course. And I’ve had no help getting the decorations down from the loft — your sister promised she would, but you know how she is…”

Francesca nodded, even though her mum couldn’t see it. “That’s rough. I’m sorry.”

“Well.” A pause. “That’s why I hope you’ll be here for Christmas. It’s been too long, Francesca. We haven’t seen you in a year. You didn’t come in the summer, even though I practically begged—”

“I know, Mum, but I had work committments—”

“We all have work,” her mother said, voice wobbling. “But you make time for family. Especially now that we’re… not getting any younger.”

That particular line landed like a weight to the chest. Francesca rubbed at her temple. “Mum…”

“I just—” And then came the softest sniff, just audible enough. “I miss you, darling. I know you have your… your own little life. But I thought maybe Christmas, at least —you could make the effort for Christmas.”

Francesca swallowed against the lump in her throat. She thought about how tired she’d been lately, how much she’d wanted to spend Christmas quietly, maybe even with Oscar, maybe even happy. But instead, the image of her mum alone in the kitchen, crying over tinsel, took root in her mind. 

“Okay,” she said, staring blankly at the wall. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

Her mother’s relief was immediate, audible in the way her breath rushed out. “Oh, thank you, sweetheart. Your dad will be so pleased. We’ll do all your favourites —those potatoes you like, and the pudding—”

Francesca closed her eyes, nodding again. She hated potatoes, didn’t like them in any form other than deep-fried, and the only pudding she was interested in were pastries that Oscar brought for her, still warm and fresh from the bakery down the road. “Yeah. That sounds good.” She lied.

“Maybe this time, you can stay longer than just two nights.” She said, slightly snippily. 

“Mmhmm,” Francesca murmured, already feeling the edges of herself shrink back into something smaller.

— 

Her living room was a riot of snacks and empty kebab containers. 

Katie sat cross-legged on the floor, a blanket draped around her shoulders like a cape, holding a bright orange drink garnished with a paper umbrella and a gummy tyre. Francesca was curled sideways in the armchair, an 81 McLaren cap pulled low over her eyes, the brim doing little to hide her hyper-focus on the screen.

“Okay, these are actually good,” Katie said, gesturing to her mocktail. “Did you invent these?”

“I adapted the recipe,” Francesca said, smug. “Google gave me a Red Bull themed one and I nearly threw my phone in the bin.”

Katie cackled. “Aw. You’re so loyal.” 

“Not hard when they’ve got best driver on the grid,” Francesca mumbled, eyes glued to the formation lap. 

“So… You’re really going to your parents for Christmas?” Katie asked, plucking a popcorn kernel from the bowl between them.

Francesca nodded slowly. “Yeah. I still need to book my flights and talk to Osc about it, but… yeah. Mum’s already sent me a list of things that she needs me to do when I get there.” 

Katie winced. “You okay with that?”

“I think so.” Francesca ran her thumb along the side of her cup. “I mean, no. Not really. But I said yes anyway, didn’t argue too much. And I do want to see my dad.”

“What do you think he’ll say about it? Oscar?” She asked, head tilted. 

Francesca shrugged. “I don’t know,” then her expression softened. “But his family are coming to London next week, actually. Staying for a couple nights.”

“Wait, they’re coming to you?” Katie asked, her eyes wide. 

“Mmhmm,” Francesca said, tucking her knees up under her oversized hoodie — Oscar’s hoodie, technically, soft from wear and printed with his number across the back. “I said I felt bad about it, so he just made up some elaborate lie about Hattie wanting to go to the Christmas markets and try the churros in Hyde Park.”

She tugged at the hem of the sleeve, twisting it between her fingers, a small smile pulling at her mouth despite herself.

Katie snorted into her glass. “Well. Nobody can ever accuse him of being a good liar.”

“No, he’s terrible,” Francesca agreed, fondly exasperated. “He tried to look serious while saying it, but I could hear the smirk through the phone.”

“He’s such a simp for you,” Katie grinned. “It’s kind of biblical.”

Francesca didn’t disagree. She tilted her head back against the armchair, eyes flicking back to the screen. The pre-race build-up was rolling on — sweeping drone shots, pit crew scrambling, the overhead buzz of helicopters blending into the hum of nerves in her chest.

“He’s travelling back here in two days,” she said, voice soft. “Straight from Abu Dhabi. No press. No detours. Just… me.”

Katie raised her glass like a toast. “To the final race of the 2023 season.”

“To Oscar officially winning Rookie of the Year,” Francesca corrected, her eyes shining as she clinked their glasses together.

In truth, she was only half watching the screen now — the rest of her mind was already spinning ahead, past the chequered flag, past the interviews and flights and time zones. To the moment the front door would creak open and Oscar would be standing there, backpack slung over one shoulder, exhausted but smiling. Hers.

She imagined his hands on her waist. Nipping at his neck and watching his nose scrunch in response. How his voice would go soft when he finally whispered hi, beautiful.

The lights on the grid went out — five reds blinking out in sequence — and both girls leaned forward like clockwork, all anticipation.

Snacks forgotten. Breath held.

“Lights out and away we go!”

— 

The bathroom was full of steam and lavender, the soft fizz of a half-melted bath bomb curling lazy tendrils through the air. Her candle flickered on the windowsill, casting golden light across the bubbles piled high around her shoulders.

Francesca sank a little deeper into the heat, her phone held above the water in one hand, thumb scrolling absently through her Pinterest board labeled ‘Monaco Apartment’.

There were photos of sun-drenched balconies with striped umbrellas, airy cream interiors, lemon trees in terra cotta pots. Shelves lined with books and trinkets. Kitchens too pretty to ever cook in. One picture had a view that looked suspiciously like it came straight from Oscar’s daydreams — a narrow window framing a sliver of glittering sea. One of the pictures had a framed photo of a Formula One car hanging above a desk — a desk that could be hers. Used to edit on, write on, and film behind. 

Henry, perched regally on the closed toilet seat, gave a soft, chirping meow.

Francesca tilted the phone to show him a pin she’d just saved — a sunny corner nook with a hammock slung just below a wide-open window, a ginger cat lounging in a patch of light.

“Well?” she asked. “Would you want that to be you?”

Henry blinked slowly, then meowed again, louder this time, tail flicking once. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She smiled, heart doing that soft little skip it always did when she let herself imagine it — not just Monaco, but the after. The life that came with it. The one she was slowly starting to believe she might actually get to have.

Somewhere between fantasy and possibility, she saved the pin and let herself drift a little deeper into the bubbles.

— 

iMessage — Francesca & Oscar

Francesca

currently having a crisis

Oscar

You okay??

What kind of crisis are we talking

Francesca

i don’t know what to get your dad for christmas

Oscar

What??

You’re getting my dad a Christmas present?

Francesca

babe i’m getting your entire family presents lol 

anyway do you think he’d like some fancy wine? or is that too boring. socks? books? a bonsai tree?

Oscar

You really don’t have to do that

They will love you, presents or not 

Francesca

everyone else was easy to buy for but your dad has very specific vibes 

he’s difficult. mysterious. i must impress him… 

Oscar

He’s literally just a chill guy who watches cricket and makes too many dad jokes

You’re overthinking

Francesca

okay but hear me out

what if i knit him a scarf

and then he wears it

and i become his favourite

think of the long-term benefits osc

Oscar

If you knit my dad a scarf he will cry. Actually cry.

Do it. I wanna see it

Francesca

say less

pulling out the yarn as we speak

it will be mclaren themed so he can wear it on race weekends

Oscar

You’re crazy

I miss you so much it’s painful

See you in less than 48 hours baby

Francesca

i’m gonna jump you at the door

just so you know

Oscar

I’ll catch you

— 

The flat smelled like cinnamon and pine — Francesca had gone a little overboard with festive candles and a preemptive fake Christmas tree (still undecorated, but proudly up and not at all lopsided). The heating was on full blast, and Henry was perched by the door, waiting. 

She’d made a banner. Like, a very large banner — with gold lettering and orange glitter and those little sticky foam stars you get in craft kits. 

WELCOME HOME, ROOKIE OF THE YEAR

It hung wonkily across the living room wall. She stood underneath it in an oversized McLaren hoodie, leggings, and socks with snowmen on them. She had half a mind to be embarrassed — but she was too excited.

The door, unlocked in preparation for his arrival, swung open. 

And there he was.

Flushed from travel, hair rumpled, that stupid duffle bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes found hers instantly, lighting up like they always did, and for a second, he just stood there — stunned, smile blooming slow and warm across his face.

“Rookie of the year,” she announced, spreading her arms, presenting him with the banner and all her pent-up affection. “I’m so proud of you!” 

He dropped the bag. “You’re insane,” he said, already laughing. “Baby. You made a banner?”

She was across the room and in his arms a second later. He caught her with a soft, surprised breath, holding her tight, lifting her slightly off the ground.

“I missed you so much,” she whispered, burying her face in his neck.

“I thought about you every second,” he said. “Couldn’t wait to come back to you.”

“You’re here now,” she murmured, kissing his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

He grinned — and then she kissed him fully, properly, like she'd been waiting all month. Because she had.

His hands slid up under her hoodie as they stumbled toward the sofa, laughing between kisses, clumsy with how much they wanted — wanted to be close, wanted to feel like themselves again, all skin and heartbeats and soft sighs.

The banner fluttered slightly above them. Henry meowed disapprovingly at being ignored, and promptly turned tail and stomped into the kitchen.

Francesca’s back hit the sofa cushions, a quiet gasp leaving her as Oscar followed her down, his thumbs brushing the warm skin just beneath her ribs.

“I like this hoodie on you,” he said into her neck. “But I need it gone.”

She laughed softly, breath hitching as he kissed a slow line along her collarbone. “I stole it fair and square.”

“I’ll let you have it back,” he said, pulling it up, over her head — his fingers a little clumsy, caught in her hair. “Later.”

He kissed her like he meant it — deep and slow, like he had nowhere else in the world to be, like he’d missed her every single second they’d been apart. His hands found her waist, curved over her hips like muscle memory, tugging her closer until she could feel how much he wanted her.

“You’re warm,” she whispered, letting her legs fall open just enough to pull him between them.

“I ran up the stairs,” he murmured against her lips. “I couldn’t wait for the lift.”

Clothes came off in messy layers, half-laughed, half-torn, with the urgency of two people who’d waited too long and weren’t even trying to be patient anymore.

Francesca traced her fingers down the line of his spine, kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then lower. Oscar groaned softly, eyes fluttering shut, already breathless.

When he finally sank into her, their bodies fitting together like they always had — like they were made for this — Francesca clutched at his shoulders, pulled him in even closer.

“Hi,” she whispered, dazed and dizzy.

Oscar laughed, kissed her with a grin. “Hi, beautiful.”

They moved slow at first — hands roaming, mouths exploring, like they were relearning each other from scratch — then faster, more desperate, tangled up in each other and the couch cushions and the soft creak of the old wooden floorboards beneath them.

Oscar murmured her name, forehead pressed to hers, eyes so full of awe it made her chest ache.

She came first, clinging to him, breath caught on a gasp, heart wide open.

He followed with a low, wrecked moan, collapsing against her with a weight that felt more like surrender than anything else. Safe. Home.

— 

ONE WEEK LATER

Francesca checked the oven clock for the third time in as many minutes.

“They land in half an hour,” Oscar said behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and leaning his chin on her shoulder. “We’ve got ages, babe.”

“I just—what if your mum doesn’t like me?” she asked, turning slightly in his hold, nerves edging her voice. “What if your dad thinks I’m weird? What if your sister thinks I’m… boring?”

Oscar gave her a flat look. “Hattie has your book pre-ordered. A signed copy. She talks about you all the damn time.”

Francesca blinked up at him. “She does not.”

“She does,” he said with a grin, pressing a soft kiss to the shell of her ear. “My mum is trying to fake being cool, but she’s so excited to meet you. And my dad’s probably going to try and convince us both to go back to Australia with them and then never let us leave.”

She breathed in deeply, but her shoulders didn’t fully settle. “Should I have made a roast? Should I have baked something?” she asked, after a beat, wringing her fingers in the hem of her jumper.

Oscar leaned back slightly so he could see her face better, resting his hands lightly on her hips. “Baby. No one’s expecting anything from you. They just want to meet you. That’s it.”

Francesca gave him a sceptical look, but he just smiled, warm and fond and utterly sure. 

“We’re going to order that really good takeaway Thai that you love, and we’ve got Henry on emotional support duty, and you look—” he paused, letting his eyes sweep her slowly, head to toe, “—ridiculously beautiful. I would kiss you right now, except that I’m afraid if I start, I won’t be able to stop.”

She gave him a small, reluctant smile, and he caught her chin gently between his fingers to tip her gaze up.

“You don’t have to perform for them,” he said softly. “Just be you. That’s the person I fell for. That’s the person they’re about to fall for too.”

Francesca blinked, throat suddenly thick. “God, you’re good at this.”

Oscar grinned. “What, being your boyfriend? Yeah. Been practising.”

She sniffed in amusement, leaning into him. “Love you.” 

He lifted her onto the kitchen counter. She automatically wrapped her legs around his waist and draped her arms over his shoulders. 

“Love you more.” He said against her lips. 

—

Three hours later, they were at the door.

Francesca stood just behind Oscar, her palms slightly damp where they pressed to the hem of her t-shirt. 

Oscar glanced back at her with a soft smile, one hand already on the door handle. “You’re gonna be fine. Promise.”

She nodded, even though her stomach was somersaulting.

Then, the door swung open.

“Oscar!”

Nicole barely gave her son a second to breathe before she launched into a hug — arms wound tightly around his shoulders, her face pressed against his cheek. She was radiant, glamorous in that naturally chic way, with a warm Australian accent that rolled off her tongue like sunlight.

“Oh my god, my boy,” she said, pulling back to hold him at arm’s length like she needed to take stock of him in real time. “You look so good. Older!”

Oscar laughed, ducking his head. “Mum, you literally saw me two months ago.”

Nicole turned — and her expression immediately softened into something even warmer. Her eyes found Francesca. “And you must be Francesca.”

Before Francesca could say a word, she was swept into a firm, no-nonsense hug that smelled faintly of sandalwood and rose. Nicole’s grip was all-in — no hesitation, no formality. Just pure unbridled warmth.

“You are so beautiful,” she said, cupping Francesca’s cheek in both hands once she stepped back. “He’s completely obsessed with you, you know.”

Francesca blinked, and then her face flamed red. “Um — likewise.” She whispered, glancing over at Oscar, who winked at her, and then blushed himself when he realised his mum had probably seen him do it. 

Then came Chris, who stepped up behind Nicole with an easy, gentlemanly smile. He was tall and quietly charismatic, with the kind of calming energy that could neutralise a room.

“Lovely to finally meet you,” he said, extending a hand.

When Francesca shook it, he gave a small nod and gently patted her other hand, like she was someone to be trusted with something precious. “Thank you for looking after our boy.”

She smiled, unsure what to say, but touched by how genuine he sounded.

And then—

A thud and a grunt came from behind them, and Oscar rolled his eyes fondly. “And that’s Hattie.”

Hattie stumbled in with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and sunglasses still perched on her head. She was all chaotic charm — jeans with paint on them, an oversized denim jacket, and about six mismatched rings.

“Finally,” she said, dropping the bag like it had personally offended her and striding over to Francesca. “You’re real! And you’re so pretty!” 

Francesca laughed, startled by the sheer energy. “I— Thank you. So are you.”

“I can’t believe I’m actually in your apartment.” Hattie threw her arms around Francesca like they were already best friends, and it filled Francesca with ease. “I’m sorry in advance for how much I’m gonna annoy you this weekend, but I literally feel like I’m meeting my favourite internet celebrity right now.”

Oscar mouthed, told you so from behind her.

Nicole was cooing at Henry, who was perched high on the windowsill, blinking slowly .“And you must be Henry,” she said, voice pitched like she was meeting royalty. “Gosh, he’s even cuter than he is in the pictures.”

“This is his palace,” Oscar added, dropping his bag by the door. “He just lets us stay because we feed him.”

Us. We.

Francesca felt the words settle somewhere soft in her chest, warm and unfamiliar. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to it — the ease with which he spoke like this place belonged to both of them.

Chris chuckled and stepped further in. “Right then — do we get to sit down, or is this a standing-room-only sort of welcome?”

Francesca laughed, finally exhaling a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

“Come in,” she said, stepping aside, warmth blooming slowly in her chest. “We ordered enough Thai food to feed a small village.”

Nicole beamed. “Perfect.”

Oscar caught her eye, brushing her hand with his as everyone made to settle into the small space. “See? Told you they’d love you.”

She gave him a look, but couldn’t help smiling. “They’re not so bad,” she murmured, grinning as she watched Hattie try to pick a nervous Henry up. 

Chris grunted as he sank into the couch, only to immediately shift and reach behind him with a puzzled look. He pulled out a small ball of tangled yarn and a pair of knitting needles. “Oh. Do you knit, Francesca?”

Francesca froze, blinking at him like a deer caught in headlights. “Um—”

Oscar, stood beside her, folded over with a wheeze of laughter, practically choking on it.

She glared at him. 

Chris looked confused. 

Nicole just watched them, a serene smile on her face. 

And Hattie… Hattie was still trying to convince Henry to let her hold him. 

— 

The kitchen was warm, golden-lit and quiet. The distant hum of laughter and murmured conversation came from the living room, where Oscar and Hattie were still squabbling over who got the last of the noodles.

Francesca stood in-front the sink, rinsing mugs and lining them up on the counter. She liked the rhythm of it — slow and grounding. She didn’t hear Nicole come in until the older woman leaned gently against the counter beside her.

“Can I help with anything, sweetheart?” Nicole asked softly, already reaching for a tea towel.

Francesca smiled and shook her head. “I’m good, I promise. Nearly done.”

Nicole didn’t move. Instead, she watched her for a moment, and then said, “Thank you again, for having us. I know it’s a lot — letting all of us into your space like this.”

Francesca shrugged, a little shyly. “I— Oscar’s always here, it only makes sense that you guys get to spend some time here too.”

Nicole’s eyes warmed. “Still. It’s a big thing, meeting everyone. You’ve been great.” 

Francesca dried her hands and leaned back against the counter, suddenly a little fidgety under the praise. “I was very nervous,” she admitted. “I still kind of am.”

Nicole’s brow furrowed, gently. “Why?”

Francesca gave a half-laugh, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I don’t know. I guess I just… wanted to impress you.”

Nicole reached over, placing a hand over Francesca’s. “Oh, darling,” she said softly. “From the first time Oscar told me about you, I could hear it in his voice — how much you mean to him. You don’t ever have to be anything other than yourself to impress anyone, but especially us.”

Francesca blinked, throat tightening unexpectedly. “Really?”

“Of course,” Nicole said.

Francesca looked down, her cheeks pink, unsure what to say.

Nicole gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. From what Oscar shared with me in those early weeks, and then seeing you now? You’ve come so far, honey.”

Francesca’s voice was barely more than a breath. “Thank you.”

Nicole smiled, warm and full of something steady. “Just make sure he’s eating enough vegetables and not leaving dirty socks everywhere, alright?”

Francesca let out a soft laugh, the lump in her throat loosening. “I can definitely try. The sock thing’s a losing battle though.”

Nicole nudged her shoulder with a conspiratorial grin. “That’s alright. He’s always been a bit hopeless. But he’s got a good heart. Always has.”

Francesca’s gaze dropped, her cheeks warm. “Yeah. I know.”

Nicole reached for a dish towel and tossed it over her shoulder with practiced ease. “Now come on. If we leave those three alone for too long, they might start to miss us.”

Oscar appeared in the doorway just as Nicole finished speaking, shoulder propped lazily against the frame, his hair a little mussed and his cheeks pink from laughing. He looked so at ease, so completely at home in this little corner of her world, that Francesca felt her heart catch in her chest.

“Too late,” he said, grinning. “I was about to launch a search party.”

Nicole rolled her eyes. “Always so dramatic.”

Francesca stared at him, utterly endeared by the chaos, by his easy warmth — by how he made this space, this life, feel so full. So safe. She didn’t move, even as he crossed the kitchen in a few strides and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her into his chest like it was instinct. Like she belonged there.

“You good?” he murmured against her hair, his voice low, meant just for her.

She nodded. Pressed into him. Let herself just… exist in his orbit. 

She leaned up a little as Nicole walked back through to the living room, whispering just under her breath, “I’m really glad they’re here.”

Oscar’s lips pressed against the top of her head with a lingering kiss. “Me too, baby.”

— 

Chris didn’t cry when he unwrapped his scarf, embroidered with Oscar’s race number and their surname, but his eyes did get suspiciously shiny, and he hugged her for a solid two minutes afterwards. 

— 

A WEEK LATER

iMessage — Oscar & Francesca 

Oscar 

Okay I may or may not have gone a bit rogue

Francesca 

?? explain pls

Oscar

I got us cinnamon buns the size of our heads

Also two kinds of cake because I couldn’t decide which one I wanted more

And the coffee place had your weird vanilla oat thing so I got two just in case you want one for later too

Francesca 

aw baby ur the best bf ever 

but like every time i roll over and you’re not there i lose a year off my life. i’m down to like. five.

hurry up and come back

Oscar

Back in 5

Don’t move

Or do move if Henry gets hungry 

But otherwise stay cosy

I have carbs and caffeine and I love you. 

Francesca 

i wanna thank you with my mouth. not the talking kind.

Oscar 

Aw. You’re so romantic baby.  

—

They were in bed, a few days later, when she finally gathered enough nerve to bring it up. 

The duvet was pulled up to her chin, her socked feet tucked beneath Oscar’s legs for warmth. The bedside lamp cast a soft, golden glow over the room, and outside the window, the sky was navy. It was quiet — Henry was snoring from his new tee-pee bed in the corner of the room. Oscar had bought it for him as an early Christmas present. 

Francesca had been quiet for a while, absently scrolling on her phone, her fingers lingering too long on the same screen. Oscar had noticed — of course he had — but he didn’t press. Just waited.

Then, eventually, she said, “I told my mum I’d go home for Christmas.”

Oscar turned his head on the pillow, looking at her. “Yeah?”

She nodded, small and hesitant. “Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence, before he asked, in that same soft voice that made her stomach warm, “How do you feel about it?”

She looked down at her hands, thumbs pressing into each other. “I don’t know. Not good.”

He shifted beside her, the duvet rustling. “Talk to me, baby…”

“I’m scared,” she admitted, quietly, ashamed of the words. “The last time I was there, I was the worst version of myself. Hurting, hiding, constantly ashamed of myself.” She sniffled. 

Oscar sat up and then reached beneath the duvet to grab her by the hips. With ease, he pulled her up and out of the sheets and onto his lap, letting her curl into his chest and holding her like she was the most precious thing in the world. 

Her voice wobbled. “I’ve been trying not to think about it. I haven’t even booked flights yet. Every time I try, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Oscar gave her hand a squeeze. “Then I’ll do it.”

She blinked over at him. “What?”

“I’ll book everything,” he said gently. “I’ll figure it out. We’ll fly out of Gatwick.” 

Her brows furrowed, eyes going wide. “Osc, you don’t have to—”

“I’ll figure it out,” he repeated, more firm that time. “I know I don’t have to,” he said, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. “But why wouldn’t I, if it makes things easier for you? I know you can do it alone. That’s not why I’m offering. I just… want to be there to take care of you. That’s all.”

Francesca’s chest gave a quiet, aching sort of flutter. There was so much love packed into his words, steady and certain. And when she looked at him — really looked — she realised: this wasn’t just kindness. It was commitment. He’d said we’ll, without hesitation. Like it wasn’t even an option to let her go alone.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

Oscar caught it with the pad of his thumb. “Hey.” He whispered. 

“I’m okay,” she whispered, her voice catching. “I’m just… relieved. And so lucky to have you.” 

“I’m the lucky one,” he said simply, kissing her forehead. “Always.”

Francesca let herself melt into him, burrowing into his chest as his arms came around her.

After a moment, he mumbled into her hair, “Now I just have to figure out which airline we should fly with. Because I’m not squeezing into a stupid EasyJet seat for five hours.”

She laughed into his shirt. “God, I love you.”

He hummed against her temple. “I know.”

—

The morning of the trip started early, still silent and black outside when Oscar’s phone alarm buzzed. Francesca had barely slept, despite Oscar’s arms wrapped around her all night, steady and grounding. Her stomach was tight twisted with anxiety, the familiar anticipation of pure fear already blooming in her chest.

But from the moment she opened her eyes, Oscar was calm. Unhurried. Kind.

He kissed her forehead. “Everything’s sorted, baby. All you have to do is get dressed and get in the car.”

And it was true — he’d done everything. Their bags were packed and ready by the door. Their passports tucked safely in the front pocket of his backpack. The car service was on its way. At the airport, he had everything already checked in. He handed her the boarding pass with her name on it like it was a love letter rather than a potential death sentence.

But it didn’t hit her fully until they were going through security — the long queue, the low hum of fluorescent lights, the crowd pressing too close, her backpack feeling too heavy and her hands too empty at the same time.

She felt the shift — the surge of static under her skin, the way the air suddenly felt too thin.

Oscar noticed immediately.

“Hey.” His voice was low, soft. Just for her. “You’re okay.”

She was shaking her head before he’d even finished the sentence.

Oscar stepped in front of her, shielding her slightly from the crowd. “Alright. Look at me.”

She did — barely.

“Remember what Dr. Kapoor said?” he murmured. “In for four.”

He held up his fingers, counting silently. She matched his breath, though it came shuddering at first.

“That’s it,” he said, nodding. “Hold for four.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. He counted again.

“And out for six.”

It took a few rounds. But eventually the tremble eased. Her hands relaxed where they’d clenched around the strap of her bag.

When she opened her eyes again, his were waiting for hers. Steady. Gentle. Proud.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

He always did. 

When she blinked up at him in surprise as they stopped at the business class gate, he added gently, “There’s also a hotel booked for us near your parents’ place, so you can have space if you need it. I got a room with a giant bathtub.” Then he smirked, trying to cut through the tension winding tight around her shoulders. “Also, I hired a car. It’ll be at the airport when we land. Figured you’d be more comfortable with me driving than, you know, someone else.”

She stared at him, then narrowed her eyes, suspicion creeping in beneath the nerves. “What kind of car?”

“A nice one,” he said, bumping his shoulder gently into hers, like he wasn’t trying to soothe her — but he was. He always was. “Fast. Pretty. Might be orange.”

She chuckled in response and leaned into him fully, her entire weight settling against his side. It was early — painfully early — and despite the bustle of the airport, with the overhead lights too bright and the tannoy voice too loud and clipped, Oscar was like a shield between her and the world.

No one had recognised him yet, which felt almost miraculous. But it was before dawn, and he had his hood up, and Francesca was practically plastered to his side. He’d angled himself between her and everyone else as they queued, one hand low on her back. Steady. 

Every echo bounced around her skull, every sharp noise chipped away at her carefully built calm. Her chest was tight, like her ribs were drawn in with string, and she hadn’t taken a deep breath since they left the flat.

She hated this part — the waiting. The shuffling forward. The lack of exits. Her fingers had long since curled into fists inside the pocket of her coat, nails digging crescents into her palms, and she didn’t even notice until Oscar gently untucked one hand and threaded his fingers through hers.

“Breathe,” he said softly, his thumb brushing hers. “You’re doing so good, ‘Cesca. Just hold on a bit longer.”

Her throat ached with how much she loved him for that — the complete lack of frustration when she was like this. When she was small and quiet and too overwhelmed to mask it in any sort of way.

“I hate this,” she whispered, her voice raw with shame she couldn’t fully hide.

“I know,” he said, like it wasn’t a problem. Like it was just a fact.

She blinked hard, swallowing the lump forming thick in her throat.

“You really got an orange car?” She asked, with a hint of disgust in her wobbly voice. 

Oscar smiled down at her, soft and utterly besotted. “Yep. It’s so flashy. Your mum will absolutely hate it.” 

A breath of laughter slipped out of her, shaky but real. It loosened something in her chest.

And Oscar kissed the top of her head. “That’s my girl.”

— 

iMessage — Katie & Francesca 

Katie 

Your son misses you but he is being spoiled rotten by his godmother 

*insert picture of Henry asleep in Katie’s bathtub*

Francesca 

stop. i miss him so much already

my shaylaaaaaaaa

Katie 

He’s a big fan of my new curtains

They’re very climbable apparently 😃

Franceca 

omg 

if he tears them down i’ll pms 

Katie 

They cost me a lot of money Francesca 

Francesca 

henry has no morals, money doesn’t matter to him

he chewed up oscar’s 5k sunglasses the other day 

it was hilarious

Katie 

Why does your bf own 5k sunglasses?

Francesca 

he doesn’t anymore lmaooooo

—

The engine purred beneath them like it was alive — a low, silky rumble that vibrated through the soles of her shoes. Francesca sat in the passenger seat, her fingers curled around the edge of the leather seat, the window cracked open just enough to let in the Spanish air. It cut through the lingering hum of adrenaline in her chest.

The sports car — bright, loud, and so orange — gleamed obnoxiously in the afternoon light. It had turned every head in the car park.

Oscar glanced at her from the driver’s seat as they idled at a stop light, his hand resting palm-up on the console between them, waiting for hers. “You did so good today,” he said, sincere and soft.

Francesca looked at him. He had his sunglasses on, the ones he’d bought at the airport out of necessity, thanks to Henry. The way his mouth tilted was all affection — proud, reassuring. Safe.

She exhaled, the sound shaky. “Thanks,” she said. Then, after a beat, she added, “I feel like I might need to completely shut down. Like, physically curl into a ball and not speak again until tomorrow.”

Oscar nodded like that made perfect sense. “Then that’s what we do,” he said simply. “Shut down protocol activated. We’ll go straight to the hotel now, yeah? I’ll run you a bath, order room service, give you your big headphones, and we won’t even think about the outside world until tomorrow.”

The words wrapped around her like a warm blanket. She didn’t have to pretend. Didn’t have to force a smile or hold a conversation when all she wanted was to disappear for a bit and let her nervous system recalibrate.

“You sure you don’t mind?” she asked, voice small.

He glanced at her again, reaching over to squeeze her thigh. “Baby. You’ve been holding yourself together since we left the flat. You don’t have to prove anything to me. You’ve already done the hard part — you got on the plane. You landed. You’re here.”

She let out a laugh that was more breath than sound. “I’m not sure how I managed to do it.”

“You just did,” Oscar said.

The light turned green. He eased them forward, smooth and unbothered, like they had all the time in the world. The car glided, fast and controlled — a strange, soothing contrast to the chaos inside her.

Francesca let herself sag back into the seat, exhaustion settling in like fog. Her fingers brushed over Oscar’s where they rested beside the gear shift, warm and steady. “I’ll text my mum,” she murmured. “Tell her I’ll see her tomorrow instead.”

Oscar glanced at her, eyes soft beneath the shadow of his lashes. “She still doesn’t know I’m coming, does she?”

“I told her I was bringing my boyfriend,” she said with a wry smile. “She thought I was joking.” 

He laughed lowly, giving her hand a squeeze. “I’ll be a surprise then.” 

“A big one.” She hummed. 

— 

The hotel room was dim and quiet, lit only by the pinkish glow of the evening light and the television flickering on the wall. Francesca was curled up on the bed in one of Oscar’s shirts, her legs stretched across his lap as he absentmindedly rubbed her calf beneath the blanket.

Her phone buzzed against the duvet.

She ignored it once. Twice. But the third time, she sighed and grabbed it.

—

iMessage — Izzy & Francesca 

Izzy

Seriously? A hotel? You’re literally ten minutes away from the house.

You’re so ridiculous.

Mum thinks so too, btw

—

Francesca’s stomach twisted. She swallowed hard and set the phone face-down, trying to push the sudden weight in her chest back down.

Oscar felt the shift in her immediately. He tapped her leg gently. “Hey. What was that?”

“Nothing,” she said too quickly. “Just Izzy being... Izzy.”

He reached across and plucked the phone from the duvet before she could protest, flipping it over and reading the messages. His jaw tightened slightly.

“She texted you that?” he asked, tone flat.

Francesca didn’t answer — just looked at him, unsure what to say.

Oscar exhaled slowly. “I’m not sure whether I’m going to like her.”

Her lips twitched in a smile. “Yeah, well. She’s not exactly an easy sell.”

He tossed the phone back down and refocused on her. “You don’t have to defend any of this, okay? Wanting space. Setting boundaries. You’re an adult.”

She nodded, but her throat was too tight to speak.

Oscar leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her knee.

Francesca blinked at him, then crawled into his lap fully, curling into the warmth of him like he was the only place on earth she felt safe.

“You’re kind of perfect, you know that?” she whispered into his shoulder.

He smiled against her hair. “Only for you.”

— 

The hotel bathroom was steamy, dimly lit, quiet but for the gentle hum of running water and the soft slosh as Francesca shifted back against Oscar’s chest.

He had his arms around her, legs bracketing hers beneath the bubbles, and she was half-asleep with how warm and safe she felt. Her damp hair clung to the curve of her neck and his lips followed it there, pressing lazy kisses into her skin like he had nowhere else to be — like he’d never want to be anywhere else.

“You good?” he murmured against her shoulder, voice low and sleepy.

She nodded, hand finding his beneath the water. “Mhm. This helps.”

He smiled against her skin, tightening his arm a little. “Good. You did so well today.”

Francesca sighed, the kind that came from somewhere deep in her chest. “I don’t feel like I did.”

Oscar nudged his nose into her hair. “Doesn’t change the fact that you did.”

She turned just slightly, enough to see him, cheeks pink from the heat and eyes heavy-lidded with the same tenderness she felt blooming in her chest.

“You always say that.”

“That’s because I always mean it,” he said simply. “And also because you’re naked and wet and sitting in my lap and it’s extremely… nice.”

A laugh broke out of her before she could stop it — breathless and disbelieving and adoring. “I knew this was a trap.”

“Hey,” he protested softly, grinning now, “I’m being very respectful. For now.”

She shifted again, slow and languid, and tilted her head just enough to kiss him — long and sleepy and close. His hand slid up her arm, water dripping down her shoulder, and when he kissed her back, it was with a kind of quiet worship that said more than words ever could.

She let herself sink against him again, head tucked into the space beneath his jaw, their hearts beating steady and warm beneath the surface of the water.

Slowly, his hand skimmed down her side, slow and deliberate, fingers trailing like he was savouring every inch of her. When he reached the inside of her thigh, he paused, thumb brushing lazy circles on soft skin, peering down at her with hooded, burning eyes.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, his lips ghosting against her collarbone. “Baby.” 

“You,” she breathed. “Always you.”

That made something flicker in him — something reverent. He kissed her then, deeper, more possessive, like he couldn’t help himself. His hand moved again, higher this time, between her legs, gentle but assured.

She gasped into his mouth as his fingers slipped against her — teasing, exploring, learning. Her hips jerked, but he held her steady, murmuring soft praise against her cheek as he worked her open.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he said, coaxing. “Just let go for me.”

And she did.

So beautifully.

— 

The house hadn’t changed.

Same red bricks, same Christmas wreaths hung on the windows, same too-tight smile on her mother’s face when she answered the door. Francesca stood half behind Oscar, already regretting everything, but it was too late now — her sister was storming into the hallway behind their mum, eyes widening when they landed on him.

“Oh my god,” she said, and it wasn’t subtle. “You’re Oscar Piastri.”

Her mum blinked. “I’m sorry, who?”

Oscar smiled, polite and calm. “Hi, I’m Oscar. Francesca’s boyfriend.”

That made her dad glance up from where he was reading something at the dining table, just inside the house. “Boyfriend?”

“I told you I was bringing someone,” Francesca said, her voice smaller than she meant it to be.

Her sister gave a bark of laughter. “You didn’t say you were bringing him. Like, fucking Oscar Piastri. Jesus.”

“Mum thought I was joking,” Francesca said, attempting levity, but it didn’t quite land.

Her mother’s eyes swept over Oscar like she didn’t believe he was real. “Well. You’ve never brought a boyfriend home before.”

Oscar laced his fingers with hers, thumb brushing along the side of her hand.

Her sister rolled her eyes, sharp and narrowed as she looked between Francesca and Oscar. “How did you two even happen?” she asked, the words coated in a thin, scoffing laugh.

Francesca didn’t answer.

She didn’t even flinch.

Instead, she felt herself start to slip — quiet and practiced — into that small, familiar corner of her mind she’d built a long time ago. A place made for moments like this, when it was safer to fold in on herself than push back. When it was easier to go quiet than let the words catch in her throat.

“Bloody hell,” her dad muttered, eyes fixed just over their shoulders. “That’s a lovely car.”

Francesca didn’t need to turn around to know he meant the Ferrari parked at the curb, sleek and ridiculous in its McLaren-orange glory.

Her mum glanced at it and immediately wrinkled her nose. “Gaudy,” she said, as if the word had a bad taste.

—

Later, at lunch, the table was crowded with mismatched dishes and clattering silverware. Francesca picked at a slice of bread, her appetite dulled by the tension sitting heavy in her chest.

“I mean,” her mum said, cutting her food, “it’s lovely to see you like this. Smiling. You must be doing so much better now, with the boyfriend and everything.”

Oscar paused mid-chew. Francesca didn’t move at all.

Her mum went on, cutting into her salad with a little too much force. “It’s almost like magic, really. A famous boyfriend and poof — all that silly anxiety, just gone.”

The words hung heavy in the air, clinking harder than cutlery.

Francesca’s stomach tightened, but she didn’t look up.

Her sister laughed — sharp, high-pitched, and cruel. “Mum, I’ve been trying to tell you for years. It’s all for show. Attention. It’s the only reason people care about her online, too — they think she’s fragile. It’s ridiculous. She’s clearly doing just fine.”

Francesca swallowed hard. Her vision prickled at the edges.

Oscar set his fork down slowly. “‘Cesca,” he said, his voice gentle but direct, “do you want to leave?”

Her hands had curled into her lap. They were sore. She hadn’t even realised that she’d started doing it, pinching and twisting at her own skin. She didn’t look at him, but she nodded.

He pushed his chair back, scraping against the floor. “Okay,” he said, standing. “Let’s go.”

There was stunned silence.

Oscar didn’t let it hang in the air. He turned to her parents, calm but firm, his voice low and unwavering. “You have no idea how hard this is for her.”

“Oh, Oscar, darling—” Francesca’s mum started, her tone already turning frantic.

Her dad stared at his plate, suddenly very interested in his untouched food.

Her mum pressed her lips together, eyes flicking from Francesca to Oscar and back again, something uncertain flickering behind her defensiveness.

Her sister, however, didn’t flinch. She stared at Oscar like she was trying to figure out how best to wound him — something cold and mean curling behind her narrowed eyes.

Francesca blinked quickly, fighting back the sting behind her eyes as Oscar stood, helping her into her coat with practiced care. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t make a scene — he just… said exactly what needed to be said. 

There were no more words spoken. 

Just the soft scrape of the front door opening and then clicking shut.

And then they were gone.

—

The car was silent for a while, save for the low hum of the engine and the distant rush of the road beneath them. Francesca stared out the window, the world blurring past.

“I probably made it worse. By leaving like that,” she whispered eventually.

“You didn’t,” Oscar said, eyes steady on the road.

She let her head fall back against the seat. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere quiet,” he said. “You need to breathe.”

When the coastline came into view, she nearly cried again — salt air and the sound of gulls overhead, a long stretch of sand just beyond the dunes.

Oscar parked, turned to her, and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Let’s just sit for a while,” he said. “Yeah?”

Francesca didn’t say anything. She just nodded, already climbing into his lap the moment the engine turned off, curling into his chest like it was where she belonged. 

The safest place in the world. 

— 

Back at the hotel, the door had barely shut behind them when Francesca pressed her face into Oscar’s chest. She was quiet for a long time, just letting herself feel him — solid, warm, here. His arms came around her without hesitation.

“Your family made me feel more loved in a few days,” she murmured, voice muffled against his hoodie, “than mine ever have. Isn’t that so messed up?”

Oscar exhaled slowly, resting his chin on the top of her head. “It’s just… their loss.”

She tilted her head back to look at him. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you today.”

“You’ll never have to find out.” His voice was soft, but the promise in it was solid.

Her eyes shimmered. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

Oscar’s thumb brushed gently across her cheek. “One day,” he said, tone suddenly light, teasing at the edges, “you’ll be a Piastri, and you won’t just have my family — you’ll be my family.”

She blinked, startled, then laughed, even as her throat caught. “Are you proposing right now?”

“Absolutely not.” He shook his head. “Not while you’re wearing socks with cats on them.”

“They’re Henry socks,” she protested. “You were the one who got them for me.”

“I know. I still think they’re hideous.” His grin tugged at one side, but then softened into something gentler, more sincere. “Just saying… you’ve got me. And my family. For good.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips against his jaw, the affection in her chest rising up like a tide.

Then she nipped at his skin, not hard, but firm enough to make him flinch.

He winced with a half-laugh. “Babe…”

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “Thinking about being your wife made me feel a bit feral.”

— 

iMessage — Oscar & Mark

Oscar 

I’m going to marry her one day 

Mark 

You are both 22 years old

You’re fucking babies 

Oscar 

I said one day, not tomorrow 

Maybe next week 

Mark

Crikey. 

— 

Oscar leans against the counter, phone pressed to his ear. Through the open door, he can still hear Francesca’s soft, steady breathing from the bed — dead to the world after the long, emotionally exhausting day she’d just endured.

His mum picks up on the second ring. “Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay?”

Oscar exhales, scrubbing a hand through his curls. “Not really.”

There’s a pause, a shift in her tone. “What’s happened?”

“Francesca’s asleep,” he says quietly. “Finally. But… God, Mum. Her family. It was worse than I thought.”

Nicole is silent for a beat, letting him talk.

“They made all these little comments. Acted like—  like they don’t know her at all.” He paces a little. “They talk over her. Around her. Like she’s not even in the bloody room. And she just— she shuts down. I watched it happen; right in front of me.”

Nicole sighs, low and full of something maternal and knowing. “Our poor girl.”

Oscar leans back against the sink, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She deserves so much better. They make her feel like she’s small. Like she’s in the way. I want to—” He breaks off, jaw clenched. “I want to protect her from all of it. I just don’t know where the line has to be, you know? They’re still her family, whether I like it or not.”

Nicole doesn’t speak immediately. When she does, her voice is gentle, firm. “You’re already doing it, Oscar. Protecting her.”

He swallows hard. “It doesn’t feel like I’m doing enough.”

“Well, she’s not alone now, is she?”

He shakes his head, more to himself than to her. “No. She’s not.”

There’s a soft pause. “Book some flights,” Nicole says simply.

Oscar stills. “What?”

“To come home,” she says. “Both of you. Bring her here. Let her rest. Let her breathe. You said she felt loved when she was with us — so let’s give her some more of that at a time of the year when everyone deserves to be surrounded by it. Show her what home is supposed to feel like.”

His heart aches with warmth for his mum, even as he hesitates, thinking about the logistics, wondering if Francesca would even be ready for that kind of leap. “You don’t mind?”

Nicole scoffs, like the question itself is absurd. “Darling, I bought her a beach cover-up for Christmas. It’s wrapped and under the tree. I was counting on you bringing her here.”

Oscar grins, the weight in his chest easing just slightly. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” she teases. “Now go get some sleep. And tell her we can’t wait to see her again.”

Oscar hangs up a minute later, slipping quietly back into bed. Francesca stirs, curling instinctively into him as he slides under the covers. He kisses the top of her head, breathes in her raspberry scent, and lets himself drift. 

CHAPTER SEVEN PT.2

[kieranduffysgirl]

John Price x F!Secretary!reader

John price falls for his sweet and shy secretary, despite their differences and her quiet traumas.

word count: 4.0k

warnings: mentions of unhealthy relationships with food and eating disorders, anxiety, shy and sweet!reader, soft and gentle Price, very self deprecating on Price's behalf, affection, pet names (pet, love, lovie, bird), swearing, she/her pronouns.

a/n: I love sad old man Price so much, this is definitely my most self indulgent piece but I wish I had that old man in my life 💘

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"Captain, look nicest way possible but you're having a fuckin' nightmare with paperwork and plannin'...just hire a lass to do it for you." Ghost had muttered as he leafed through the endless piles of outdated paperwork in John's office.

John sighed and waved him off, not in the mood for any lectures or help even though, he knew that he didn't someone to help him. Gaz, Soap and Ghost had already been looking for someone to help him out on the sly, and they had found the perfect girl for the job.

"Mate, I know a girl who can help...I'll give 'er a ring and get 'er to come down and give you a hand, yeah?" Gaz stated as he looked around in disbelief at the state of the office, whilst Soap just laughed and started shoving the paper into boxes for the poor girl to sort through.

"You'll like 'er, Capt...right bonnie lass she is..." Soap mumbled through laughs as John gave him a disapproving glare and continued to type away on his computer and ignore the lads.

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She wandered into the military base with her soft floral dress and kitten heels, hair neatly set in place and a smile that any man would go to war for. John waited patiently for her in the foyer, knowing she would have to sign in and receive her land yard and what not. Gaz had rang her and offered her the job which she jumped at the chance at, due to her office being shut down. John had been anxious about her arrival which the boys had ramped up with various comments about her sweet nature and pretty features.

The second you walked through the door, his attention was completely on you. His mind was reeling and his eyes were scanning over you as you spoke quietly to the man at the front desk and politely greeted any strangers.

Bright eyes. Nervous. Anxious. Quiet. Shy. Polite. Overly polite. Smiley. Kind. Sweet. Caring. Gentle. Delicate. Fragile.

“Evening Sir, I’m looking for Captain Price…could you help me find his office?” her gentle tone broke him out of his thoughts, she was talking to him. Shit, John pull yourself together. Acting like bloody MacTavish because the pretty lady spoke to him.

After a moment of just gawking at her, he registered her words and awkwardly pointed at his dog tags and replied, “That’s me…I’m Captain Price.” His tone was blunt and gruff but still polite, knowing she would likely be embarrassed by the interaction.

“Oh…right, okay…apologies Captain, you all ought to wear name tags or something…” She rambled awkwardly as she busied her hands with her handbag, clearly trying to find something. Her neat brows were furrowed together and her bottom lip was caught between her teeth. He could see the shade of the dusty pink lipstick she wore, the shimmer of the gloss on her lips and her could smell the sweet vanilla of her perfume.

After a moment of searching, she produced a file of information and a small gift box. “These are my records and files, I was told to bring them?” which he replied with a simple’s nod before she continued, “And this is a gift…to say thanks for hiring me…”

He smiled politely and opened the small gift box, producing the small bottle of cologne she had bought for him. A posh, expensive looking bottle with an amber solution. A shy smile graced his face as he held the box tightly and tried to find his words.

"You didn't have to, pet...must have cost you too much," He managed to reply, the sweet term of endearment, Pet, it made her heart sing but made her feel at home.

Her cheeks were flushed a soft pink, her freckles stood out and her bright yet shy eyes held his gaze. She was perfect, she was sweet and polite and so damn pretty. He wanted to wrap his arms around her right there and protect her from everything, he knew he’d have to be brave and push these feelings down and pray she wouldn’t notice.

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By the evening, he had helped her set up her own desk in his office at the base. It was simple with a few draws and a newer computer he had managed to find for her, she added her own personal touches to the desk in the coming days though.

The next morning, she had waltzed in wearing another pale sundress with subtle heels, hair pulled back casually with a ribbon and little, loose curls framing her face. You could hear the soft tap of her heels and smell the comforting vanilla perfume she wore before you could even see her carrying the hefty box of personal items to John’s office. Well their office now.

“Good morning, Captain…” She greeted affectionately as she entered the office and placed the box onto her desk delicately. Her movements were gracefully yet quiet as if not wanting to be too loud or take up too much space.

“John.” He corrected her gruffly as he sipped his coffee and flipped through the pages of notes on his messy and cluttered desk. She waved him off casually as she unpacked her box, despite the differences in their authorities around the base, their personalities and their demeanours, the pair had clicked instantly. She was sweet, patient and kind but could hold her own despite having the personality of a shy mouse. John on the other hand was older, wiser, gruffer yet he liked how she smiled often, how colourful she liked things and he enjoyed listening to her humming and chatting. He felt comfortable around her, she had the peaceful and loving aura that he saw to be rare.

The sound of her humming filled the office, no music was playing but she was humming the tune of an old song John recognised. A small smile graced his lips as he looked up to watch her setting up the frames of family photos, small trinkets and bits of stationary out on her desk. It was all so painfully her, all pretty and clean. Finally, she lifted a small vase out of the box and set it next to her computer.

‘Tomorrow,’ He thought, ‘Tomorrow I’ll bring some flower for that vase’

And he did.

The next morning she came in holding a mug of coffee for him and the brightest smile as she saw the flowers. She slipped the mug into his hands and murmured a quiet “Good morning, John..” and turned away to admire the flowers. A shy smile on her lips, her quiet and sweet demeanour enhanced by her anxious behaviour.

“Think you have an admirer, pet…they were here this morning.” He mumbled gruffly, he himself becoming shy and reluctant to admit that he had been late this morning due to standing in the florist trying to pick out a bouquet for her.

She blushed deeply and chuckled, her words dissolving on her tongue and rendering her speechless. He took note of this, that deep down and behind her chatty and lovely facade she was quiet and shy, as if love came easy for her to give but never receive.

"MacTavish likes you...Gaz too, and I wouldn't be surprised if Ghost has a thing for you...hell half of the base is head over heels for you, lass." He muttered under his breath as he tried to avoid admitting it was him. But she knew, it was obvious.

"I love lillies...my grandma always used to have them in her house," She had said quietly the day before as she sat next to his desk trying to get to know him, "Surely you have a favourite flower, Ca- I mean John?"

They carried this on for a few months, every week a new bouquet would be waiting for her as she walked into the office; which was slowly becoming their home. She had made matching ceramic mugs for them, a photo of them at a celebratory dinner for one of the recruits was hung in the wall, sweet and floral candles littered the room, and John had started writing with colourful pens she had left on his desk. She had infected the office with her sweetness and light, she had also infected John for that matter.

She had been working with him for 8 months, and their next deployment was fast approaching. Since she had been working there she had gotten close to John, too close. Closer than anyone had been for a long time.

It scared him, but he loved it. He loved how her smile bought his back, he loved how her voice was like the songs of the birds, he loved how gentle and kind her words and hands were, he loved how she cared so much for him and the other. He loved her.

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"Price?" Soap had whispered quietly to him as they sat in a booth at the local pub. Price had taken Soap, Ghost and Gaz out to the pub with her to have one last night out before they all went on deployment.

Price just looked up at him as if waiting for whatever comment or ridiculous question he would ask him. He was used to Soap's lack of a filter or manners, which often made others uncomfortable or awkward. But, Soap's eyes were full of genuine nerves and anxiety, his voice was softer than usual too. That worried Price.

Soap's eyes were trained on Price's, usually polite and shy, secretary doing awfully loud and tone-deaf karaoke with Gaz. She was comfortable with the 141 by now, she knew them all and grew to be more like herself with them. But, nothing compared to how she was with Johnathan Price, he had drawn her out of her shell and had become her closest companion.

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She harboured insecurities and trauma, which was obvious to him in the way she avoided loud noises and flinched if people came to close. The way she would refuse to eat if anyone was in the room with her, or how she would push herself to do extra work just to make his life easier. She was sweet and selfless, but it hid the underlying problems she tried to shield from the others. But Price could read her like a book, every page was filled with poetry but the depth hidden between the lines told Price her story.

It had started with him bringing her lunch, just a small gesture of a small dish of soup and his homemade bread slid across her desk. He had left to heat it up for her and came back to offer her it, she had 'forgotten' lunch everyday for the past week, and he didn't like that. She was so kind and gentle to everyone else but towards herself she seemed harsh and cold, it made his heart ache.

"...'s carrot's from m'garden and some other veg...made the bread too, pet." He mumbled as he pushed the dish into her hands which rested on her desk, she couldn't bring herself to look up but he knew that the tears were brimming in her eyes as she shook her head. Her hands were trembling and he could hear her suppressed tears.

"I'm okay...you keep your lunch, John..." She whispered to try to hide the tremble of her voice, she seemed scared or distraught. All he wanted to do was hold and reassure her and feed her all the whole cooked meals in the world. He had the overwhelming urge to protect her. To show her love, to prove her own worth to her.

He shook his head and walked away. She thought he was leaving, so she sniffled slightly and blinked her tears back as she pushed the dish away. Trying to subconsciously push John away before he got too close.

He came back though, wheeling his desk chair over. After settling next to her in the chair he set his dish on the table with hers and whispered, "Made one for both of us...made it for you, lovie..."

Her heart ached and she whispered, "Why?" He had gone out of his way for her...again. He always did. Whether it was flowers or lunch or fresh bread or making her cups of tea or remembering the small details. He did it all off his own back for her.

So, every lunch break he would sit with her and they would eat together. Some days were worse than others but he liked caring for her and making her lunch. She had started eating properly, she looked healthy and bright so he was content. And, on some rare nights she would eat with the 141, as long as John was by her side to whisper reassurance to her with every mouthful.

"My brave girl..." He murmured against her hair as they sat in the cafeteria, they were one of the few people in the room as the night had grown dark but she wanted to try, "I'm so proud, look at you...my strong girl..."

His hand was on her knee and his nose was against her hair in an attempt to keep her calm as she ate. She had whispered that she was ready to try to eat in public, so he chose the night they were on a shift in the dark with few people to try to show her that it was okay. That she was okay.

"That's it...good girl...just one more mouthful f'me and y'there," He mumbled as he watched her tenderly as she ate the small meal. The plate was nearly bare when she started but she had almost eaten it all, the pride running through his body was radiating from him as he pressed himself closer to her and whispered, "I'm so proud...well done, pet..."

That night they had gone back to the office to get some work done but she had broken down. Tears and sobs, pain and pride. She had felt too many emotions but she knew she was safe with him. He built her back up to become the girl she pretended she still was. He never asked what caused it, only found ways to help her and piece her back together. He could see it anyway, he didn't her to relive it, he could see what had broken her in the way moved.

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"D'ya fancy 'er?" Soap murmured as he fidgeted with the pint glass on the table as he turned his gaze back to John. A quiet curiosity in his tone and a wonder in his watercolour eyes.

"I-" John cut himself off as he shook his head and shifted his gaze to her giggling and singing. Her cardigan was half hanging off her shoulder, her smile was brighter than anyone else's in the room and she looked down right beautiful to him.

Soap gave him a knowing look and sighed, "Have you told her?" He asked quietly, shifting over to let Ghost slip into the seat beside him as he arrived back from the bar with more drinks for the group. Soap gave him a look at said 'Don't say a word' as he turned back to John expectantly.

"No," He replied simply, his gaze trained on her, he was always focused on her and they could all see it. Her eyes locked on his, prompting a bright smile and a shy wave across the bar. He could hear the soft jingle of her bracelets as she waved, the tap of her heels as she hurried over to him.

Before Soap could reply, she had hurried over and slipped her cardigan off and settled it in John's lap. "Can you look after this for me...really warm, need a wee...wait which drink is mine?" She rambled in a tipsy manner as she leant close to John, closer than she usually would.

"Of course, pet...leave it with me and I'll make sure it's safe..." He replied softly, his hands finding her waist as he guided her closer to whisper, "you feeling okay...do you need anything...you need me to get you anything?"

She shook her head softly and leant in to kiss his cheek, a contented sigh escaping her under her breath. "No...I'm okay...just don't leave without me okay?" She whispered quietly before hurrying away to the ladies bathroom.

He chuckled softly and ran his hands over the fine, knitted cardigan that was radiating the scent of her vanilla perfume and felt just as soft as her skin. He shook his head to himself and turned his attention back to Soap and Ghost.

"Whipped," Ghost muttered and Soap let out a hearty laugh, a genuine smile gracing his face. Gaz came over absolutely off his face and smiling, his arm wrapping around John.

"Where's your bird...she said she'd buy the next round?" Gaz slurred with a giggle as he slumped against John, clearly feeling the effects of the ridiculous amount of pints he had.

John sighed, like an exhausted old man babysitting his kids. He nodded towards the bathroom door as she came wandering out, towards the group sat at the table. "There's my lass...there she is....my bird" He mumbled as he watched her wander over to him with a tipsy smile.

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That night, they had all headed home but she had left her cardigan with him. He hadn't noticed that he had carried it out of the pub with him, it slipped his mind to pass it to her when Soap helped her into him car as they lived in the same building.

He hadn't realised that he had carried the soft pink garment into his small, comfortable home. He had barely noticed that he had curled up in bed clutching the cardigan close to him.

He didn't notice until he woke up the following morning, his alarm plucking him from his sleep.

Then he realised.

As he lay across his rather large bed for a single man, completely sprawled out, he was subconsciously nuzzling his nose against a piece of fabric. One he did not recognise, one that smelled like something he knew.

The soft knit slid across his fingertips as the realisation hit him. It was her cardigan, and he had bloody taken it home like a fool. And he was cuddling up to it all night as if it was her beside him. 'A new low, even for you, Price...' he thought to himself.

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The next morning, he had gotten over his hang over and dragged himself into work, mainly just to see her at this point. He had stopped by the florist, the bouquet he settled on was beautiful and intricate with the softest colours. A small way to make her smile and to show her that he cared, even if no one else did. Also a small gift to make her feel better about her inevitable hangover she would have.

Upon arriving at the base, he swapped her new flowers onto her desk, tucked her cardigan on the back of her desk chair and made her a mug of tea, knowing that she was probably still feeling rough and would feel sheepish and poorly.

He waited rather impatiently for her, his fingers drumming against the surface of his desk as he tried to read the notes on the upcoming mission. One more day. He had one day until he would be gone for a matter of months. Months to be spent without her.

"Good morning, John..." She mumbled, her usual sunny disposition was hidden in a shroud of illness. She was pale and looked run down, seemed like her hangover hadn't shifted in the slightest.

"Christ, Pet..." He replied affectionately as he gave her a sympathetic gaze. She waved him off and shuffled to her desk, slipped into her seat and pulled the cardigan around her tightly.

"Found that in my car," Lie, "Must have picked it up for you," another lie, he mumbled and sighed as he sipped his tea and watched her lovingly. He always looked at her like she was the only woman that mattered to him, the only girl he needed.

"Thanks..." She mumbled before carrying on with her work, looking completely worse for wear. After sitting and rubbing her temples for a moment, she pulled the cardigan around her and shut her eyes. It smelled of his cologne, the one she gave him on her first day all those months ago.

He watched her protectively for a moment before murmuring, "Got to go to a meeting with Nik, lovie...if you feel too poorly, get yourself home and to bed okay?"

She nodded and sipped her tea, a yawn slipping from her lips as she leant on her head in her hands. Sighing softly, he pushed off his chair and grabbed his stuff to leave but stopped next to her and crouched down.

His lips found her forehead as he murmured, "Look after yourself...I'll be back soon, pet..." as his fingers ran over her hair and she leant close to him and smiled sleepily.

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The meeting ran over, through lunch and towards the evening. He had almost missed the entirety of his last day with her before he left for the mission. He checked his watch desperately, it was well over her finishing hour and the panic was running through him.

As soon at the meeting finished, he rushed back to the office to see her. He wanted to keep close to her now until he had to leave her. But, upon arriving the at the office he saw her at the desk, completely asleep yet waiting for him.

"Love..." John whispered softly as he knelt down beside her and gently stroked her hair. Her head was resting on a mountain of paperwork and her soft snores filled the office. His callous fingers ran over her tresses as he waited for her to wake up.

After a moment she shifted slightly and looked at him with bleary eyes, blinking a few times before sitting up. She yawned quietly and something switched in his head, he wrapped his strong and muscular arms around her and pull her close to his chest without a second thought or any form of hesitation.

"Shhh...'s okay, Love..." He cooed softly as he held her in his lap and settled her head on his shoulder, "I've got you...'s just me...get some rest, lovie..."

She mumbled incoherently for a mere few moments before surrendering to her sleep as he held her close enough to feel his heartbeat. Her nose nestled against his neck and her arms wrapped around him, her fingers curling around the cool metal of his dog tags as she snored into his neck.

He sighed contentedly and pressed kisses to her forehand whispered, "My love..." as he nudged her hair with his nose. A desperate attempt to keep her as close as humanly possible but he would be ripped away from her for months on end.

"John..." She mumbled sleepily against his jaw as her nose brushed against his beard and her lips pressed soft, angelic kisses to his beard, her hand still clutching his dog tags tightly.

"Yes, pet..." He replied quietly whilst his hands splayed on her back drew her closer to him, his eyes closed in pure comfort of being with her.

"Just checking you're still here..." She mumbled before letting herself curl into him and fall into sleep again, feeling safe enough to let him protect and care for her.

He nodded and pressed a kiss to her nose and whispered, "Not going anywhere, Lovie...just get some sleep and I'll be here when you wake up..." His tone wavered slightly as he clutched her tightly. He finally had her where he wanted her, where he needed her to be, he finally had her.

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[rue-isabelle]

Part 1 Part 3

Aphrodite of Formula 1, Part 2

The Monaco paddock was buzzing, but not with the usual pre-race excitement. The drivers were all acting out of character, their girlfriends were growing increasingly frustrated, and the fans were having a field day tracking every move. The reason? Yn, as always, was oblivious to the chaos surrounding her.

---

Max and Kelly

Max leaned against a railing near the Mercedes garage, completely engrossed in conversation with Yn. She was telling him about the time she had to coordinate a last-minute team dinner for 30 people, her laughter filling the air as she recounted the chaos.

“You’re incredible,” Max said, shaking his head. “I can’t even organize my own breakfast without someone helping me.”

“It’s just practice,” Yn said modestly.

Kelly, meanwhile, stood outside the paddock, furiously scrolling through her phone. Max had promised to pick her up an hour ago, but there was no sign of him. She stormed into the paddock, her heels clicking furiously against the pavement, until she spotted him.

“Max!” she called sharply.

Max blinked, his attention snapping back to reality. “Kelly?”

“Yes, Kelly!” she spat. “The one you were supposed to pick up an hour ago?”

Yn’s smile faltered. “Oh no, Max, if you need to go—”

“No,” Max said quickly. “It’s fine. She doesn't matter as much as she thinks she does.” He turned back to Yn. “So, you were saying about the dinner?”

Kelly’s jaw dropped. “You’re seriously just going to ignore me?”

“I’ll catch up with you later. Go and be a mom for once,” Max said dismissively, earning an incredulous glare from Kelly as she stomped away.

---

Charles and Alexandra

Charles had been in a great mood all day. Why? Yn had laughed at his joke earlier, and the memory had been replaying in his mind ever since. When the day ended, he spotted Yn leaving the paddock and hurried to catch up with her.

“Yn! Do you need a ride?” he asked, his smile wide.

“Oh, that’s sweet of you, but I don’t want to trouble you,” Yn said.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Charles insisted, opening the passenger door of his car.

“Alright, thank you,” Yn said, climbing in.

Meanwhile, Alexandra stood in the paddock, waiting for Charles to take her back to their hotel. A mechanic approached her, not wanting to talk to her but having lost 'rock-paper-scissor' earlier against the others.

“He left,” the mechanic said awkwardly. “With Yn.”

Alexandra’s face turned red with fury. She let out a scream of frustration, startling everyone around her.

“Are you kidding me?!” she shouted. “What is wrong with all of you?! Why does he prefer this stupid bitch over me. I’m the one he should be fucking, not driving this slut home. Oh, she will pay!!”

Phones whipped out, capturing her meltdown as she stormed through the paddock, cursing under her breath.

By the time Alexandra returned to her hotel, videos of her tirade were all over the internet. Fans mocked her relentlessly, calling her a “gold digger” or "the wicked bitch is out again" and posting memes about her jealousy.

Charles, however, didn’t care. Yn had laughed at his joke earlier, and that was all that mattered.

---

Pierre and Kika

Pierre handed Yn a beautifully wrapped gift box, his smile warm. “I saw this and thought of you.”

Yn opened the box to find a limited-edition Hermès handbag. Her eyes widened. “Pierre, this is too much! I can’t accept this.”

“Of course you can,” Pierre said. “You deserve it.”

Kika, meanwhile, had been plotting her next move. If Pierre thought a handbag was impressive, she’d go bigger.

The next day, Kika handed Yn a set of car keys.

“What’s this?” Yn asked, confused.

“A Lamborghini,” Kika said proudly. “It’s yours. Matte black, just like I imagined for you.”

Yn stared at the keys, speechless.

Before she could respond, Kika leaned in and kissed her on the lips, letting her tongueget a taste of Yn's sweet mouth. “I hope you like it,” she said with a wink.

Pierre watched the scene unfold, his jaw tightening. “A Lamborghini?” he muttered under his breath.

---

George and Carmen

Yn joined George and Carmen for a rare day off, excited for a relaxed shopping trip. But George had other plans.

As they browsed a boutique, George held up a sleek, form-fitting dress. “Yn, you should try this.”

Yn blinked. “Me? That’s not really my style.”

“It is now,” George said firmly. “You shouldn’t hide your beauty.”

Carmen nodded approvingly. “That’s so thoughtful, George. Always looking out for her.”

Yn reluctantly tried on the dress, emerging from the fitting room. George stepped closer, adjusting the fabric on her chest. He gave her perfect tit's a squeeze, making it look like he was adjusting the area.

“Perfect,” he said softly. His heart was hammering, his hands not wanting to leave her breast. It was only then that he noticed that Yn wasn't wearing a bra. Her peaky nipples winked at him. He softly stroked over them with his thumbs, before catching himself.

Yn laughed. “You’re too much.” She didn't notice anything, to engrossed in her conversation with Carmen.

Carmen, obviously to everything that George just did, smiled, thinking to herself how sweet George was to look out for her pseudo-sister.

---

Oscar and Lily

Oscar was supposed to be taking photos for Lily’s social media, but his camera seemed to have a mind of its own. Every few minutes, it drifted toward Yn, who was seated nearby, absorbed in her work.

“Oscar,” Lily said, tapping her foot. “Hello? I’m over here.”

“Right,” Oscar mumbled, snapping a quick photo of Lily before turning his camera back to Yn.

Lily sighed but didn’t bother protesting. “You’ve got it bad,” she said, shaking her head.

Oscar grinned sheepishly. “She’s just… perfect.”

---

Carlos and Rebecca

Carlos sat in the paddock, scrolling through his phone. His screen was filled with photos of Yn, her smile lighting up every shot. His panst started feeling tighter, his dick fighting to break free from his trousers.

He didn’t notice Rebecca walking up behind him until she leaned over his shoulder.

“Seriously?” Rebecca said, raising an eyebrow. “Did you just popp a boner in public because of a fucking picture?”

Carlos nearly dropped his phone. “I wasn’t—”. He quickly brought his hands in front of his trousers. However, when he made contact with his dick, he couldn't help imagine Yn on her knees for him, making him moan rather loud.

Rebecca just scoffed at him, feeling disgusted that he acted like that towards Yn in public. She looked him up and down, before muttering "Pathetic Pussy" so only Carlos could hear, and left.

That evening, Rebecca found Yn in her hotel room, exhausted. “You need to take better care of yourself, my love,” Rebecca said gently, brushing Yn hair away from her face.

Yn tried to protest, but Rebecca guided her to the bed and began massaging her shoulders. “You’re too kind,” Yn mumbled, her eyes drooping. Slowly, Rebecca brought her hands lower and lower towards her ass, giving it a squeeze and a soft pad, so Yn would stand up.

Rebecca tucked her in, smoothing the blanket over her. “Goodnight,” she whispered, climbing into bed and wrapping her arms around Yn as the big spoon.

Yn, half-asleep, murmured, “Thank you.”

Rebecca smiled. “Anything for you.” Afterwards, while Yn was asleep, he put one hand on Yn book, playing with it. At the same time, she was sucking a hickey carefully on her neck, licking and kissing her neck afterwards.

---

Despite the chaos, Yn remained blissfully unaware of the war raging around her. For her, it was just another busy race weekend. For everyone else, it was a battle to win her heart, no matter the cost.

@omgsuperstarg

@seonghwaexile

[humpster35]

Do you want some?

bsf!reader x fuckboy!chris

I watched as Chris eagerly opened a bag after going to the store. The brown haired boy opened his mouth in shock as he held up a tiny heart shaped lollipop. I watched in awe,it was so like Chris to be excited over something as simple as a lil lollipop. I grabbed my phone and tried to sneakily take a picture of the scene.

“Hold still.”

“Still?—Y/n? Ohmygod are you serious bruh.” Chris laughed as he sat next to me on the sofa.

“Christopher Owen, I have every right to do this.” I giggled and cupped his chin as if I were his mom. Looking at him dead on, I never noticed how delicate and carefully sculpted his face was. I mean sure he was a triplet and i’ve never seen Nick or Matt in that light but, with him, it’s different.

Chris was the kind of guy you’d only get to dream about. The kind of guy who would buy you marbles instead of flowers because he thinks that you deserve the beauty of it. He was my kryptonite, my handbag, my star, but, he was my best friend.

Shaking my head I turn my attention back to Chris, he was fiddling with my phone before handing it back to me.

“Aight Aight. I’ll let you take a picture, under one condition.” Chris held up one of his fingers while smirking. I wanted to slap that stupid hat off.

“And what would that be?—.”

“—You have to post on your close friends that i’m your man.”

I shot him a confused expression.

“What?.” Running a hand through my hair as I scoot closer to him. “Christopher i’m not doing that.”

“Oh you got hoes?”

“….”

Chris bursted into laughter while holding his hat down. His teeth showing proudly, while his eyes grew smaller, they looked like upside down crescent moons. Beautiful.

“Fuck Y/n. We both know you have no one.”

Ouch. That fucking hurt.

“How would you know? You’re too busy sticking your tongue down every girls throat.”

I watched as Chris remained silent, only giving me a stern stare. Chris was never the type to get mad but he sure could be fucking petty.

“Can you change the channel?”

“Can you post the story?”

I scoffed and rolled my eyes.

“Can you get some bitches on your dick??”

Chris smiled and pulled the front of his hat down. I’ve always liked when he did that.

“You always been this obsessed with my dick ma?”

The redness in my face showed my emotion before I could even think of a good comeback.

“Shut the fuck up and watch Outer Banks like a good boy.” I reached over a grabbed a fistful of his hair and fake bit him.

“Mmm—only if you promise to be good when it’s time.”

My expression said all what I needed to say.

“Boy what the fuck is you talking about?”

We burst into laughter as I held my stomach. Chris hitting my side while I look away trying to hide my blushing face from the contact.

30 minutes later

Hearing the loud noises of Chris sucking on that stupid lollipop he had, I decided to glance over at him. Chris was laying back onto the couch, his legs were comfortably open like he usually has them. I, however noticed something else, he wasn’t even eating the lollipop. The sight of the sugary heart shaped piece of candy rested softly on a pink tongue. The same tongue that belonged to Chris.

“Why are you doing that?”

Chris looked up at me. His tongue immediately hiding back into his mouth before he spoke, which left the heart shaped candy thirsty for more.

“Doing what?”

“Chris you’re not even eating the fucking lollipop.”

Chris shrugs and sits up. His head turns towards me which makes the distance between us smaller.

“So are you going to finish it or what?”

Running a hand through my hair again I roll my eyes while I spoke. My ears perk up hearing a snicker from Chris.

“Do you want some?”

My eyes expanded as I tried to comprehend what he said. It was such a simple question and yet my body is reacting in a way that it has never before. What feeling is this? Was I scared of Chris Sturniolo? No. This feeling was something i’ve always felt, I just hid from it.

“You wanna give me some?” I say boldly while I watch a flicker of emotion in Chris’s eyes. He had thought something but decided to push it down.

“Mhm. Here cmon, open up.”

My head moved on its own, I was nodding before I could even speak. Chris gently held my chin as he brought the lollipop closer to my mouth. Leaning my head back a little, I felt his finger graze my lips.

“Chris what are you—.”

“Shh. I’m giving you it. Take it all.”

Still confused on what he really meant by that statement, I nodded and allowed him to open my mouth.

“Good girl. Goood girl.”

The simple breeze of cold air from the ac was dancing across my tastebuds until, sweetness. That’s all I tasted as Chris gently ran the lollipop over my tongue. I tried closing my mouth but I figure he knows what he’s doing so I let him continue rubbing the back of the lollipop onto my tongue before pushing it into the back of my mouth.

“Mmmph-.”

Chris smirked. He closed my mouth and stroked my hair.

“You like it?”

I nodded.

“Tastes good?”

Another nod.

“Heh. Fucking y/n. You’re doing so good for me. You want some more?”

My fingers grab the stick of the almost dissolved candy, I pulled it out with a longing for something more. But what?

“Yea. Chris this is almost gone.”

Spit flew onto his face from the built up salvia that stayed in my mouth due to him only rubbing the candy on my tongue.

“Shit. Fuck—i’m sorry Chris-.”

Chris licked his lips, before taking my face and pulling me closer to him.

“Lick it off then. It’s your mess, so clean it.”

“What?”

Giving him a second glance of reassure, I grabbed his jaw while I made sure to hold his face steady. The blue of his eyes were like daggers to my soul. I couldn’t hide from him even if I wanted to, he was always gonna see me, see through me. I blushed as my tongue softly guided itself up and down his nose.

“Mmmm yea. That’s the stuff.” Chris groaned as he closed his eyes. His hands rested on my hips as he slyly lifted me up and sat me down onto his lap.

“Chris i’m done.” I flashed him a soft smile. He was such a pretty boy, my hand stroked his hair as his eyes opened again.

“Y/n?” Chris said with a soft voice. He was rubbing my back.

“Hm?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Time froze. My eyes stared into his, he wasn’t joking around. He genuinely wanted to kiss me, but why? Why wait all of this time to? Wasn’t he just fucking Jessica last week? Why now?

“Chris stop fucking joking around, it’s not funny.—.”

“—I’m not joking. You would know if I was, you know me better than Matt sometimes.” The last part his said more to himself than me, feeling vulnerable about it. He pulled me closer and held me. The sound of his beating heart made me wanna cry, this man whom I had been hiding and holding back feelings for, is alive. He’s alive and he wants to kiss me.

“Chris, you don’t have to ask.”

Hearing my words I feel Chris look down at me. He lifted my head then slowly pulled me in. We didn’t make contact, intense breathing of our desires held us back. Once we start, will we be able to stop? Can Chris hold back? Do I even want him to?

“Chris-.”

“Y/n.” His hands run down from my hair to my face holding it. The hotness in his breath closer.

“Chris.” I breathe out, while my eye brows turn upwards. The plead for him to take me.

“Y/n.” Chris moaned before he crashed his lips into mine. It felt as if the wind we had been breathing was filling my body up. I couldn’t think about anything else, the softness of his tongue. How wet his mouth was, how plump his lips felt against mine.

“Mmm ohhh Chris.” I moaned not knowing how to handle all of these feelings. He lifted my shirt off of my head and pushed me back into the couch. A low groan was heard as Chris started to grind against my pelvis.

“Fuck I wanna take you so bad. Wanna show you how much fucking control you have over me.” Chris said as he breathed heavily.

I nodded and pecked his lips. “Chris, take me.”

With three loud knocks on the door, Chris stopped his movement. Fuck. Matt and Nick were back.

[ilyrafe]

𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✧ 𝒓. 𝒄.

pairing: rafe cameron x f!reader

warnings: brief sexual innuendo, rafe being a softie!!!!

word count: 2.6k (i *might* have gotten carried away i'm so sorry lol)

a/n: this is a sequel to late night and also based on this, so thanks @keziahcore ! your mind is literally everything!

it’s almost like a sixth sense.

rafe feels your absence from the bed, and immediately becomes agitated. he turns on the lamp next to his bed and looks for any sign that you’re still there, and finds your small handbag on the armchair, which makes him just slightly relieved. 

when he looks at the clock, he sees that it is almost two in the morning. the bathroom door is ajar and the lights are off, which means you’re not there. before he can leave his room looking for you, you return, holding a glass of water, wearing only his shirt to cover yourself up.

“where were you? why did you leave me here?”

he can’t control this agony, this anguish that always catches him off guard when he finds himself alone. he can’t help feeling like a time bomb, ready to explode at any moment. the smallest things you do seem to trigger him massively, and he hates that. he hates that he ends up being rude and harsh to you, because you’re always so understanding and sweet.

even he knows he doesn’t deserve you.

“i was thirsty and went downstairs to drink some water.” your tone is sweet and calm, which makes him feel like shit.

his face changes, as he seems to calm down. you didn’t leave him, you just went to get some water. you’re there, your stuff is there, you’re not going anywhere.

“next time, leave a glass here. i don’t like it when you do that.” he says in a much softer tone, but he’s still upset that his sleep got interrupted.

“do what? get hydrated?” you joke, trying to lighten up his mood.

he rolls his eyes and huffs. don’t make him tell the truth.

“go back to bed. i’m tired, alright? i had a long day.”

“actually, i was going to read a book. i’m not sleepy and i don’t want to lie down right now.”

is it so hard to understand that he wants you to be close to him so that he feels safe enough to get a decent night’s sleep?

“you can read on the bed.”

“you won’t mind the lamp on?”

“no, just get the damn book and come back to bed.”

you laugh and nod, picking up the book from his desk and following him to his bed. rafe gets to his spot and as you sit down, he places one hand on your bare thigh and falls back to sleep almost immediately.

while he dives deep into his necessary rest, you start reading. it’s that book, in cold blood by truman capote. you don’t know if rafe is a reader, he never really talks about books with you.

every once in a while, you look down at your thighs to see his hand, firmly holding you, to make sure you won’t leave. this small gesture makes you feel stupid. stupid to believe he might feel something other than lust for you. rafe makes you question your beliefs and that itself makes you feel overwhelmed.

sometimes you want to leave, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. and you have tried countless times. he’s good for you in the same intensity he’s bad. to say you’re scared to ask him what you are would be an understatement, but you just would like some clarification, because you don’t beg the people you’re casually fucking to stay the night almost every night and throw a tantrum when they leave to get some water.

deep down, you know you’re more scared to hear you’re just an easy fuck. at this point, this would tear you apart.

being with rafe is a challenge. it’s like running a marathon you know you will not get to the finish line, and yet, you keep running.

when it’s almost four in the morning, you close the book and turn the lamp off. finally, sleep comes to you, and you settle into his bed, still holding rafe’s hand, which never left your thigh. with the touch, rafe wakes up, and this time he is no longer agitated.

“sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” you say, as you snuggle into the mattress.

“you- what time is it?” he asks, adorably confused and sleepy.

“it’s almost four.”

“and you’re going to sleep now?”

“yeah. go back to sleep, it’s early.” you say softly, placing a hand on his cheek, and he complies, pulling you close.

(...)

rafe’s alarm clock rings promptly at seven in the morning. he turns it off and goes back to his previous position: hugging you.

your hair smells like coconut and your skin is always soft. he never wants to not be touching you. it’s like your body was made to be next to his. for some reason, just your presence is enough to make him feel calm and at peace.

he places the softest kiss on your shoulder, enjoying the quietness that only early mornings can give him. the sweet sound of birds chirping outside makes him forget about everything else. rafe only has you in his mind (and in his arms).

you wake up and soon turn to face him. rafe has the most adorable sleepy face, and you might never stop melting over him. seeing him up close will never not be amazing. he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. he probably has the most beautiful shade of blue in his eyes.

“go back to sleep.” he whispers.

“‘m not sleepy anymore.” you mumble as you rub your eyes, which rafe finds captivating. “hi.”

“hi,” he smiles. “you only slept for three hours, sleep some more.” he insists, and you feel a tone of concern in his voice, but maybe it’s just your sleep giving you that impression.

“i’m okay, rafey.”

rafey. he hates that stupid nickname, but when it comes out of your mouth, he wants to legally change his name to it.

“you’re gonna be tired.”

“no, i’m not. i don’t normally sleep a lot.”

rafe frowns not because he’s confused - he obviously isn’t. he’s just not liking what you’re saying. he doesn’t like the idea of you struggling with whatever that may be. rafe knows damn well how bad it is to be sleep deprived, he doesn’t want you going through that.

“you have insomnia?”

“i guess i do,” you shrug. “i don’t really know. i just don’t sleep a lot. i wish i did, though. i get so jealous when i see you sleeping for hours on end.” you smile sweetly at him. “you’re so relaxed. must be nice…”

you let go of rafe after leaving a timid kiss on his lips, and stretch before getting up and going to his bathroom to start your morning routine.

after a quiet breakfast, rafe gives you a ride home, and he can’t hide his concern about what you said.

“i’ll see you around, yeah?” you tell him, with the sweetest smile you always have.

“of course. uh, about that sleep thing… if you need help with that… i’m here.”

“rafe, i think you might be a sex addict.” you joke, really not understanding what he meant. he isn’t talking about sex. the one time he isn’t talking about sex, you don’t get it.

“well, i’m just one call away.”

you chuckle and intend to kiss his cheek, but rafe is quick enough to turn his face and make you kiss his lips. you laugh at his antics.

silly rafe is your favorite. if only other people got to see this side of him.

he watches you leave his car and get inside your home. the strange feeling of loneliness comes back almost immediately, but it gets him thinking. it has to be some sort of irony that the person that quite literally helps him sleep isn’t sleeping.

(...)

only two days have passed and rafe already needs you to spend the night at his house again. he is so tired and exhausted. he takes out his phone and quickly types a message.

rafe: are u busy right now? can i pick u up?

you don’t tend to take long to respond to his texts, but this time, an hour goes by and nothing, so rafe starts to feel that unbearable anguish again, and starts to think that you left him and that you found someone better to spend you time with.

impulsively, rafe facetimes you, and you answer. from your face alone, he can see the tiredness in your eyes. or rather, in your dark circles. you’re in your bedroom, which makes him feel calmer.

“hi, rafey. sorry, i just got my phone.”

“what are you doing?”

“i’m studying for my exams.”

“i just wanted to know if i could pick you up.”

“i’d love to,” you smile. “but it’s not a good idea, i need to study and i have a mountain of books to read until tomorrow if i want a good grade, which i do.”

“you’re tired, you should rest.” he advises, visibly worried.

“nothing a can of red bull can’t fix.” you say showing him the can.

“y/n, please go to sleep.”

something about his request makes you angry. maybe it’s the stress, or the fact that this time rafe is right.

“rafe, you’re not my boss. i need to hang up, i got shit to do.”

before he can protest, you hang up the call, and surprisingly, rafe doesn’t get angry. this is what it’s like when he’s sleep deprived.

as always, rafe wants to take control of the situation, so he puts on a hoodie, grabs his car keys and leaves his house to go to yours. it’s late at night, and rafe knows your parents are probably asleep.

the path is short, and soon he arrives in front of your house and the light is on in your bedroom, which tells him that you are still up. carefully, rafe gets out of his car and walks to the back of your residence, and climbs the wall, always making sure he doesn’t get caught by anyone. finally, rafe gets on the small balcony of your room and sees you surrounded by papers, books and notebooks. it’s a mess.

he knocks on the glass door, which startles you, but you soon calm down when you see it’s him. you almost run to open the door, but your face isn’t the happiest.

“what are you doing here, rafe?”

“nice to see you, too.” he ironizes as he steps inside your bedroom. “i have a proposition for you.”

“i’m so not in the mood, rafe…”

“listen to me.” he says. “i’ll… i’ll help you out with this stuff, as long as you let me help you sleep.”

“i don’t wanna have sex.”

“i’m not talking about sex.”

oh.

“you mean… sleep? like, really sleep?”

“yeah. i don’t like that you sleep so little. you’re becoming cranky.”

you chuckle at the last bit. you can’t stay mad at him, can you?

“that’s a nice offer, rafe, but what do you know about biology?”

“i’ll have you know i was a good student.” he pouts and you laugh. “even if i don’t know what you’re studying, i’ll help you out.”

it takes you a few seconds, but it’s decided. your body is about to give out, you really need to rest. you can’t absorb any more information. a good sleep might even help you learn whatever you need.

“okay.”

rafe smiles and it might be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

you begin to organize all your notes and books on your desk and rafe begins to undress down to his underwear, and gets comfortable on your bed. he realizes this is his first time sleeping on your bed, and he already likes the faint smell of rosemary that your bedroom exudes.

you have such a pretty bedroom. the walls are painted in the softest shade of blue, and you have books everywhere. no wonder you’re so smart, you read a lot.

the wooden furniture gives an earthy feel to your room, contrasting with the delicacy of the light blue walls. in the photos of the small mural on the wall, rafe realizes that he wanted to be there, present in the photos, and maybe, in a photo with you. you are always smiling and being hugged by someone, or hugging them. you are like that, you are magnetic.

you finish organizing your things and quickly change into a shirt of rafe’s that you hope he doesn’t recognize. it’s big and comfortable, and it makes you feel close to him when he’s far away.

the lamp next to your bed is on, so you turn off the main light in your room and go to your bed, meeting rafe, and he has the smallest smile on his lips. it’s ironic how having sex and being naked doesn’t feel as intimate as simply sleeping together does.

“are your parents home?” he asks.

“no, why?”

“so i could have come through the door, huh.”

“yeah.” you laugh.

a brief moment of silence sits between you two, as you’re staring at each other’s eyes. rafe is mesmerized and terrified at the same time. this - whatever this is - feels so nice and so foreign. he knows damn well he isn’t one to want to just sleep with someone, let alone climb up a wall to just sleep with someone.

rafe cameron is in love, and he is utterly terrified.

“what are you thinking?” you ask in a whisper.

your blinks are getting slower and slower. rafe begins to run his hand through your hair, combing them back, and touching the skin of your neck and shoulders ever so softly.

thinking about how much i want to be with you and how fucking scared i am.

“nothin’. close your eyes.”

you do, not because he told you to, but because you couldn’t keep them open any longer. 

why do you feel the safest with someone as dangerous as rafe cameron? someone who deals with the shadiest people around, that has anger issues and violent behavior.

that tried to drown his own sister.

why none of that matters when you’re in his arms? are you actually insane?

probably.

(...)

as soon as you wake up, you see your bed empty, and rafe’s clothes are no longer on the floor, where he had left them last night. it was to be expected, but you still feel disappointed. he was so sweet last night.

when you look at the clock, it’s already past nine in the morning, which means you’ve slept, surprisingly, eight hours straight. damn, you really were sleep deprived.

the sound of your stomach begging for food makes you get out of bed.

when you leave your bedroom, you hear the sound of the tv on and get scared. slowly, without making any noise, you go down the stairs, trying to find out if your house has been invaded, but it would be strange, as it is daytime. soon you see rafe walking around your house.

he didn’t leave?

it’s like you’re not even there. you get to watch rafe make himself comfortable in your kitchen, looking for stuff to put on the table. there are two delivery bags on the counter, which means he bought food, but the gesture warms your heart, which was merely shattered.

“the cutlery is in the second drawer next to the sink.” you say, startling him a bit.

“jesus. can you, i don’t know, announce you’re in the room? i almost dropped your coffee.”

you laugh.

“sorry, rafey. what are you doing, i thought you had left.”

“uh, i bought breakfast for y- us.” he says. you look inside the bags and you can tell he ordered possibly everything you have eaten from that place. “c’mon, i ordered that vegan shit you like, your coffee and even a pretzel.”

you follow him to the table and you both begin helping yourselves. this isn’t your first time having breakfast with him, but it does feel like it’s a first.

for the first time, you don’t want to leave him.

i love feedback! let me know your thoughts! <3

[luveline]

oh I think about kbd daily

—Steve has a small surprise for you after dinner. mom!reader, 3k

“What’s wrong with Dove?” you ask. 

Dove lays on the floor. Avery sits beside her, rubbing back with eyes trained on the TV. “Daddy told her no. She wanted to climb on the counter in the kitchen. Then she bit him.” 

You sigh. It’s not the best scene to come home too, but you can make it work. “I got the cherry pops,” you tell her. 

Avery grins. “Awesome.” 

You cross the room and squat in front of them. Avery accepts a kiss on the forehead, but Dove whimpers when you touch her. “Are you sulking, Dovie?” you ask. 

She makes an annoyed sound. 

“You’ve been biting poor daddy?” you ask her. 

“No.” 

“Are you lying to me?”

She cries. You smile ruefully. “I’m just asking if you bit him, baby.” 

“I didn’t.” 

You don’t believe her, but sometimes, sometimes, it’s better to agree with a sulking child rather than tell them off. You don’t want to make a spoiled kid, but you don’t want to make the whole thing into a big scene when Avery’s just trying to watch TV. You’re sure Steve gave Dove his own warning when the bite happened initially. 

You rub her back. 

“How are you, Avery?” you ask softly, looking at your eldest with a fondness yet to waver. Long years of loving her have passed in the blink of an eye.

“I’m okay, mom.”

“Did you have a good day?” 

“It was good! Daddy put those rolled up sandwiches in my lunch and everybody was jealous. And we made paintings, but mine was still wet at home time.” 

You give her a proud kiss. “Good, baby, that’s good. Where’s Bethie, do you know?” 

“In the kitchen.” 

Dove whines. 

You slip a hand under her soft belly and turn her onto her back. She glares at you through pink eyes, clearly tired and not coping with it very well. “It’s okay, honey. I missed you, I wanted to see your beautiful face. Can I make you a buppy?” 

Dove likes the sounds of it, finally sitting up where she’s been lounging on the floor. 

You give Avery another proud kiss. “Thank you for rubbing her back,” you say. 

Avery grins, her hands reaching for you before you can stand for a quick hug. You pat her skinny shoulder, wondering to yourself if she needs to be eating more snacks. “I missed you, too, mom.” 

“Oh, I missed you,” you tell her. She’d never understand just how much. “Do you need anything from the kitchen, mm? Maybe a yoghurt or something?” 

“Dad says dinner is nearly ready.” 

“But do you want yoghurt?” 

She nods her head. 

Pleased with your first assessment of the evening, you dump your keys and handbag and remember to take your shoes off, shoving them half-heartedly near the door. They send a foam soccer ball tumbling toward the corner of the room. 

You drag yourself to the kitchen and press open the ajar door. Steve is not where you’d assumed, but Beth is there at the kitchen table with her unicorn stuffie, it’s purple fur shiny but scruffy under her hand. She’s talking to him, and seems shyly caught when she sees you. 

“Hi, baby. Hi, Snuffles.” 

Beth smiles. “He says hi.” 

You open the cabinet by the fridge and pull out a clean bottle. It isn’t sterilised but it doesn’t need to be for Dove. She isn’t drinking formula, either, just cow’s milk straight from the jug. You grab a yoghurt for Avery while the fridge is open, then remember the box of cherry ice pops in your handbag and double back for them before they can melt. As soon as they’re in, you go back to the fridge for the yoghurts. 

“Beth, you want a yoghurt?” you ask. 

“Dad says dinner’s nearly ready.” 

“I know, but they’re only small. Peach?” you offer. 

Beth reaches for one. You give her a yoghurt and a little spoon, pressing your nose into her hair for a quick kiss. “I’ll be right back to ask about your day, okay?” 

“Okie dokie.” 

“And Snuffles’, too!” 

Beth giggles as you leave. You give Avery her own yoghurt and a spoon, and you give Dove her bottle. She shoves it in without looking and from that moment on her eyes are locked onto the screen. 

There. Complicated, but done. 

You press a hand to your head and think after your husband. He isn’t usually quiet or unseen. Most days you get home to him in the kitchen trying to make dinner, or sitting on the couch with one or three kids in his lap. There are no signs of him, besides his jacket on the hanger by the door. He’s still in the building, you think to yourself with a laugh. 

You turn out of the living room and find him rushing down the stairs. 

“Hey!” he says, scraping wet hair back from his face, his arms already open for you as he reaches the bottom step. 

“Hey!” you say back, smiling, not expecting his arms as they wrap around you. Nice arms. Nice husband. Smells like himself, almost a decade of familiarity in the way he covers your back with his arms. “You’re in a good mood for a chew toy.” 

“Fucking–” Steve laughs and squeezes your waist. “Yeah, I’m in a good mood, my girl’s home.” He gives your head a kiss and peels away, offering his arm out, evidence of little teeth in fat of his forearm. 

“How’d you handle that?” 

“Well, I shrieked like a kid and I did raise my voice, you know, like a super jerk, but she did try to bite through my skin.” 

One of the teeth marks is a puncture, and the rest of the bite will be a purple bruise by tomorrow. 

“I think that’s alright,” you say, touching his bruise, then his chin with the back of your hand. You stroke to his cheek. 

“You’re obsessed with me,” he says. 

“No.” 

“You are. This is sad. This is a level of obsession you should be ashamed of.” 

“No way.” 

“It’s sad,” he whispers, angling his head down to yours. 

You must’ve done something right today, the way he kisses you. Must look cute, or must’ve said the right thing, touched him the right way, his kissing long and gentle and loving, warming, tipping into steadiness as your lips part under his. Honestly, it’s a little shocking how deeply he kisses you, like a window into one of your more tender moments, right there in the middle of the hall. 

When he pulls away, you take his hand. “Are you okay?” you ask. 

“Fine. Just missed you.” 

“Huh…” You press his hand to your stomach. “Long day?” 

“No, it’s been okay, really. Apart from Dove turning cannibal, I have no complaints. Avery’s Avery, and Beth’s Beth.” 

Which is to say, Avery’s a sweetheart and Beth her quiet companion. The girls are actually, somehow, well-behaved, and you don’t have a clue how it happened because Steve aggravates and you think every problem can be solved with a cuddle. Dove seems more accurate to what you’d expected from one of Steve’s children, honestly, which isn’t to say she isn’t lovely or sweet or beautiful, you expected all of that too, but wow, can she get wound up. 

His good mood is too good, though. Yes, your kids are nice, yes, you have a lot to be happy for, but he’s practically beaming as he slips his hand behind your back and guides you to the living room. 

Dove sees her father and goes limp with guilt. She pulls the bottle from her mouth and pouts at him, her eyes silver at the waterline. “Daddy, I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “Are you mad?”

He rubs your back. “You know I’m not mad, it just hurts when somebody bites you, it surprised me. It really hurt, honey.” 

“I’m sorry.”  

“I know,” he says, “wanna kiss it better for me?” 

Dove abandons her bottle on the couch and struggles down to the floor. Even that turns his heart, you can tell, so it doesn’t surprise you when he takes her up into his arms the moment she’s close enough and kisses her cheek. “Me first,” he says. 

“Sorry I bit you,” she mumbles. 

“Daddy’s not mad,” he mumbles back, “it just hurt, that’s the thing. I don’t like being bitten.” 

“I won’t do it again,” she says clumsily. 

“Good! Thank you,” he says, grinning at you as she kisses his cheek, like, look at how freaking adorable she is. “Mom made your buppy? Are you gonna have dinner, honey, or should we sit down for a nap?” 

Steve ends up sequestered with Dove for a nap in the corner of the couch. He looks good, arguably at his finest with Dove tucked under his chin and his hand spread out across her back. She dozes and sniffles. He smiles against her hair. 

You spy on them from the kitchen doorway, sipping a cold glass of water. Dinner’s done, cooling on the counter on sheet trays. Steve’s made the usual, a big tray of buttered, roasted veggies and pot pie. There are pork chops for Beth and a few extra in case anyone wants their own, and there’s a bowl of peas because Dove loves them. He’s such a good guy, you think. You each have jobs to do, he has to make dinner, you have to wash the dishes after, but it doesn’t make it feel less true. He makes coming home the best part of every weekday. 

Another ten minutes and he’s kicked the big bean bag into shape, laying Dove down for a nap there. He spreads her pink baby blanket over her and fawns when it fails to cover her feet. 

“She’s getting so big,” he says, scratching his hand through his hair as he makes his way to you. 

“And so vocal,” you say. 

“I noticed that too, she’s saying more words at one time.” He puts a hand on your waist for no reason at all. 

“Maybe ‘cos Ave was home.” 

“You remember that day she woke up and all her pants didn’t fit anymore?” he asks. “It’s like that.” 

She would have only been four. Beth was still a baby. You’d made your way into Avery’s room as Steve gave a grizzly Beth her bottle, and, upon getting her dressed, discovered all of her pants were now too short. Her legs must’ve grown overnight. She hadn’t felt a thing. 

Beth gets growing pains something awful, but Avery keeps on shooting up without complaint. You’re sure she’ll be taller than Steve by the time she’s in high school. How beautiful she’ll be then. 

“What?” Steve asks you. 

“Nothing, just thinking. Time moves fast.” 

“If you don’t stop and look around–”

“Thanks, Ferris.” 

Steve moves you into the kitchen, tipping your head aside to kiss the line of your neck, and then splitting for the cabinet where you keep the plates. “You’re welcome.” 

You plate dinner. The oldest girls wander in and sit in their seats. Steve fills a carafe with lemonade and laughs when Avery makes a face, her first sip sour, cold, and carbonated. “It’s fizzing,” she says. 

“It’s soda,” Steve says. 

“You should warn me, dad!” 

“Is that okay?” you ask Beth, having cut up her two pork chops into small pieces. “Yeah? Do you want some more broccoli?” 

“Mommy, no one wants more broccoli.” 

“Don’t be like that, you know daddy makes the best broccoli, it’s got honey and salt and pepper–”

“And garlic butter,” Steve says. 

You sit in the chair beside Beth’s and drag your plate in front of you. “I’m gonna have more.” 

“Okay, I will have more too,” she says. 

“Want some green beans?” you ask. 

“Um, no. Just broccoli.”

Avery stabs at her green beans enthusiastically. She eats every bit of food on her plate no matter the colour, and she asks Steve for seconds, which he plates up for her immediately, despite being mid-mouthful. Under the table, he pushes his ankle against yours. It’s a quiet, normal dinner. Even Snuffles gets a bite of pork. 

“That alright?” Steve asks you. 

“Amazing, honey, like usual. Really good, I don’t know how you make vegetables taste unhealthy.” 

“All the butter,” he says, rubbing his ankle against yours. 

“Are you done?” you ask. 

He pushes the serving plate of veggies toward you. “Go ahead, beautiful.” 

You take what’s left of the veggies. Avery gets another slice of pot pie. Beth finishes all of her pork and a few of the potatoes. The broccoli, despite her wanting more, go mostly untouched. All in all, everyone’s fed. 

“You did make a plate for Dove,” you ask suddenly, worried you’ve been greedy. 

“Yeah, I did, don’t worry. I made her enough peas to feed her three times over. And I can make more, if you want more.” 

You try not to flush. It’s not like Steve’s unaware of your appetite, and he doesn’t expect you to survive off of salad and saltines, but you’re still embarrassed enough to shake your head vehemently. “Yikes.” 

“Stop, you’re fine.” He takes a square of roasted potato off of your plate, wipes his hands in a napkin, and squeezes you by the shoulders. “Just gonna check Dove.” 

Beth scrambles off of her seat at the first opening. “I’m done.” 

“Can I make you a PB–”

“No!” She grins at you. “No thanks, I’m full.”

“You gotta have oatmeal later, then.” 

She nods like this is fine. “Yes, thank you.” She leaves for the living room. You hear her shy, “Thanks for dinner, daddy,” and Steve’s adoring, “You’re so welcome, thank you for eating it. Come here, let me give you a kiss.” Giggling and the sound of smacking pecks follows. 

Avery sits up. “Can I have another drink?” 

You cram the last of the broccoli into your mouth and stand. You pour her lemonade and start stacking the plates to carry them over to the sink. 

“No, I’ll help!” Avery says. 

“Baby, it’s okay. Drink your drink and have five minutes. You don’t wanna get sick.” 

“You haven’t had five minutes.” 

You laugh. “My body’s bigger than yours, so it only needs the one. It’s really okay, just finish your dinner and you can help me dry the knives and forks. I’ll save them for last.” 

Steve returns. “Girls,” he says, tucking the chairs under the table, “I didn’t expect you guys to be so hungry, I forgot about the secret.” 

You scrape what’s left on your plate into the trash. “What secret?” 

He beams again. 

“I knew there was something up,” you say, dumping your plate in the sink. 

“I made something else.” 

You lift your head in a rush. You know exactly what he’s gonna say before you ask. “You made–”

“Your favourite,” he says cockily, crossing his arms over his chest. “No biggie. Ave, you got room for dessert, babe?” 

“I think so. You might have to do that thing to my tummy.” 

Steve is a professional at post dinner tummy rubs. What is it about kids and their tummy aches?

After everything —Avery finishing her dinner, washing the dishes, drying and putting them away, turning on the heat for the night, gathering a load of laundry for the machine— Steve sits down in the armchair, and you sit in his lap. A bowl of dessert with two spoons on your chest. 

“If I’m too heavy,” you say. 

“You’re never too heavy, I hate when you say that shit.” 

“You always try to get me in your lap, that’s why.” 

“This is where you’re supposed to be.” He cuts into the ice cream with his spoon. “You’re not heavy. If you ever get too heavy for me, I’ll just get bigger.”

“I’d like to get smaller eventually.” 

“Stop it. You’re perfect.” 

You let your face rest above his shoulder. “Shut up.” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too, shut up.” 

“I’m never shutting up.” He offers you his spoon. The point of two was to make it so he didn’t do this, but he does it anyway, wiping the corner of your mouth when you pull back. “Messy.” 

“I can’t believe you made this.”

“I knew it’d make you happy.” 

You turn his face and kiss his cheek softly. A lingering kiss, trying to press affection into his every pore. “I love you.” 

“I know.” He shifts your weight, as though hoping to pull you closer despite a lack of space. This close you can see the freckles under his eyes and across his nose, just a couple, light brown and sparse. His eyes are relaxed, his eyelashes long in the corners and tangling with the ones at the bottom. What use does he have for such nice eyes?

“What are we gonna do with the rest of the evening? You’ve already showered,” you say, gaze back to your dessert. 

“I gotta give the bathroom a clean, and then nothing.” He puts his hand to your face, the very side of his palm against your cheek, framing you. He turns his hand completely and rubs your chin with his thumb. “I think I had one of those days where I really missed you.” 

“Like I’d been gone longer than I was.”

“Exactly.”

You hum with the pleasure of being liked so much and close your eyes. Predictable, Steve leans down to kiss you. It’s all he seems to do lately, a hundred kisses a day. 

“Okay, help me eat this so we can snuggle,” he says. 

“I’m not snuggling with you.” 

“Cuddle?” 

“No, don’t think so.” 

“A hug where we’re both laying down?” he suggests. 

“That’s far more reasonable.” 

He laughs, picking up his spoon again. Your face is cold without his touch, the other hand slipping down to your hip. 

When the dessert is done, he sets the bowl aside and pulls you against his, majority of your back to his chest, his face a heat at the side of your own. He crosses his arms over your stomach and holds it. 

“I wouldn’t mind doing this forever,” he says. 

“But who will look after our poor children?” you ask, letting your eyes slip closed in bliss. 

“If we have a couple more they can look after each other.” 

You like the sounds of that. The first part, not so much the second. “Just a couple,” you say. 

—

kbd au

[kxsagi]

Hello! Super impressed with how much you’re able to write so often and I hope you continue having fun doing it/ don’t get burnt out! Would it be possible to request a scenario about a reader who’s dating isagi (and has for awhile since before blue lock) but is from an affluent family who wants them to get engaged for family political reasons. They later decide to temporarily get engaged to reo to help cover up both of their relationships (reader and isagi and reo and nagi) and kind of become besties through it. For a one shot/ scenario maybe have them judging other people at a fancy dinner (or if head canons on the general idea would also be great - whatever is easier) thank you!!

“𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬”

a/n: hi and thank you so much!!!

rich reader x longtime boyfriend isagi x fake fiancée reo that has a secret relationship with nagi? this request was very specific lol, so i’m sorry if i got anything wrong! (i did make all 4 four of them besties from the start to make the writing a little easier, they become even better best friends throughout the engagement drama)

for later context, isagi is invited to the dinner party because he is now a pro soccer player after his achievements in blue lock. i also threw in some gay nagireo in there cuz why not they’re gay anyways 

you’ve been with isagi since before blue lock, since his hair was messier, his dreams quieter, and your family's expectations a little easier to ignore. back when being together meant holding hands behind the school and sneaking into your driver’s car after games. he’s always made you feel like a person, not a pawn. which is exactly why you can’t let your family know about him. 

not when they’re talking about engagements like they’re business mergers. 

your father puts down his wine glass at a family dinner and says, “we’ve had interest from the mikage family, you know. a strategic partnership could benefit both parties.” 

you blink. “you mean like… i get stock options? or i get married?” 

your mother’s smile is tight. “don’t be crass, sweetheart. you’d get both.” 

and just like that, you're being politically packaged like a luxury handbag. 

you don’t even panic. not really. you just call reo the next day and say, “wanna fake an engagement to avoid being sold off like cattle?” 

he hums. “sure. nagi thinks it’s funny.” 

you smile. “isagi said it’s either this or he beats up your dad. so i guess we’re going with this.” 

thus begins the most fabulous scam of your life. 

it’s about a month into the fake engagement when the dinner party happens, one of those rich people breeding grounds where everyone wears cream-colored suits and says things like “let’s circle back” when they mean “go away.” 

you’re seated next to reo, who looks like he just walked off a magazine cover, because of course he does. your parents are three seats away. nagi is conveniently not invited. and isagi is somewhere across the room, seated like a polite accessory at the farthest table, trying not to combust. 

“my real boyfriend is glaring at you,” you whisper to reo. 

reo raises a glass. “i know. isagi looks like he’s thinking about setting fire to this floral centerpiece.” 

you both clink glasses in solidarity. 

across from you, some heiress with a platinum trust fund is explaining how she’s “completely self-made” because she once opened a vegan bakery in london. 

“girl,” you mutter. “you own six apartment buildings.” 

reo leans in. “her dad had to pay two million in damages after she accidentally poisoned someone with mushroom powder she found on pinterest.” 

you bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “damn. you really do your research.” 

“i'm thorough,” he says smugly, and starts texting nagi under the table like a giddy middle schooler. you sneak a glance at isagi, who’s pretending to stir his soup while definitely texting you with his hand under the tablecloth. 

isagi [8:41pm]: i miss u 

you [8:42pm]: you’re 20 feet away 

isagi [8:42pm]: i’m dying. reo’s dad just said i look like someone who “played sports at the public school” 

you [8:43pm]: okay he’s getting coal for christmas 

reo tilts his phone so you can see nagi’s response. 

nagi [8:43pm]: make them eat the centerpiece. they won’t notice 

you almost choke on your water. 

the woman next to you tries to engage you in a conversation about equestrian bloodlines, and you politely nod while messaging isagi under the table like you’re in some sort of underground operation. reo’s playing his part like a total pro – he throws you looks like “i’m so in love” and sighs dramatically any time you talk, which only makes you both look obnoxiously engaged and secretly evil. it’s perfect. 

“what do you think of this one?” reo whispers when the next guest starts bragging about launching a NFT for gourmet olives. 

“looks like a young benedict cumberbatch if he lost a fight with a hedge fund,” you say. “he just said the word ‘synergy’ unironically.”

“disqualified,” reo mutters. 

you clink glasses again. you’re starting to like this way too much. 

but later, you escape to the garden to breathe, because all this secret-love-fake-fiancée-corporate-dinner-lunacy is exhausting. reo follows you out with two glasses of champagne and a subtle wink. 

“nagi’s bored,” he says. “he tried to facetime me under the table.” 

“isagi sent me a meme and called it ‘the real appetizer.’” you sigh. “do you ever feel like we’re the only sane people in this capitalist hellscape?” 

reo raises a brow. “you’re fake engaged to me. you think i’m sane?” 

you clink your glass against his anyway. “you’re the only one who gets it.” 

for a second, the two of you just stand there in silence, watching the glowing windows from the outside like kids pressed to a candy store. 

“thank you,” you say, suddenly, seriously. “for helping me.” 

reo waves it off. “please. i get a fake fiancée and tax write-offs. nagi’s obsessed with the drama.” 

you smile. “he should’ve been an actor.” 

“he is acting. like he doesn’t love me.” 

you glance at him. “do you ever wish you could just… tell everyone?” 

“all the time,” he says. “but for now, we have each other. and excellent wardrobe coordination.” 

you bump his shoulder with yours. “ride or die.” 

he grins. “now tell your boyfriend to stop sulking and come steal you away.” 

“only if nagi lets you come over for game night.” 

“deal.” 

back inside, you walk past your mother, who whispers, “try not to look too smug. people are already talking about how perfect you and reo look together.” 

you give her a dazzling smile. “just wait till the wedding photos,” you say sweetly. “they’ll be iconic.” 

isagi meets you by the door with that look on his face, the one that says i’d break ten social contracts to hold your hand right now. you brush fingers briefly as you pass. 

and later, when you sneak into isagi’s apartment with leftover cake in your bag and tell him all about the NFT olives and poisoned mushroom heiress, he kisses you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. which, really, you are. 

reo texts you at 1 AM. 

reo [1:01am]: nagi just said he wants to “elope but in a cool way.” do you think that means vegas or sword fight? 

you [1:02am]: depends. is there pacman involved? 

reo [1:02am]: always 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[kisses4reid]

vision | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,

fem!receptionist!reader x spencer, fluff, est relationship

a little draft to tide you all over while i’m on my study break

There was a ringing on your left, which you recognised to be the receptionist’s phone and not your own, but it rang for about 7 seconds before you punched the accept button.

Everything was a blur, and on top of that, all the squinting you had done during the work day was bringing on a headache. Pinching your nose with your freshly manicured fingers, you answered the phone and transferred it as quickly as you possibly could, with all the buttons looking the same that is.

“You forgot your contacts?”

You jump, not even noticing Spencer had been watching you struggle over the desk. He had a smirk on his face, leaning his cheek in one of his hands.

“Jesus, Spence, you scared me,” you can only recognise him by his height and fluffy hair, “Yes, I did. And I left my backup glasses at home.” You whine, leaning back into your wheelie chair and crossing your arms. You can’t see it, but you can tell he’s biting back a chuckle.

As your boyfriend, he should be supportive and help you through daily struggles. But seeing you squint and press wrong buttons after wrong buttons was a sort of entertainment. You distracted him from his workload all the time, but this time it wasn’t to gawk at you.

He had the same affect on you though. Ever since you started working there you found yourself glancing at him whenever something funny happened, or subconsciously taking your breaks at the same time as him. His locks, his eyes, his nose and his jaw, his laugh, his breath, his whistle and his snores, they all lead you to where you are today. Basically blind but happily talking with your boyfriend over the elevated desk you can barely see.

“I can go home and get them if you’d like.” Spencer proposes softly, but you shake your head (butterflies spreading when he refers to your apartment as ‘home’). “I can’t believe you drove like this.”

You look up at him, “I didn’t. Took a cab.”

“Are you serious? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I know you worked late last night Spence. I didn’t want to disturb your sleep.”

Your heart warms as he shakes his head. You know he was about to complain about your choices, but your boss cut him off.

“Spencer, do you know if the precinct in Washington sent over their documents yet?”

“They said they’d send it tomorrow morning.”

Your boss snaps his fingers in disappointment and turns away, before signalling every one to leave. And you try to stand up and grab your handbag, but you accidentally grab the stem of a pot plant. “Oh.”

“Here, I’ll get it. Grab my hand and just follow me.” His hand is closer, so it’s easy to see and take it. You hear him take your bag as well as his own from the floor and feel his other hand wrap around your waist for easier control. It was true you could see absolutely nothing and it was true Spencer Reid knew it all too well. There were countless memories of tired mornings and blurry eyes, you trying to search for your glasses but instead slapping his sleeping face. And then his awake one. He found it cute and no doubt hilarious. It gave you a quirk, something that only he would know how to handle.

He insisted you would both leave last, as to not slow down anyone, and you smile at his thoughtfulness. Carefully, Spencer led you out of the office building and into the passenger seat of his 7 year old car, pushing down the urge to lead you into a pole or bush on the way.

taglist (open!) - @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es @0108s22m @aurorsworld @theoraekenslover @c-losur3 @littlelearningbrat @khxna

[be4chywritez]

tie the knot | logan sargeant

logan sargeant x piastri!reader

You and Logan officially tie the knot.

masterlist!

beachy’s notes🐚: reader is adopted

Logan had been in love with you since the day you punched another kid for calling him a loser.

That was when you were 12 and he was 13. Oscar teased him about it endlessly until Logan finally mustered the courage to ask you out. He remembers it so clearly.

You were both sitting on the dock of a lake where your parents had organized a get-together. Oscar had gotten bored of staring at the water and wandered off. Logan looked over at you and asked, "Have you ever had a boyfriend?"

You looked over, flushed, and shook your head. "No."

"Do you want a boyfriend?" he asked, his eyes flicking nervously to your lips. You scooted closer, your knees brushing against each other, both of you blushing at the contact.

"I think I do," you said, avoiding eye contact and staring off into the water. You heard him take a shallow breath.

"Do you want to be my girlfriend?"

You whipped your head towards him. "You want me to be your girlfriend?" you asked, shocked because the boy you’d had a crush on since you were twelve was asking you to be his girlfriend.

"Yeah, I thought you liked me," he said, flushing deep red and scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

"I do!" you blurted out too quickly. You cleared your throat. "Um, yeah, I do. I want to be your girlfriend." You smiled, and he let out a breath of relief.

"Oh, thank God. I was nervous you didn't like me and that would be—"

You cut him off with a kiss. You weren't sure if you were kissing him right, your lips awkwardly pressing against his. He didn't pull away, but his hands hesitated before gently holding your arms. You pulled away, both of your cheeks flushed. "Was that good?" you asked, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"Yeah, it was good," he smiled, looking just as flustered as you felt.

You both went back to watching the lake, sitting closer together now, your shoulders touching shyly. Occasionally, you pointed out a fish flopping in the water, stealing glances at each other and giggling nervously.

Logan watched you talk to Lily, both of you wearing smiles on your faces. You waved goodbye to her as she walked back to the side of Alex’s garage.

Looking back up, you noticed Logan watching you, and you flushed. Even now, he never failed to make you blush. He leaned against the counter, a relaxed smile on his face. “Hey, babe,” he said, reaching over to peck your lips.

“How are you feeling today?” you asked as he pulled away, your hand running along his arm.

“I think we can get up to at least P15,” he said, meeting your gaze and letting out a sigh.

You grabbed his hand and kissed the back of it. “You’re going to score points. I know it,” you said, giving his arm one last squeeze before he was beckoned to his car by the engineers.

You let out a breath, watching him get into the car. Quickly, you sent Oscar a text, knowing he wouldn’t see it until later.

Good luck, Oz. Love you.

Slipping on the headset, you listened in to the engineers. Each time Logan overtook another car, your heart squeezed, and your hands gripped your handbag tightly. By lap 56, Logan was in P10. Nico tried overtaking him, but Logan defended his position brilliantly. You shot up from your seat, cheering, and his mechanics did the same, celebrating his performance.

A few engineers came over to hug you as well. When Logan returned, drenched in sweat, he received pats and hugs from the pit crew members. Making his way towards the back of the garage, he smiled at you. “I’m all sweaty, babe,” he said.

“I don’t care, Logan,” you replied with a smile, pulling him into a hug. You whispered into his ear, “I knew it.”

He pulled away slightly, staring at you with a look of realization and love. In that moment, he knew he was going to propose.

-

You threw a pillow at Oscar’s face. “What should I wear, pants or a dress?” you asked.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Aren’t you just going to dinner?”

You rolled your eyes. “Knowing Logan, he’s going to want to dip his toes in the water.”

Oscar hummed in agreement. “Dress,” he decided, pulling out his phone to text Logan.

She has no clue. Stop stressing.

Logan replied quickly.

What color is she wearing? I want to match.

Oscar groaned. “Gross, happy couples,” he muttered.

You peeked your head out of the bathroom. “What?”

He flushed. “Nothing.”

“So, how do I look?” you asked, stepping out fully dressed. Oscar looked up from his phone lazily, giving you a thumbs-up.

You groaned, throwing another pillow at his head. “You are literally no help.”

Just then, the doorbell rang, and your mom called out that Logan was here. You dashed out of your room, making your way downstairs quickly.

Logan looked dashing, his shirt matching your dress perfectly. He held a bouquet of flowers and smiled warmly when he saw you. “For you, my love,” he said, handing you the flowers.

You pecked him on the lips and handed the flowers to your mom. “Mom, can you put these in water?” you asked.

She nodded, smiling. “Of course. You two have fun.”

Logan walked you to his car, opening the door for you. Once he got into the driver’s seat and started the car, you looked over at him. “So, where are we going?”

“Well, I got us dinner reservations, and then we can go for a walk on the beach,” he said, pulling away from the driveway.

After dinner, Logan drove you to a secluded part of the beach. The moonlight reflected off the water, casting a silvery glow over the sand. He took off his shoes, and you followed suit, both of you walking barefoot along the shore, the cool water lapping at your feet.

As you walked, you noticed a set of candles arranged in a heart shape on the sand ahead. You laughed, nudging Logan playfully. “Looks like someone’s getting proposed to tonight,” you joked.

Logan smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?”

You turned to look at him, and your breath caught in your throat. Logan was down on one knee, holding a small box in his hand. “Y/N Piastri,” he began, his voice filled with emotion, “from the moment you stood up for me ten years ago, I knew you were someone special. You’ve been my rock, my best friend, and my greatest supporter.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as he continued. “We’ve grown up together. You make me a better person; I can’t imagine my life without you. You are my everything, and I want to spend the rest of my life making you as happy as you make me.”

He opened the box to reveal a beautiful ring. “Y/N, will you marry me?”

You nodded, your hands covering your mouth in shock and joy. “Yes, Logan! Yes, I will marry you!”

He slipped the ring onto your finger and stood up, pulling you into a tight embrace. You kissed, feeling the magic of the moment surround you. The awkwardness of your first kiss was a distant memory, replaced by the deep, unwavering love you shared.

Suddenly, you heard cheers and claps coming from behind the nearby dunes. You turned to see your family and Logan’s family emerging from their hiding spots, all of them beaming with happiness. Oscar was at the front, a proud smile on his face.

“Oh my god, you all were in on this?” you asked, laughing through your tears.

Oscar walked up to you, pulling you into a tight hug. “Of course we were. Logan wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You hugged him back, feeling a surge of gratitude and love. “Thanks, Oz. This means so much to me.”

Oscar pulled back, a teasing glint in his eye. “Just remember, you still owe me for all the times I covered for you two.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Deal.”

Your three sisters ran up to you next, each one taking turns to hug you tightly.

Logan stood back, watching the interaction with a warm smile. He shared a look with his own family, who were all just as thrilled. Your mom and dad approached, hugging both of you tightly.

“We’re so proud of you both,” your mom said, her voice choked with emotion.

Logan’s parents joined in, his mom wiping away tears. “Welcome to the family, Y/N,” she said, her smile radiant.

The moment was beautifully chaotic, with everyone talking, hugging, and celebrating at once. As the group settled down, Logan looked down at you, watching as you animatedly talked to your sister. In that moment, he knew he had made the right decision.

[jjscrybaby]

prompt 19: ‘here’s my number.’

jj maybank x fem!reader | fluff | (reader has hair, no use of y/n, first meeting.)

not proofread and also not my best, i’m trying to get back into the hang of writing so i figured that maybe if i start posting my stuff it could give me the motivation again. hope you enjoy! :)

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

JJ was sure he knew everyone that lived on the island. Whether they were a Pogue or a Kook, 9 times out of 10 he’d heard of them. Whether it was because there had been a scandal about Mr Anderson cheating on his wife with his secretary, or Mimsy hooking up with Topper Thornton at the most recent kegger, he’d heard of them.

So, when he checked over the itinerary for the delivery’s he was doing for Heyward he knew exactly who lived in the house he was heading to. An older couple, been on the island since they were kids, rich but not overly snobby. He walked up the driveway and knocked on the door, expecting the elder woman to open it since her husband’s recently broken his ankle. He had to do a double take when the wooden door was pulled open and the girl that stood there was anything but an old lady.

You were beautiful, hair tied up in a ponytail and pretty eyes that stared back at him. You looked a little tired, sporting a tee and baggy shorts that he assumed still costed more than his rent based on the logo.

“Hello?” Your sweet voice brought him out of his thoughts, mouth parted as he just stared at you.

“Oh, uh, sorry. Maybe I have the wrong house?” He looked around in confusion. The number was right, but last he checked there wasn’t a beautiful girl living in this house.

“Who are you looking for?” You questioned. He said your grandparents last name, making you nod. “You’ve got the right house.”

He just nodded slowly, handing you the two bags of groceries. They always ordered an absurd amount of bread. “Right. I didn’t realise they had a roommate.”

You giggled at his words, putting the plastic bags down — Kiara wouldn’t be happy — and grabbed your handbag from the side to get out your purse. “I’m their granddaughter.”

“Ohhh.” That made more sense. They didn’t seem the type to look on Craigslist for someone in need of a home. You held a twenty out to him. “Uh, it’s already paid for.”

“A tip,” you explained, nudging your hand closer to him. “Can’t be enjoyable walking around in this heat with all those heavy bags.”

“This is my last stop,” he shrugged, still not accepting the money. He wasn’t sure why, normally he’d be grabbing at it with greedy hands; maybe even trying to talk you into giving him more. Thats what he did with all of Heyward’s other customers.

“Just take the money,” you laughed.

“Twenty’s a bit much,” he argued, tapping his foot against the stone floor.

You hummed, giving him a look he couldn’t read. “Then how about you help me carry my last box upstairs. That mixed in with the delivery seems to add up to twenty.”

If any other Kook asked him to do such a thing he’d say no. He’d probably piss on their plants just for good measure. But you were something else, your little smile did something to him that he refused to acknowledge.

“Sure,” he agreed, stepping into the house. He rubbed his shoes against the mat, not wanting to trail dirt on the white carpet.

“Thanks. My back is killing me,” you complained, leading him further into the house where only a few boxes were left.

He read over them. Clothes. Blankets. Teddies. His face scrunched up in confusion. “Are you movin’ in?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Did you need anything? Some water or coffee or something?”

“Water, please.” He followed you into the kitchen, it was bigger than his entire shack. He leant against the counter, watching you reach up to the glass cupboard. “Where are you from?”

“Uh… all over really. My parents never enjoyed sticking to one place. I’ve been travelling for the last year. I was gonna go home, but after finding out my grandad’s getting more clumsy and my nan can’t take care of him herself I figured I could come help,” you explained, filling his glass with water and ice.

“That’s nice of you,” he murmured. He hadn’t seen either sets of his grandparents since he was a baby. His mom’s parents didn’t reach out whatsoever, not since she dipped, and his dads sent him a birthday card with a twenty each year. If they needed help, he’d probably pretend he didn’t see the message.

You just shrugged, taking your hair out of the pony just to re-do it. “They’re the reason I could afford, like, everything. Plus, I’m expecting some good karma.”

“Good karma?” He chuckled, accepting the cool glass from your hand. “Is that a real thing?”

“Who knows. But if it is, I want it,” you smirked. “So, you’re a delivery boy?”

He shook his head, putting the glass down on the marble counter. “Nah. I’m a busboy at the club, but my friend’s dad does the deliveries and I needed some extra cash.”

“Makes sense,” you murmured. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” he responded. He crossed his fingers that you were the same age, you looked young, but for all he knows you could be thirty and just really hot for your age.

“Me too,” you grinned. He smiled back toothily.

“Cool. So, uh, the boxes?” He asked.

For the next half an hour, he helped you carry up boxes. Your room was on the third floor, in the attic technically. It was bare, just a bed and a closet with a bathroom connected. He couldn’t blame you though, you had just moved in.

Once you were done, you walked him to your front door and held out the twenty again.

“Nah,” he murmured, waving you off.

Your face fell. “What?”

“I don’t need it.”

“You just helped me out for the money, so take the money,” you argued. “I should probably give you more than twenty.”

“How ‘bout this… you could thank me in another way,” he suggested.

“Like what?” Your eyebrows furrowed, head tilting as you looked up at him.

“Could let me take you to dinner sometimes,” he shrugged nonchalantly, although on the inside he felt like he was going to burst.

Your eyes widened in surprise, staring at him for a moment before a soft smile appeared on your lips. “Yeah. That seems fair.”

“Cool,” he grinned. “You got a pen?”

“Sure.” You walked a bit further inside the house, opening up a draw and handing a pen to him. He took it from you and pulled out an old receipt for gas from his pocket. He scribbled over it, a cheesy smile on his face as he handed it back to you.

“Here’s my number, I’m expectin’ a call,” he stated, giving you a wink.

You laughed, pocketing the receipt. “You’ll get one.”

“Cool. Uh, see you soon then,” he said, walking out the front door with a pleased look on his face.

You watched after him, waving as you closed the door. You definitely hadn’t moved to Outerbanks to find a man, but you definitely weren’t going to complain. You pulled out the receipt and giggled at what was sprawled on it. Below his phone number was a little note.

Call this number. You’ll have no regrets ;) - JJ