#and in the dream he straight up ignored me

[delulukaisen]

Brat Taming

You push Nanami's buttons. His response isn't quite what you expected.

Kento Nanami x f!Reader

CW: brat taming, overstimulation, forced orgasms, oral (f! receiving), piv sex, unprotected sex, praise, dirty talk

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It wasn’t that you didn't respect Nanami. You did! Only… being a brat just came so naturally. You couldn't resist the urge to wind him up, now that the two of you had been together for a while. Perhaps part of you needed to test his patience, find his limits early. See what would make him tired of you, or how far his annoyance would take him. The insecure part of you whispered that.

But if you were honest, it was mostly that it was such a thrill. Your dear Kento was so straight laced, so proper. He was honestly a dream, dedicated and patient. He was sweet and gentle with you, despite his rippling muscles and terse attitude with anyone but you. Of course you were driven with a need to break that stoic exterior. So you pushed and prodded. You questioned and demanded. And each time, he either ignored your bratty behavior, or if you really pushed, you might earn a weary sigh before he would kiss your forehead and redirect you.

Tonight was perhaps a step too far. You'd sent him a nude at work without any warning. He’d only said he would discuss your behavior when he got home. Dread filled your stomach at the short line of text. Was he going to break up with you over it? Was he truly that uptight, so much that your bratty behavior was more than he wanted to deal with? You'd certainly been interested in a more intense experience in the bedroom, but what if he went further than you wanted to punish you? 

Nanami walked in the door with a stiff back and unreadable eyes. You watched as he peeled off his jacket and hung it up, removed his cufflinks, and undid his tie, all without a word. He watched you back in consideration, and though it was difficult to tell what he was thinking, the intensity of his attention made you press your thighs together as heat warmed your core.

“Is there a particular reason you've been running wild lately?” He asked, voice quiet yet filling the room. You could feel yourself blush and looked down. His long fingers grabbed your chin and forced you to look back up at him.

“Answer my question, Y/n.” His words were a gentle command, but a command just the same. You shuddered at his tone, knowing he was serious business, but could not resist that mischievous urge that fluttered in your chest, making you give him a teasing smile.

“Maybe I just felt like it,” you told him, heart racing. Nanami stood to his full height over you with a sigh, your heart stopped and waiting on the precipice.

“What an attitude. I think there's only one way to fix this brattiness of yours,” Nanami said before scooping you off the couch while you squealed in surprise.

“W-wait, Kento, please I was only kidding, I'm not really good with pain--” 

You had never backtracked so hard in your life, your chest pounding as you pictured him spanking you, pulling your hair, saying mean and degrading things that would just make you cry--

“I know, darling. I'll just have to fix you a different way.”

Nanami set you on your feet just before the bed, placing his hands over your hips while he looked down at you.

“You've been pushing my buttons all week. I know you're waiting to see me snap. You're terribly obvious,” he started to say, peeling your shirt from your chest. You let him undress you, breathing in short, excited huffs. Your pants followed, leaving you in the same cute underwear you'd pulled aside to take pictures in earlier. Nanami’s fingers brushed so lightly over your nipples that you shivered, even his lightest touch making you soak your underwear.

“I think I should have your clit in my mouth about it.”

Your eyes widened at his firm statement, mouth going slack.

“You-- what?”

Nanami leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear.

“Here's what is going to happen. You're going to sit on my face until I suck the attitude right out of your pussy, and after you've came so many times you can't even think, I'm going to ram my cock so far inside you that you'll see it poking against that cute tummy. I'm going to fuck you all night, give you so many orgasms that you'll pass out, and then I'll pull out even more from you. You must be such a needy thing to have been so bratty.”

Nanami hadn’t dirty talked you like this before, always electing to be a gentleman. Your knees went weak and you fell back on the bed, looking up at his pleased smile and glint in his eye. He unbuttoned his shirt before leaning down and finally kissing you.

It was a hungry kiss, possessive and rough. He nipped at your bottom lip before pulling away, his hand wrapped around your throat.

“You're going to be a good girl and cum for me as much as I ask, aren’t you?” He asked, and you could only nod your head, too shocked by the side of him you had brought out. It only took him ten seconds to lay on the bed and pull you over him, your plush thighs on either side of his head, pussy hovering over his mouth.

“A-are you sure you want me up here? I'm kinda heavy--” you tried to decline, but his grip on your thighs tightened and he pulled you down until you were firmly on his face, his tongue swiping through your folds with a moan. You buried your hand in his soft blond hair as you gasped.

Nanami sucked your clit between his lips, teasing the bud with his tongue. His eyes never left your face as he drove you to your peak, dedicated and unerring. Every lick, every bit of suction, was crafted to drag you over the edge. You came hard at his ardent attention, shaking and squeezing his head with your thighs, but his mouth merely slowed. He refused to stop.

“K-Kento, please, I just came--” you panted, trying to push his head away, trying to lift yourself up only for him to hold you down tighter. He released your clit only to give you a stern look.

“That’s the first one, sweetheart. You better keep count,” he demanded before plunging his tongue inside your tight hole. You cried out as he fucked you with his tongue, your juices coating his face. He groaned into your cunt, hands bruising on your thighs.

It wasn’t fair. He was too good at pleasuring you, especially when he was laser focused on making you cum. You were still so sensitive from your first orgasm, your second snuck up on you too fast.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You whined, grinding onto his mouth. His nose rubbed your clit and your mouth dropped in a silent cry as you started to shake, overwhelmed. You fell forward and grabbed the headboard with trembling arms to keep yourself up. You could feel his laughter against your clit.

You were never going to piss him off again. He was a relentless, never ending force, worshipping your overstimulated clit even as you cried. It was as if his tongue and jaw could never tire of eating you. You lost count of the amount of times he made you cum, his fingers plunging into your cunt when you were too tired to try to lift off his face. You became incapable of anything more than whines and whimpers and moans, jaw slack and eyes glazed over. Fucked out before his cock was even out of his pants.

Kento finally detached his lips from your clit with a pop, panting heavily. He maneuvered your boneless body onto the bed, pressing slick soaked kisses across your chest.

“How many was that, sweetheart?” He asked. You struggled to even think of a number, your mind too foggy from cumming so much.

“Hnnn… uh… dunno,” you mumbled, whimpering when he pinched your nipple.

“Tsk. I only asked you for one thing, you brat,” he scolded you before flipping you onto your hands and knees. His strong forearm held you up while his large hand slapped your ass.

“You came eight times, darling. But don't you fret. I'll make it an even ten,” he told you, pressing a tender kiss to your sweaty forehead.

“Please, Kento, I'm sorry, I won't be so bratty,” you pleaded again as his hands gripped your hips. You could feel his thick cock sliding against your folds, slick with your cum and his saliva. He chuckled, a menacing sound.

“Don’t apologize now, my love. You needed attention, so you're getting it,” he told you before snapping his hips forward and filling your cunt in one swift motion. You cried out while he began to relentlessly pound your sensitive pussy, gushing around him just from being filled.

“Such a quick one. Do you love feeling my cock stretching you out that much? What a naughty girl,” he teased, reaching around to rub your swollen clit. His cock knocked again and again at your g-spot, his angle just right to drive you insane. He pushed your face into the bed, fingers tangled in your hair just enough to hurt in the good way. 

“Tell me how much you love my cock,” he grunted, softer than the loud slaps of his balls against your clit.

“I love it so much Kento! Need it so bad!” You babbled obediently. As fucked out as you were, you would agree to anything, your pussy doing your thinking for you. Anything to keep his cock stretching you so good.

“Yeah? You really needed a good fuck, didn’t you sweetheart?” He continued. You moaned as his thrusts slowed, hitting deeper, more precisely driving you to ruin.

“You're going to cream all over this cock, right?” He asked, so sweet. You nodded into the bed, his words pleasing you as much as his cock. 

“Good girl. Cum for me, let me feel you let go,” he purred, leaning over you so his breath was by your ear. You came your tenth time, liquid shooting out and soaking Nanami and the bed. You could hear him quietly curse before quickly pulling out, his cum hitting your back a second later. 

Despite your exhaustion and overwhelming bliss, you pouted.

“You didn’t cum inside…?” You whined. Nanami kissed your cheek and stood, already in aftercare mode.

“Mm, good girls can get creampied. Maybe next time you'll tell me what you need, won't you, dear?” He said, an amused grin on his face when your bottom lip wobbled. He kissed you, gentle and soft.

“I'll be right back with water. Can't have you pass out from dehydration this early, can I?” He said so sweetly. Your eyes snapped open from being so close to sleeping. His smile was full of malicious promise.

“Kento…?”

“I told you, didn’t I? All. Night.”

His voice brokered no disagreement as he rose from the bed. You vowed to stop your bratty ways if you survived…. At least for the next week.

[bartxnhood]

be my lover | kim hongjoong

mob!hongjoong x fem!reader

synopsis: in which hongjoong doesn’t like that fact you don’t care he’s cheating on you. arranged marriage or not.

warnings: arranged marriage, cheating, swearing, mentions of blood and killing people, hongjoong is kind of a dick but he’s in love, probably more.

w/c: 2.8k

a/n: oof okay i haven’t written for kpop in SOOOO long and this is officially my first ateez fic. i saw the ateez in cinema thing and wow. hongjoong wrecked me SO HARD HAHAHA OMG (jongho ily look away) anyways, i decided to finally write for my ult group!! enjoy!!

a/n: pt.2 ALSO readers personality is kinda based off of polly from peaky blinders iykyk. nonchalant badass!!!! happy reading!!

disclaimer: this is purely a work of fiction and does not represent ateez or kim hongjoong as a person.

not proofread

requests open

Copyright © 2025 bartxnhood. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

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growing up, every girl has their dream. maybe it’s becoming the first woman president, or to travel the world. but for most, it’s getting married.

the most romantic proposal. trying on the dress until you find the perfect one, wearing that ring your significant other picked out, the flowers, venue, and marrying your true love.

that was your dream, too.

but you didn’t get to live that dream. no, you were thrown in the deep end after your twenty-third birthday. no proposal, no wedding, no dress, no flowers, not even a beautiful ring. a simple gold band was all you were given by the man you married.

“it will benefit our family, don’t you want to make your family proud?” your father would say, after you had gone off on him. yelling in his face about your freedom, how you didn’t ask to be born into the life that your family had. of course, you did.

you left home for college, left the country to focus on schooling, unaware that your father was tracking you down and had his henchmen kidnap you and bring you home.

you were married two weeks later to kim hongjoong.

boss of sector one.

he was the most successful and notorious bosses of the current era, your father trailing somewhere behind him. hence, your involvement.

a contract written up years ago between your father and hongjoongs father. then, hongjoong inherited his father's gang, and the members who held his closest friends. all he needed was a wife.

you.

it was truly your worst nightmare, sharing a home with a violent and dangerous man, with equally dangerous henchmen.

but you managed. you had your routine and adapted to the way of your new life. you could adapt to anything, it was one of your many talents.

hongjoong wasn’t a man of many words. on the field, giving orders, he was straight to the point and commanding. no time for jokes or anything of the sort. when hongjoong had a mission, it was to be done and done quickly without getting caught.

in and out.

however, in his time being the leader, he found it to be incredibly lonely. he had no one by his side, he was often left alone with his thoughts and an unlimited amount of liquor.

hongjoong always knew about the marriage; his father would hold it over his head whenever he acted out of place. truthfully, he didn’t know what to expect when that day came. but it wasn’t you.

you were normal. you dressed normal when you two were married. hongjoong told himself that he could easily ignore you and continue with his job.

you acted like he didn’t exist, you’d barely look his way, you wouldn’t even speak to him unless you were working.

eventually, hongjoong made it his mission to break your walls. he was growing tired of the nonchalant facade you had. he couldn’t stand it, he couldn’t fathom how you just didn’t care.

because deep down, hongjoong cared immensely about you. more than he’d ever admit out loud.

the first time hongjoong ever actually treated you like his wife was during one of your first missions when both of you had to be present. something about a money laundering scandal on hongjoongs territory.

yeah, that didn’t last long.

the two of you walked in the gala, his hand around your waist. to your surprise, his touch was rather gentle and soft. hard to believe, coming from the man who could command a country with a wave of his finger.

he was accommodating your every need, making sure you were safe and secure by his side. though, you could easily fend for yourself.

“relax, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, out of earshot of everyone else. his breath was hot against your skin, pulling you back to reality. “i’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

after that mission, you found it hard to view hongjoong with the person’s you had made up for him in your mind.

it’s cliche. you live with someone for two years, and you start to learn things about them. even if you didn’t share a bedroom or bed together.

you knew his favorite food, the way he’d stay up all night working on files while you’d be picking away at books from his library. you knew he stocked the library for you, he’d always has yunho on side missions to find books you had on your list to be read.

you hated how much you cared for him after so long. all because of that damn mission.

the walls of the mansion were covered with miscellaneous paintings, the dark oak complimenting the colors on the paint on the canvases. each stroke holding a story that the artist was trying to convey.

you sat across the stretched dining table from your husband. a glass of chardonnay in front of you on the table, and a novel in her lap.

tensions in the mansion had been high for a while now. it was to be expected since you were married to one of the most feared men in the country, and you, nonchalant, quiet, and reserved.

you scared most of the men working for hongjoong. wooyoung, mingi, and san probably fearing you the most. more than their boss. one look from you could shut them up in a heartbeat.

you curated that facade to navigate life when hongjoong wasn’t around.

god you were frightening.

secondly, hongjoong had been cheating on you for some time now and you didn’t care. after all, you had no say in this marriage. you’ve navigated life after being married for two years and going on missions by his side.

you were living the life you sworn off years ago, you wanted to live a life of normalcy and peace. you deserved that.

and now it was second nature. the fighting, the threats, the killing, the violence, and the ruthlessness that came with being married to kim hongjoong.

the others, bewildered by the fact that you even let him get away with sleeping with other women. often coming to you asking why you didn’t care, how you just brushed it off. to which you’d reply with, “we sleep in different rooms across the house. i could care less who he brings home”

and it usually got them to shut up.

but, it bother you. somewhere deep down, you wished he wouldn’t do it. but you figured he did it because he doesn’t love you.

hongjoong blatantly cheats in your presence. you personality, the quietness, the way you wouldn’t bat an eye when the woman he had in bed the previous night would waltz through the kitchen fumbling for her belongings. all while you sat at the table, sipping your morning beverage of choice.

he wanted to break through your icy exterior. no, he needed to.

hongjoong fails, though, since you always choose to ignore him.

"why aren’t you mad?" he questions, frowning.

looking up from the printed words on the paper, you find him sat in the leather chair in front of you.

your face doesn’t falter, you keep a calm and composed expression. finally speaking, “why would i be mad?” your tone is flat, not giving any indication as to your mood.

hongjoong leaned back in his chair, studying you like he always does. his blond locks mussed, eyes half-lidded as he watched you flip through the pages of your novel.

the light coming through the window illuminated your side profile, his gaze darkened, his slender fingers tapping against his arm in irritation. your nonchalant attitude was beginning to make him agitated.

"because any self-respecting wife would be furious right now." he replied, eyes narrowing.

you say nothing at first, fixating your eyes back to the book nestled in your lap. your free hand reaches for the crystal glass to raise it to your lips.

you know hongjoong is fuming, absolutely raging but you don’t falter. “wife is a strong word considering we don’t even share a room” you begin, returning the glass to its original spot.

“let alone love each other.”

over the past year, you’ve learned how to get under his skin by being the way you were. you didn’t care much about how you affected him, you were simply just coexisting.

hongjoong didn’t know the nights that you’d cry yourself to sleep, mourning the life you used to have.

hongjoong's lip curled upward in a bitter smile, eyes flashing with annoyance. he pushed himself off the chair and walked over to where you were sitting, his footsteps heavy against the floorboards of the manor.

“a wife is a wife. regardless if we share a bed or not.”

he leaned against the polished oak table, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked onto you as he stared at you for a few moments.

"who says i don’t love you?" he asked, a hint of mockery in his tone.

you still refuse to meet his gaze. you could even list the times you actually looked him in the eyes on one hand.

you hear him let out a laugh, a scoff, whatever, and he shuffled a few steps away.

you look up, finally ripping your eyes away from the pages, you close the book and move it to the table.

you let out a breath of air, sounding more like a scoff. “are you serious right now?”

you lean back against the chair, watching him. how he stands there watching you, his hand crossed over his frame.

“i am.” he bites.

hongjoong was seething at the fact that you've gotten used to this, he had expected anger, jealousy, but he was met with.. nothing.

you begin to chew on the insides of your gums, trying to find the words. “i don’t care what sleaze you bring home, hongjoong. i really don’t” you finally spit.

hongjoongs expression hardened upon hearing your words. he didn't like that you didn't care, didn't like that you didn't react like every other woman would. it was infuriating, yet fascinating at the same time.

he slammed a hand flat against the table, causing the glassware on it to rattle. his jaw was set in a tight line, teeth clenched in irritation.

you flinch, clenching your jaw. you inhale sharply trying to ground yourself.

hongjoong continues, “you’re my goddamn wife. you’re supposed to care!” he snapped, his voice rising.

"you’re supposed to be jealous, angry, sad. not act like you don't give a damn."

you shake your head, looking away from him again. you purse your lips as his words ring in your head. “what do you want me to say?”

hongjoong leans in, his hands gripping the edge of the oak table with so much force that his buckles are turning white.

"why don't you care? don’t you have any self-respect? don’t you have any damn feelings for me? I'm your husband!"

his words spill out of him like an overflowing river all while he’s staring at you intently.

“hongjoong-“ you try to interject, closing your eyes and holding out your hand. but, hongjoong is quick to shut it down. “damnit, y/n, look at me!”

“i know you are!” you finally break, the palm of your hand slamming on the table. the nonchalant facade slowly slipping away.

“i’m reminded every fucking day!” you hold up hand, showing the gold band on your ring finger.

“of course i have feelings for you, hongjoong! i’ve been in love with you for damn near two years now!” she spits.

hongjoong's eyes widened in surprise as you yelled back at him. he was not expecting such a reaction, not from you, not ever. his grip on the table loosened as you continued to speak, your words sinking in.

“you... what?” he sputtered, his expression morphing from anger to shock.

his mind tried to process your words, struggling to wrap his head around the fact that you had been in love with him this entire time. be had cheated, he had disrespected you, and yet... you still felt something for him. it was mind-boggling and almost unreal.

you run you hands over your face taking in a deep breath to calm yourself but it doesn’t work. “i was robbed of everything. my life, my decisions, the way i live. all of it.” you can feel the burning sensation in your chest, crawling up to your throat and turning into a lump.

you had never cried in front him before, and you didn’t want to now.

“i don’t even have a wedding..” you sigh, feeling tears well in her eyes. “i don’t even have a proper ring.”

and then you mentioned not getting a ring. it was such a simple thing, but it felt like a knife stabbing through his heart. the realization that he had neglected you, that he had treated you as if you were nothing, hit him like a ton of bricks.

he had been so focused on himself, on his own needs, that he had completely disregarded your feelings. and now, he was faced with the consequences of his actions. “y/n” his voice is hoarse

you stop him, shaking your head. you can feel the embarrassment running you fingers through your hair and looks down at the table.

“i can’t do this..” you mutter under your breath, followed by a sniffle as tears fall from your eyes. “just forget i said anything.”

hongjoongs hand shoots out instinctively, his fingers wrapping around your wrist as you attempt to leave. he tugs you back, forcing you to stay where you are.

you try to push away, try ripping your wrist from his grasp but he’s much stronger than you.

his expression is a mix of shock and disbelief, his eyes glued to your tear-streaked face.

"how can i forget it? you’ve been in love with me this entire time?"

his grip on your wrist tightens, almost as if he's afraid you'll slip away if he lets go. his eyes dart across yous face, studying you like he always does.

"why didn't you say anything?“ he asks, his tone almost desperate. "you should have told me.”

you stifle a cry, looking up at him again. clutching to the book with one hand with every fiber in your being.

“stop.” you try to cut him off but it doesn’t work.

hongjoong continues, “you shouldn't have let me keep on with the cheating, on the treating you like crap... you should have said—"

he cuts himself off, his voice catching in his throat.

you chew on your bottom lip while he continues. shaking your head, you felt like she was at her breaking point.

when he finished speaking, you looked into his eyes for the first time. your bottom lip quivers but you quickly composed yourself.

“we didn’t even say vows, hongjoong.” you begin, balling your free hand into a fist.

as far as i was concerned, this marriage was written on a piece of paper by our fathers.” she frowned. “i don’t know what else you want me to say.”

hongjoongs heart clenches, the weight of your words hitting him like a ton of bricks. you were right. you didn't have a proper wedding, you didn't even get a ring. it was all a sham, a means to an end. a way to secure a partnership, nothing more.

“y/n..”

and yet, somehow, he had hoped that there was something there. he had longed for some semblance of a normal marriage, one where he could come home to you and hold you in his arms at night. “please..” he asks.

the mansion is quiet, you walk down the dimly lit halls to your bedroom. with a turn of the doorknob you’re met with the welcoming smell of your bedroom.

it was barely lit up, a few warm toned lamps by your bedside were the only thing on. you flipped the light switch and kick off your shoes.

you just returned from a two day mission with seonghwa, your feet ached, body bruised, your head was reeling with a leaving pain behind your temples.

trudging over to your bed you didn’t acknowledge the neatly wrapped box on your pillow at first. too preoccupied with cleaning up so you could get into bed.

you took off your earrings, tossing them into a jewelry plate before finally looking down at your gray bed sheets and that’s when you spotted it.

there’s a letter next to it, you unfold it to see just a few simple words.

“let’s start over”

then, you pick up the small box and open it to reveal and gold wedding ring. your breath got caught in your throat, staring at the piece of jewelry.

it was dainty, yet extravagant. obviously hongjoong must’ve spent a pretty penny on it. you carefully slip it out of its box and onto your finger, replacing the band you once had.

maybe hongjoong wasn’t so bad after all.

[shinreiplays]

Drunk Confessions

pairing: caleb x reader

word count: 1.8k

a/n notes: inspired by cdrama ‘hidden love’. initially wrote it as a jimin ff on instagram but it always reminded me of caleb T^T (oh i love him sm) so made some necessary tweaks and posted here! hope you all enjoy it! ^^

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

your phone buzzed. bringing you out of your thoughts.

currently you were hanging out with your university friends at a bar because they forced you to get out of your apartment and get some fresh air. they knew you well enough to know that you were dwelling over your crush; caleb, your supposedly brother figure. you have had a big fat crush on him since you were in middle school. crush? scratch that it was LOVE at this point!

you were being all pouty after a bottle of soju (low tolerance ㅜㅜ) and dreaming about your love. pulling your phone out of your pocket you saw caleb calling you. you stared at the screen for a moment with a huge pout on your lips. letting out a sigh you excused yourself and picked up the phone.

caleb : hello pips? where have you been? why aren’t you seeing my texts? (he bombarded you with questions as soon as you picked up the call)

y/n : says the one who has been ignoring me all this while- not wanting to see me (you said in a slurry voice being under the influence of alcohol)

caleb : have you been drinking?

y/n : mhmm… (you said with a pout not knowing what your voice did to his heart)

caleb : which bar?

y/n : mh wha- why? (you mumbled incoherently)

caleb : pipsqueak. which bar are you at? i’m coming! (he asked in a stern voice, as if he can’t track you down himself)

y/n : xxx bar- why are you coming here tho?

caleb : to catch a drunkard- stay there i’m coming! don’t move! (he hangs up the call)

you faked a hiss at your phone screen after he hung up on you but still decided to obey him. stumbling you went back inside to inform your friends. “guys, i’m leaving- s-see you tomorrow!” you announced to your friends at the table. “y/n are you okay?? where are you going in this state?” “mmmh my my “brother” is coming to pick me” you said quoting brother exaggerating it (you never took him as your brother in the first place) and started walking out. with wobbly steps you walked out and waited for caleb to come and tried not to move much cause he said so.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

waiting for five minutes you got tired and felt dizzy, but before you fell someone caught you and it was none other than caleb. a squeal left your gape and you shot your head towards the said person. your doe eyes scanned his angelic face and features. you got lost in his mesmerising purple eyes.

you felt like throwing up- (ughh no no no) shit! that snapped you out of your trance and you got hold of yourself. “hey hey hey you alright?!” his voice rang in your ears. trying not to lose your composure in front of your love and in order to not embarrass yourself, you tried to stand straight and walk swiftly. but yet again you stumbled and landed on your knees on the concrete pavement. (fck my life)

caleb ran towards you and crouched down next to you. “OMG ARE YOU OKAY?!!” he said in a rather loud voice, concern dripping. he caressed your back in order to sooth you and fortunately you didn’t scrape your knees yet you let out a mewl of pain and turned into a ball, completely crouching down in the middle of a sidewalk. “heyyy… pips will you be able to get up hmm? let me help you” he said and in a response you just mumbled some incoherent nonsense. he got up and tried to pull you up but you started whining loudly. “cmon cmon get up let’s go to that park across the street”

“nuuuuuuuu….. i don’t- i don’t wanna go anywhere” you whined out loud, throwing a fit! with that you again crouched down and started mumbling nonsense. he let out a giggle at looking at your adorable little self. he just melted into a puddle right then and there.

cooing at you, he again tried to pull you up but you didn’t budge.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

“cmon i’ll give you a piggyback ride” saying that he crouched down in front of you. “hop on!” “noooo~” you again whined “i can’t” pouting. you just stood there without moving. this girl. “fine! come let’s go to that park and sit there for sometime” “who told you to drink this much pipsqueak~” saying that he dragged your stubborn self to the nearby park. yet you kept whining and speaking gibberish while stumbling time to time, to which his hold got tight on your waist. that gave instant butterflies to your intoxicated self cause you were well aware of that touch.

feeling of familiarity.

somehow you both made it to the park. as soon as you reached the lawn you unlatched yourself from him and plopped down on the grass, feeling drained. “nooo- i can’t walk a-anymore” you said fumbling with your words. letting out a sigh with an airy chuckle, caleb sat himself down beside you. “i told you let me give you a piggyback ride pips” “no i can’t let you” you responded shaking your head as no vigorously. “why can’t you??” he said raising an eyebrow. (ufff so smexyy) “nuuu i just can’t ~” you kept saying that for a while.

holding both of your shoulders firmly, he again asked chuckling at your antics “whyy can’t you~~” in a fake whiny tone. (i love caleb’ singy song voice sm)

“be- because i’m heavyy” you said fake crying. (you really weren’t in your senses)

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

to which he let out a brief laugh and again maintained his composure. “shushh stop it! it’s nothing like that!” “cmon hop on!!” he said again facing his back towards you. you keep mumbling gibberish and shaking your head as no. “noo i can’t i’m heavy” you said sniffling as your cheeks went red. he held your hands and squeezed them to get your attention. “shushh stop speaking nonsense it’s nothing like that and i can carry you easily” “no i can’t let you carry me… you- *pouts* you just got recovered from your injuries caleb! you can’t lift heavy weights- the- the doctor advised you not too”

he cupped your cheeks and said “my sweet little pipsqueak~ i’m recovered now, it’s been three months”, giggles left his mouth and he was amused by how much you care about him. “cmon now hop on”

“nooo i’m heavy and- *cries* and flat” you cry out loud! “wha- what are you talking about?” he asked being caught off guard by what you said. “i am flatttt” you cried. “what do you mean by flat?” he asked with big eyes. “my- my chest is flat” you let out a whine. he giggled to that which made you shot a glare and him and say, “YOU’RE LAUGHING!!” your face being mix of pouting and anger which made him seal his lips as you tried smacking him.

“i- i just don’t have it?” you continued. he wanted to laugh so bad at your antics and adorable self but he controlled. “i don’t have it either” he mumbled with his cheeks getting red and trying to pull you up, but you heard him and said, “it’s okay- it’s okay don’t cry” you said consoling him and trying to wipe his non existent tears. i am so down bad for this girl. he thought.

you cried cause you felt bad for him, you were so intoxicated. “nooo oh my why are you crying?” he said cooing at you and cupping your cheeks he wiped your tears. this action of his made you lay your head on his shoulder as you shuddered at his touch and felt dizzy. you hummed feeling oh so warm in his embrace. whereas he smiled at your cute lil self snuggled close to him. you both stayed like that for a moment. “you alright? please let me carry you okay? nothing’s gonna happen to me i promise! cmon hop on” he said this for the nth time comforting you and reassuring you with his sweet words.

you somehow gave in and nodded your head. getting up and climbing on his back you placed yourself comfortably, snuggling into his warmth. meanwhile he tightly secured you in your place, clung onto him like an adorable munchkin. sooo cute omg. he felt flutters in pit of his stomach when you snuggled your head in the nape of his neck and that induced shivers throughout his body. clearing his throat he started walking.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

throughout the way keep asking you if you are comfortable and alright? whereas you keep mumbling in alien language. you felt it too and so did he. the spark. inevitably.

“you- you just don’t know anything!” you said out of nowhere which made him come out of his thoughts about you. “wha-?” before he spoke you cut him off by speaking in a loud whiny tone.

“shush- let me speak!” he obeyed. “you- just don’t know how much- *sigh* how much i like you!” “nooo- chuck that I LOVE YOU” you cried that out for the love of god! that really took him off guard but before he could react, your gag reflex got triggered. shit shit shit. fortunately you shot your head up on time and controlled it.

“aaahhhh i feel dizzy!” you whined. this made him stop walking and freeze at the spot, he was till processing the confession you made. and he soon snapped out hearing your whine again. he walked and sat you down on a parapet wall “heyyy look at me! you alright?” concern dripping his voice. in response you just nodded your head feeling droopy and hugged his waist tightly as he was standing in front of you. he slowly hugged you back and patted your head lovingly which was stuffed in his torso.

it felt heavenly.

you are so warm~ you mumbled, taking a long sniff of his scent and sighing later. he let out a sigh of content and tightened his hold on you, still processing your words. your drunk confession. leaning down he placed a long kiss on your crown. “i love you more, my pipsqueak~ i always have” “i just didn’t had the courage to confess, but you are so so so precious to me and i promise to cherish you forever” he slightly pulled out after noticing you not moving. he thought you didn’t hear his words. but you did. smiling internally you leaned in his touch completely. he too smiled to himself, holding his world in his arms.

i love you.

i love you more.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

@inzayneforaj here you go~

@cityselcouth inspired me to finally post one!

[strawberrybasilsorbet]

The pantry conversation is fascinating! I think there is also a symbolic layer to the scene which suggests that Sirius knows more than he is letting on. The conversation is bisected by a standout image:

He could only see a sliver of Sirius's face; the rest was in darkness.

Which comes back a few paragraphs later to conclude the scene:

He clapped Harry on the shoulder and left the pantry, leaving Harry standing alone in the dark.

This final line, I think, is both literal and figurative. The pantry is dark, but Harry is also being left "in the dark" (in ignorance) about his visions, both by Sirius in this moment and by the Order, generally.

With this symbolism established (darkness = ignorance), the earlier image of Sirius's nearly-hidden face becomes more interesting to decode. Only "a sliver" of it is visible to Harry, which might suggest to the reader that Sirius is concealing something. Possibly a lot of something.

It's also notable that this image appears at a transition point in the conversation. Prior to the narrator's description of his face — which is emphasized by being set alone as its own paragraph — Sirius deflects Harry's questions, redirecting him to Dumbledore's authority:

When he paused for breath, Sirius said, “Did you tell Dumbledore this?”

Twice:

“I’m sure he would have told you if it was anything to worry about,” said Sirius steadily.

But after his hidden face is described, Sirius pivots to feeding Harry his own (extremely lackluster) explanations, such as:

“It must have been the aftermath of the vision, that’s all,” said Sirius. “You were still thinking of the dream or whatever it was and —”

or:

"You’re in shock, Harry; you’re blaming yourself for something you only witnessed, and it’s lucky you did witness it or Arthur might have died."

All while doing his damnedest to end the conversation as soon as possible.

Why might the text highlight this shift?

Because this is when Sirius starts lying his face off.

The literal, textual, and symbolic elements of the moment come together very well. The one-line paragraph ("Harry could only see a sliver...in darkness") breaks the text of the scene in half, creating a weighty pause that draws the reader's attention. In that pause, Sirius makes a decision to change his approach, switching away from redirection and into active obfuscation. The darkness of the pantry suggests this symbolically, but it also literally prevents Harry from seeing any expression on Sirius's face which might give his lie away.

At first, this might seem out of character for Sirius, who is usually honest with Harry and is more willing than most to arm him with knowledge about Voldemort. But I'd argue that Sirius's choice here builds on another, quieter plot line from an earlier book: his concern about Harry's scar.

Look at the line directly preceding the transition:

"I thought I was a snake, I felt like one — my scar really hurt when I was looking at Dumbledore — Sirius, I wanted to attack him —" He could only see a sliver of Sirius's face; the rest was in darkness.

It's possible that Sirius changes tack at this point because he's realized that Harry isn't being reassured by vague references to Dumbledore's authority and will need a more concrete explanation to help him calm down. But I think it's likelier that, when Harry brings up his scar, he starts veering far too close to a topic that Sirius knows about and wants (or has been ordered) to avoid, prompting the new direction.

We know from Goblet of Fire that Sirius is aware of the connection between Harry's scar and Voldemort's person:

Dear Sirius...A weird thing happened this morning, though. My scar hurt again. Last time that happened it was because Voldemort was at Hogwarts.

We also know that Sirius is deeply concerned by this connection:

Harry — I’m flying north immediately. This news about your scar is the latest in a series of strange rumors that have reached me here. If it hurts again, go straight to Dumbledore...he’s reading the signs, even if no one else is.

And that Sirius and Dumbledore have discussed Harry's scar in private:

“Now, has your scar hurt at any other time this year, excepting the time it woke you up over the summer?” “No, I — how did you know it woke me up over the summer?” said Harry, astonished. “You are not Sirius’s only correspondent,” said Dumbledore. “I have also been in contact with him ever since he left Hogwarts last year.”

And while Sirius usually tries to give Harry the facts, we know from Order of the Phoenix that he accepts Dumbledore's decision to withhold key details about Harry's connection to Voldemort, especially the existence of the prophecy:

“What’s he after apart from followers?” Harry asked swiftly. He thought he saw Sirius and Lupin exchange the most fleeting of looks before Sirius said, “Stuff he can only get by stealth.” When Harry continued to look puzzled, Sirius said, “Like a weapon. Something he didn’t have last time.”

Note that Sirius uses the same tactic here that I speculate he's using in the pantry: first attempting to deflect Harry's question but, when Harry seems unconvinced, pivoting to a distracting lie.

Sirius also pivots from stonewalling to misdirection in at least one other scene:

“But if they do expel me,” said Harry, quietly, “can I come back here and live with you?” Sirius smiled sadly. “We’ll see.” “I’d feel a lot better about the hearing if I knew I didn’t have to go back to the Dursleys,” Harry pressed him. “They must be bad if you prefer this place,” said Sirius gloomily.

What a sneaky subject change!

Hermione may be right that Sirius is chewing on some complex feelings here about wanting Harry to be expelled. But this is also another moment when Harry is circling a subject that we know the Order is trying to conceal from him: the blood protection generated by Lily's sacrifice and, by extension, the details of Voldemort's hunt for the Potters. (At this point, Harry still doesn't know that he, not his parents, was the target of Voldemort's attack...or why). It seems clear that, at some point between the end of PoA and the beginning of OotP, Dumbledore has informed Sirius that he can neither remove Harry from the protection of the Dursleys' home nor provide an honest explanation about why this is. (Whether Sirius agrees that this is necessary, or whether he's been overruled by Dumbledore, is anyone's guess).

And this is before we get into speculation about what details (if any) Sirius may have learned about the prophecy from James.

Viewing the pantry scene in this context, I would argue that Sirius either knows or suspects the connection between Harry's vision, the prophecy, and Harry's scar. This is why he can't give Harry a straightforward answer to his questions, and also why he cuts off the conversation as soon as he can.

Exactly how much does Sirius know? Unclear! Dumbledore is definitely keeping the knowledge that Harry's scar is a Horcrux to himself, but Sirius probably still has more insight than the others. I wouldn't be surprised if, at some point during Sirius's time in the mountain cave, Dumbledore responded to his concerns with some version of the partial explanation he gives to Harry in GoF:

"It is my belief that your scar hurts both when Lord Voldemort is near you, and when he is feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred.” “But … why?” “Because you and he are connected by the curse that failed,” said Dumbledore. “That is no ordinary scar.”

or in OotP:

"...in marking you [as his equal] with that scar, he did not kill you, as he intended, but gave you powers..."

depending on how much Sirius already knows about the prophecy.

Or, if Dumbledore hasn't already told Sirius about the connection between Harry's scar pain and his visions of Voldemort, the pause in the pantry:

"...my scar really hurt when I was looking at Dumbledore — Sirius, I wanted to attack him —" He could only see a sliver of Sirius's face; the rest was in darkness.

might be the moment when Sirius figures it out. In which case, I'd bet he's resolving to bring it up with Dumbledore himself at his first opportunity.

It's a heartbreaking, unsettling scene, because this moment does a lot of damage to Harry's trust in Sirius. (The rupture in their relationship is yet another plot line that is symbolically underscored by Sirius's face, nearly hidden — one might say veiled — in shadow. A haunting visual.)

It's a fantastic example of how much can be accomplished with one image!

Hi! So obvi we didn’t get much time w them together, but do you think w more time Sirius/Harry would have been more physically affectionate? It just kinda seemed like they were holding each other at a distance especially in ootp, w the one armed side hug, hand on shoulder etc.

And what do you think of the scene in the cupboard where Harry is venting his concerns to Sirius and Sirius kinda …sends him to bed and walks out lol do you think that’s more of Sirius keeping a distance?

I think Sirius is keeping a distance in OotP, but he isn't doing it for the sake of keeping distance. Also, that the scene you mentioned isn't quite that. I think keeping distance isn't his intention:

“Sirius,” Harry muttered, unable to stand it a moment longer. “Can I have a quick word? Er — now?” He walked into the dark pantry and Sirius followed. Without preamble Harry told his godfather every detail of the vision he had had, including the fact that he himself had been the snake who had attacked Mr. Weasley. When he paused for breath, Sirius said, “Did you tell Dumbledore this?” “Yes,” said Harry impatiently, “but he didn’t tell me what it meant. Well, he doesn’t tell me anything anymore. . . .” “I’m sure he would have told you if it was anything to worry about,” said Sirius steadily. “But that’s not all,” said Harry in a voice only a little above a whisper. “Sirius, I . . . I think I’m going mad. . . . Back in Dumbledore’s office, just before we took the Portkey . . . for a couple of seconds there I thought I was a snake, I felt like one — my scar really hurt when I was looking at Dumbledore — Sirius, I wanted to attack him —” He could only see a sliver of Sirius’s face; the rest was in darkness. “It must have been the aftermath of the vision, that’s all,” said Sirius. “You were still thinking of the dream or whatever it was and —” “It wasn’t that,” said Harry, shaking his head. “It was like something rose up inside me, like there’s a snake inside me —” “You need to sleep,” said Sirius firmly. “You’re going to have breakfast and then go upstairs to bed, and then you can go and see Arthur after lunch with the others. You’re in shock, Harry; you’re blaming yourself for something you only witnessed, and it’s lucky you did witness it or Arthur might have died. Just stop worrying. . . .” He clapped Harry on the shoulder and left the pantry, leaving Harry standing alone in the dark.

(OotP, Ch22)

Harry, as usual, seeks Sirius' advice when something is wrong. Sirius is the adult Harry trusts the most, so it isn't a surprise there. Sirius' reaction, though, is much less helpful than he usually is (especially back in GoF). And I think there are two contributing factors to it:

a. Being back in Grimmauld Place.

Being back in his childhood home brings back a lot of unpleasant memories for Sirius. He is depressed, he is imprisoned again in a place he thought he'd never return to, the Order and Dumbledore don't treat him like it's his house, and he knows he has no power over the Order, his own home, or what happens to Harry and he feels lost and scared and is trying not to show Harry any of that.

This scene shows some of it:

“Don’t worry,” Sirius said. Harry looked up and realized that Sirius had been watching him. “I’m sure they’re going to clear you, there’s definitely something in the International Statute of Secrecy about being allowed to use magic to save your own life.” “But if they do expel me,” said Harry, quietly, “can I come back here and live with you?” Sirius smiled sadly. “We’ll see.” “I’d feel a lot better about the hearing if I knew I didn’t have to go back to the Dursleys,” Harry pressed him. “They must be bad if you prefer this place,” said Sirius gloomily.

(OotP, Ch6)

Sirius lets Harry down not because he doesn't want Harry to live with him, we know he does, but it's because he knows he isn't making the decisions. He knows Harry would go wherever Dumbledore sends him, and he doesn't want to get Harry's (or his own) hopes up for something he knows he has no control over.

Not only that, but he knows him wanting Harry to get expelled and stay with him (which he wants) is selfish and would be to Harry's detriment. So, he's trying to not make it an option, neither for himself nor for Harry.

And we see he hides his depression from Harry. We know he drinks enough that Harry smells it on him:

Sirius was hurrying toward them all, looking anxious. He was unshaven and still in his day clothes; there was also a slightly Mundungus-like whiff of stale drink about him.

(OotP, Ch22)

But never in front of Harry. While Harry is at Grimmauld, Sirius doesn't drink and doesn't let himself lose himself, even if he wants to, because he is trying to be there for Harry. Whenever Harry says anything, Sirius immediately jumps to accommodate. Sirius cares, a lot, he's just in a shit mental state.

“Right — yeah,” said Harry distractedly. It was his last chance to tell Sirius to be careful; he turned, looked into his godfather’s face and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so Sirius was giving him a brief, one-armed hug. He said gruffly, “Look after yourself, Harry,” and next moment Harry found himself being shunted out into the icy winter air, with Tonks

(OotP, Ch24)

In the above scene, Harry wants to tell Sirius to be careful and watch out for himself, something Sirius doesn't want to hear. Sirius knows he is being self-destructive when Harry isn't around, and in the above scene, I always read it as him wanting to not promise Harry he'd be careful. Because if Harry asked him, he'd promise, and if he did, he'd feel inclined to keep his promise, which he isn't interested in doing. He wants to self-destruct, and he knows Harry wouldn't like it.

b. Dumbledore's orders.

We know Sirius was told by Dumbledore, Molly, Lupin, etc. that he shouldn't tell Harry the full story. Not only that, but Dumbledore told the Order about some of his suspicions regarding Harry being possessed by Voldemort:

“Yes,” said Mrs. Weasley. She sounded rather uneasy. “You know, Dumbledore seems almost to have been waiting for Harry to see something like this. . . .” “Yeah, well,” said Moody, “there’s something funny about the Potter kid, we all know that.” “Dumbledore seemed worried about Harry when I spoke to him this morning,” whispered Mrs. Weasley. “ ’Course he’s worried,” growled Moody. “The boy’s seeing things from inside You-Know-Who’s snake. . . . Obviously, Potter doesn’t realize what that means, but if You-Know-Who’s possessing him —”

(OotP, Ch22)

Dumbledore expected something like it, and even Molly noticed, Moody thinks it's obvious this is a case of possession — you think Sirius doesn't realize it? Sirius probably thinks like them, that Harry was temporarily passed by Voldemort, and he's terrified.

He shuts down Harry's fears in the pantry scene because these are probably his own fears, too. He is trying to convince both Harry and himself that Harry is fine and isn't possessed by Voldemort. That he isn't dangerous or in danger because he would be helpless to help him. And Sirius hates feeling like that. It's how he felt all the time in Grimmauld.

The scene in the pantry always read to me like very aggressive reassurance mixed with denial.

[passionxwrites]

Summer Romance 2

Pairings: ModernAU! Elias “Stack” Moore x BlackOC! (Cymone) x ModernAU! Elijah “Smoke” Moore

Warnings: MDNI, Cursing, use of the N-Word, Suggestive language, some flirting

Word Count: 4.0K

Smoke

Bookbag got the big pump

Like high school, you can get jumped

Can’t play me like a weak punk

Bend it over lemme see some

Bitch I’m a monsta, dumpin niggas like a Tonka

GD crazy like my uncle

“And you know what, we shoulda known Punkin was gone have all that body. Her mama had ass too.”

Smoke was snatched from his thoughts due to Stacks dumbass rambling yet again. He hadn’t shut up since the party at the park last week. Granted Smoke was just as in awe as him but damn she wasn’t the only thing on his mind.

She was on his mind though.

He had bigger fish to fry since they had finally bought back the house they grew up in and had officially settled back into being home. Now it was time to take over the city like they always grew up dreaming about.

“Whatever happened to her mama anyway,” Stack asked absentmindedly.

“Last I heard she was on that shit and wouldn’t get clean. Probably somewhere still on it,” Smoke finally answered as he observed his twin in the mirror.

“Make my shit straight bitch ass nigga,” he said to Stack with a smirk as his brother began lining him up.

Stack had always been the twin that was big on appearances so he was the one who learned how to cut their hair after they moved. He also bought most of they clothes cause if Smoke was left alone to get his own shit he would wear white tees and jeans everyday.

“I should make that shit crooked on purpose since you wanna play.”

Smoke let out a low chuckle before the music paused and the sound of buzzing filled the room. His eyes located Stacks phone on the sink counter.

Mary

“Uh oh, it’s the single white female,” Smoke said with a light chuckle knowing it would piss his brother off.

“Shut the fuck up damn,” Stack muttered with an attitude as he snatched his phone from the sink and ignored the call.

“I told you to leave that bitch alone but you wouldn’t listen. Now she obsessed with you.”

“She need to be obsessed with her damn husband and leave me alone. She don’t even live out here no more. Heard he moved her ass to a big ass house in Madison.”

“Gotta stop hitting that button with every woman you lay with potna.”

“Nigga please. I always gotta hit the button,” he said as he proceeded to finish cutting Smoke's hair like what he said was normal.

Smoke only shook his head as he looked at the reflection of him and Stack in the bathroom mirror. Since he was the oldest he always grew up trying to protect Stack whether it was from they own daddy or from niggas in the neighborhood. The problem was Stack could never shut the fuck up for his own good sometimes. He was always running off at the mouth to any and everybody and although now he was old enough to protect himself and could, Smoke was gone always be there ten toes behind him.

“Let’s hurry this shit up so we can meet up with Duke and Boom.”

They had finally found a spot downtown to put their club in and they had a meeting with the old owner to read over the contracts and sign on the dotted line. It was this building that sat smack dab in the middle of the city. It used to be a sawmill way back in the day in the 1930s and it was owned by some white folks. The twins not only wanted the place because of the good business they would get but also because they wanted to be the first black owners of the place. With the help of their childhood homeboy Lawrence “Boom” Jenkins, who was also their lawyer, they knew the building was basically theirs.

“Aight nigga damn. You always rushing sibling bonding time.”

“We can do that shit later. We got business to handle first and after that we need to go by Miss Etta Jean’s and take a look at her dishwasher.”

Stack continued to huff and puff but he eventually finished up Smoke’s cut and they both got dressed and headed over to the sawmill. Once they got there they saw Boom and Duke already standing outside talking.

“How yall boys doin,” Smoke spoke in greeting as he dapped both of the men up.

“Shittt, ready to get this place so we can get this crackin ya feel me,” Duke spoke as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“Yeah, where this man at cause I’m on a tight schedule today,” Boom said while looking at his watch.

“There he go right there.”

The group of men looked up as a sleek all black Mercedes Benz S 580 pulled into the parking lot. Once the car came to a stop none other than Porter Keyes stepped out. Porter was your everyday preppy white boy who grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth from a fortune that was more than likely built off the backs of slaves. The sawmill had been in his family for centuries yet they hadn’t done a damn thing with it. They were instead too busy building up the whiter parts of Mississippi. When Smoke reached out to him about buying the building Porter all but jumped at the opportunity to finally have it off his hands.

The white man eagerly exited the car with his own lawyer in tow, a stuffy looking older white man, and walked up to the four men with a smile etched across his face.

“Gentleman, let’s make some history shall we,” he spoke as he beckoned the group on to go unlock the door.

They entered the building and Smoke walked around as he began picturing the place filled with bodies on the dance floor, people buying drinks and folks just having a good time. This place was everything he could have dreamed of.

“So! Here I have the title and the deed to the building as well as the contract,” shot out Porter as his lawyer pulled all of the documents from his briefcase and handed them to Boom to read over. After about 30 minutes of Boom thoroughly reading the contract and making sure the deed and the title were legit he gave a nod to the twins.

“Let’s sign,” Smoke spoke simply as he grabbed a pen from the table they were all standing around. Him, Stack, and Porter all signed solidifying the deal.

“I can’t thank you guys for finally taking this place off my hands.”

“Nah thank you bruh and don’t worry, we gone take real good care of this place,” Stack said with his signature grin as he wrapped an arm around his brother.

“What y’all plan to do with this old gal if you don’t mind me asking,” Porter inquired as he slid his shades back onto his face.

“We gone make this here a club. Calling it Club Juke after the Juke Joint our grandaddy owned way back,” Smoke said with a lil pride in his chest. His granddaddy was a true business man. Somebody to really look up to and be proud of. The twins had always idolized the man, taking every step they could to be just like him and they had just about done it.

“Hm, a club. Well I hope it works out for you fellas. Any questions just give me a ring,” and with that Porter and his lawyer were out of the door leaving the twins, Boom, and Duke.

“Mannn I’m so excited for this shit here ju. I can picture opening night already! It’s gone be so many bad bitches in here and you know with bad bitches gone come all the niggas wanting to spend some change. This gone be a gold mine,” Duke said excitedly as he all but bounced off the walls.

“We need niggas to spend more than change to make a profit. Before all that we need to get a liquor license, cooks for the chicken, and some employees. You still gone have your boys on security?”

“Yeah I done already prepped em on what they have to do. They just waiting on the word.”

“Good, good. Everything go right and we’ll be in business in about three weeks,” Smoke said as he looked down at his phone to check the time.

“Shit, we need to get over by your grandma. I promised her we would look at her dishwasher since your simple ass broke it.”

Duke immediately huffed at Smoke with a roll of his eyes.

“I told her I aint know nothing bout fixing no dishwasher anyway. I sell drugs I aint no damn handyman,” Duke complained as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Damn shame. Them D.A.R.E niggas would be real disappointed in yo ass. You was they favorite student back in the day,” Stack spoke as he shook his head causing the room to erupt in laughter.

Cymone

Cymone sat upright in her bed as she focused on the tedious task of painting her toenails white. Her favorite nail tech down at the shop was out sick til the next week and she refused to let anybody else touch her feet or hands so she had to lock in and do it herself. Just as she had finished and begun to let them dry the doorbell rang making her cuss under her breath.

“Somebody always coming round here at the wrong time man,” the girl fussed as she waddled down the stairs and to the front door. She looked at the alarm camera that sat on the table next to it and rolled her eyes.

“Of course it’s tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum,” she mumbled while unlocking the door and coming face to face with her two nightmares.

“I heard that shit. Yo ass never could whisper,” Stack said with that same grin on his face. A part of her wanted to slap it off his face but Stack liked to wrestle and she wasn't in the mood for all that.

“Whatever nigga. What y’all want and no we are not donating to the Broke Ass Nigga Fund.”

“Glad it aint no broke ass niggas round here. Yo grandma asked for us to come take a look at her dishwasher. Said it’s leaking water,” Smoke finally spoke up from behind his brother. She put her eyes on him which made her notice they both had recently got a haircut.

They look aight but I’ll never tell em that.

Cymone stayed propped against the door frame as she observed them through the screen door before finally letting them in. They weren’t lying because the dishwasher had been broken for about a month now and it had gotten worse after Duke called himself looking at it two weeks ago. She also knew Ganny had probably asked the twins to take a look because they would always fix on stuff around the house before they left. Cymone was also tired of being the dishwasher so if they could fix it she had no problems with letting em do it. She walked further into the house leading them to the kitchen before turning to see Stack holding a medium sized brown teddy bear and Smoke holding a big ass bouquet of roses.

Did they have that with them the whole time?

She must have been too focused on their faces to notice them obviously hiding something behind their backs. Half of her wanted to coo at the obvious “I’m sorry,” gifts but the other half was still pissed and that half was calling all of the shots right now. Cymone scrunched her face a little as she folded her arms at the two men.

“What? This supposed to soften me up,” she accused as her attitude heightened, ready to start a war if she needed to.

“Nah, you ain't gone never be soft. This just something to say sorry for how we left,” Smoke being the first to speak up.

She continued to hold them under her narrowed gaze before it softened just a little. She leaned forward and took notice of the roses being yellow, her favorite color. They still remembered her favorite color after all of these years. Something in her stomach stirred and she decided to finally end her reign of terror against them. She could never stay mad at em for long anyway.

“Well, thank you. It’s about time y’all learned how to apologize,” she said as her tone lightened up while taking the gifts from them.

“But y’all aint off the hook just yet. Still got a lil mo ass to kiss,” she said as she began to walk the gifts up to her room.

“That’s a lot of ass,” she heard one of them mutter, probably Stack’s degenerate ass, before a pop sounded off.

“Shut up nigga.”

Cymone smirked a little as she finally made it to her room. She sat the flowers on her dresser making a mental note to get one of Ganny’s vases to put them in and she sat the bear in the middle of her bed. Her attention was then drawn to her phone buzzing loudly noticing on her nightstand. Of course it was nobody but Reana calling. She snatched the phone from the charger and quickly hit answer knowing her girl hated to wait long for somebody to answer her call.

“House of beauty this is Cutie,” she jokingly greeted while laying across her bed.

“I’m finna come over so you can help me figure out what to wear on my date,” Reana rambled without even giving a formal greetung. Cymone took note of her flustered tone and the shuffling in her background which was a sign that she was probably running around her room like a chicken with her head cut off.

“What fucking date,” Cymone asked while sitting up in her bed. The two girls had talked everyday and almost every hour of the day and Reana had never mentioned anything about a date.

“Uhhhh soo you know yesterday I was at work and Sammie annoying ass came in there messing with me right?”

“Yes, what that gotta do with anything?”

“Welllll, we might have made a bet that if he could bench press 250 pounds I would finally let him take me on a date. Low and behold his ass is actually really strong for his size.”

Cymone sat there for a second slightly bewildered before she burst into laughter. She was laughing so hard tears were running down her face. Sammie was known around as the town player. He was the type of nigga that changed bitches like he changed his drawls. He was never one to keep a girl around for long but he had been sniffing after Reana something serious for years now. Her girl would never give him the time of day because she knew how he was and she aint have time to be knocking Sammie’s head between the washer and the dryer because he wanted to play with her so she always kept her distance. Cymone knew one day he would finally find a way to get her because he was clever like his cousins and it looked like he had finally succeeded but she knew this date was not gone go how he was probably hoping.

“Stop laughing damn! I’m mad enough,” Reana blew out angrily.

“Girl don’t get huffy with me, it aint my fault. Yo ass need to stop betting people too. You ain’t no damn gambler.”

“Whatever man. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” and with that Reana hung up the phone in her face making Cymone laugh once again.

“Girl always getting herself into something like a toddler.”

Knowing that Reana was on the way, Cymone decided to go downstairs and wait for her and maybe also see how the twins were doing with the dishwasher. You know, just to make sure they were actually down there working.

Once she made it downstairs she rounded the corner into the kitchen to see Smoke leaned over in the dishwasher and Stack standing beside him holding a flashlight. She stepped into the kitchen and walked to the refrigerator deciding to pull out some cut up watermelon. After putting some into a bowl she lifted herself onto the counter and began snacking.

“Y’all know what y’all doing,” she asked knowing full well that they did but it wouldn’t be her if she didn’t find a way to aggravate them in some form or fashion. Smoke was the only one who would seem annoyed by her but say nothing. Stack always wanted to argue back cause he forever had something slick to say.

“You supposed to be sitting on that counter,” Smoke shot back as he looked at her from the corner of his eye.

Cymone rolled her eyes at him before throwing another cube of watermelon into her mouth and then licking her fingers. As she pulled the last finger from her mouth she made eye contact with Stack who had been staring her down since her ass made contact with the counter. She smirked a little before flipping her middle finger at him.

“Take a picture next time. It’ll last longer.”

“You gone stay like that while I go get my camera,” Stack asked as his smirk matched hers causing Cymone to squint her eyes. The nigga literally always had something to say. She continued to stare at him until she heard the doorbell ring indicating that Reana had made it to the house.

“You always running that mouth Stack. Be a shame if somebody put some real use to it,” she said as she hopped off the counter and sauntered to the door while also doing what nobody could ever do, she had Stack speechless.

Stack

“I thought I’d never see the day somebody shut yo ass up,” Smoke said with a chuckle as he stood from the floor.

Stack could only shake his head as a smirk slowly began to form on his face.

“Guess Punkin aint the same Punkin no more like Duke said,” he said as thoughts began to swirl in his head and none of them were clean.

“Nah she aint,” making Stack turn to his brother and squint his eyes.

“Nigga I know that look!”

“Shut yo loud ass up. What fucking look?”

“That you intrigued look. Like you wanna see what Punkin talking bout,” Stack accused as he folded his arms.

“You got the same damn look nigga! If anything yo ass got the you intrigued actions,” Smoke said while walking up on his brother, looking him up and down.

“I’m Stack baby. I’m always intrigued by a woman,” he said with a chuckle making his brother scoff and brush past him heading out of the kitchen.

Stack followed him into the living room where they saw Cymone sitting on the couch and her friend sitting in the middle of the floor with a pair of shoes in each hand and two outfits laid out on the floor. Stack took the liberty to sit on one side of Cymone while Smoke took the other side basically sandwiching the poor girl in between them.

“What y’all in here doing,” Stack asked as he watched Smoke snatch the remote from Cymone’s hand and switch the channel from whatever reality tv show she was watching to a football game. Cymone quickly frowned her face up and thumped him upside the head causing him to grab her hand.

“Don’t put yo hands on me,” he gruffed while throwing her hand back into her lap.

“Don’t come in here snatching shit out my hand in my house!”

“Will y’all shut up damn. Somebody answer my question,” Stack asked again before they could start up into an argument.

“Reana got a date with y’all slow ass cousin.”

“Who? Sammie?”

“Yes,” Reana answered begrudgingly from the floor with a roll of her eyes.

“Don’t do my boy like that. He gone wine and dine ya real nice,” Stack answered with a little laugh knowing how his cousin could get down when he was pursuing somebody.

“That’s fine. A bitch love a free meal but that don’t mean I’m coming off no ass. I will be going home right after we eat,” she stated matter of factly while wagging her finger in the air.

“Yeah, okay. Um, you gone cook something,” Stack asked as he turned his attention back to Cymone while wrapping his arm around her shoulder. The girl immediately turned to him in disbelief.

“Why are y’all still here,” she exasperated while leaning from his arm causing her to lay onto Smoke’s chest.

Just as Stack was about to answer her question with something smart his phone started buzzing in his pocket. He held up a finger at Cymone as he pulled his phone out his pocket and quickly wished he hadn’t when he saw the name on the screen.

Mary. Again.

Stack frustratedly blew out a breath as he hit the ignore button for the umpteenth time just for her to immediately call back causing him to power the whole phone off altogether. He then turned to see Cymone looking at him quizzically being that she was watching him the whole time.

“Why Mary blowing your phone up like that?”

Stack only turned his head and purse his lips cause he didn’t wanna tell her or Reana that he slipped up and fucked Mary, a little too good, right before he left causing the woman to become obsessed. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Reana’s mouth drop and soon after he heard Smoke chuckling. He turned his head back to Cymone to see her leaned further into Smoke with her eyes wide and hand on her chest as if she was offended.

“Did you fuck Mary Elias?”

He cringed at her calling his government name cause she only said it when she was mad or disappointed in him. He could tell in this situation it was definitely the latter of the two. Everybody round here knew the type of girl Mary was. She was one of them white girls that stayed in the hood posted up round niggas hanging on to the lil drop of black she had in her blood cause her granddaddy was mixed. She had already been hit by so many niggas in the hood before him, word was she was tryna have a mixed baby, so he didn’t think she was gone be so hung up on him all these years after.

“Yeah man, damn,” he finally answered as he ran his hand down his face.

“That’s a damn shame you let that squirrel ass hoe get to you. You back here laughing, did you fuck her too,” Cymone asked as she turned her accusatory gaze to Smoke who was still surprisingly cracking up.

“Nah. I’m lactose intolerant,” causing Stack to squint his eyes at his brother.

“It was a mistake and it only happened one time. I don’t give a damn bout that girl and I don’t know why her married ass keep calling me.”

“You must have really put it on her Stack. Gots to be mo careful baby boy,” Cymone said with a fake pout on her pretty lips and she rubbed his back.

“I’m just a man who likes to take care of the woman he lay with,” he remarked as he looked Cymone right in the eyes, noticing her freeze up.

She immediately leaned up and cleared her throat before turning her attention to Reana who had been watching the three of them with a little smirk on her face.

“Girl come on and let’s go upstairs so we can figure out your outfit,” Cymone said and she stood from the couch and all but snatched Reana from the floor to head upstairs to her room.

Stack leaned back on the couch with a grin wide as the Mississippi River. He had gotten her back for her mouth in the kitchen.

“Checkmate.”

Note: Sorry for the wait guys. My plan was to have this part out by Friday but life kept getting in the way chile but here is part 2!! Next part will more than likely only be from Cymone's point of view and she adjusts to her feelings for the twins and not to mention Rashad is still around. Also it’s so hard finding pictures of Michael with hair so just know that Stack has a short fro and Smoke has waves. Let me know what y'all and think I hope y'all enjoy! Also let me know if you would like to be tagged. See ya next time!

Tag List: @angryflowerwitch @cleo92bitch-i-am-old @reci1996 @hoodpr1ncessdiana @cerya @rose-bliss @thickemadame

[harukaluvr]

why does this always happpoeeeeennnn

[the-acid-pear]

Why did my cooking dream get hijacked by my brain making a William Afton oc and au what was that about.

[melverie]

@fideosfelices

No but I've been replaying a handful of the older events these past few days and I forgot just how many of them end with MC being forced to be with Lucifer in some form

Like, spoilers for Lucifer's lvl 60 phone call in Nightbringer, but this is why your brothers kept asking MC if they really are in a relationship with you behind your back because "a relationship requires the consent of both people" and considering your track record, that's not a given on your part, Lucifer.

Do you want that list to be in alphabetical or in chronological order

[pencil-n-pen]

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)

[sirompp]

i feel like my school dreams are taunting me now. this one started with me telling someone how crazy it was i was always dreaming about this exact scenario (being back in school) but THIS time it WASNT a dream and i was actually there. who was i talking to about the realness of my current situation you ask? Karkat Vantas

[sunni-stuff]

P1 here.

Ghost walks through the door of your home as if he owns the place, tossing his keys onto the coffee table and shrugging off his gear by the door. He remembers your address by heart and recognizes the space he's walking through once again. 

Glancing around, he expected to see you greet him at the foyer only to be met with silence. Ghost passes by your couch, gloved fingers running against the back while his mind replays the sounds of your needy moans from when he fingered you on the cushions just weeks ago.

Ghost has had countless flings and meaningless one night stands, but never did he expect any of the doves he's played with to actively call for more. 

Though he wasn't complaining.

A creaking floorboard causes his head to snap towards the stairs. There, he sees you cautiously descending, the sides of your nightgown clutched anxiously in your palms. “I didn't think you'd actually show.” 

Simon stares at you, his eyes roaming over your form, taking in every dip and curve visible through the lacey material. He lets out a heavy breath, fist clenched in deep restraint as he thanked every single god above for what's standing in front of him. “How can I ignore a civilian in need?”

Your laugh makes him still, the mirthful chuckle and the smile on your lips making the tent in his pants ache painfully.

Did you know what you were doing to him? How just your chuckles alone stirred something profound?

“So… upstairs or on the couch?” You ask, breaking the silence.

“You wanted me here, love. Dealers' choice.” Simon watches you fumble, fingers thumbing over the lacing decorating the bottom of your nightgown.

“Upstairs then.”

For Simon, everything seems to happen in blurs. Just moments ago he was standing by the stairs and the next he's in between your legs, one large hand splayed over your stomach having you lay back motioning for you to relax as he eats you out like a man starved.

He doesn't remember how he got here; all that matters now is the taste of your cunt on his tongue. Simon laps at your glossy lips, tongue gliding your sensitive folds to your clit, making sure to give both his undivided attention. He needed no words to know he was doing a good job; your knees attempting to lock behind his head was added confirmation if your whines for more weren't enough.

“Can't you just put it in?” You huff in between moans, attempting to sit up on your elbows despite his efforts to keep you down.

“Shhh…” Simon coos, pressing a fleeting kiss on your pearl before pulling away his chin and lips shining your slick. “Look at that, practically begging for me.” A thick digit runs down your slit, gathering a pool of wetness and licking it off his fingers. 

Simon gazes at your cunt, observing how just his lips hovering near causes your weeping hole to clench around nothing. He could watch this all day. Watch how badly you needed him. How only he had the privilege to hear you beg.

“Alright, fussy bird,” He stands up straight, his shadow completely consuming you, the stark differences between you two are evident. Simon is not a small man in the slightest. Everything about him screams large. His presence commands attention, from his muscular arms down to his sturdy thighs.

Simon grabs ahold of your waist, pulling you against his bulge, slowly grinding his hips up and down, teasing you along the rough fabric of his jeans. He shows a little restraint, purposely holding back in hopes of hearing more pleas. “Come on, love, tell me what you need.”

This is what you dreamed of. His hands, his voice, his lips against your skin, a true dream come true. The final stretch was so close, so near and yet he still kept you tethered to the edge. “Please, I need it,” You mewl desperately, hips bucking for more friction.

Simon chuckles lightly, watching as you practically bounce in anticipation. "Someone's in a hurry," he jokes, despite his growing ardor matching your own.

With nimble fingers, he quickly unbuttons his jeans, sliding them down along with his boxers until he's bare to you. His eyes bore into yours as he did so, a silent question in them. His large cock sprang free, bobbing up against his stomach in time with his rapid heartbeat. 

The sight of his length, standing proud and erect, was enough to intensify the heat pooling in the pit of your stomach. Finally, you'd be full once again, getting to feel that cock of his in places no one else can reach. You nod all too eagerly, laying back to fully embrace everything.

With a swift lift of your hips, Simon nudges the edge of himself against you, drawing a ragged groan as he feels the wet heat of your waiting entrance. One hand grabbing his length, he slowly guided his throbbing cock against your slick folds. The head of his erection teased your entrance for a moment, before he pressed forward, burying himself inside you. “Fuck, fuck, more, please.” 

Simon can't help but smirk at your eagerness, patting your thigh appreciatively. “Can't rush things, dove. Don't want you breaking.” It's a slow push, his cock stretching your welcoming heat inch by inch. As he bottomed out, he let out a throaty groan, his fingers digging into your hips, anchoring you to him.

You cum in that exact moment, your pussy squeezing tightly around him and milking his cock. It feels like a faucet that won't stop dripping, coating his length with your sweet juices. For a brief moment you're dazed, head swimming and unable to hear anything over the sound of your heavy breathing.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, admiring the sight of you breathless. You feel like velvet, your pussy a vice he wasn’t sure he’d be able to quit. His thumb pushes against your clit and you whine, your voice high-pitched.

“Sensitive, please,” you beg, squirming until his hands force your hips down. Your lips are forced into an o shape, a silent scream forced from your chest when he does the exact opposite.

You’re not sure if you’re begging for him to stop or begging for more–it’s hard to tell when you’re being fucked within an inch of your life.

“Stay with me dove, stay with me,” Simon sneers, something depraved and feral in his voice. “Lemme make you feel good.”

Once the initial shock of cumming has passed, he begins to move inside you, setting a slow, deliberate pace. With every thrust, he claimed more of you, your bodies moving together in synchronicity. The scent of your sex mingled in the confined space of your bedroom, intensifying the intimate atmosphere.

Simon closes his eyes, wanting to savor the moment. Everything about this is mesmerizing. He'd rather be here than anywhere else in the world.

A hitched moan has him opening his eyes, his gaze boring into yours, wanting to see every flicker of pleasure that passes through you. Thank you, god, Simon thinks. He could feel himself teetering on the edge, but he held on, wanting to draw this pleasure out as long as possible. He wanted to give you everything and more.

“Feel like heaven,” he breathes. “Is this what you wanted? Wanted me nice and deep huh?”

His palm presses on your stomach where his cock bulges the skin, his grin wicked. “Poor girl, can’t make herself cum so she had to call me, yeah?”

You nod, a symphony of yes yes yes escaping you as Simon bears down upon you, the bed rocking with each movement.

“Had to call me because you know no one can fuck you like I can,” he says, “say it for me, c’mon.”

You hiccup through every word. “N-No one can fuck me—oh god—like you Si’—”

Your words make his ego grow, muttering of that's fuckin’ right streaming from his lips as he comes, the feeling sending your nerves on overdrive. 

As he felt you tightening around him, he knew you were close—as close as he was. His hand slipped between their bodies, his fingers finding your sensitive nub, applying just the right amount of pressure. He stroked in rhythm with his thrusts, chasing your orgasm with his.

Your pleasure peaked simultaneously, his cum filling you as you cum around him, walls clenching and rippling along his length in your aftershock. After a moment, he pulls out carefully, the room filled with your heavy breathing. 

Neither of you spoke for a while, simply staring back at each other through lust-filled eyes and flushed cheeks. Simon starts his retreat, stepping back to make distance and pulling up his pants. Your hand on his makes him pause. He raises a brow, confused by your actions. He opens his mouth but you're quicker.

“We aren't done.”

-

The original prompt was supposed to be a little thing; but so many people liked it, so here <3! This most likely won't be a series.

Taglist (ppl who commented): @pheebslu @amaraabbz @crestapex @tsarinamariya @kittykatgorl @havoc973 @gg-trini @coyotebayou @delta98-idk @thincess-reup @my-bright-legacy @jaxz21 @readersandtumblers

[berrryparfait]

take my cock, milady ! ˖𓂃 .⚜ ݁˖

♥︎ ︎ featuring: servant! caleb, sylus, zayne, rafayel, xavier x countess! fem-afab!reader

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: you are the beloved countess of a prosperous noble family, cherished for your innocence and grace. but no one is perfect, for in a secluded room at tonight’s social ball, something rather ungraceful is unfolding…

❝ but—we're not allowed! it's improper—! ❞

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: [nsfw] pure smut, regency au, piv, creampie, indecent / semi-public exposure, dubcon, classist / sexist sentiments, forbidden attraction

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: wildest dreams (from bridgerton s1)

✧ a/n: inspired by the lewd royal manhwas they don't allow on the naver webtoon app (and bridgerton, ofc) <3

It’s social season again.

You…dislike it. The wide, blinding smiles with little behind them, the stuffy ball gowns with far too many frills, the uncanny conversations about the weather you’re forced to endure… It’s all so tiring.

Here you are, in your poufy designer skirts, growing more anxious by the second. Your pink lace corset is squeezing the life out of your lungs. It wouldn’t be the most admirable display of manners, but you could really use some time alone right now.

You enter one of the empty study rooms down the busy hallway, suffocated and overwhelmed all at once. But what you don’t expect is your freshly-hired servant to follow you in…

“Are you quite alright, Milady?” You startle, surprised to hear another voice in the room with you. Male. Oh no. “Yes, yes, I’m just fine. Thank you, Caleb.” You politely request some peace and quiet, waving him away with delicate, gloved fingers. Let’s just say, it would be less than ideal if someone were to catch you alone in here with a man. A playful grin plays at his lips, and you freeze. How have you not noticed his ravishing good looks all this time? “It seems to me that you’re in need of a little release. A beautiful maiden like you must be…frustrated.” You pretend to misunderstand him, though you know perfectly well what he means. He’s right—being cooped up in the manor all day has left you dry, in every sense of the word. Heat pools in your core, though you try your best to ignore it. After all, it isn’t proper for a noblewoman to be consulting her servant on intimate matters like these.

His breath warms your cheek as he steps infinitely closer, and the throbbing between your legs intensifies. “Let me handle you, Milady…” he whispers, soft and alluring. Your body leans into his, even as your mind screams at you to shove him straight to the heavens.. His hands are on your hips, bunching up the fabric of your skirt— “This is improper— We can’t—” But instead of pulling away, you let yourself succumb to his ministrations, lost in the wonderful feeling of his searing touch on your skin. He’s planting wet kisses on your neck now, gently pushing you up against the wall as you sigh and wonder if anyone outside can hear you. “You’re wet for me, Princess,” he muses as he reaches a skilled hand between your legs, his thumb brushing against your nub of nerves. A small squeal leaves your lips. “Shh shh shh, they’ll hear us…” He pushes your skirt all the way up to your waist before freeing his large, erect cock, angling it so that the tip rests just between your folds. Your mouth hangs open as he pushes his length all the way into your sex—the first long, delicious glide of his dick along your walls like releasing a breath of relief. You fail to suppress a tortured moan, and he chuckles against the curve of your neck.

His thrusts are slow at first, unhurried. But then his grip on your waist tightens and your pussy clenches in response, the blinding pleasure overwhelming you. Distantly, you remember this man is your servant—a man without status or recognition—yet here he is, fucking you into oblivion at a ball with your back against a priceless, likely stained painting. He groans into your ear and your whimpers come out louder, prompting him to press a hand to your mouth and muffle your cries. “You’re going to go back out there…and act like nothing happened… You hear me?” he grits out between pants, holding your thigh up to pound into your cunt with unforgiving force. You come undone. Hot, sticky cum fills you to the brim while you shake and spasm like a hummingbird, the most euphoric sensation washing over you.

By the time he’s pulled out and gathered his composure, you’ve only just smoothed down your unruly mess of hair, your legs still trembling as you attempt to straighten your skirt. “Alert me whenever you’re in need of a little fun, Milady. I’ll make sure you never forget how it feels to be wanted again.” He winks at you, and your heart stills. His cum is still dripping down your legs when you return to the ballroom.

“Well, you look awfully pale, Milady.” You bristle at the deep, husky voice, unaware someone had followed you in. “Relax. It’s only me. I came in to check on you,” he pauses, examining the sleeves of his uniform. “Am I right to say that you’re a little…wound up right now?” He says it with concern, though a teasing lilt punctuates his words. “Sylus, we can’t be seen here together.” You say, panic rising in your throat. What will people think? What will your family say? Rumors spread like wildfire in high society—it won’t be long before your reputation is irreversibly tarnished. He merely snickers at your urgency, low and ominous. The smirk on his face is telling, though you don’t want to know what it is he’s trying to tell you. He steps closer to you, towering over your ribboned head with an un-servant-like ease.

Sparks ignite in your belly, a strange, filthy feeling that leaves you wanting more. His gloved hand brushes the side of your face as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I happen to know all the ways to satisfy a lady…” Your eyes flutter as he loosens your corset, every inch of your body responding to his touch. “The pleasure I’m capable of providing… Aren’t you tempted, Kitten?” And even though you know it's wrong, and you know it’s unbecoming, and that you’ll probably regret this the second it’s over, you breathe, “Yes…” He hums in response, trailing soft licks and kisses down the side of your neck as he wrenches your corset apart. Your plump breasts spill out, and his pupils dilate, his gaze fixated on your bare chest like an animal watching its prey. Hickeys bloom across your shoulder as his fingers twist your nipples, eliciting squeaks of surprise from you that only fuel his desire. “I’m going to bend you over, and you’re going to stay quiet. You hear me?” he orders, and you nod pathetically. As much as you hate the thought of submitting to your servant right now, the growing arousal between your legs is too much to bear.

You get on all fours on the carpeted ground, hoping to god no one walks in. The door doesn’t have a lock—it’s entirely possible for someone to stumble upon you like this. Impatient, he rolls your skirt up to expose your rear, and you shudder as he pulls your knickers down to your knees. “Wait— What if someone walks in—” But your protests are silenced by his rock-hard cock sliding into your pussy, the feeling of his girth stretching you from the inside sending waves of suffocating pleasure to your head. It’s obscene, the squelching noises echoing through the room as he plunges into you so fast and hard you see stars on the ceiling. With every thrust, his balls slap against your clit, and your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head. “Sylus— Slow down— I’m going to—” You moan into your elbow as he slams into you from behind, grunting and swearing under his breath as his cock swells.

Warm cum bursts from his engorged tip, the thick, viscous fluid leaking out of your pussy like syrup funneled from a tree. You collapse onto the floor, utterly spent. You were wrong—you don’t regret this one bit. “You’re free to take my cock whenever you’d like, Milady. After all, I do live to serve you.” The sardonic grin on his face nearly has you coming apart all over again.

“Is something the matter, Milady?” You recognize that voice. It’s your new servant, Zayne—the younger one. He isn’t supposed to be in here. “You looked a little pale earlier, so I took it upon myself to accompany you.” Your heart warms at his display of concern, though it does little to ease your distress over the situation. A woman must not be in the company of a man unchaperoned. “Can we speak outside?” The worry in your voice is clear. He walks up to you in an attempt to console you, his stride cautious. Right off the bat, you’d identified Zayne as “bright”. He’s hardworking, earnest, and never meddles in other people’s business. Today must be an exception. “Allow me to offer my help, Milady. I believe I know just the way to soothe a lady’s nerves. It’s…textbook.” Your stomach drops. He’s going to defile me—right here in this room! The indecency of it repulses you, yet you don’t head for the door. Your feet are rooted to the ground, completely helpless as his icy gaze travels the length of your body.

Gently, he guides you down onto the wide couch, settling you on his lap with a care that makes your breath hitch. “You’re my servant, Zayne—” But your efforts are futile. He’s dragging his hand along your thigh, his touch scorching hot as your skirt hikes up with it. You’ve never felt such powerful sensations before. It’s intoxicating. He reaches under your knickers and, with his thumb, begins to draw small circles on your most sensitive spot. You whimper in response, slickening almost instantaneously. How embarrassing..! “Does this feel good, Your Grace?” Your eyes respond for you, half-lidded and needy. It isn’t long before you’re grinding on his leg, chasing that sweet friction you now desperately need. Is he doing this on purpose? Drawing it out for your benefit?

He doesn’t torment you for long. Withdrawing his hand from between your legs, he pulls his pants down to his ankles and his twitching, hard cock springs free. You gape at the size of it, wondering if it’ll even fit. But that wicked, aching need in your core only grows stronger with every second that passes; the idea of him barely fitting sounds… To put it plainly, you're willing to do many unladylike things in this room right now. And though every last brain cell is telling you to get up and leave while you still can, you slide onto his cock anyway. It tingles so wonderfully where you’re connected in his lap—you give in to your body’s desires and bounce on it. “Faster, please—” he groans as you fuck yourselves silly on the couch, keeping your pace as best as you can and crying out each time his tip hits your sweet spot. People might hear us… you think anxiously, yet somehow your pleasure only heightens, the mental image if you and your servant fucking like rabbits in a room that doesn’t belong to you so thoroughly demented.

His dick throbs inside you, and your walls flutter. You both struggle to muffle your cries as he pumps his thick seed into your cunt, every part of your shaking so violently you nearly fall off his lap. “I sincerely hope that was…effective, Milady. Judging by your body’s response, I’d say you’ll be satisfied for a while. But when that satisfaction eventually fades…” His dick is still snug in your pussy, and you feel your walls tightening again. “Eventually” may come sooner than he thinks.

“Tough crowd, Milady?” You gasp and spin around. What? “You look like you’re about to faint.” Your new servant, Rafayel, stands by the closed door, a curious expression on his face. “I-I’m fine. Could I have some privacy, please?” you stammer, flustered. It isn’t acceptable for a lady to be hiding away at a social event like this, let alone with a male servant. So many things could go wrong. “Why? Don’t you think it’d be in your best interest to let off some steam?” He smirks at you, coy and sensual. There’s a hidden edge to him you’ve never noticed before—it’s making your knees weak. He tosses his gloves onto the floor and approaches you, slowly. Darkly. He looks like he’s about to give you orders.

“Face the wall. You’ll do as I say, won’t you?” He’s lust-drunk, hazy and hungry at the mere sight of you. The command—along with the aching throb between your legs— offends you, and you spit, “I am a noblewoman, excuse you—” “You’re a woman. And we both know you’re wet for me…” he whispers, sending shivers down your spine. Your body involuntarily arches against his, and he chuckles sadistically. Silently, you start to pray. You don’t know exactly what it is you’re praying for, but it involves his hands all over you and your mouth on his— Your sinful thoughts shock you, yet you’ve never longed for anything as miserably as you do this. Fresh arousal dribbles down your inner thigh as he corners you against the wall. At a loss, you glare at him defiantly. “You’re a nobody—”

You’re spun around and pressed up against the wall in an instant, the outline of his cock pressing against your ass. A started whimper leaves your lips as he nips at your earlobe, sharp and angry. “You’re gonna regret all that mouthing off, Princess,” he snarls, and your toes curl in anticipation. In one sudden movement, his pants are on the ground, and your skirt is pushed up to expose your ass. He shoves your undergarments to the side and thrusts his length into your sopping cunt, a firm hand restraining yours to the wall. The pleasure is euphoric, foreign—each jerk of his hips sending you into a mindless daze. His breath warms your cheek as he groans, and in the heat of the moment, he seizes your mouth, hot and hurried. “I think I’m going to—” But you choke on your words as a strained moan erupts from your throat, his dick hitting the ceiling of the sticky space inside you. What would the other nobles think if they saw you like this; all whiny and pathetic while taking your servant’s cock?

With one final thrust, ropes of cum drench the walls of your pussy, and the feeling of coming undone around his cock is indescribable. He grunts as he pushes his seed deep into your heat, his grip on your waist never loosening. Though you loathe to admit it, you needed that. You cling to his strong arms as you descend from your high. His voice is possessive, sinister when he says, “You’re mine. I don’t care who stands in my way. You’ll always be mine.”

“I couldn’t help but follow you in, Milady.” Xavier? What on earth is he doing in here? “It’s come to my attention that you haven’t been feeling your best tonight.” He’s naturally reserved and a bit on the no-nonsense side—you know that much. Surely he’s only here with good intentions. “No worries, Xavier. Just needed a little breather, that’s all.” His icy blue eyes lock on yours, and your breath catches in your throat. He looks…unconvinced. “Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, averting his gaze. Like what? There’s no one else in this room. Could he be…in heat right now? You frown at him, wary, and make your way to the door.

A hand reaches out to grab you by the elbow, effectively stopping you in your tracks. “What—” He pulls you into his embrace, his breaths short and labored. “You’re not leaving this room, Milady. I need to have you here.” He unties the ribbons holding your corset together, his fingers fumbling with urgency. You’re too stunned to move, yet you don’t yell at him or push him away. Heat pools in the pit of your stomach, an ache begging to be soothed. Your perky breasts are freed in an instant, swaying in his face before he latches onto your nipple and begins to suck at it like a man starved. The wet, sloppy licks of his tongue cloud your brain, and your pussy clenches. “Xavier, wait—” you protest, but he’s sucking on your other nipple right now, and your words die in your mouth. He’s clearly skilled, but you still can’t wrap your head around it. This servant of yours—a quiet, modest boy—is driving you to tears by suckling on your tits.

“Do you want my cock?” he asks, suddenly arrogant and crude. You nod obediently and let him pull you down onto the floor, shivering as he frees his hardened length and pushes your legs apart. You’re so wet it’s embarrassing, but it only seems to encourage him. He removes your knickers and presses his tip to your folds, the friction making your hips roll upwards. “Be patient,” he orders, and you nod once more. Slowly—torturously so—he inserts himself into your tight heat, making sure you feel every inch of his cock rubbing against your walls. You moan his name and flush hot, unused to the feeling of being this naked, this vulnerable in front of a man. He’s pounding into you seconds later, unable to hold back himself. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. His control is slipping, and you’re paying the price for it. You feel so full, so dirty with his cock between your legs, like you’re committing an unforgivable sin that will bar you from heaven forever. But you don’t care—this is heaven to you. This is pure, inexorable bliss.

His movements stutter, and he blows his load deep into your cunt as you fail to muffle your screams. Your pussy spasms hard, your juices leaking onto the carpet in an obscene puddle. Can’t—stop—shaking— He helps you up, his hold around your waist steady. “I apologize, Milady. I-I couldn’t resist.” You stare at the cum gliding down your calf and consider making him your personal servant.

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

[itzpookiepooh]

Don’t Touch It

You try to pump your own gas

Rafayel is fed up to the tip of his head with you. He feels like he’s teaching you to breathe when he sees you do things you aren’t supposed to be doing. You pull up to the get out. Rafayel tries to pull up something on his phone as he gets out. You thought he was going to get snacks. You should have known better than that. You press your card to the reader, select the grade, untwist the cap, and go to pump, everything was going smoothly until he appeared on the other side of the tank.

He looks you up and down and then looks around. He opens your jacket, stares at you then pushes your front to the car and looks your backside up and down. You were getting irritated with this foolishness. What could he possibly be doing at a gas station of all places?! You swat his hand away shooting an evil glare his way.

“Are you dying?” He asked with wide eyes, his hand on your forehead. “No?” You answer taking his hand off of you.

“Would you like to?” He deadpans. No blinking. No moving just straight up staring at you.

“What is wrong with you?!” You snap foxing your clothes. You let go of the gas pump making him quickly grab onto it. A win is a win.

“I was wondering if we switched roles overnight. I don’t remember you having…other facilities when I went to bed last night.” He gave a fake smile making your eyes widen.

“What are you talking about?” You tilt your head at him making him do the same but sassier.

“You don’t need me anymore?” He accused you making you fumble over your words. “Because it seems like you don’t if you’re out here pumping your own gas!” He snaps staring at you like you committed a crime.

“Rafayel—“ You sigh, defeated when he puts his hand up, not wanting to hear anything else from you. He waved you away to get back in the car.

“I was just trying to help.” You call from the drivers seat but your statement only aggravated him more. “Help someone who needs it!” He shouts back watching the gas tank fill.

“Love you!” You call to him, he glares at you once more. “I love you too.” He snaps before going back to ignoring you.

How dare you insult him like this!

Zayne is the perfect boyfriend, a textbook example. He cooks for you, drives you everywhere, and doesn’t let you so much as open the car door if you don’t have to. So why in the hell did you think it would be a good idea to pump the gas while he went inside to get a snack? Only you know the answer to that. It’s not a good one but it’s an answer.

Zayne nearly dropped his grapes when he saw you by the car pumping gas. He blinked a few times to make sure he was seeing what he was seeing. There was no way the love of his life was pumping gas in his car. He must be dreaming…or having a terrible nightmare.

“What are you doing?” He asks you placing his hand over yours that’s on the pump.

“Pumping gas?” You ask as if it were obvious. He didn’t understand the problem.

Zayne waited a beat in silence, the only sound is the gas pouring in and city life. He pushed you gently out of the way holding onto the pump where your hand once was. You just stared at him in confusion. What was his problem?

“It seems you believe my hands don’t work.” He told you as he watched the tank fill up. You cock your head back in confusion.

“I never said that.” You tell him in disbelief that he put words in your mouth. He glances at you his same expression on his face.

“It must’ve been what you thought if you believed it was okay to pump gas on your own.” His tone the same as it always is. You put your hands on your hips in a huff.

“You were in the store!” You reason but he shakes his head. “For a moment. Now get in the car it seems I have to teach you about what you need to be doing.” He lectures you pointing to the car.

You got in the car but not because he said so.

You thought you were so slick, waiting for him to pull his card out of his wallet while you went to go pump it yourself. Sylus pushes you back into the car causing you to pout. You were only trying to help. You look up at him like a pouty hamster to which he gives you a bored stare. He didn’t need you to lift a finger when you were together much less for something as small as this. Were you raised in a barn? Why would you pump his gas? He’s right there.

“Do you always try to inconvenience others?” He teased leaning against the passenger’s side door. You glared at him going to open the door but it wouldn’t.

“Did you put child’s lock on!” You yell through the window while he snickered.

“Did I? I don’t recall.” He chuckled watching you scramble to the backseat only to find those also have a child’s lock on them. Sylus couldn’t stop laughing at you. You looked like a hamster in a cage.

You weren’t able to exit the car as Sylus ignored you while he pumped the gas. You were so mad when he got back in but it didn’t matter. He told you about yourself on the way.

Please for the love of all things holy, don’t play with him like that. He nearly fell out and died because he saw you pumping his gas. You were lucky he even let you drive, he loves driving you around and only rarely does he let you drive him around. He went to run to the restroom real fast when he came back you were filling up the tank. He popped your hand so fast, his eyes narrowing at you.

“I just saw it needed a top up so I decided to do it.” You whimper rubbing your hand. He shakes his head at you.

“You don’t ever pump my gas, understand?” He lectures you as he crosses his arms. You pout, what was so wrong about pumping gas anyway? He leans closer waiting for you to agree.

“I don’t see what the big deal is. I’m just tryna help.” He sighs feeling bad about scolding you.

“I understand that. It’s about manners, you shouldn’t be pumping gas if I’m sitting in the car. It’s rude.” He explains ruffling your hair making you push him.

“Whatever.” You roll your eyes at him. He ushers you back into the car so he can finish filling the tank. His gesture did warm your heart though. The thought of him not wanting you to do things you don’t have to was heart warming.

He glares at you. He doesn’t say anything but his eyes say a lot. He feels like you’re disrespecting him in a way. He gently pries your hand off the pump even while you protest. You guys were pushing your hips against each other like siblings. Some people looked at you all with a confused look except a singular old woman who thought it was cute your boyfriend wanted to pump your gas.

“Sweetheart your boyfriend is so polite.” The older woman giggles softly. You both freeze and smile at her, Xavier decides to use this to his advantage.

“She’s so stubborn and doesn’t let anyone do things for her.” He smiles sadly at the woman making her gasp. She gives you an eye as her hands fall on her hips.

“You should let him! It’s rare to find someone like this! Take it from me!” She scolds you making your jaw drop. How did he manage to get this random old lady on his side? You tried to protest but she barely let you.

“I understand.” You sigh in defeat, your head hanging low. She huffs before giving you a talk about how you should let people take care of you sometimes.

Xavier was behind the woman with a small smirk. You side eye him trying to ignore him. This was his fault anyway how did he slide from punishment? The woman leaves you two alone allowing you to finally glare at him.

“You did that on purpose.” You tell him. He shrugs finishing with the gas. He turns to you, kissing your nose.

“You shouldn’t have tried to do it on your own. I’m here for a reason.” He teased. You pout getting in the car along with him.

I feel like I started running out of ideas for this one somewhere but it all came together 🙂‍↕️

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 21: June 2024 - Part 2

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. Apparently I am once again messing up my chapter numbering on Tumblr. 21 is correct according to AO3 and Wattpad though. No, you didn't miss anything, I promise.

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

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1GossipQueen: DID CHARLES JUST REALIZE MID-INTERVIEW THAT HE FORGOT HIS OWN SISTER’S BIRTHDAY??? HELP LMAO

@/monacosfinest: "Wait… we forgot." Nah, Charles, YOU forgot. The whole damn family forgot. How do you ALL forget???

@/f1tea:The way Charles’ whole face DROPPED when he put the dates together… This is cinema.

@/isabellesimpgc: This man just short-circuited ON CAMERA realizing he forgot his little sister’s birthday. I would be in hiding.

@/horsegirlupdates: ISABELLE WAS AT THE MONACO GP. SHE CELEBRATED WITH THEM. SHE SAID NOTHING. SHE JUST LET THEM ALL FORGET. I’M SICK.

@/f1trolls:Charles: "Do you have my phone? I need to fix this." Bro, there is no fixing this.

@/girlinthepaddock: The fact that Isabelle hasn’t posted ANYTHING since Monaco…

@/charlesleclercfans:Charles, buddy, you’re not getting out of this one 💀

@/f1chaos:Charles really went from “living his childhood dream” to “realizing he was the worst brother in real-time” in under five seconds. Iconic.

@/monacoprincess:The way he literally STOPPED TALKING, STARED INTO THE VOID, and then went, "Wait… we forgot." BRO. YOU FORGOT. YOU.

@/paddockgirlies:Isabelle spent her whole life supporting her brothers and they couldn’t even remember her birthday??? She didn’t even TELL them they forgot, she just let them be happy while she suffered in silence. I’M SICK.

@/girlwhocriessports: Okay but imagine being Charles and realizing ON LIVE TV that you forgot your sister’s birthday while the entire world watches. This is worse than any DNF he’s ever had.

@/ferrariwoes: Charles, in Monaco: "This is the best day of my life!"Charles, two weeks later in Canada: "Oh my god, I forgot my sister’s birthday."

@/isabellesimp: She just kept quiet and let them all forget. She didn’t even correct them. She probably just went home alone and cried. Do you understand how HEARTBREAKING that is????

@/paddockinsider: Ferrari’s biggest strategy blunder this year wasn’t even on the track—it was the entire Leclerc family forgetting Isabelle’s birthday.

@/F1TeaSpiller: Not Charles Leclerc realizing DURING AN INTERVIEW that he forgot his own sister’s birthday… and then Arthur and Lorenzo probably finding out THROUGH HIM. This family is actually unbelievable.

🔗 Clip attached

@/GridGossip:So let me get this straight:

Isabelle was in Monaco the entire weekend.

She celebrated Charles’ win with him.

She didn’t say a word about her own birthday.

And not a single one of her brothers remembered.

They really just treat her like she doesn’t exist, huh?

@/TifosiDrama:Not a single post. Not a single mention. She was right there, and they STILL forgot. I don’t blame her for ignoring them now.

@/OversteerObsessed: So you’re telling me Isabelle’s birthday was on the same day as Charles winning Monaco for the first time ever, and they were so caught up in the win that they just… forgot about her?? I’m actually speechless.

@/FormulaShady: The Leclerc brothers are about to have the worst sibling PR disaster in F1 history. Isabelle is LITERALLY the forgotten Leclerc.

@/WheelyFastWAGs: Isabelle spent years supporting her brothers—showing up to races whenever she could, celebrating their successes—and they can’t even remember her BIRTHDAY?!

@/TyreDegAndDrama: No, but let’s really sit with this: she was literally there. Not far away. Not off somewhere else. She was in Monaco, with them, and not one person thought, “Oh hey, it’s Isabelle’s birthday.”

@/OvercutOverload: Charles’ brain loading like an old Windows XP computer when the journalist asked about winning on his sister’s birthday.

@/Lap1Carnage: I need you all to understand how humiliating this is. You are a public figure. You win Monaco. A journalist gives you the perfect setup to say something nice about your sister. And instead, you find out ON LIVE TV that you forgot her birthday.

@/TifosiTears: I would like to formally apologize to Isabelle for ever associating her with the rest of them. She deserved better.

@/ChaosMode: The fact that fans remembered her birthday but her own brothers didn’t… Yeah, I’d be ignoring them too.

@/PaddockClownery: Imagine your family finally realizing they forgot your birthday WEEKS LATER because a journalist had to remind them. The bar is in hell.

@/F1BurnerAccount: The way he didn’t even tried to play it off like “Oh yeah, we celebrated privately” or something. Just full, raw realization on live TV.

@/F1Shambles: The fact that Isabelle has been radio silent on social media ever since Charles’ Monaco win is crazy. Not a single like, comment, or post. Just pure, calculated silence.

@/F1Shambles: The worst part? She did congratulate Charles. She literally posted on her story, “So proud of you, Charles!” right after the race, and then? Poof. She disappeared.

@/TifosiTears: No, because the fact that Isabelle still took the time to post a congrats for Charles, even after they forgot her birthday, and then just vanished is so much worse.

@/Lap1Carnage: So you’re telling me she remembered her brother’s biggest moment, but not a single one of them remembered her birthday? Yeah, no, that’s insane.

@/PaddockDrama: She posted for Charles, probably waited the whole day for someone to remember, and then dipped. That’s actually heartbreaking.

@/FrontWingDamage: Okay, but like… does anyone know if she had people around her that day? Like, friends? A boyfriend? Someone who did remember?

@/TyreDegAndDrama: I need to believe that someone in her life actually gave her the love she deserved that day, because if she spent it completely alone while celebrating Charles?? I will LOSE IT.

@/LightsOutDrama: It’s actually insane that her whole family was busy celebrating Charles, and not one of them was like, “Oh wait, isn’t today also Isabelle’s birthday?”

@/PaddockGossip: At this point, I’m praying she has some secret friend group or a boyfriend who treated her like a queen that day, because her family really did nothing.

@/ChaosMode: We need a national investigation into Isabelle Leclerc’s inner circle. I refuse to believe that nobody took care of her that day.

@/WDCworthy: What if she’s actually in a happy, secret relationship and her boyfriend was the only one who celebrated her? Imagine the plot twist.

@/PaddockMess: I swear if she had to spend her birthday alone, while her whole family was out celebrating Charles, I’m gonna start swinging.

@/OvercutOverload: The fact that she stayed silent instead of calling them out makes it so much worse. She didn’t even fight them on it. She just… left.

@/TyreWhisperer: This whole thing is giving “quietly heartbroken but won’t let it show” energy, and I hate it here.

@/PaddockBanter: Honestly, I don’t even need her to forgive them. I just want her to be happy with people who actually appreciate her.

@/LightsOutSlander: Praying she has a secret billionaire boyfriend who flies her around on private jets and showers her in designer gifts, because her family clearly isn’t doing their job.

@/PaddockRoyalty: This woman is literally giving “soft-spoken princess energy.” I need her to have a rich, older boyfriend who treats her like absolute royalty.

@/IsabelleLeclercFanclub: Forget the Leclerc brothers. We’re officially in our Protect Isabelle at All Costs era.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Charles: I just realised. I just—I can’t believe I forgot. Your birthday. Monaco. You were there. And we didn’t say a word. I didn’t say a word.

Charles:You smiled at me. You waved. And I didn’t even remember it was your day. I’m so, so sorry.

Charles: Please call me. Please. I need to talk to you.

Charles: I didn’t mean to forget. I swear. I didn’t— God, Isabelle. Please just pick up.

[Incoming Call: Charles Leclerc → Belle Verstappen] Status: No answer. Call forwarded to voicemail.

Charles (Voicemail): Isabelle, it’s me. Please pick up. I know I don’t deserve that right now but I… I need to hear your voice. I need to know you’re okay. We messed up. I messed up. I forgot the one day I shouldn’t have. And I didn’t even notice. I don’t know how I let that happen. I love you. Please… just call me back. Please.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Max Verstappen 

Emilie: He finally realized. Charles. The birthday. Belle. It hit him. Live. On camera. Mid-interview. It was honestly Oscar-worthy.

Max: wait what

Max: CHARLES REALISED??

Emilie:  Karun Chandhok brought it up during the post-race interview and you could see the panic download into his brain in real time. I watched it happen. It was magnificent.

Max:Since when are you watching press conferences?? You once told me F1 was “cars doing ring-around-the-rosy with ego problems.”

Emilie: I still stand by that! But I had a feeling someone was going to slip. And I was right.

Max: Belle hasn’t texted me yet. 

Emilie: Same. I tried calling. Went straight to voicemail. I’m going over. She might not answer the door but I’m staying the night either way.

Max: Thank you. Really

Emilie: She’s my best friend. You think I’d leave her to spiral alone while the entire Leclerc clan is just now realizing they’ve been garbage?

Max: I’m so pissed, Emilie. They made her feel invisible. And now they’re shocked she walked away?

Emilie: They don’t get to play the concerned family card after a year of not seeing her. After missing her birthday.

Max: She was right there. In the garage. She waved at Charles.

Emilie: And he smiled right through her. I’ve never wanted to throw an expensive shoe at someone more.

Max: you should’ve I would’ve paid the fine

Emilie: Consider it noted for next time.

Max: Let me know when you’re with her Tell her I love her Tell her I am coming straight home. 

Emilie: I’ll tell her.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Pascale)

Charles: guys GUYS we forgot Belle’s birthday

Charles: we forgot her birthday it was TWO WEEKS AGO she was IN THE GARAGE IN MONACO

Arthur: wait what …wait WHAT

Pascale: Charles, what are you talking about? We didn’t— … Oh mon dieu.

Charles: she didn’t say anything she just stood there and none of us said a word

Arthur: okay wait has anyone spoken to her since then?

Charles: I texted her about Canada no reply

Pascale: She hasn’t answered me either.

Arthur: I haven’t heard from her since I asked if she was coming to the factory visit. That was like… the week after Monaco?

Charles: she hasn’t answered ANY of us?? FOR TWO WEEKS??

Lorenzo: I just caught up. I’m going to her apartment. Right now.

Charles: please tell her I’m sorry tell her I didn’t mean to forget I didn’t—

Arthur: we all did, Charles don’t make it sound like it’s just you

Pascale: This isn’t about blame. It’s about fixing it.

Lorenzo: I’ll message when I get there. Don’t blow up her phone. Let me check she’s okay.

Charles: okay thank you

Arthur: tell her we love her please

Lorenzo: I’ll handle it. Let me talk to her. Just… give her space. Don’t crowd her all at once.

Charles: Okay. Please let us know when you get there.

***

Call & Message Log – Belle Verstappen’s Phone

(Missed Calls and Messages – All timestamps in Monaco Time)

Incoming Calls:

Charles Leclerc (19:02) – Missed Call → Voicemail Left

Arthur Leclerc (19:15) – Missed Call

Emilie Abadie (19:20) - Missed Call

Pascale Leclerc (19:27) – Missed Call

Arthur Leclerc (19:39) – Missed Call

Pascale Leclerc (20:01) – Missed Call → No voicemail

Arthur Leclerc: 19:17

Belle, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise either. I don’t even know how we missed it. Please text me back. I’m freaking out a little.

19:22

Are you okay? Please just say something. Anything.

20:03

I’m so sorry. We were idiots.

Pascale Leclerc: 19:25

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.

20:12

We didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to forget. I love you, mon ange.

***

The sun had dipped low behind the Monaco rooftops, casting the living room in honeyed gold. The windows were cracked open, letting in the hum of the sea and the occasional passing scooter. The only sound inside the apartment was the faint, rhythmic purr of cats.

Belle was asleep on the couch, curled sideways with a throw blanket tangled around her legs. One of Max’s hoodies was pulled over her tank top, far too big on her and smelling faintly of motor oil and cedarwood. Sassy was curled on her feet, Lilly sprawled along her hip like a guard, and Jimmy had claimed the pillow beside her head, face pressed dramatically into her hair like he paid rent.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She’d only meant to rest her eyes.

But the last few days had caught up with her: the tension, the silence, the weight of being both forgotten and known too well.

The buzz of the apartment buzzer stirred her cats but not her. Only when Emilie let herself in—quietly, using the key Belle had given her months ago—did Sassy finally stretch and jump down, tail flicking as if to say you’re late.

Emilie padded through the flat on socked feet, arms full of a canvas tote bag stuffed with snacks, a fuzzy blanket she’d stolen from Belle’s apartment once and never returned, and a bottle of overpriced juice she insisted helped with “emotional hydration.”

She spotted Belle still asleep, cats half-glued to her like warm, fuzzy armor, and her heart cracked open.

Of course Belle had fallen asleep like this. Of course she hadn’t answered her phone.

Emilie set the tote on the coffee table and sank to her knees beside the couch, brushing a strand of hair from Belle’s face.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Sleeping Beauty.”

Belle blinked slowly. Her voice, when it came, was husky and quiet.

“Mm. What time is it?”

“Almost eight.” Emilie smiled gently. “You missed Max’s win.”

Belle sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes as Lilly gave a sleepy grumble and re-settled herself in her lap.

“He won?”

Emilie nodded. “Dominated. It was very on-brand. I texted him back for you. Said congrats and that you were passed out under a pile of cats.”

Belle huffed a breath of a laugh. “Thanks.”

“He asked if you were okay.”

“I’m…” Belle paused. “Better, now.”

Emilie hesitated, then sat down beside her fully, the cushions dipping slightly. “Charles realised.”

Belle’s body stilled.

“During the post-race interview. Karun Chandhok mentioned Monaco. Said something about your birthday being the same day as his win. And you could see it—click. Like his brain got punched in the face.” Emilie’s voice was flat. “He didn’t realise, Belle. Not until someone reminded him you exist.”

Belle exhaled slowly, hands curled in the fabric of the hoodie. “And now he’s spiraling?”

“Of course. Called you. Texted you. Voicemails. I think Arthur’s panicking too. Pascale’s probably mid-emotional breakdown.”

Belle looked over, finally meeting her best friend’s eyes. “You’re watching press conferences now?”

Emilie shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Lando made a joke on Twitch last week that press media days are ‘elite chaos.’ I got curious. Stayed for the spectacle. Didn’t expect it to turn into a soap opera starring your brother.”

Belle blinked. Then grinned—softly, genuinely—for the first time in days. “You’re watching F1 now because of Lando Norris?”

Emilie lifted her chin. “It’s not serious. It’s anthropological.”

Belle laughed, the sound cracking slightly at the edges, but real.

“I’m also staying here tonight,” Emilie added, pulling a blanket from the tote and draping it over them both. “Because I love you. And because Max will kill me if I leave you alone.”

Belle rested her head against Emilie’s shoulder, voice small. “You don’t have to fix it.”

“I’m not here to fix it,” Emilie murmured. “I’m here so you don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

Belle closed her eyes again.

The texts from Charles buzzed softly on the coffee table. She didn’t reach for them. She didn’t need to.

Not tonight.

She had Emilie. She had Max. She had a stuffed lion upstairs and cats who loved her without question. And when she was ready—on her terms—she would decide if the rest of them deserved her again.

But for now?

She ignored the buzzing.

And let herself be held.

***

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)

Oscar: He figured it out. CHARLES FINALLY FIGURED IT OUT.

Lando: WAIT WHAT SOMEONE PLEASE CONFIRM

Daniel: Karun said it was Belle’s birthday during the Monaco win and you could see Charles’ soul leave his body in real time. It was glorious

Carlos: He needed the right trigger (also I am still mad)

Lewis:  He was fully smiling at first Then hit the mental brick wall of oh no

George Russell: The smile-drop was cinematic. Might’ve been the most emotional acting we’ve seen all season.

Alex: Does anyone have the clip? For science?

Nico H.: I have it bookmarked.

Sebastian: He really didn’t realise until that exact moment? Not even a whisper before?

Zhou: I still can’t believe it took someone else saying her name for him to remember she has a birthday.

Logan: No, no, let’s all take a moment: He had an entire win In Monaco In front of his family And forgot his sister’s birthday

Oscar: SHE WAVED AT HIM.

Carlos: IN THE GARAGE IN FERRARI RED

Fernando: Imagine forgetting a sister who treats you like that.

Lance: My jaw is still on the floor. He spiraled like he was trapped in a washing machine

David: Live PR disaster. I actually winced.

Sergio Pérez: Dios mío. Max is going to be furious

Nico R.: Max doesn’t need to say a word. His existence is already revenge enough

George: Speaking of Max: Has anyone checked if he’s okay?

Oscar:  He’s not. But he’ll be home soon. 

Valtteri: This chat is giving Drive to Survive a run for its money

Lando: IMAGINE BEING BELLE Standing there. Birthday. Monaco. Forgotten. AND secretly married to Max Verstappen???

Daniel: Plot twist: she should dropped the wedding photos on Charles’ birthday Just for symmetry

Carlos: Don’t give me ideas I will do it

Oscar: He didn’t remember Until someone else reminded him she existed.

George: True.

Lewis Hamilton: Justice for Belle.

Daniel Ricciardo: Justice. And snacks. And ten thousand cats. She deserves it all.

Fernando: And peace. Away from that chaos.

Kimi: Took him long enough. 

***

Lorenzo stood at the foot of Isabelle’s old apartment building, staring up at the cream-colored stone façade like it might blink back at him. The shutters were open on the third floor—her floor—but nothing inside looked familiar. No string lights. No potted herbs on the windowsill. No pale curtains drifting in the breeze the way they used to when she’d leave the balcony door cracked open for the sea air.

He buzzed the door anyway.

Once. Then again.

No response.

The hallway was quieter than he remembered. Less lived-in. The echoes of memory were louder than the footsteps on the stairs as he climbed, more out of muscle memory than belief. He reached her old door and knocked.

No answer.

He stood there, unsure of what to do. His hands itched to call someone—Charles, Pascale, anyone—but that wouldn’t fix this. Not yet.

Then the door across the hall creaked open.

“Looking for Isabelle?” a warm, vaguely amused voice asked.

Lorenzo turned. An older woman stood in the doorway, wearing a robe and holding a mug of tea. Madame Fortier. He remembered her vaguely—Belle used to bring her pastries sometimes when she baked too much.

“Yes,” he said, suddenly unsure of his voice. “Is she home?”

The woman smiled, kind but surprised.

“Darling, she moved out almost a year ago.”

Lorenzo froze.

“What?”

Madame Fortier nodded. “Lovely girl. Packed everything very neatly. She left a plant on my windowsill as a thank-you.”

A beat passed. Lorenzo’s pulse ticked strangely in his throat.

“Where did she go?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

The woman sipped her tea, then tilted her head thoughtfully.

“Oh, she moved in with her boyfriend,” Madame Fortier said, smiling warmly. “Lovely man. Very polite. Treated her well, from what I saw. Always held the door. Picked her up in that fancy little car. She seemed happy.”

Lorenzo’s stomach dropped.

Moved in with her boyfriend.

 A year ago.

And none of them knew.

“Right,” he said, the word catching slightly in his throat. “Thank you.”

He walked back down the hallway slowly, like his legs were moving through water.

Outside again, the sunlight felt harsher than it had minutes ago.

Belle had always been the quiet one. The background Leclerc. Never the loudest voice at the table, never the one asking for attention. But she'd been the glue. The calm. The one who remembered birthdays. Who showed up at Arthur’s karting meets with water bottles and quiet encouragement. 

Who texted Lorenzo before his exams just to say you’ve got this.

And she hadn’t told them.

Not about the move.

Not about the boyfriend.

Not about… any of it.

It wasn’t just out of character. It was completely, utterly un-Belle.

She didn’t let people she loved run into walls like this. She didn’t let them go blind into guilt and panic. Unless—

Unless she’d stopped expecting them to see her at all.

Lorenzo felt that thought like a punch to the chest.

Had they really made her feel that invisible?

And someone else—some quiet, polite boyfriend in a fancy car—had known her better than any of them did.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Pascale)

Lorenzo: Update. She doesn’t live at her old apartment anymore.

Arthur: what?

Pascale: What do you mean she doesn’t live there anymore??

Charles: Lorenzo please tell me that’s not what it sounds like

Lorenzo: Her neighbor says she moved out. Almost a year ago. Moved in with her boyfriend.

Arthur: SHE HAS A WHAT

Charles: SHE HAS A BOYFRIEND??

Pascale: Since when?! She never said anything! She never brought anyone to dinner—did you meet him??

Lorenzo: No. None of us did, clearly.

Arthur: what if he’s the reason she’s not answering what if something happened

Charles: don’t say that don’t even think that she’s just mad at us right?

Arthur:  no but— think about it she hasn’t answered in two weeks. she didn’t say a word about moving. not a single thing about this guy. what if she’s not okay?

Pascale: She would’ve told us. She always told us if she was scared. Or uncomfortable.

Lorenzo: Not if she doesn’t trust us anymore. Not if she thinks we stopped listening.

Charles: no. no. no no no. I saw her in the garage. She smiled. She waved.

Arthur: people smile when they’re drowning, Charles

Pascale: I’m calling her again. Right now.

Charles: Already did. Straight to voicemail. I’ve texted. I’ve DMed. Nothing.

Arthur: what if something happened

Lorenzo: We don’t know that. Don’t spiral. But we do need to find her.

Charles: I can ask someone at Ferrari. Maybe they know where she’s been.

Pascale: No. No more waiting for her to come to us. We go to her.

Arthur: but we don’t know where she is

Charles: She has a boyfriend we didn’t even know about She moved out a year ago She’s not answering She’s not talking to any of us

Lorenzo: Then we find someone who has seen her recently.

Charles: Who? Because it’s clearly not us.

***

Charles sat by the window, motionless. The clouds blurred past beneath them, soft and ghostlike, but he didn’t see any of it. His phone rested in his hand, screen black, battery threatening to die with a solemn 9% glaring up at him. He hadn’t put it down since they’d left the tarmac.

No new messages. No calls. No Belle.

He’d left voicemail after voicemail. Texts that felt like fragments of apology and panic, all swallowed into silence.

Across the aisle, Nicolas Todt had his laptop open and his phone pressed to his ear, murmuring in rapid-fire French. Every few minutes, he would pause, pinch the bridge of his nose, and mutter something like “catastrophe” or “this is a PR disaster.”

Which, to be fair, it was.

“No, non, it wasn’t intentional,” Nicolas said sharply into the phone. “Yes, we’re working on a statement. No, she hasn’t responded.” 

Belle’s name had been trending since the post-race interview. Not because she’d done anything. But because Charles had forgotten her. On her birthday. In Monaco. While she stood right there in the garage, smiling like she didn’t want to be seen and knowing no one had remembered.

Charles swallowed the lump rising in his throat.

Across the cabin, Arthur sat slumped beside Alexandra. His arms were crossed tightly, mouth drawn into a hard line. He hadn’t said much since boarding. But his silence didn’t feel defensive. It felt heavy. Like guilt.

Alexandra was the only one not pretending to be calm.

“You forgot her birthday,” she said. Again. Quietly, but without softening the blow.

“I know,” Charles rasped, eyes fixed on nothing.

“No,” she said sharply, “you don’t. You forgot, Charles. All of you did. She was there. In the garage. And no one even looked at her properly.”

Arthur flinched beside her, but didn’t respond.

From the aisle, Joris Trouche—normally calm, endlessly competent, the kind of man who could manage a logistics meltdown without raising his voice—was pacing with thinly veiled fury. He’d tried sitting down twice. Failed both times.

And now, he stopped in front of them, tone clipped. Controlled. But barely.

“I’ve known Isabelle since she was thirteen,” Joris said, staring them down. “She sent me homemade cinnamon cookies when I was stuck in the hospital with a stress fracture. She used to ask how my mum was doing.”

He turned to Charles. “And you—she waved at you in Monaco. On her birthday. And you smiled like she was anyone.”

Charles opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Joris’s voice wavered—angry, but undercut by something else. Something personal.

“I’m angry at you,” he said quietly. “But I’m angry at myself too. I should’ve remembered.”

In the front cabin, Joris was pacing. He’d been quiet since takeoff, but now his temper was burning through the thin layer of professionalism that usually cloaked him like armor.

“I should’ve remembered,” Joris said suddenly, sharply. “I should have reminded you. I always remind you. And I—I forgot too.”

Arthur stirred. “We didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Joris snapped his gaze toward him. “You don’t have to mean it. You did it anyway. You only noticed her absence when it became public embarrassment. That’s not love, that’s damage control.”

Nicolas finally ended his call and shut the laptop with a soft but definitive click. “If anyone has a prayer of salvaging this, it’s not through spin,” he said. “It’s through action. Apologies. Honesty. Real words. Not just statements.”

Charles didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because Belle hadn’t responded to a single one of his messages. She hadn’t returned his call. She hadn’t even opened them.

And she always used to answer. Even when she was mad. Even when he didn’t deserve it.

He stared out at the clouds, jaw clenched, fists curled against his thighs.

He’d won in Monaco.

And lost the only sister he’d ever had.

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

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

Charles:Where is my sister? Does anyone know where Isabelle is???

Charles: I’ve called. I’ve texted. She’s not answering. She’s not at her apartment. Her neighbor says she MOVED OUT A YEAR AGO. She’s GONE and I don’t know where she is!!!

George: Charles. Deep breath.

Carlos: She’s safe.

Charles: YOU KNOW WHERE SHE IS???

Carlos: Yes. She’s not missing. She’s just not talking to you.

Charles: And YOU KNEW THAT??  You ALL knew she moved out and didn’t say anything???

Carlos: You forgot her birthday, Charles. You don’t get to have an opinion. 

Charles: You KNEW?! You KNEW and you didn’t tell me?? You remembered her birthday and let me humiliate myself in front of the world?!

Carlos: She told me not to say anything because she didn’t want pity cupcakes. Her words.  She asked for one thing. I respected that.

Charles: SHE’S MY SISTER.

Carlos: Then maybe you should have treated her like that.  

Oscar: Charles. Stop.

Charles: No, Oscar, he LET me forget!

Oscar: No. You forgot. YOU. He just respected her boundaries. She didn’t want a spotlight apology. She wanted to be seen before she disappeared. And none of you did.

Oscar: Belle asked Carlos not to tell you. Because she knew you’d make it about yourself.

Charles: Excuse me??

Oscar: YOU forgot her birthday. You smiled right through her in Monaco. You didn’t notice she moved out. You didn’t notice she disappeared. And now you’re mad at Carlos for respecting her boundaries?

Charles: I have a right to be upset!

Oscar: Belle has a right to protect herself. You’re upset because you’re losing control. She’s not missing, Charles. She’s finally choosing herself. And you can’t stand that it wasn’t you who got to decide when or how.

Lando: ...wow

Daniel: Oscar just cleared the entire grid.

George: No survivors.

Charles: Wait. Wait—how do you ALL know where she is?

Charles: Wait. WHAT ARE YOU NOT TELLING ME

Pierre: wait why does this chat feel like everyone’s in on something except me

Lando: She’s fine. She’s not alone. She’s safe. That’s all that matters.

Charles: HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT??

Oscar: Because she’s home.

Charles: What does that mean??

George: ...not our story to tell

Carlos: Exactly.

Yuki: What is happening. I feel like I skipped an episode.

Lando: Welcome to Drive to Survive: Emotional Damage Edition.

Oscar: Charles, stop texting. Start listening.

Charles: I need to fix it.

Carlos: Then don’t make this about you.

Lewis: And maybe… for once… Try earning your sister’s forgiveness instead of assuming you’re entitled to it.

Daniel: All I’m gonna say is… maybe next time don’t wait until post-race interviews to remember the people standing in your corner.

Lewis: And maybe sit with this one for a while before demanding answers.  Sometimes silence is the only language people have left.

Charles: … I just want to fix it.

Oscar: Then stop trying to own her pain. And start listening.

***

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 and Lance Stroll)

Oscar: I might’ve gone too hard. But also I really don’t think I did.

Lewis: Nope. You didn’t. You said what needed to be said.

Carlos: I’ve been biting my tongue for two weeks. Thank you for saying it out loud.

George: You cleared him so thoroughly I think I need to book you for emotional landscaping.

Lando: You had him pacing like a dad who just realized he missed Parent-Teacher Night. It was glorious.

Daniel: Honestly? That was better than Spa 2021. You lapped him emotionally.

Alex: Did you see Pierre and Yuki’s confusion??  They looked like they opened Netflix halfway through season 3.

Oscar: They’re still trying to figure out why we all suddenly act like Max Verstappen is Belle’s guard dog husband.

Zhou: Wait. Should we add Pierre and Yuki to this chat? Like a prep class before the meltdown?

Logan: Absolutely not. They’ll trigger Charles into another “WHERE IS MY SISTER??” monologue and I’m emotionally out of snacks.

Esteban: Pierre would tell Charles. 

Mark: Back to the point—Oscar, you did good. He needed the mirror held up. Guilt isn’t the same as accountability.

David: And accountability isn’t the same as entitlement. He forgot that. You reminded him.

Sebastian: You all know what gets me? She didn’t even leave angry. She left quietly. And that says more than shouting ever could.

Carlos: That’s what kills me. She still doesn’t want us to fight over her. She just wanted to be seen.

Lewis: And now she finally is. By the one person who actually looked before it was too late.

George: Max is probably already privately planning to change his will and tattoo her name on his chest. 

Lando: He's in full "mine" mode. He’ll probably growl at anybody that comes close to her for the remainder of the week. 

Daniel Ricciardo: Wait until Charles finds out. About the wedding. About the “Mr. and Mrs. Verstappen” monogrammed towels.

Oscar: He doesn’t deserve to even have a fucking opinion about it. And he doesn’t get to drag Belle through more of his guilt spiral.

Lewis: And if he does?

Oscar: Then we remind him. She’s not invisible anymore. And she never has to be again.

Sebastian: Long live Belle Verstappen. She deserves peace.

Carlos: And we’re making damn sure she keeps it.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: I just saw the clip.  Charles finally realized, didn’t he?

Victoria: I want to throw my phone through a wall. How did it take a live interview for it to click??

Victoria: Is Belle okay? Please tell me she’s okay. Tell me you’re with her.

Max: I’m flying back tonight. Emilie’s with her now. She’s safe. Quiet. But… not okay. Not yet.

Victoria:  Of course she’s not. She was standing there in the garage and smiled at him, and he didn’t remember. I don’t know how she held it together.

Max: Because that’s what she’s always done. Hold it in. Make it easier for everyone else.

Victoria: Not anymore. She doesn’t owe them that. She never did. And if Charles tries to guilt her into “moving on,” I swear to God.

Max: He won’t get the chance.

Victoria: Good. And when you get home—hold her tight, okay?

Max: Always. I’ve got her, Vic. She’s not alone anymore.

Victoria: She better not be. Because if any of them make her feel small again, I will drive to Monaco and handle it myself.

Max: You’ll have to get in line behind me.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Jos: Just saw the clip. The post-race interview.

Max: He only realized because Karun mentioned it. Didn’t even remember on his own.

Jos: I want to drive to Maranello and punch something.

Jos: You tell me—right now—is she okay?

Max: Emilie’s with her. She says Belle’s sleeping. Quiet. She hasn’t messaged me yet. But I’m heading home. 

Jos: Good. Don’t leave her alone with that silence. She’ll pretend she’s fine. She’ll say it doesn’t matter. But this? This hurt her. You can see it in the way she vanished.

Jos: Belle doesn’t demand space. She disappears when she feels like no one wants her in the room.

Max: I know. She doesn’t have to say it for me to hear it.

Jos: I’m proud of her. She stood up for herself the only way she knew how. By walking away.

Jos: But I swear to God, if that brother of hers ever makes her feel like that again— I don’t care if he’s a Leclerc. I will make sure he never forgets who she is again.

Max: You’ll have to beat me to it. I’m not letting them near her until she says she’s ready. If she ever is.

Jos: That’s my boy. You take care of her. And tell her this family—the one she chose—has her back. Always.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie: I just watched the interview.

Sophie: Max… he forgot her birthday. She was standing in the garage. She smiled at him. And he didn’t even blink. Like she was nobody.

Max: He remembered live on camera. Karun said something about Monaco and her birthday, and it hit him mid-answer. You could see it crash into him.

Sophie: God,  I hope it crushes him.

Sophie: How is Belle? Have you spoken to her?

Max: Emilie’s with her. She says she’s safe. Sleeping. Quiet.

Sophie: She’s always quiet when she’s hurting. Always. You remember that, Max. The softer she gets, the harder she’s holding herself together.

Max: I know. That’s why I’m coming home.

Sophie: Good. She needs you. Not the Max who wins races. You.  The one who holds her hand when she’s anxious. The one who brings her tulips on Thursdays because she mentioned liking them once.

Sophie: Because the people who were supposed to protect her? They failed her.

Max: I’ll never let her feel like that again.

Sophie: I know you won’t. Because you see her. And that’s the most anyone can give someone who’s spent their whole life being overlooked.

Sophie: You tell her I’m coming by next week. No pressure. Just lunch. And she can sit on the balcony and not say a word if that’s all she wants. I’ll just be there.

Max: She’ll love that. She loves you.

Sophie: I love her. And if her family can’t act like it, she’s more than welcome in ours.

***

Max sat in his seat, elbow propped against the armrest, forehead resting against his knuckles as the private jet hummed through the night. The win from earlier that day already felt like a lifetime ago. He hadn’t celebrated. Not really. He’d shaken hands, answered the questions, smiled on the podium because it was muscle memory now.

But the second the press conference ended, the weight had dropped onto his chest.

Charles had realized. Finally.

Live. On camera. Because someone else—Karun, of all people—had mentioned Belle’s birthday.

It had taken that long. Two weeks.

Max had replayed the press clip on his phone once—watched Charles’ face shift in slow motion from charm to dawning horror. Watched him falter, then spiral. And Max hadn’t felt a drop of pity.

Because Belle had stood in that garage. She’d smiled. She’d waved. And her own brother had looked through her.

Across the aisle, Lando was sprawled in his seat with a blanket half-pulled over his face, earbuds in, legs stretched into Oscar’s personal space. Oscar had given up fighting it and was half-asleep against the window. Daniel was flipping through something on his iPad, likely pretending not to watch Max out of the corner of his eye.

The silence was comfortable. Familiar. But Max’s mind was anything but.

Daniel had commandeered the seat across Max and was watching the proceedings like a therapist in a sitcom.

Finally, Lando broke the silence.

“Sooo…” he said slowly, cautiously, “how’s Belle?”

Max didn’t even look up. “Emilie’s with her. She said she’s okay. Belle was sleeping. Under the cats. Emilie said she looked peaceful.”

Lando hesitated. “Right. So… you know… she’s safe?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re still brooding.”

“I’m not brooding,” Max muttered.

Daniel leaned over the seat, grinning. “Oh, you are. Brooding with intensity. I haven’t seen this level of moody since Lando ran out of oat milk last week.”

“Hey,” Lando protested, “that was a crisis. And also—can we talk about how terrifying Emilie is?”

Daniel burst out laughing. “So your crush is confirmed.”

Lando went pink. “I do not have a crush.”

Oscar stretched, deadpan: “You stalked her on instagram and accidentally liked a post from 2019.”

“That was admiration! That’s different.”

Max finally glanced over, managing a small smirk despite the pressure in his chest. “You are a brave man,” he told Lando sagely, who glared at him. 

Lando groaned, pulling his hoodie over his head. “Why did I say that out loud?”

Daniel looked way too delighted. “Because you’re into emotionally terrifying women with sharp cheekbones and moral clarity. Honestly? Taste.”

Oscar nodded solemnly. “Elite taste.”

“I hate all of you.”

“You love us,” Oscar yawned.

Max’s smile faded again as he looked back at his phone. The moment passed, quiet settling again like dust.

Lando, quieter now, asked, “Do you think Belle’s okay?”

Max didn’t answer right away. He was thinking of her curled on the couch. Of Emilie sitting beside her. Of their cats acting like tiny sentinels. He thought of the unopened texts, the unreturned calls.

“I think,” he said eventually, “she’s tired. Of being forgotten. Of being an afterthought. Of being quiet and still never heard.”

The other three fell silent. Even Daniel looked serious now.

Max looked down at the screen. Still nothing.

“But she’s not alone,” he added. “Not this time.”

Oscar nodded. “You’ll be home soon.”

Max’s voice was soft but certain. “Yeah. And when I get there, I’m staying. No more paddock games. No more silence. She doesn’t have to carry any of it alone anymore.”

Lando peeked out from his hoodie. “You’re like… scarily romantic for someone who once said feelings were ‘a distraction’.”

Max huffed a laugh. “Turns out she’s the only distraction I want.”

Daniel wiped an imaginary tear. “Beautiful. Print that on a mug.”

Oscar: “Tattoo it on your neck.”

Lando: “Put it on team merch. Limited edition.”

Max smiled faintly, then leaned back, still clutching his phone.

Let them joke.

Because the second they landed, he was going home. To her.

And this time, he wasn’t letting anyone—not a team, not a calendar, not even her family—make her feel invisible again.

***

Text Messages:  Alexandra Saint-Mleux & Belle Verstappen

Alexandra: Hey, Isabelle. I know it’s late. I just… I wanted to say I’m thinking about you.

Alexandra: Charles realized during the post-race interview. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so gutted. I wish it hadn’t taken that for him to see what he missed.

Alexandra: I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I’m sure a lot of people already have. But you didn’t deserve to be forgotten. You never have. And I’m sorry.

***

Text Messages:  Alexandra Saint-Mleux & Charlotte Di Pietro

Alexandra: Hey. Just a heads-up before it hits you through someone else: We forgot Belle’s birthday.

Charlotte: …what?

Alexandra: All of us. Her entire family.

Charlotte: No. No way. It was during Monaco, wasn’t it?

Alexandra: Yes. She was in the garage, Char. Waved at Charles. Smiled at all of us. And not one of us remembered.

Charlotte: Oh my god.

Alexandra: Charles realized during a post-race interview today. The interviewer mentioned her birthday and I watched it hit him like a truck.

Charlotte: Is Isabelle okay?

Alexandra: She hasn’t answered anyone. Not even Pascale.

Charlotte: That’s not “okay.” That’s Isabelle shutting the world out.

Alexandra: Exactly. And the worst part? She didn’t say anything. She let us all forget. She didn’t expect us to remember.

Charlotte: Because we’ve done it before. Not like this. But still. God.

Alexandra: I texted her. No reply. She might answer you if you try. You’ve always been gentle with her.

Charlotte: I will. Thank you for telling me. And for not pretending it’s less awful than it is.

Alexandra: She deserves more than silence and spin. She always has.

Charlotte: I’ll try to reach her tomorrow. Even if she doesn’t answer… she’ll know someone tried.

Alexandra: That’s all we can do now. Try. And mean it.

***

The apartment was quiet when Max stepped inside.

Soft light filtered in through the curtains, casting golden stripes across the hardwood. The cats didn’t rush to greet him—they were already curled up in their usual spots, half-asleep and full of judgment. Sassy lifted her head briefly from the back of the couch, flicked her tail in acknowledgment, and went right back to sleep.

Max dropped his duffel gently by the door, kicked off his shoes without a sound, and padded into the hallway. Every step closer to the bedroom felt heavier. Not with dread. But with something deeper. Something like relief tied up in knots of worry.

He pushed the door open quietly.

There she was.

Belle, curled on his side of the bed, her frame barely a ripple beneath the duvet. One of his old shirts hung off her shoulder, too big and soft and completely hers now. Her hair was a mess, her breathing slow and steady.

He’d spent days missing her. And now, seeing her like this—peaceful, untouched by the storm her family had just realized they created—he nearly broke.

Max crossed the room slowly, sliding into bed behind her without a word. His hand found her waist beneath the blanket, fingers curling gently. His nose tucked into her shoulder, lips brushing against the skin just below her ear.

She stirred.

“Mm?” she murmured sleepily, voice raspy and warm. “Max?”

“Hey,” he whispered. “I’m home.”

Belle rolled toward him without hesitation, arms winding around his middle, burying her face in his chest like she hadn’t seen him in months. He held her tighter. One hand cradling the back of her head, the other tracing slow, soothing lines down her spine.

“Did Emilie let you in?” she mumbled.

“No. She left me a note that said ‘fridge is stocked, don’t screw it up.’” He paused. “Also, she stole my last protein bar.”

Belle huffed a sleepy breath of laughter. Then: “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” Max said softly. “I’ve missed you.”

She pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were puffy, tired—but clearer than he expected. The ache he saw in them was quieter now. Calmer. He reached up, brushing his thumb gently beneath one eye.

“They all texted,” she said.

He nodded. “I know.”

“And called. Voicemails. Messages. Even Alexandra, I think.” Her voice was neutral, but her fingers had curled into his shirt. “I shut off my phone. I just… I can’t deal with them right now.”

“You don’t have to.”

She exhaled slowly. “They forgot, Max. Not just my birthday. Me. And now they’re panicking, but not because they miss me. Because they feel guilty. It’s not the same.”

Max didn’t rush to fill the silence. He let it settle between them, warm and safe and honest.

“They’ll say sorry,” he said eventually. “But that doesn’t mean you have to forgive them all at once. Or at all. That’s your call.”

Belle swallowed. “I just… I don’t know if I want to let them back in. Not after this. Not when it took two weeks and an interview for them to notice.”

Max leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Then don’t. You don’t owe them anything.”

She closed her eyes, breathing him in. His presence. His steadiness. The way he never told her what she should feel—just made space for what she did.

“You always see me,” she whispered.

“Always,” Max said. “Every day. Every version of you. Even the one who hides under a blanket and ghosts her whole bloodline.”

Belle laughed, watery and real. “I love you.”

Max smiled, burying his face in her hair. “I love you more.”

They stayed there, wrapped in warmth and honesty and quiet defiance.

Her family could wait. The texts could sit unread. The apologies could pile up.

Right now, she had Max. And that was enough.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Max Fewtrell: BRO. You saw it, right??  Charles fully crashed his soul mid-interview??

Lando: Unfortunately, yes. It was like watching someone remember they left the oven on... and also their sister.

Max Fewtrell: Iconic. Karun was like “her birthday, right?”  And Charles just downloaded a full panic attack.

Max Fewtrell: I screamed. Like—out loud. In public.

Lando Norris: It was kind of beautiful tbh. Like watching karma arrive with a mic and a production crew.

Max Fewtrell: Is his sister okay though? Do we know? Does she have a burner Twitter? I feel like she would.

Lando Norris:  She’s fine. Emilie’s with her.

Max Fewtrell: Who’s Emilie?

Lando Norris: ... She's Belle’s best friend.  Sharp. Dangerous. Possibly psychic. Says terrifyingly accurate things about my emotional state and then walks away in heels

Lando: She’s terrifying. Also brilliant.  And she’s like…scarily beautiful. 

Max Fewtrell: You have a crush on her, don’t you.

Lando: …I didn’t say that.

Max Fewtrell: YOU ABSOLUTELY DO OH MY GOD YOU DO This is the best gossip of the day and Charles had a meltdown on live TV

Lando: Shut up Also can we go back to Charles??

Max Fewtrell: No Because now I want to know why you know where Belle is And how you know Emilie’s with her And why you’re being so weirdly calm

Lando: …because I went to the wedding?

Max Fewtrell: THE WHAT

Lando: ...

Max Fewtrell: LAN THE WEDDING

Lando: Yeah. Belle and Max Verstappen. They got married. I was invited. Very small. City Hall. No media. Emilie picked the flowers

Max Fewtrell: MAX. VERSTAPPEN?!

Lando: Yes

Max Fewtrell:  YOU MEAN TO TELL ME CHARLES IS HAVING A BREAKDOWN ABOUT FORGETTING HIS SISTER’S BIRTHDAY AND DOESN’T EVEN KNOW SHE’S MARRIED TO HIS RIVAL???

Lando: Correct

Max Fewtrell: I need to lie down. And then I need popcorn And possibly therapy But also more of this

Lando: Same. Group chat is chaos Do not ask to be added It’s war in there

Max Fewtrell: This is better than Drive to Survive You’ve been sitting on this gossip for HOW LONG?

Lando: Long enough to know I value my life And Max Verstappen would kill me if I leaked it before they were ready

Max Fewtrell: Fair

Lando: You think Charles is spiraling now… Wait until he finds out Max is family now

Max Fewtrell: My god. This is better than Netflix.

***

Lorenzo had barely slept.

After learning Isabelle hadn’t lived in her old apartment for nearly a year, he’d paced half the night in his kitchen, replaying every memory, every text, every moment he should have noticed and didn’t. His phone was full of unanswered group chat pings and hollow apologies. 

By morning, he couldn’t sit still anymore.

He needed answers.

So he went to the one place he knew she would be at 8 am on a Monday morning. 

Her job. 

Atelier Renard Architects.  

Clean glass facade, minimalist signage, nestled on the edge of the marina like it had always been there. Isabelle used to say she loved that building more than half her portfolio—it knows exactly what it is and makes no apologies for it.

The receptionist didn’t recognize him at first. He introduced himself politely—Lorenzo Leclerc, Isabelle’s brother—and tried not to notice the pause.

Then the woman gave a hesitant smile. “Oh… Isabelle. Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“I just wanted to stop by,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “She’s not answering her phone. I thought maybe she was working, or—”

“Oh.” The woman’s expression faltered. “She doesn’t work here anymore.”

Lorenzo blinked. “What?”

“She… quit. Months ago. November, I think? Maybe early December. It was quiet. No big announcement. She just cleared out her office in one evening.”

Lorenzo’s stomach dropped. “Did she say why?”

The receptionist grimaced. “There were some internal issues. She seemed calm. Almost… relieved.”

Lorenzo stepped back slightly, reeling.

Quit.

She’d quit the one job she had fought tooth and nail for. The one thing she always lit up talking about.

And no one in her family had noticed.

Not one of them.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said gently. “I assumed you knew.”

Lorenzo nodded stiffly. “No, thank you. You’ve been kind.”

He left quickly. Didn’t wait for anything more.

Outside, he leaned against the edge of a planter and braced both hands on the cool stone, breath catching.

Isabelle hadn’t just moved.

She hadn’t just gone quiet.

 She’d walked away from everything they thought they knew about her.

And no one—not a single one of them—had been close enough to notice it happening.

She’d untethered herself from them all.

And now?

 Now they had no idea where she stood.

 If she was hurt. If she was gone.

For the first time in years, panic didn’t just flicker in Lorenzo’s chest—it bloomed, wide and wild.

He pulled out his phone. Called her again. Straight to voicemail.

***

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint Mleux & Emilie Abadie

Alexandra: Hey Emilie. I just wanted to check in. Do you know how Isabelle is doing?

Emilie: She’s resting. She’s emotionally exhausted. And no, she’s not answering anyone right now.

Alexandra: I figured. I wasn’t going to ask you to make her talk, I just… Wanted to make sure she’s okay. Truly.

Emilie: You all want to make sure she’s “okay” now. Where was that energy six months ago? Or a year ago? Or on her birthday?

Alexandra: I know. You’re right. We failed her. I’m not pretending we didn’t. I’m just trying not to make the same mistake twice.

Emilie: Then don’t turn this into your redemption arc. Belle is not your apology vessel. She doesn’t owe anyone grace she hasn’t given herself yet.

Alexandra: …Okay. That’s fair. I’m not trying to earn points. Just… trying.

Emilie: Trying is good. But don’t expect updates or access. She gets to choose who gets that now. And when.

Alexandra: Of course. Is she alone?

Emilie: No. Her boyfriend’s with her. He’s been looking after her. And he likes taking care of her.

***

Max blinked his eyes open just as Belle shifted in his arms and pushed herself up slightly, hair tousled and sweater slipping off one shoulder. Her eyes were tired, but calmer now. Clearer.

“Hi,” she whispered, voice rough with sleep.

“Hi,” he murmured back, brushing her hair behind her ear. “How are you feeling?”

She hesitated. “Better. Now that you’re here.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Belle sat up a little more, folding her legs under her. Max followed, still close, watching her carefully.

There was something in the way she looked at him now. Like she was on the edge of a cliff, heart in her throat, trying to trust the air would catch her.

“I have to tell you something,” she said softly, her fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve.

Max stilled. “Okay.”

“I was going to wait,” she said. “I didn’t want to do it over the phone, or in the middle of all the… noise. But you’re here now, and I don’t want to keep it from you.”

“Belle,” he said gently, “you can tell me anything.”

“I have something for you.”

Max blinked. “Is this a surprise-I- am-mad-at-you gift or a I-love-you-so-here’s-something-cute gift?”

Belle rolled her eyes, but her lips curved slightly. “The second one.”

“Good,” he said. “I was going to guess that anyway.”

She opened the drawer of her bedside table and pulled something out of it, only to placed it gently in his lap.

A lion plush.

Max looked down at it, brows drawing together. It was small, soft, slightly chubby around the middle with a fuzzy, mane and button eyes. Not something he’d seen before.

He ran a hand over its head slowly, confused but already fond of it. “Where did this come from?”

“I bought it the day after you left for Canada,” Belle said quietly. “I was shopping for a gift for Victoria’s baby, and I saw him. And I couldn’t put him back.”

Max looked at her, then back at the lion, frowning slightly in thought. “For Victoria’s baby?”

She shook her head. Her voice was soft, but steady. Belle’s eyes met his.

“For ours.”

The words hit him like a gear shift in slow motion. He blinked, heart thudding, mouth parting, but no sound coming out. He looked at her, really looked at her—at the hoodie draped over her shoulders, at the hand resting on her stomach without thinking, at the way her eyes shimmered but didn’t waver.

“You’re—” His voice cracked. “You’re pregnant?”

Belle nodded. “Twelve weeks, now. I thought it was the anemia at first. I went in for a check-up and they… they did an ultrasound.”

Max’s hand found hers without hesitation, fingers lacing tightly. “And everything’s okay?”

She nodded again, breath catching this time. “There was a heartbeat. A strong one. I saw it.”

He stared at her in awe, overwhelmed, his brain scrambling to keep up while his heart surged forward.

The plush lion sat between them on the bed, quiet and steady.

Max looked down at it, then back at her. “You’re serious?”

Belle’s voice cracked then, just a little. “I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. I wanted it to be here. With you. Home.”

And Max—Max didn’t even realize he was crying until she touched his cheek, brushing the tears away with the gentlest smile.

“You’re having our baby,” he said, the words tumbling out of him like something sacred.

Belle’s breath caught.

And then Max let out a shaky laugh—half in disbelief, half in awe. “You’re having our baby.”

She bit her lip. “Is that… okay?”

“Belle,” he said, looking at her like she’d just given him the universe, “it’s perfect.”

He looked down, then up at her again.

“Twelve weeks?” he said. “So that means…”

“December,” Belle murmured. “Right before the new season.”

His grin was slow, bright, and stunned. “A Verstappen off-season baby. We’re so on-brand.”

Belle laughed, soft and teary.

Max reached past her, picked up the lion, and pressed it to her stomach with gentle reverence.

“Hey, little one,” he said quietly. “I can’t wait to meet you.”

***

[mintyys-blog]

MINTYYY can you PUH LEASE do a sex ban on the mark variants 😅⁉️🫦🫦🫦 like reader got mad over something and BOOM sex ban 💯💯 #girlboss

Also Prisoner mark is also my fav favorite too! He needs more screen time cuz whaaaaa💔💔

HEADCANON | invincible variants on a sex ban

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST

MAIN MARK

• Tries so hard to respect it. He genuinely wants to do better.

• Apologizes again. And again. Probably for stuff he didn’t even do.

• But when you wear that silk robe and bend over just a little?

He’s on his knees like, “Can I stick it in? Just a little?”

• You say no.

• He goes to the shower.

• For 40 minutes.

MOHAWK MARK

• “Just the tip.”

• Says it with a straight face. Has the audacity to smile.

• You deadpan.

• you cover your face. Roll over. Lights off.

• he stared blankly, pointing your side. “Babe?”

• you ignore him.

• He’s on probation.

SINISTER MARK

• No.

• Does not respect the ban.

• Who do you think you are? His equal? His jailer? “You exist to be mine. If you thought you could change that with rules, baby… you’re adorable.”

• He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask.

• You say no, and he hears “convince me.”

• Next thing you know? You’re face down, back arched, the wall cracked behind your headboard.

• He’s feral. Unhinged. And talking through it. “You think you get to decide? You exist to please me. Don’t ever forget it.”

• Your legs don’t work the next morning.

• He calls that a light warning.

OMNI MARK

• Thinks he’s mature enough. Emotionally evolved. Above this.

• “I’ve gone decades without it. I’ll be fine.”

• Day 2: You start teasing. Wearing his shirt. Sitting in his lap. Getting real close, whispering in his ear, “Goodnight.”

• He holds the line.

• Day 5: You’re bent over a counter on accident and his hands twitch.

• Day 7: You whisper “good boy” during a mission.

• Pins you to the wall with one hand. Voice trembling. “You planned this. You’re doing this on purpose.”

• He doesn’t break the ban. But when you finally lift it?

• He ruins you. Slowly. All that controlled maturity burns down in one night.

SHIESTY MARK

• Laughs in your face. “You think I respect bans? Baby I’m the reason bans exist.”

• You arch a brow, “that’s not the flex you think it is.” He tries every line in the book.

“Okay, but what if we don’t call it sex?”

“What if you just accidentally sit on my face?”

• You smack him. He moans.

• Ends up jerking off loudly with the door open until you threaten to throw his mattress out the window.

• Day 5: Shows up with flowers and says, “This is me being romantic. Can we fuck now?”

• Day 6: You almost consider it. He senses the weakness. He pounces.

• You’re too mad to stop him—but not mad enough to say no. You call it a relapse. He calls it a win.

MASKLESS MARK

• He’s so respectful. Almost too respectful.

• Says things like “Of course, I understand. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

• But behind those calm eyes? CHAOS.

• You catch him staring. Always staring.

• Fist clenched when you laugh. Breathing heavy when you hug him.

• Day 4: He asks, voice low, “Would it be inappropriate to say I dreamed about you last night?”

• You say “Yes.”

• He smiles.

• Day 6: You catch him whispering your name into his pillow.

• Day 7: He breaks. Doesn’t touch you—but stands in front of your door and says: “I need you. Tell me what I have to do.”

FULL MASK MARK

• Doesn’t react. At least, not visibly.

• You almost think he doesn’t care.

• Until you find two holes punched through the reinforced training walls.

• Doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t argue. Just seethes quietly.

• Starts doing silent, shirtless workouts in your eyeline. You know it’s on purpose.

• You try to tease him.

• He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. But the mask turns. “Say the word, and I’ll break every promise for you.”

• You feel that. Deep. Still, he waits. Until you crack. And when you do? He takes his time.

VILTRUMITE MARK

At first? Arrogant. Smug. You lay down the ban and he just laughs. “You think I need sex that badly? I’m Viltrumite. I have discipline.”

• Day 1: He trains harder. Tries to “sweat it out.”

• Day 2: You stretch in front of him in tiny shorts. He twitches. Looks away. Barely.

• Day 3: You kiss his neck. Whisper “goodnight.” Leave him standing there like a statue with a pulse. He’s pacing the halls at 3AM. Shirtless. Angry. Horny. Confused.

• Day 5: You bend over a little too slow to pick something up and he growls. Like actually. Animal noise.

• Day 6: He’s slamming fists into boulders. Punching holes in steel walls. Trying not to break.

• But you? You’re thriving. Teasing him. Whispering things like, “You’re so strong… bet you could make me forget my own name if I let you.” You leave him like that. Blue-balled. Sweating.

[temiizpalace]

☆┊WILL YOU MARRY ME? ..FOR THE FOOD OF COURSE

SUMMARY: a friend on the inside told you that this restaurant gives out free food to guests who propose.. well what better way to get free food than to get your crush in on this?

CHARACTERS: all (+RSA and ROLLO)

WARNINGS: none

NOTES: ignore the fact it’s a ton of highschool students getting proposed to

reader gender is not mentioned, reader could be yuu

THINKS ITS STUPID ; YOU PROPOSE

so let him get this straight. you want to fake a marriage proposal with him just to get a free dinner at a fancy restaurant? are you joking? why would you want to go through the hassle? he could literally cook or get someone to cook you a meal twice as good! also for free! you’re so lucky he likes you too. i mean what. anyways, reluctantly, he agreed to the plan.

as you got on one knee, he couldn’t help his heart from pounding. it’s fake, the boy reminded himself, trying to suppress his painfully obvious heartbeat. you slide the ring on his finger, the applause around him being the only to pull him out of lala land. at first he thought it was dumb, but next time, he wouldn’t mind doing this again so long as you don’t go back on your word.

he forgot about the food and barely ate.

ace, riddle, leona, azul, jamil, idia, sebek, rollo

HESITANT, BUT AGREES ; HE PROPOSES

proposal? like, marriage proposal? oh. oh seven. SERIOUSLY— wait, no, a staged one. whoops. haha, you got him. gosh darn it.. you want to do this with him though? you could’ve asked anyone else! what an honor it is to pretend to marry you.. it’s like a dream come true! sort of. hold on, what if he gets carried away? jeez, it makes him nervous just thinking about it.. can he do this? is this morally correct? well you asked him first.. okay, he’ll do it!

the ring box rests in his pocket, waiting for your signal before he can ask for your hand. as he got on his knee, he could feel his hands tremble, begging not to screw up or accidentally drop the ring. his eyes meet yours, as did the audiences. the heat in his cheeks rose immensely as he uttered the four magic words, your acceptance gaining cheers from the crowd. that.. that felt good. he’ll definitely propose to you again! but the next time he does, it won’t be for show.

he was sad when he remembered this was fake. the food didn’t taste good anymore.

deuce, cater, trey, jack, ruggie, epel, malleus, silver

HE GETS REALLY INTO IT ; HE PROPOSES

there was no convincing involved at all. the moment you said “let’s fake a proposal” he already agreed. and please let me tell you how into it he got. he went through rehearsals, wrote down heartfelt poems, and even got all dolled up just for the occasion. he showed up to your door with a bouquet of flowers, lifting your hand to brush against his lips, escorting you by the arm to his transportation, just the whole thing. like damn you’re not even in public yet. relax.

at the restaurant, he grabbed your hands suddenly, turning you to face him. he began to go on about how much he loved you, and how much your moments together meant to him. he lowered himself onto one knee, pulling the velvet box out of his pockets. you are presented with a REAL ring (not the fake one you offered, nono), with a glittering stone on top. this was an act, yet even you believed it was real for a moment. you accept his proposal before he suddenly pulled you in with his lips nearly against yours.

he pulls back, the sounds of tears from the waiter and compliments from other customers being the only sounds made in the moment. he plays it off like it was nothing, yet you felt yourself overheating at his bold acts. if this is how far he’ll go for an act, imagine how far he’ll go for the real thing.

ate his meal like nothing happened. you were the one who couldn’t eat.

jade, vil, rook, lilia che’nya

YOU HAD HIM THE SECOND YOU SPOKE ; YOU PROPOSE

yes. you didn’t even need to finish your sentence, it’s a yes. he’ll do it. ohhh propose! sure! he’ll do it right now! what? later? okay! wait, just pretend? ah. he sees now. while a little disappointed that this was just for a free meal, he’ll still do it. it’s basically real if you act like it is, right? whatever! you asked him to do this, meaning you must like him enough right? he’s excited now just thinking about! don’t worry about anything, he’s got it all figured out!

or he thought he did. you grab his hand as you wore a charming smile on your face. you spoke of fond memories you had of him and moments you’ve had together (that didn’t actually happen) which just gave him butterflies. he was such anice outgoing and cheery person, yet, this is the first time he just can’t find the words. as you asked for his hand in marriage, he felt his heart skip a beat before accepting gracefully. as you both hear your congratulations, finished your meal, and left the restaurant, he refused to take the ring off of his finger. he’ll wear it forever. it’ll look very nice with the real one he got you when it’s his turn to propose.

pookie please take the ring off it made a dent in your finger

floyd, kalim, neige

YOU HAD HIM AT FREE FOOD

free? food? now those are words ruggie likes to hear in the same sentence. AND ITS A FANCY RESTAURANT? sign. him. up. there’s proposal involved? cool. while he’s also really into that, he seemed more interested in what kind of foods they give out for free yknow what im saying?

will it be authentic sunset savanna dishes? scalding sands dishes? foods from the shaftlands? cmon, just spit it out. it’s not that he doesn’t care! you actually did catch him off guard with that proposal bit. he’s just really excited for the food part. when he saw the restaurant, he could already tell the food was going to be good.

as the proposal goes along, yada, yada, yada, the dinner is presented on the table. was he in heaven? did he die? cause holy crappp.. getting to become his crushes fiancé while also eating good was his idea of paradise! and this was just one restaurant that did this? what about the others? you can’t just leave em hanging! when you guys actually propose to each other, he’ll definitely want to do it in another fancy restaurant.

ruggie

A/N: hey guys im back (god damn that’s a lot of tags)

date published: 8/16/24

© temiizpalace — do not copy, steal, or put my work into ai. thank you!