#but as i said i just feel frustrated because it feels like no one cares about me

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 19: June 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

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

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

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Pascale)

Pascale: Arthur, darling, don’t forget to pack your jacket for Montreal. It’s still chilly in the evenings.

Charles: It’s Canada, not the North Pole.

Arthur: I HAVE a jacket. You think I’m five?

Pascale: You never pack socks. I am allowed to worry.

Charles: Speaking of packing, who stole my hoodie?

Arthur: You left it at my place. 

Charles: Anyone want to do dinner after the race weekend? I think I’m staying a few extra days.

Arthur: Yes! Let’s do something simple. Pizza night?

Lorenzo: I’m in.

Arthur: I’m not paying.

Charles: No one asked you to.

Pascale: Isabelle, do you still have that panna cotta recipe from Mémé?

***

If her family noticed she was avoiding them, Belle didn’t care.

She wasn’t answering texts. She wasn’t returning calls. She wasn’t engaging in their attempts to “check in.” Because checking in should’ve meant something before they forgot her birthday. Before she had to celebrate Charles’ win while pretending that it didn’t sting that not a single one of them had thought of her.

So she ignored them.

Instead, she focused on work, throwing herself into her projects with meticulous precision. Deadlines were met early, site visits were scheduled without hesitation, and her inbox was clear before lunch. 

And when she wasn’t working, she was at the stables.

Her horse—her horse—was the one thing she allowed herself to fully indulge in. She spent hours at the barn, grooming Fleur, talking to her like she could understand every word. In some ways, Belle thought he did. Fleur huffed at her when she was tense, nudged at her pockets when she forgot treats, stood steady beneath her hands when she just needed a moment to breathe.

She could feel the foal kick against her hands when she brushed her, nudging her like he or she was already telling Belle, Hey, I am here!. 

The quiet routine of it soothed her. Mornings spent at the barn, afternoons dedicated to architecture plans, evenings curled up with Max.

Belle had always been the one to reach out first. The one who swallowed her pride, who made the first move, who convinced herself that things didn’t hurt as much as they did. She had spent years pretending that being forgotten, being an afterthought, didn’t matter.

She wasn’t pretending anymore.

Max was watching her, concern evident in the way he leaned against the counter, arms crossed but not in frustration—just waiting. Because he knew she wasn’t okay. And Belle hated that she couldn’t just brush it off, hated that the words I’m fine stuck in her throat like splinters.

So she said nothing.

“Belle.” His voice was gentle, coaxing. “You can’t avoid them forever.”

She let out a humorless laugh, setting her bag down with more force than necessary. “I’ve spent my whole life being easy to ignore. Why should it be any different now?”

Max frowned. “That’s not—”

“They forgot my birthday, Max.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, sharp and raw. “All of them. My brothers. My mother. They were so busy celebrating Charles that not a single one of them thought about me. Not for a second.”

He stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“I was standing right there,” she continued, voice shaking. “Smiling, hugging them, celebrating with them—and not one of them realized.”

Max’s jaw tensed. He had realized. He had held her that night, had felt the way she trembled when the weight of it all became too much.

“I kept thinking—this is it. This is the moment one of them is going to remember. But they never did.” She swallowed, shaking her head. “And now they’re texting me like nothing happened, like I’m just supposed to let it go because that’s what I always do.”

Max stepped closer, reaching for her hand. “You don’t have to let it go.”

Her fingers curled around his, gripping tight. “I don’t know how to talk to them without feeling like I’m screaming into a void.”

He squeezed her hand, grounding her. “Then don’t talk to them. Not until you’re ready. Not until you want to.”

***

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint Mleux & Charlotte Di Pietro

Charlotte: Okay. We never actually solved the Isabelle dating mystery.

Alexandra: Because it’s unsolvable. She’s a vault. I think even Charles doesn’t know.

Charlotte: Especially Charles doesn’t know. That man wouldn’t notice if she got married in front of him unless she handed him the bouquet and told him to hold it.

Alexandra: He’d probably ask why she was dressed up and where the catering came from.

Charlotte: Anyway. New tactic. We include everyone. Even the cursed options.

Alexandra: This is going to end in slander.

Charlotte: And that’s why we’re friends.

Charlotte: Charles – her brother. Illegal. Next.

Alexandra: Carlos – Has a girlfriend. Also I feel like he treats her like he treats his baby sister. 

Charlotte: Lando – is single. But is also too loud and too twitchy…

Alexandra: Put him on the list of possibilities regardless. 

Alexandra: Oscar – too sweet. He’d ask for permission to hold her hand. Also has a girlfriend. And Belle and Lily are friends. That would go against every girlcode. 

Charlotte: George – Carmen would kill her. 

Alexandra: Lewis – strong contender. They’re both calm. They like dogs. She could thrive in that quiet glam lifestyle.

Charlotte: And he has major “treat her like a queen in private, say nothing in public” energy. She’d eat that UP.

Charlotte: Okay. Now. Are you ready?

Alexandra: Oh no.

Charlotte: Fernando.

Alexandra: CHARLOTTE.

Charlotte: Think about it. Dominant. Mysterious. Daddy issues magnet. She likes men who speak softly but could ruin you.

Alexandra: And he would call her “bella” and offer her an espresso without saying a word. That’s dangerous.

Charlotte: She’d pretend to be annoyed by the attention and then buy a silk robe for his apartment.

Charlotte: I’m just saying. He has retired situationship energy. She’d never admit it, but she'd love it.

Alexandra: Lance Stroll -No.

Charlotte: Why not?

Alexandra: She’d get whiplash from how inconsistent his energy is. One day he’s moody spa dad, the next day he’s a TikTok e-boy in tactical fleece.

Charlotte: She’d spend half her life trying to figure out if he’s okay and the other half hiding his outfits.

Alexandra: Agreed. Logan Sargeant…Honestly I don’t think she ever even talked three words with him? 

Charlotte: Can’t see it either.  Alex Albon - also has a girlfriend. Isabelle doesn’t poach. She’s got morals.

Charlotte: Max Verstappen- …I mean it’s Max Verstappen. Power couple. Silent and intense. They’d communicate via eyebrow raises and telepathy.

Alexandra: Too risky. She would never do that. Also, Charles would die. Like actually. His soul would leave his body. And doesn’t he also have a girlfriend?

Charlotte: But isn’t Isabelle weirdly close with his sister?!

Alexandra: I think that’s only because they understand how it feels to have a brother in F1, right?

Charlotte: Sergio Pérez - too married. 

Charlotte: Daniel Ricciardo -  Too loud. Too chaotic. Too… Daniel.

Alexandra:  Agreed. 

Alexandra: Yuki Tsunoda– she’s too introverted for that kind of chaos. She’d cry trying to keep up with his snack schedule.

Alexandra: Zhou Guanyu – also a real option. They’re both elegant, soft-spoken, and I’ve seen her actually laugh at something he said. A real laugh.

Charlotte: That’s practically a proposal in Isabelle language.

Alexandra: And he’s calm enough not to flinch when she’s in her “I will disappear to the mountains with a book” era.

Charlotte: I want this one to be real. I could live with Zhou as my unofficial brother-in-law.

Charlotte: Valtteri Bottas -  He has a mullet and a calendar of his own butt. It’s not happening.

Charlotte: Nico Hülkenberg – too tall, too German. Married. 

Charlotte: Kevin Magnussen– Also married. 

Alexandra: Pierre Gasly – Charles would actually kill him. And Kika would fight Belle for even trying to flirt with him. 

Charlotte: Esteban – Also has a girlfriend, no way. 

Alexandra: Okay. Final contenders:

Zhou

Lewis

Lando

Fernando “surprise daddy issues” Alonso

Charlotte: Do you think she’d go that rogue?

Alexandra: Honestly? Apparently she once dated a sculptor in university who thought emotions were “bourgeois illusions,” so… yes.

Charlotte: God, she would be Alonso’s beautiful mystery woman.

Alexandra: She’d show up to a race weekend in his Aston Martin hoodie and say it was a gift from a friend and never elaborate.

Charlotte: And Charles would just go, “I didn’t know you liked green.”

***

“I got married.”

Simone blinked once. “That’s a strong opener.”

Belle smiled faintly. “Surprise.”

Simone leaned forward just a little, resting her notebook on her lap. “Want to walk me through that one?”

Belle exhaled, tilting her head back against the cushion. The ceiling fan turned lazily above them. Everything smelled faintly of lavender and old books.

“It wasn’t planned,” she said. “Well, not by me. I mean, Max proposed. And we’d talked about getting married, eventually. But then after everything with my birthday and the race and… all of it, I just didn’t want to wait anymore.”

Simone nodded, quiet and listening.

Belle picked at the label on the water bottle. “So we got married at city hall. The next day. Just our closest people. No announcement. No drama. No press. Just… us.”

“And how did that feel?” Simone asked gently.

“Like peace,” Belle said. “Like a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I didn’t feel invisible. Not for one second.”

Simone smiled softly. “That sounds like something worth holding onto.”

“It was,” Belle said. Then, after a pause, “It is.”

She sat in the quiet for a while, her gaze drifting to the window. A breeze moved the curtain like an exhale.

“But it came right after…” She hesitated. “They forgot my birthday. All of them. Charles. Arthur. Lorenzo. Maman. I was in the garage all day, and not one person remembered.”

Simone’s expression didn’t change, but Belle could feel her listening more intently.

“I didn’t want to be upset about it. It was Charles’ race—his first win in Monaco. I didn’t want to make it about me. But I stood there, in Ferrari red, and I felt like I didn’t exist.”

Her voice stayed even, but there was a rawness beneath it. “Carlos remembered. He asked me if he should tell them. I said no. Because if you have to remind people you exist, what’s the point?”

Simone waited a beat before responding. “That’s a very old wound, Belle.”

Belle looked down. “Yeah.”

“And how do you feel about marrying Max right after that?”

Belle gave a soft huff of breath. “Grateful. He reminded me I mattered. That I was seen. And it wasn’t because I asked for it. He just… knew.”

Simone nodded, watching her closely.

Belle was quiet for a beat. Then she blinked, shook her head a little, and murmured, “Sorry. I feel weird. Lightheaded.”

Simone straightened slightly. “How long have you felt like that?”

“I don’t know.” Belle pressed the water bottle to her cheek. “Since yesterday? Maybe the day before. Just a little dizzy. I figured it was stress or adrenaline. But it’s not going away.”

Simone raised a brow. “Are you eating? Sleeping?”

Belle nodded. “Yeah. Not perfectly, but enough. I had an iron deficiency a few years ago. Anemia. Maybe it’s that again.”

“I think it would be a good idea to get it checked,” Simone said gently. “Sooner rather than later.”

Belle nodded slowly. “I will. I promise.”

Simone smiled. “Good. You don’t need to power through everything, Belle. Not alone.”

Belle looked down at her hands.

“I’m not alone anymore,” she said softly. “That’s the part I forget.”

And for once, saying it out loud didn’t feel like tempting fate.

It felt like the truth.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

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

Carlos: it’s been A WEEK ONE. WHOLE. WEEK.

George: You’re kidding.

George: I thought for sure someone would realise by now??

Oscar: They haven’t. Max said she hasn’t heard a single thing from any of them.

Daniel: I’m starting to believe they genuinely think Belle sprang fully formed into existence.

Lando: like Athena but in heels and with perfect emotional regulation

Carlos: I’m losing my mind. HIS OWN SISTER??? he FORGOT??

Alex: That’s actually unbelievable. I’m offended on her behalf.

Daniel: What do you MEAN the entire Leclerc family has just… ghosted her birthday like it never happened???

Carlos: No text. No call. No retroactive Instagram story with a cupcake emoji. NOTHING.

Sebastian: I can feel my blood pressure rising.

Nico R.: I am this close to sending Pascale an anonymous calendar.

Sebastian: Have they ever remembered without her prompting?

Oscar: Nope. Historically, Isabelle Leclerc was the family reminder system.

George: So now that she’s gone radio silent…

Lando: They’re just drifting through life like brainless goldfish.

David: The woman literally held that family together with calendar invites and emotionally intelligent sighs.

Fernando: They have lost their lighthouse. They are adrift in darkness.

Nico R.: Honestly, it’s kind of poetic.

Carlos: no. it’s INFURIATING. i saw her that day. she was STANDING THERE. in the garage. in red. 

Carlos: And she told me not to say anything. Said she “didn’t want a pity cupcake.” I think about that sentence every night before I sleep. 😠

Daniel: My blood pressure rises every time I remember this.

Oscar: She’s being so graceful about it and I hate that for her.

Sebastian: She deserves better. I hope Max gives her the world.

Lando: He gave her a horse and a wedding. He did okay.

Lewis: I think we need a plan. A coordinated operation.

Oscar: Operation: Make Charles Realise He’s a Disaster?

Alex: That might take longer than we have.

George: Can we start a countdown clock?

Alex: How long do we wait before Charles realises?

George: End of the season. Final race. Then we riot.

Fernando: Or we leave clues like a scavenger hunt. See how long it takes him to get to: “YOU FORGOT HER BIRTHDAY.”

Lewis: And when they finally do remember?

Oscar: Too late. She already married the only man who actually treats her like she matters.

Carlos: damn right she did.

***

Gianpiero Lambiase had been through a lot with Max Verstappen—championship battles, rain-soaked qualifying sessions, angry radio rants, and more tire compound debates than he cared to remember—but nothing could’ve prepared him for this.

The meeting was already running five minutes behind schedule, which—by Red Bull standards—meant it was practically a full-blown rebellion. Christian was flipping through his notes with a sense of purpose usually reserved for press briefings and budget cap discussions. Helmut was sipping black coffee like it owed him money. Checo was leaning back in his chair; and poor Gemma from PR was already clutching her notepad like it was a life raft.

GP sat with his tablet open, notes prepped. 

Max was… Max. Legs kicked out under the table, hoodie on, the faintest hint of smugness clinging to him like tire rubber after a street race.

They made it through power unit updates and marketing commitments before Christian asked, “Anything else we should know before we head to Canada?”

Max sipped his coffee. “Yeah, actually. I got married.”

Silence.

Utter, complete, stunned silence.

Gemma dropped her pen. Christian choked on his coffee. Checo looked like he’d just been told the sky was blue—zero reaction. Helmut blinked so slowly GP briefly considered calling a medic.

GP didn’t flinch.

Because, of course, he already knew.

Christian blinked. “You… what?”

Max nodded. “Married. Last week.”

“To whom?” Christian asked slowly, voice rising like a man realizing he’s stepped into a minefield.

“Isabelle Leclerc,” Max added, like he was announcing a new cat.

Gemma made a noise that GP could only describe as deeply managerial despair.

The room exploded.

“CHARLES’ SISTER?!” Christian yelped, almost standing.

Helmut Marko didn’t speak. He just turned his head, very slowly, and stared at Max like he was an alien.“You’re telling me… you married Charles Leclerc’s sister?”

Max nodded like they were discussing tire strategy. “Mhm.”

Gemma actually put her head down on the table.

“To clarify,” GP said calmly, “he’s not joking.”

“YOU knew?” Christian turned to him, utterly betrayed.

“I’m his race engineer,” GP replied, deadpan. “He tells me everything. Whether I like it or not. And I was the best man.”

Gemma made a small, distressed noise and began frantically flipping through her calendar. “Do we—do we have photos? An announcement plan? A press strategy?! Oh my God, do they even know in Maranello?”

“No,” Max said calmly. “We haven’t told anyone outside a few people. We like our privacy.”

GP didn’t even flinch.

Checo raised a hand. “I knew.”

Christian whirled. “You also knew and didn’t tell me?”

Checo shrugged. “I like my life. Also Belle looked beautiful in white.”

Helmut still hadn’t blinked. “And Charles?”

Max smiled, utterly unbothered. “He has no idea.”

Christian looked like he was about to combust. “You MARRIED Isabelle Leclerc, and Charles doesn’t know?!”

GP finally looked up. “You should’ve seen the garage in Monaco. She was invisible to them all weekend.”

That shut the room up.

Gemma put her head in her hands.

“Don’t worry,” Max said, far too cheerfully. “We’re going to post something soon. We just wanted it to be ours first.”

Christian sat back down like his soul had left his body.

Helmut finally spoke, voice low. “Just make sure we beat Ferrari in Canada.”

“Obviously,” Max said.

“I’m adding a press briefing to the schedule,” Gemma muttered, already reaching for her iPad. “And a PR damage control plan. And possibly a defibrillator for when Charles finds out.”

“I’ll bring snacks,” Checo offered.

Christian slumped back in his chair. “Next time, just send a memo.”

GP simply took another sip of his coffee and updated his notes:

Action Items:

Tire compounds

Charles may attempt murder – suggest more security in hospitality

Of all the chaos they’d weathered over the years, this might’ve been the most entertaining.

And somehow, exactly what he expected from Max.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur: Mum just sent me this video of a duck in a raincoat.

Charles: I love that duck.

Lorenzo: Wait send it here.

Charles: He’s precious. His name is Biscotte.

Lorenzo: I’d die for Biscotte.

Arthur: We should get a duck.

Lorenzo: We cannot get a duck.

Charles: You sound just like Isabelle.

Arthur: Where is she, anyway? Haven’t seen her in like, weeks.

Lorenzo: She’s probably fine. You know how she is. Independent.

Charles: Yeah. Classic Isabelle.

***

The examination room was cool, almost too quiet, and Belle’s fingers twisted together in her lap as the doctor tapped something into the computer.

It had started as a check-up. Just routine. She hadn’t even told Max she was going—he had left for Canada, and she didn’t want him worrying over what she was sure was just her old anemia flaring up again.

The dizziness had crept up slowly—barely-there lightheaded spells, then the bone-deep fatigue, the occasional shortness of breath that made her pause halfway through brushing her hair. All things she’d felt before, years ago, when the iron levels had dropped low enough to make walking up a flight of stairs feel like climbing Everest.

She wasn’t worried about the dizzy spells. Not really.

She chalked them up to everything else: exhaustion, stress, not enough proper meals, the emotional fallout of a birthday that had quietly broken something inside her, and—most likely—a return of her old anemia. That had always been the explanation before.

Until the doctor, a middle-aged woman with a kind voice and gentle hands, glanced at her latest blood test results and hummed quietly to herself.

Belle shifted in her seat. “Is it bad?”

“No, not bad,” the doctor said, clicking through a few more pages. “Your iron is a little low again, but there’s something else. These hormone levels…” She looked up with a smile. “Have you taken a pregnancy test recently?”

Belle blinked. “A what?”

The doctor laughed softly. “I’m guessing that’s a no.”

“I came in because I thought I needed more iron.”

“You might,” the doctor said gently. “But these levels are more consistent with someone in the early second trimester. I’d like to do a quick ultrasound, just to check.”

Belle was still frozen when the nurse came in and helped her onto the examination bed. Still blinking in disbelief when the gel hit her skin. And completely silent when the screen next to her flickered to life with soft static… and then, suddenly, a tiny form.

And a heartbeat.

A heartbeat.

The doctor smiled again, reassuring and calm. “Well,” she said, adjusting the probe slightly, “there’s your explanation.”

Belle stared at the screen. The curve of a head. The flicker of movement. A little person, whole and real and—God—already so much bigger than she would’ve thought.

“You’re measuring right around twelve weeks,” the doctor continued. “Healthy heartbeat. Everything looks very good.”

Belle’s hand drifted hovered just above her own stomach like she was trying to connect the dots between what she was seeing and what her body had kept quiet for nearly three months.

“I didn’t know,” she said quietly. “I had no idea.”

“It happens,” the doctor said, kind. “Especially when the signs are subtle or easily mistaken. You’ve been under a lot of stress?”

Belle let out a hollow laugh. “You could say that.”

“Well,” the doctor said, pulling off the gloves, “Congratulations, Mrs. Verstappen.”

Belle just stared at the screen, the tiniest flicker of a heartbeat echoing through the room like a secret being whispered for the first time.

Twelve weeks.

Twelve weeks of carrying a life she hadn’t even known was there.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

So she did neither.

She just pressed a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes.

Twelve weeks.

Her heart was still racing, her brain still catching up—but even through the shock, something bloomed warm and steady in her chest.

A heartbeat. 

A beginning.

A family.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Can you come over tonight?

Emilie: Of course. Do I need wine, sugar, firewood, or to hide a body?

Belle: Just you. Maybe chocolate. But mostly you.

Emilie: 👀 I’m bringing brownies and a hug and zero questions until you’re ready.

Belle: Thank you. I just… yeah. I need you.

Emilie: On my way as soon as I finish work. And I swear I won’t interrogate you (until at least the second brownie).

Belle: Fair.

***

Belle sat on the couch, knees drawn up beneath her, a soft throw blanket pooled in her lap despite the mild spring air drifting in from the open window. Her fingers twisted the corner of the fabric absently. Across from her, Emilie sat cross-legged, a steaming mug of rooibos tea cradled in both hands, watching her with quiet concern.

Belle didn’t look up.

Didn’t breathe in a different way.

Didn’t preface it with a sigh or a story.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

The words hung in the air, crisp and absolute, like the crack of thunder before the rain.

Emilie blinked. “I—wait. What?”

Belle raised her eyes, slow and steady. “Twelve weeks.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then:

“Twelve weeks?!” Emilie nearly dropped her mug. “Belle! How—?”

“I thought it was anemia again,” Belle said, voice steady, almost clinical in its explanation. “I’ve been tired. Dizzy. It’s happened before. I booked a check-up just to be cautious, and then…” Her breath hitched. “The doctor said it was normal in pregnancy. And then there was… an ultrasound.”

Emilie’s face softened, mouth falling open slightly. “Oh.”

“I saw everything,” Belle whispered. “There was a heartbeat. Just… fluttering away. A baby.” She paused. “My baby. Ours.”

Gently, Emilie placed her mug on the coffee table and reached over, her hand brushing over Belle’s in quiet support.

“Have you told Max?”

Belle shook her head. “He’s in Canada. I couldn’t tell him over the phone. Not this. It’s too… big.”

Emilie nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s not a FaceTime conversation.”

“He’ll be back in a few days,” Belle murmured. “I keep thinking I’ll feel ready by then.”

“And do you?”

“No.” A pause. Then: “Yes. A little.” She smiled faintly. “We talked about it, before. Not in any serious planning way. Just… someday. After everything settled. But we weren’t trying.” Her hand drifted unconsciously to rest over her stomach. “I think part of me always hoped it would happen anyway.”

Emilie’s thumb moved gently over Belle’s hand. “You’ve always wanted this.”

Belle nodded. “And now it’s here. And I don’t know if I’m terrified or just… in awe.”

“You’re both,” Emilie said softly. “And that’s okay. You’re allowed to be.”

“I just needed someone else to know,” Belle admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Before him. Just… someone who could sit with me in this and not panic.”

Emilie’s smile was wobbly, but warm. “I’m doing my very best not to burst into tears or scream into a pillow, so you’re welcome.”

Belle laughed—a soft, wet sound—and wiped at her eyes. “You’re doing great.”

“You’re going to be a great mum, Belle.” Emilie’s voice didn’t waver. “And Max… Max is going to be ridiculous about it. Protective. Soft. Maybe a little panicked. But happy.”

Belle leaned into her, resting her head on Emilie’s shoulder. “I hope so.”

“He loves you,” Emilie said. “He’ll love this, too. It’s you. It’s his. That man would rebuild the planet if you asked.”

Belle closed her eyes and let herself breathe.

She wasn’t alone.

She never had been.

And when Max came home, she’d tell him.

The rest?

They’d figure it out together.

***

Instagram Post: @/f1hq

Comments: 

@/f1girlie: imagine marrying max and not telling the world. 

@/paddocktea: red bull pr team needs a drink and a nap IMMEDIATELY

@/f1lore: sooooo is this the soft launch or the chaos launch??

@/weheartgp: somewhere GP is just sipping his tea like he’s known for months. because he HAS.

***

Nico Hülkenberg was halfway through his second espresso when he spotted Kevin Magnussen exiting the Haas hospitality with his usual determined stride and a very distracted-looking PR intern trailing behind him.

Nico grinned.

“Hey, by the way,” he said cheerfully. “Did you know Max is one of us now?”

Kevin paused, raising an eyebrow. “Us?”

Nico tilted his head innocently. “The married ones. He got hitched.”

Kevin blinked. “Wait—Max Verstappen is married?”

“Yep,” Nico said, popping the “p” with far too much glee. “Secret wedding in Monaco. City hall. Small guest list. Lando dropped the photos like a grenade on the group chat. I’m still emotionally recovering.”

Kevin stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“I never kid about matrimony, Kevin.” Nico leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like they were conspiring in a back alley. “It gets better. Wanna guess who he married?”

Kevin gave him a look. “Some model I’ve never heard of?”

Nico beamed. “Charles Leclerc’s little sister.”

Kevin actually stopped walking. “What?”

“Oh yeah,” Nico said. “Apparently she’s been dating Max in total secrecy for over a year. Nobody knew. Not even Charles. Especially not Charles.”

Kevin blinked. “So Charles doesn’t know his colleague is now his brother-in-law?”

“Correct,” Nico said, clearly delighted.

Kevin ran a hand over his face. “Oh my god.”

Nico sipped his espresso. “Welcome to Canada. The drama is international.”

Kevin exhaled. “I need a drink.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Nico said, already walking again. “The next group chat explosion is just hours away. I can feel it.”

And with that, they disappeared into the paddock chaos—two dads, too much gossip, and a rapidly approaching press session neither of them were emotionally prepared for.

***

Press Conference Transcript – Canadian GP

 Participants: Max Verstappen (Red Bull), Lewis Hamilton (Mercedes), Nico Hülkenberg (Haas), Lance Stroll (Aston Martin), Pierre Gasly (Alpine), Oscar Piastri (McLaren) Moderator: Tom Clarkson

Tom Clarkson: Okay, gentlemen. Thank you for being here. Let's get started. First question comes from Emily Zhang at The Race.

Emily: Hi everyone. This question is for Max—there’s been a lot of buzz this week because people spotted you wearing a ring. Are congratulations in order?

(Max looks up calmly, shifts slightly in his seat. Oscar stares straight ahead like he’s seen this movie before. Lewis bites back a smirk. Nico Hülkenberg snorts into his water bottle.)

Max: Uh… yeah. I got married.

(Pause. Lance blinks. Pierre visibly chokes on air.)

Pierre: You what?

Lance: Wait, seriously? Like, married married?

Max: Married married.

Lewis: (grinning) About time someone noticed.

Tom: Okay, wow—so this is breaking news?

Oscar: Not for all of us.

Tom: Right. Okay, so… Max, who’s the lucky person?

(Max raises an eyebrow and doesn’t answer. Lewis covers a laugh with a cough.)

Nico: I mean, should I tell them? I feel like I should tell them.

Pierre: Wait, wait—you knew too?!

Oscar: I was at the wedding.

(Lance audibly gasps.)

Pierre: Oh my God. What is happening.

Max: I just like to keep my private life private. That’s all.

Tom: Okay, okay, I have to ask—do you plan to make a formal announcement?

Max: Eventually. Maybe. Depends how nosey you all get.

Lewis: Don’t look at me. I kept the secret. Like a vault.

Nico: I, on the other hand, told Kevin Magnussen immediately. Because this is cultural.

Tom: …Cultural?

Nico: We, the Married Drivers™, must stick together.

Max: I didn’t realize this came with a club membership.

Nico: There’s a newsletter. You’ll love it.

Pierre: Wait wait wait—who did you even marry??

Max: Next question?

(The whole room erupts into chaos.)

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1teaaccount: MAX VERSTAPPEN JUST SAID "YEAH I GOT MARRIED" IN THE MOST CASUAL WAY POSSIBLE. DURING A PRESS CONFERENCE. OSCAR WAS AT THE WEDDING. PIERRE IS HAVING A LIVE MELTDOWN. I NEED A MINUTE. 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️

@/f1files: Max Verstappen casually breaking the internet mid-press conference and then saying “Next question” like it’s someone else’s problem is the most Verstappen thing I’ve ever seen.

@/chaosinthepits: Lewis Hamilton being smug. Nico Hülkenberg declaring a Married Drivers™ club. Oscar sipping his coffee like this is season 6 of a show he binged in one night. And Max? Max is just sitting there like he didn’t cause a media earthquake. Peak F1.

@/ferns_and_flags: me: trying to work max verstappen: married married also me: clears my schedule to investigate who tf the mystery spouse is

@/leclercsbiceps: pierre gasly's descent into madness upon hearing "i was at the wedding" from oscar deserves an emmy this is theatrical cinema #f1 #canadiangp

@/tifosipanic: Not Lance Stroll gasping like someone just spoiled the end of Titanic 😭😭😭 I love this sport.

@/formulawtf1: max: "I got married." lewis: grinning like a proud older cousin nico: "there’s a newsletter." oscar: "not for all of us." pierre: actively combusting this press conference has more plot twists than Drive to Survive #F1

@/wagsanonymous: me at 3am putting together a suspect board of all women max verstappen has ever spoken to in the past five years 🧵🧵🧵

@/journaldupitlane: MAX VERSTAPPEN IS MARRIED AND WE DON’T KNOW TO WHO F1 TWITTER IS ON FIRE I REPEAT 🔥🔥🔥

@/slowpitstop: “Max: Married married” “Pierre: WHO” “Max: Next question?” AND THEN HE JUST MOVES ON?? sir this is not a soft launch this is a strategic war tactic

@/oscarstanclub: Oscar Piastri has officially become the F1 Gossip Bestie™ he KNEW. he ATTENDED. he’s just sipping tea and watching chaos unfold like a pro

@/beyondthegrid: dear @F1 release the wedding photos. or the drivers' group chat logs. ideally both. sincerely, everyone

@/vettelismyco-pilot:

Lewis Hamilton saying “I kept the secret like a vault” with a grin should be illegal. I’ve never trusted a man more.

@/estebanoconstan: Pierre: “Who did you even marry?” Max: “Next question.” ME: screaming, crying, throwing the entire WDC leaderboard.

@/wheelsequalfeelings:  Okay but what if Mrs. Verstappen is Isabelle Leclerc. Just hear me out.

Private ✅

Gorgeous ✅

Speaks French✅

Likes Horses ✅ Coincidence? I THINK NOT.

@/gridgossipgirl:  Theories so far on who Max Verstappen married:

Isabelle Leclerc

A secret childhood friend who lives off the grid

A Red Bull engineer who’s been hiding in plain sight

That girl he looked at for 0.5 seconds in Austria 2023

Himself, for tax reasons

@/piastrivision: Oscar “I was at the wedding” Piastri refusing to elaborate is the most powerful move I’ve seen this year.

He knows. He’s watching the chaos. He’s THRIVING.

@/gridwivesanonymous: Okay but Max wearing a wedding ring, dropping “I got married,” and then pulling a Next question? is a level of chaos we were not prepared for.

It’s giving: she’s untouchable. 

@/itsyasminmf: My favorite part is Max being so calm. Like, “yeah I’m married.” No further explanation. No photos. No name. No vibe check.

Who is she??

Where did she come from??

Does she know the power she holds??

***

Charles Leclerc had been weirded out since he arrived in Montreal.

It wasn’t anything obvious—no one was throwing punches or shouting across the paddock—but there was a definite chill in the air. People were polite, yes. Just… distant.

Carlos barely nodded at him that morning in the garage. Alex made a joke during the drivers’ briefing, but his eyes hadn’t flicked toward Charles once. Even Lewis had given him a smile that felt more strained than usual.

And Daniel? Daniel Ricciardo, who normally greeted everyone like a long-lost relative, had given him a thumbs-up from a distance and then walked off like he had somewhere better to be.

It made Charles feel like he’d walked into a conversation halfway through and everyone had forgotten to tell him the plot.

“You’ve noticed it too, right?” he asked Pierre later, in the Alpine hospitality.

Pierre looked up from his espresso. “The weird vibes?”

“Yes! Everyone’s being so—so strange.”

Pierre squinted. “Maybe they’re just grumpy. Travel hangover or something.”

“Carlos barely spoke to me,” Charles said. “Carlos. He gave me a nod.”

Pierre raised a brow. “Okay, yeah. That’s definitely weird. Did you say something dumb in a press conference again?”

“I—non! I have no idea. Everyone’s being all secretive. Like I missed a group chat.”

Pierre leaned back in his chair. “You think it’s about you?”

Charles gave him a look.

Pierre nodded. “Okay, fair.”

There was a pause, the sound of engines in the background, mechanics shouting somewhere beyond the fence.

“Oh, also,” Pierre added, like an afterthought, “did you hear Max got married?”

Charles blinked. “What?”

Pierre sipped his coffee. “Yeah. Quietly. No media. I think only a few drivers were invited. No one knows who the girl is, though.”

Charles frowned. “Max? Married?”

“Mhm.”

“And no one knows who to?”

Pierre shrugged. “Some say it’s someone he met through racing. Others think it’s someone from his childhood? I don’t know. It’s weird how no one’s said anything.”

Charles rubbed his temple. “Why is everyone suddenly getting married and giving me the cold shoulder at the same time?”

Pierre grinned. “Maybe it’s karma. Did you forget someone’s birthday or something?”

Charles scoffed. “No!”

***

Esteban Ocon had absolutely no intention of eavesdropping.

In his defense, Charles and Pierre weren’t exactly whispering. They were sitting two tables over in the Alpine hospitality area, sipping espresso like it was a wine tasting, and talking with that animated, slightly too-loud energy that came from a mix of jet lag and general Ferrari drama. Esteban was halfway through a protein bar and minding his own business when Charles’ voice shot up in pitch like he’d just been electrocuted.

“Max? Married?”

Esteban blinked.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to tilt his head slightly, but something in Pierre’s very casual, very smug, “Yeah. Quietly. No media. No one knows who the girl is though,” caught his attention.

Max Verstappen. Married.

And apparently to someone so top-secret that even Pierre Gasly didn’t have a name? That was either the most carefully managed PR move in Formula 1 history—or something else entirely.

Esteban took another bite of his bar and stored the information in the mental folder marked “Paddock Chaos,” which was currently bursting at the seams.

Later, in the Aston Martin hospitality—peaceful, air-conditioned, and full of cucumber water—Esteban leaned toward Lance Stroll and casually said, “So, apparently Max Verstappen got married. I overheard Charles and Pierre talking. Charles looked like he’d swallowed a wasp.”

Lance paused mid-scroll through his phone. “I heard,” he whispered, sounding like he had seen an alien. “Max admitted it in the press conference. No one knows to whom.”

There was a long pause.

Then a voice behind them: “Yes, we do.”

Esteban turned—and immediately felt like he was twelve again and caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Fernando Alonso stood there, arms crossed, eyebrow raised like he’d been waiting his entire career for this moment.

“You do?” Esteban asked, cautiously.

Fernando just nodded. “Max married Isabelle Leclerc.”

The silence was immediate. Lance’s mouth fell open. Esteban blinked like someone had slapped him.

“Isabelle?” Lance said, voice almost cracking. “Charles’ sister Isabelle?”

“Mm,” Fernando said, looking entirely too satisfied. “The quiet one. The one who brings Charles coffee and vanishes into walls.”

Esteban just stared. “Does Charles know?”

Fernando tilted his head. “Do you think we’d be having this conversation if he did?”

“Oh my god,” Lance muttered.

Esteban could feel the chaos building like a weather system. “Wait—so Max married Charles’ sister, and no one told Charles?”

Fernando smirked. “Let’s just say… the Canada GP is going to be memorable.”

And with that, he walked off, leaving Esteban and Lance to sit there in stunned silence as the paddock spun on without them.

Esteban blinked. “I really didn’t mean to eavesdrop this hard today.”

***

Zhou Guanyu had seen a lot in Formula 1.

 Petty rivalries. Heated debriefs. Drivers throwing silent tantrums in hospitality. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for the strange, simmering weirdness between Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz on the Thursday of the Canadian Grand Prix.

He’d noticed it in the paddock first.

 Carlos, standing stiff near the Ferrari motorhome, arms crossed, chewing through a conversation with his engineer like it personally offended him. Charles, twenty feet away, pretending to be very absorbed in his phone, except his jaw was tight and his responses to the press were… terse.

Too terse.

 Even for Charles.

Zhou didn’t consider himself nosy. But he was a driver, and therefore professionally attuned to weird vibes.

So when he found himself beside Oscar Piastri and Logan Sargeant near the McLaren espresso bar a few hours later, he didn’t waste time.

“Okay,” Zhou said, keeping his voice low. “What the hell is going on between Charles and Carlos?”

Oscar glanced up from his coffee. Logan nearly choked on his protein bar.

“What?” Oscar asked, too casually.

“They’re being weird,” Zhou said. “Weirder than usual. Did they fight? Did Charles forget Carlos’ birthday? Did someone dent the other’s scooter?”

Oscar sighed and looked over both shoulders. “I shouldn’t say anything.”

Zhou raised an eyebrow. “So you know something.”

Oscar hesitated. “It’s… not public.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Logan added helpfully.

Oscar gave him a look. Then, under his breath, he said:  “Charles forgot Belle’s birthday.”

Zhou blinked. “What?”

Oscar lowered his voice even more. “Like. Fully. Forgot. The whole family did. On race day. In Monaco.”

Zhou stared. “He forgot his sister’s birthday… at his home race?”

Oscar nodded grimly. “She was in the garage. Literally standing there in Ferrari red. And they didn’t say a word. Carlos was the only one who remembered. And he didn’t even say anything until after the race because Belle told him not to.”

Zhou blinked. “Wait—then why’s Carlos mad now?”

Oscar shrugged. “Because it’s been over a week and they still haven’t remembered. Not one of them.”

Logan muttered, “That explains the ice vibes.”

Zhou dragged a hand down his face. “Okay, but… why do you know all of this?”

Oscar coughed into his coffee. “I… may be in a group chat.”

Logan stared. “A group chat?

Zhou’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of group chat?”

“A support group for emotionally traumatized drivers who’ve witnessed Belle’s family be completely unaware that she exists,” Oscar deadpanned. “It’s also basically an emotional early-warning system for when Charles is about to get throttled.”

Zhou stared at them. “You people need hobbies.”

Oscar sipped his coffee. “We have one. It’s watching Max Verstappen become the most unproblematic romantic lead of 2025.”

Zhou blinked. “Wait. Max is dating Belle?”

Oscar grimaced. “No, he married her.”

“Oh no,” Zhou muttered. “Oh, no.”

And just like that, Zhou understood:

 Something deeply unhinged was happening under the surface of the paddock—and he had officially fallen headfirst into the softest, most dramatic subplot of the season.

Logan looked like he’d just been hit by a rogue space hopper. “That’s… that’s insane.”

“Everyone else knows,” Oscar added. “Lewis. Checo. Even Fernando.”

Logan buried his face in his hands. “No wonder Carlos looks like he wants to strangle someone.”

Zhou leaned back, stunned. “So Charles forgot his sister’s birthday and has no idea she’s married to Max Verstappen?”

Oscar sipped his coffee. “Correct.”

“Jesus,” Logan muttered. “This is like… F1: The Soap Opera.”

***

Oliver Bearman wasn’t technically supposed to be paying attention to the drama.

He was here as a reserve. A professional. Focused. Ready.

But also? He was eighteen, observant, and currently watching what felt like a Cold War being waged in broad daylight between two of the most recognizable drivers on the grid.

Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz were not speaking.

Oh, they technically were. There were nods. Professional exchanges. Brief, clipped updates in front of the engineers. But no banter. No inside jokes. No calm debriefs over espresso machines.

It was like someone had taken a blowtorch to their famously chill teammate chemistry and then just… walked away.

Oliver couldn’t stop watching it unfold.

And he also couldn’t stop talking about it. 

Kimi Antonelli was his newest victim, while they were both in hospitality rinking whatever disgusting protein shakes their trainer thought they should down. 

“Hey,” Oliver whispered, “Have you seen this?”

Kimi blinked. “Seen what?”

Oliver gestured subtly. “Them. Carlos and Charles. They haven’t smiled at each other once today. That’s not normal.”

Kimi squinted, as if only now registering the frosty atmosphere. “Maybe Carlos is angry that Lewis took his seat?”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “It’s not that. They’d be more dramatic if it was about contracts. This is personal.”

Kimi shrugged. “Maybe Charles forgot Carlos’ birthday?”

“Carlos’s birthday was in September.”

“Maybe it’s delayed rage.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “No. This is fresher. I’ve been watching. This started in Monaco.”

“You studied it?” Kimi said, raising an eyebrow.

“I observed it,” Oliver corrected, because he was a responsible adult and definitely not gossiping like a paddock housewife.

Kimi tilted his head. “Okay, so what’s your theory?”

Oliver took a deep breath, eyes darting toward where Charles was pretending to read a telemetry report while Carlos muttered something to an engineer without so much as glancing in his direction.

“Alright,” Oliver said. “Theory one: Charles borrowed something from Carlos and never gave it back. Like… his espresso machine.”

“Espresso theft is serious,” Kimi acknowledged.

“Right?” Oliver nodded. “Or maybe—maybe Charles spoiled the ending of Drive to Survive before Carlos got to watch it.”

“That’s unforgivable.”

“Exactly. Or—and this is my strongest theory so far—Charles forgot something important.”

“Like what?”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “A birthday. An anniversary. A godchild’s christening. Something personal.”

Kimi shrugged. “Or maybe Carlos just found out Charles uses oat milk.”

“Now that would cause a meltdown.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, watching the two Ferrari drivers pass each other like ships in the night—professional, poised, and ice cold.

Finally, Kimi said, “You know what this reminds me of?”

Oliver turned to him, intrigued. “What?”

“That one time in karting when I called my teammate’s sister hot and he didn’t speak to me for two weeks.”

Oliver froze. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Kimi.”

“What?”

“WHAT IF THAT’S IT?” Oliver hissed. “What if this is about a sister?”

Kimi blinked. “Wait… Charles has a sister, right?”

Oliver nodded slowly, his eyes wide. “Isabelle.”

They stared at each other, the full conspiracy blooming in their minds.

“Oh my God,” Oliver whispered. “What if Carlos has a crush on Belle? And Charles just found out.”

“Or worse—what if someone else does, and Charles blamed Carlos?!”

“Holy shit.”

They stared back out at the garage where Charles and Carlos now stood side by side, not speaking, not looking at each other, arms crossed in near-perfect symmetry.

“This is better than a Netflix doc,” Oliver muttered.

Kimi popped his gum. “Think we’ll ever find out what actually happened?”

Oliver shook his head. “Nope. But I’m gonna keep guessing until I die.”

***

Belle pushed open the door to the boutique, the delicate chime above it greeting her like an old friend. The shop was quiet, tucked into a sun-drenched corner of the Rue Grimaldi, all pastel walls and honeyed wood. The kind of place that didn’t advertise but always had exactly what you didn’t know you needed.

She took off her sunglasses and slipped them into her bag, her fingers tightening slightly around the strap.

This was supposed to be simple.

 A gift for Victoria.

Victoria’s baby girl was due any day now. And Belle had promised herself she’d find something special. Something lovely and thoughtful, because of course Victoria’s daughter would be surrounded by love, but Belle wanted her to have a gift that came from her aunt—not just from "Max’s wife."

She found a dress first—a pale pink with hand-stitched flowers at the collar. Classic. Sweet. Then a matching blanket, soft as clouds, and hat with the same hand-stitched flowers. 

She set it gently in her basket together with a and a plush teddy bear so soft it felt like clouds in her palm.

Belle wandered slowly through the narrow aisles of the baby boutique, her fingers trailing over soft fabrics and pastel cotton. The shelves were filled with impossibly tiny clothes and lullaby-colored blankets, everything arranged just so, with little signs in looping handwriting that read “organic muslin” and “hand-knit in Provence.”

She wasn’t in a rush. She never was in here.

A shelf of plush toys caught her eyes:  Stacked in a neat row: lambs, bears, bunnies…

And one lion.

It wasn’t particularly large, or fancy. Just soft and golden, with a slightly crooked smile and a fuzzy mane. There was something in its face—warmth, maybe. Bravery. A kind of quiet fierceness.

Belle stepped closer, hand reaching out before she even realized what she was doing.

Her fingers curled around the lion’s little paw, and something inside her chest ached.

She hadn’t meant to buy anything for herself today. Or rather—for the tiny secret she was carrying. The one Max didn’t know about yet.

Belle pressed her palm against the curve of her stomach, still small, still subtle, hidden beneath a loose linen blouse. She wasn’t showing yet—not really—but she felt it now that she knew. The flutter of exhaustion that settled in her bones, the faint nausea in the morning, the warmth that bloomed behind her ribs when she thought about what was coming.

Max was still in Canada. Still flying around corners at 300 km/h like gravity didn’t apply to him. And this… this wasn’t news she wanted to deliver over FaceTime, with a lagging signal and the sound of tire guns in the background. She wanted to watch his face when she told him. Wanted to see the softness break across it. The quiet awe. The love.

Twelve weeks.

 She hadn’t told him. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she did. 

Desperately. Properly. Face to face.

She’d imagined it already. A hundred times. Max, sitting across from her, some ordinary evening in Monaco. A quiet smile, a hand on her belly, eyes gone wide and soft. Maybe he wouldn’t say much at first. Maybe he’d just hold her. Maybe he’d cry.

He’d be terrified. He’d be overjoyed. He’d be Max.

The lion toy was still in her hand.

Belle looked down at it and smiled. “You’ll be ours,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “You’ll keep the little one safe.”

She added it to the pile at the register without a word. The shop assistant didn’t ask—just wrapped the plush in soft tissue and placed it in a separate bag.

Two bags.

She left the boutique with two bags.

One for a niece Max already loved.

And one for a child he didn’t even know existed yet.

But he would.

Soon.

When the moment was right.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Belle: You really said “I got married” like you were ordering lunch.

Max: Was it too casual?

Belle: You caused a paddock-wide meltdown in under 10 seconds. Pierre choked on air. Lance gasped.

Max: Oscar didn’t blink.

Belle: Oscar’s soul left his body at the wedding, he hasn’t blinked since.

Max: Lewis was proud of me. Nico welcomed me to the Married Men Club™. Apparently there’s a newsletter.

Belle: What’s in the newsletter?

Max: Tips on DIY crib assembly and how to hide sim rig receipts, probably. 

Belle: I should’ve seen that coming.

Belle: You handled it well.

Max: Thanks. I miss you.

Belle: I miss you too. But I did something today. Thought of you.

Max: Hmm?

Belle: Went shopping. Picked up a gift for Victoria’s little one.

Max: You didn’t have to do that, Schatje. 

Belle: I wanted to. It’s a little dress and a swaddle. Very soft. Very pink.She’s going to look like a marshmallow.

Max: She’s going to love it. Vic and the baby.

Max:Few more days and I’m home.

Belle: Bring yourself. And a trophy.

Max: Bringing all of it. And coming home to you.

Belle: We’ll be here waiting ❤️

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

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

Carlos: it’s been 12 DAYS.

Carlos: AND CHARLES STILL HASN’T REALISED. 

Lewis: I’m genuinely losing my mind. 

George: At this point it’s not forgetfulness. It’s performance art. 

Daniel: Has anyone told him yet?? 

Carlos: NO. SHE SAID NOT TO. 

Alex: we made a pact. 

Oscar: I made a pact. and i’m regretting it. 

Nico H: update: i told Kevin. 

Carlos: WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT 

Nico H: Seemed fair. 

Lando: ...fair tbh. 

Daniel: ADD HIM 

Nico Hulkenberg has added Kevin Magnussen to the chat.

Kevin: what the fuck did I just walk into 

George: emotional support group 

Alex: for max & belle truthers 

Lewis: and leclerc accountability 

Kevin: cool cool. carry on

Oscar: ...i may have also told Zhou and Logan. 

Lando: YOU WHAT.

Oscar: They were there. They asked. I panicked.

Daniel: OH MY GOD 

Oscar Piastri has added Zhou Guanyu to the chat

Oscar Piastri has added Logan Sergeant to the chat

Zhou: hi. very honoured to be here. 

Lando: legend.

Logan: I’ve made popcorn. This is better than any paddock drama I’ve ever seen.

Fernando: I also may have mentioned it to Esteban and Lance.

Checo: So we’ve just abandoned secrecy entirely. Dios mío. 

Fernando Alonso has added Esteban Ocon to the chat. 

Fernando Alonso has added Lance Stroll to the chat

Esteban: hello chaos

Lance: why are there this many people here 

Carlos: because Belle deserves a small country’s worth of defenders

George: we are the UN now 

Sebastian: united in silent rage

Lewis: should we… start a betting pool? 

Oscar: on when charles remembers?? 

Carlos: yes. i’m taking “not before summer break” 

Nico R: i’m taking “not until their first baby is born” 

David: CHARLES IS GOING TO FIND OUT FROM TWITTER 

Lando: it’s what he deserves. 

Mark: belle’s not saying anything. max isn’t saying anything. and none of us are allowed to say anything. 

Zhou: so we just watch. 

Daniel: and judge. silently. supportively.

Kevin: this is better than Drive to Survive

Lance: you people are terrifying 

Esteban: and yet i feel comforted

George: long live the chaos

Lewis: I am going to tell Valtteri. 

***

Text Messages: Lewis Hamilton & Valtteri Bottas

Lewis: Valtteri. You up?

Valtteri: I’m in a ice tub with a beer, so yes.

Lewis: You’re gonna want to sit down for this. …Or float. I guess.

Valtteri: Alright, hit me.

Lewis: Max Verstappen got married.

Valtteri: I know. 

Lewis: To Charles Leclerc’s sister.

Valtteri: Isabelle?

Lewis: Yep. Belle.

Valtteri: does Charles know

Lewis: No.

Valtteri: oh my god. oh my GOD

Lewis: He forgot her birthday. The whole family did. She was in the garage. No one said a word.

Valtteri: i need to be in this group chat immediately

Lewis: I got you.

***

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)

 Lewis Hamilton has added Valtteri Bottas to the chat.

Valtteri: hello i have arrived this is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me

Carlos: Welcome. We suffer here.

George: We scream in lowercase.

Daniel: You missed the “Oscar accidentally told Zhou and Logan” arc.

Oscar: IT WASN’T AN ARC IT WAS A MOMENT OF WEAKNESS

Valtteri: do i get to place a bet

Checo: Please. The pool is open.

Valtteri: i’m taking “charles finds out from a post-race interview when someone asks how he feels about being a brother-in-law to max verstappen”

Lando: OH THAT’S A GOOD ONE

Kevin: I’m taking “Belle shows up to Silverstone with a baby bump and he still doesn’t get it.”

Valtteri: this is the best chat i’ve ever been in

***

Fred Vasseur was many things—an engineer by trade, a strategist by necessity, and a reluctant babysitter of million-dollar egos by circumstance. But above all, he prided himself on reading people.

That was why the current state of the Ferrari garage was driving him mad.

The tension was unmistakable.

Carlos was stalking around with that sharp, clipped energy he usually reserved for backmarkers who didn’t move out of the way. He wasn’t being unprofessional—no, that would’ve been easier to handle. He was being polite. Controlled. Cordial. The worst kind of angry.

And Charles?

Charles seemed... confused. Like he didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but suspected the crime was high treason. He greeted Carlos like nothing had happened, and in return got a nod that could freeze the Tiber.

Fred watched it all from the corner of the garage with the growing sense that he was trapped in the middle of a drama he hadn’t been invited to.

Eventually, he'd had enough.

He cornered Carlos near the espresso machine, away from the engineers and the endless telemetry screens.

“Carlos,” he said, voice low and sharp, “is there something I need to know about?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away. He didn’t even look surprised. He just stared into his tiny paper cup like it had personally betrayed him.

“Because if this is about strategy or some setup disagreement—”

“It’s not,” Carlos interrupted.

Fred blinked. “Then what is it?”

Carlos exhaled through his nose. “It’s Charles.”

Fred folded his arms. “Yes. I noticed.”

“He forgot her birthday,” Carlos said, eyes tight. “Not just him. The whole family. But him especially. She was in the garage. Right there. And he didn’t say a single word.”

Fred blinked. “Whose?”

Carlos looked up, jaw clenched. “His sister’s. Belle.”

Fred stilled. “She was in the Monaco garage. Quiet, like always. Wearing red. Not one of us said a word. And Charles—her own brother—walked past her like she was invisible.”

Fred’s throat tightened. “It’s been two weeks.”

Carlos nodded. “And he still hasn’t said anything. Still hasn’t realized.”

Fred sat slowly in the chair across from him, face unreadable.

He liked Isabelle. Always had. She’d been around for years—gracious, observant, unfailingly kind. She never asked for anything. Never wanted attention. And yet she had always been there.

Fred remembered when she was a teenager, sitting quietly at the back of the motorhome with a sketchbook in one hand and race notes in the other. How she brought pastries to the engineers during triple headers. How she remembered everyone's birthdays.

And no one—not one of them—had remembered hers.

Not even Charles.

“She deserved better,” Fred muttered.

Carlos hesitated. “She has better now.”

Fred looked up. “What do you mean?”

Carlos went still. And then—realizing too late—he winced. “Oh. That wasn’t supposed to—"

Fred’s eyes narrowed. “Carlos.”

“She’s with Max,” Carlos said, resigned. “They’ve been together for over a year. No one knew. It was private. But now? They got married. After Monaco.”

Fred blinked. “Max Verstappen.”

Carlos nodded. “Yeah.”

Fred stared at him.

Carlos winced. “...And Charles has no idea.”

***

Ten minutes after Carlos had dropped the truth on him like a live grenade, Frédéric Vasseur was walking—no, storming—across the paddock with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for breaking up fistfights or walking into meetings with Ferrari’s board.

The anger in him wasn’t loud. It was cold. Controlled. A heavy thing sitting low in his chest.

He didn’t bother knocking. Just swept through the entrance to the Red Bull hospitality like he owned it. No one stopped him.

Of course they didn’t. Everyone knew better when a man looked like that.

Christian Horner glanced up from his table, mid-sip of some expensive-looking sparkling water. The look that bloomed across his face wasn’t surprise. It was familiarity. Expectation. Like he’d been waiting for this confrontation.

“Fred,” Christian said, all false calm and executive charm. “Everything alright?”

Fred didn’t sit. Didn’t smile. Didn’t play the game.

His voice was low and razor-sharp.

“Why has your golden boy married my golden boy’s sister?”

There was the smallest flicker in Christian’s eyes—like a spark caught in glass. Then he leaned back in his chair, lips curling into that infuriating little smirk he always wore when things went exactly as planned.

“Ah,” Christian said lightly. “So it’s out.”

Fred’s jaw tensed. His hands clenched at his sides, itching for something to hold onto—control, maybe. Or the version of this reality where someone, anyone, had thought to tell him what was coming.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Christian raised an eyebrow.

“Because it wasn’t our secret to share,” he said simply. “Max and Isabelle wanted privacy. You know how Max is—he keeps what’s important close. And Isabelle?” He paused. “She didn’t want the attention. Didn’t want the headlines. Didn’t want to be part of the circus.”

Fred opened his mouth to argue—then closed it. Because he knew that about her. Always had.

Isabelle Leclerc had never courted the spotlight. Not like Charles, with his fanbase and flashes of brilliance. Not like Arthur, clinging to the family legacy. She was the quiet one. The one who stayed in the background. The one who did the work, remembered people’s birthdays, brought homemade pastries into the garage because “the people deserve it.”

And they’d forgotten her.

All of them.

His shoulders sagged.

“I always liked her,” he said finally, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. “She is smart. Steady. She helps with setups in hospitality  sometimes. Not even on payroll. She didn’t need credit. She just… cares.”

Christian’s smirk softened, just slightly. “I know.”

Fred looked at him, his expression somewhere between fury and shame.

“She stood in the Monaco garage,” Fred said, his voice quieter now, rougher. “Wearing Ferrari red. On her birthday. And no one said a word. Not Charles. Not the team. Not even me.”

He rubbed a hand down his face. He felt old. Tired.

“Charles has no idea,” he added. “No idea what he missed. What he keeps missing. He’s going to find out the wrong way—through gossip, or a headline, or worse—and he’s going to implode.”

Christian didn’t argue. Just watched him, cool and quiet.

“And when he does,” he said finally, “I hope he understands something.”

Fred looked up. “What?”

Christian’s voice was steady. Not smug now. Just… resolved.

“It’s not Max he should be angry with.  It’s everyone else who made her feel like she didn’t matter.” A pause. “Including him.”

The words landed like bricks.

Fred stood there for a long time, letting the weight of it all settle on his shoulders.

The truth was this: Isabelle Leclerc had given them grace, patience, loyalty. She’d loved this team, and this team had forgotten her.

And Max? Max Verstappen, of all people, had seen her. Held her close. Protected what mattered to her. Not for the cameras. Not for the brand. But because he chose her.

Finally, Fred exhaled. It wasn’t anger in his chest anymore. It was grief. It was guilt.

“We failed her,” he murmured.

Christian nodded once. “You did.”

He reached for his glass, took a sip, and said—almost gently:

“Look,” he said, “you and I have dealt with our fair share of driver drama. But this? This isn’t about racing. This is about someone who was ignored by the very people she’s always stood up for. And Max… say what you want about him, but he saw her. Chose her. Cherishes her.”

Fred said nothing. He didn’t have to. The truth was sitting in his gut like a stone.

Christian smiled again—wider now, but not cruel.

“We take care of our own, Fred.”

And somehow, that—that—was the final blow.

***

Interview Transcript – Post Canadian GP 

Karun Chandhok: Charles, congratulations again on your Monaco GP win! That must have been an incredible moment for you.

Charles: grinning Yes, thank you! It was a very special race for me. Winning at home, in front of my family and the fans, was an unbelievable feeling.

Karun: And it happened on your sister Isabelle’s birthday too, right? That must have made the celebrations even more special!

Charles: smiling automatically Yes, it was— pauses —wait.

Karun: laughs lightly A birthday and a race win on the same day, that’s pretty memorable!

Charles: eyes darting to the side, like he's mentally calculating ...That was— his expression suddenly shifts, his smile faltering

Karun: noticing Charles?

Charles: blinking rapidly No way.

Karun: chuckles, confused

Charles: quietly, more to himself We forgot.

Karun: hesitates

Charles: more urgently We forgot her birthday.

Karun: awkwardly I mean, I’m sure—

Charles: shaking his head, visibly spiraling No, no, no. We were all celebrating, but not her. Not for her. We didn’t say anything.

Karun: off-camera crew shifting nervously

Charles: running a hand down his face Oh my god.

Karun: Um—

Charles: turning toward someone off-camera Do you have my phone? I need to— shaking his head, exhaling sharply I need to fix this.

***

[gf2bellamy]

HI!! LOVE YOUR WRITINGS YOURE INSANE!!! could i please request angst/fluff for spencer reid (later seasons) where spencer kinda gets mad at reader and she leaves his place thinking he’s super upset at her and something happens idk she gets in a fender bender or gets sick for a few days and has to go to the hospital but doesn’t answer when he calls bc she thinks he’s so upset he wouldn’t want to know and at some point he finds her in the hospital after he’s been going crazy because he couldn’t get a hold of her i’m so sorry this literally makes no sense i fear this came to me in a dream😣

accident - spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship , reader gets into a small accident, mention of a forehead injury / blood and a headache ( reader is fine though ), reader ends up in the hospital , argument between spencer and reader a/n: hai hai !! hope you like this <3

The silence in Spencer’s apartment was suffocating.

“I said I’m sorry,” you mumbled again, your voice barely above a whisper, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of your sweater. The words felt hollow, even to you, but you didn’t know what else to say.

Spencer let out a slow breath, his long fingers raking through his already disheveled hair—a telltale sign of his frustration.

It had been such a small thing, really.

A misplaced book. His book.

One he had lent you weeks ago, one you had cherished, only to accidentally tuck it away in the wrong stack of papers. When you’d finally found it, relief had flooded you—until you handed it back, and instead of the soft smile you expected, his lips had pressed into a thin line, his words sharper than you’d ever heard them.

“You could have been more careful.”

The words stung. You hadn’t meant to be careless. You loved his books, loved the way his eyes lit up when he talked about them, loved the way he’d underlined passages just for you to find.

But today, his patience was thin, his tone clipped, and now you stood there, feeling smaller than you had in a long time.

Spencer turned away, his back to you as he carefully slotted the book back into its place on the shelf.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t say another word.

Your chest ached.

Swallowing hard, you grabbed your bag from the couch, your jacket slipping silently over your shoulders. “I’m going home,” you murmured, unsure if he even heard you.

But the sharp click of the door behind you? That, he definitely heard.

The sound made him freeze.

For a long moment, Spencer stood there, staring blankly at the spines of his books, his breath uneven. Then, with a heavy sigh, he sank onto the couch, dragging a hand down his face.

What was wrong with him?

It wasn’t about the book. Not really. It had been a long day—no, a long week—of dead ends and sleepless nights on the case, of too much coffee and too little patience. And instead of dealing with it like an adult, he’d taken it out on you. The one person who had done nothing but be kind to him.

Guilt settled deep in his stomach, cold and nauseating.

Outside, the engine of your car rumbled to life. You were leaving. Because of him. Because he couldn’t keep his frustration in check.

Spencer’s throat tightened.

He should call you. Should run after you. Should fix this.

But his pride���or maybe his shame—kept him rooted in place.

Meanwhile, you gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, the streetlights blurring as you blinked back the burn in your eyes. You didn’t want to leave. You hated leaving things like this. But you hated upsetting him even more, and right now, space seemed like the only option.

You just hoped he knew you hadn’t meant to let him down.

An hour later, you were in the hospital.

It wasn’t anything serious—just a fender bender, a stupid accident born from exhaustion and bad luck. The woman behind you had been just as distracted, just as worn thin by the day, except she hadn’t braked in time. The impact had been sharp, sudden, your seatbelt locking as your forehead struck the steering wheel with a dull thud.

You’d assured the other driver you were fine, even as warm blood trickled down your temple. And now here you were, lying on a stiff hospital bed, the antiseptic sting of the air making your nose wrinkle.

The lights overhead were too bright, drilling into your already pounding head, and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing the throbbing to ease.

What a night.

Your phone buzzed against the bedside table. You didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

Spencer.

Of course it was Spencer.

You stared at the screen, his name flashing insistently, the call vibrating through the hospital room. Part of you wanted to answer, to hear his voice—even if it was still edged with frustration. But the other part, the stubborn, bruised part of you, hesitated.

He’d had a hard enough night already. You weren’t going to add to that.

So you didn’t decline. Didn’t accept. Just let it ring.

The call eventually went to voicemail. The room settled back into quiet.

You exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead—gently, careful of the fresh bandages—and tried to ignore the hollow pang in your chest.

Time dragged. The hospital was busy tonight—understaffed, overworked—and what should have been a quick check-up turned into an endless wait. You stared at the ceiling, counting the speckled tiles, listening to the distant beeping of machines and the muffled voices of nurses rushing by. Your phone sat silent beside you. You wondered if Spencer had given up. If he thought you were ignoring him on purpose.

Then—

"Which one?" The voice cut through the noise of the ER.

His voice.

A nurse murmured something in response, and before you could even sit up properly, the curtain around your bed was yanked aside with too much force, the rings screeching against the metal rod.

Spencer stood there, breathing hard, his hair even more disheveled than before, like he’d been running his hands through it the entire way here. His eyes locked onto yours, then dropped to the bandage on your forehead, the dried blood at your hairline that the nurses hadn’t quite wiped away.

His expression did something complicated—guilt, fear, anger (at himself, always at himself)—before settling into something painfully soft.

You swallowed.

"Fender bender," you mumbled lamely, as if that explained everything.

His throat worked as he swallowed. "You should've called me immediately," he whispered, taking another step closer. The fluorescent lights caught the dark circles under his eyes, the way his cardigan was buttoned wrong - one side higher than the other. He must have thrown it on in a hurry.

You shrugged, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at the bandage. "You had a bad day. I didn't want to make it worse."

Spencer made a wounded noise in the back of his throat, his hands finally lifting to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing feather-light beneath your eyes. "That doesn't matter. You matter. You're bleeding in a hospital and I—" His voice cracked. "How could you think I wouldn't want to know?"

A beat of silence.

Then, because you had to know: "How did you even find me?"

The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Garcia."

Of course.

"When you didn't answer... I may have panicked. Slightly." His fingers traced the edge of your bandage with heartbreaking gentleness. "She tracked your phone. I owe her approximately twelve favors now."

You huffed a laugh, then immediately regretted it when your head throbbed. Spencer's expression darkened with concern.

"Hey," you said softly, catching one of his restless hands. "I'm okay. Really."

He didn't look convinced. "You're in a hospital bed."

"And you're here," you countered, squeezing his fingers. "That helps."

Spencer exhaled shakily. "Never do that again," he murmured. "Walk out, not call me, take the blame for my bad mood... Any of it."

You closed your eyes, breathing him in - the familiar scent of old books and that terrible cheap coffee he loved. "Only if you promise to talk to me next time instead of biting my head off over a book."

A pause. Then, quiet you almost missed it: "Deal."

The discharge papers took forever.

You sat on the edge of the hospital bed, swinging your legs slightly while Spencer hovered like an anxious shadow, reading every line of the doctor’s instructions twice before reluctantly letting you sign them. His fingers kept twitching toward you—adjusting the collar of your jacket, brushing imaginary lint from your sleeve—as if he needed constant proof you were really there, really okay.

The nurse handed you a packet of aftercare instructions with a knowing smile. “Someone’s eager to get you home,” she murmured, nodding toward Spencer, who was already holding your bag and car keys like a man prepared to carry you out of here himself.

You flushed.

The ride home was quiet. Spencer drove with one hand on the wheel, the other clasped firmly around yours, his thumb tracing absent circles against your skin every time you hit a red light.

You watched the way his jaw clenched whenever you shifted in your seat, how his eyes flickered to you every few seconds like he needed visual confirmation you were still there.

"You're staring," he murmured, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Am not," you lied, even as your fingers tightened around his.

The apartment was dark when you arrived, the book still sitting innocently on the shelf where he'd placed it earlier. Spencer hovered as you toed off your shoes, his hands fluttering near your elbows like he wasn't quite sure where to put them.

"Sit," he ordered gently, nudging you toward the couch. "I'll make tea."

You wanted to argue—you weren't an invalid, just a little banged up—but the way his voice cracked on the last word had you sinking obediently into the cushions.

Through the kitchen doorway, you watched him move with frantic precision: boiling water, selecting chamomile (your favorite), digging through drawers for the honey bear he kept just for you. His hands shook when he poured.

When he returned, he didn't hand you the mug right away. Instead, he knelt before you, his knees hitting the carpet with a soft thud. The vulnerability of the position stole your breath.

"I was an idiot today," he said, pressing the warm ceramic into your hands. His eyes were liquid in the low light. "Not just about the book. About everything."

You cradled the tea between your palms, letting the heat seep into your skin. "You were stressed."

"That's not an excuse." His fingers brushed the bandage again, so light it barely registered. "I hate that I made you feel like you had to leave. Like you couldn't—" His voice broke. "Like you couldn't come to me when you were hurt."

You set the tea aside.

Spencer didn't resist when you tugged him up onto the couch, didn't protest when you maneuvered him until his back was against the armrest and you were curled into his chest, your ear pressed over his heartbeat. His arms came around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head, careful of your injury.

"Next time," you murmured into his sweater, "I'll call."

He exhaled, long and shuddering, his lips pressing to your hairline.

"Next time," he negotiated softly, "I'll do better."

And when you woke the next morning, his arms still wrapped around you, the book was open on his nightstand—a new passage underlined, just for you.

[minswriting]

POKER FACE - SPENCER REID X READER

About: You’ve been practicing your poker skills and want to try them out in a game of strip poker with your boyfriend. And when you lose, you decide to make it more of a punishment for him than for you.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, inaccurate portrayal of poker probably, masturbation (f), cumming untouched, voyeurism, sore loser!reader, pathetic!spencer, etc.

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: Border made by @cafekitsune and fic proofread by @beenreidingaboutyou !! A separate post will be created with the AO3 link!! Please comment and reblog to support your creators.

You knew it was likely a bad idea to challenge your boyfriend to a game of poker. Spencer had grown up in Vegas and was a mathematical genius, so really it was inevitable that you’d lose. However, you have been practicing your poker skills for a few months, doing whatever you can to get better. You read online forums, you played with strangers on the internet, and you had weekly game nights with your friends. And at one point, you kept winning.

So you had challenged your boyfriend and now you were reaping the repercussions of your own decisions. At first, the two of you were using poker chips to play the game. But Spencer had suggested making things a bit more interesting and now you were sitting in nothing but your bra and underwear while Spencer was wearing all of his clothes except his socks.

You had a frown on your face as you placed down your cards, revealing four of a kind. Spencer looked smug as a smirk formed on his face. “Sorry, darling,” He exclaimed before placing down a royal flush, ultimately ending the game.

You groaned in frustration, reaching behind you to unclasp your bra. “That’s so unfair,” you exclaimed, a small annoyance in your tone but nothing genuine. After all, it’s okay a game.

Spencer pouted at you in sympathy but his eyes were fixated on your chest, you took off your bra. “I’d say I feel bad but truthfully, angel, I do not,” He murmured.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, tossing your bra to the side, revealing your tits to your boyfriend. “I think you should feel bad,” You said, adjusting your position on the couch so that both of your legs were on the piece of furniture. You had an idea and you were going to make Spencer pay for beating you once again in poker.

Spencer curled an eyebrow at you, watching the way you got yourself comfortable on the couch. “Is that so?” He asked, tilting his head slightly, turning his body to face you as well rather than facing the cards on the coffee table. “And why do you think that, sweetheart?” Spencer licked his lips as he looked at you with a small smirk.

You giggled, tilting your head slightly as you looked at Spencer. You bit your bottom lip, bringing your hands to cup your tits. “Because,” You began, massaging your chest. “You can watch me but now, you’re not allowed to touch me.” You said seductively.

Spencer’s lips parted as he watched the way you moved your hands over your boobs, his brain short circuiting. “But-” He stopped himself from speaking when he saw the way you spread your legs. There was an obvious wet spot in your lace panties, showing your arousal. Spencer hated being able to see you but not able to touch you. But he also adored it. It added to the thrill, to the attraction he felt for you.

“You’re so mean to me,” You sighed, moving your hands down your body. “Going full force in the game while I’m just merely a girl who’s learning,” You knew you were being a sore loser. Did you care? Not at all. Not when Spencer was looking at you like you were the only person he’d ever laid eyes on. Perhaps you were.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Spencer said before biting his lip as he watched your hand move down to your barely clothed cunt. He thought about how you tasted. With all the times he’s gone down on you, Spencer knew you were very sweet. You were a constant craving he had, much better than any drug he’s taken. “I could make you feel so good.” He swallowed, eyes fixated on your pussy.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I’m sure you could,” You replied, moving your panties to the side. “But karma is a bitch, Spencer, and you, my dear, are not allowed to touch until I say so.”

Spencer’s gaze fixated on your cunt, his mouth watering at the sight. He was like a dog in one of Pavolov’s experiments. As soon as he sees your cunt, he’s practically drooling. A small whine left his lips, desperate to taste you. His cock was already achingly hard but he didn’t dare to touch himself. You hadn’t given him permission.

You dragged a finger along your slit, spreading around your wetness. “I’m so wet,” You murmured seductively, looking at Spencer. You took your pointer and middle fingers to your clit and began rubbing slow circles, eliciting a soft moan from your lips.

Mutual masturbation was something you and Spencer did quite a bit. Getting off while watching each other, it was thrilling. But you hadn’t experienced getting off while Spencer simply just watches. It was new, electrifying, and incredibly arousing.

“You’re so beautiful,” Spencer said hoarsely, watching as you flicked the bean. It was true, of course. You were the most beautiful woman Spencer had ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on.

Your response was a simple moan as you continued rubbing your clit. After a few minutes, you dipped a finger to your hole, teasing the entrance. “If only you weren’t so harsh on me,” You breathed out, licking your lips. “I’d let you get a taste,” You said as you showed Spencer the slick on your fingers from your cunt.

The whine that left Spencer’s lips as his hips bucked into nothing, a small pout forming on his lips. “Please,” he whispered, the words barely leaving his lips.

You giggled, shaking your head no. “No, baby,” you replied, bringing your finger back to your entrance. You eased your finger inside of yourself, moaning softly. You were very wet, to say the least. You moved your finger slowly in and out of yourself, almost teasingly so.

Spencer let out a frustrated noise as his cock was aching against the confines of his pants. He brought his hand to his crotch, about to palm himself when you shook your head. “You don’t get to touch yourself either,” you said breathily. “You can look but you cannot touch.”

“This is so mean,” Spencer replied, moving his hands to grip the cushion beneath himself so that he wasn’t tempted to touch himself. He knew to listen to you. If he didn’t listen, your punishments would be worse. Spencer wasn’t in the mood to defy you today.

“Well you win some and you lose some, sweetheart,” You chuckled, adding another finger inside of yourself. You whined as you curled your fingers inside of you, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. You thrusted your digits, hitting your sweet spot with each movement. “Spencer,” you moaned out as you used your other hand to cup your boob. “If you hadn’t been so harsh on me, you could be the one making me feel so good,” your tone was between a moan and a whine as you pleasured yourself.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer groaned out. He bucked his hips into the air once more, trying to gain any sort of friction but was met with nothing. “Let me take care of you to show you how sorry I am,” he tried to bargain, a pleading look in his eyes.

You shook your head, looking at Spencer with a pleasurable expression on your face. “No. You need to learn your lesson,” you exclaimed. After a few moments, you began thrusting your fingers faster, mewls of pleasure leaving your lips. You threw your head back, feeling that familiar pit in your stomach that drew closer and closer.

Spencer watched intensely, wishing he were the one fucking you into oblivion right now. His cock could do so much better than your own fingers. His fingers could do so much better. His lips were parted, his cheeks flushed from the heat of the situation. He could feel his cock stiffening in his trousers, begging for attention.

“I’m so close,” You whined, biting your lip as you looked at Spencer. His intense gaze fixated on you was what drove you to the edge as your walls clenched around your cunt and your back arched, thighs shaking with pleasure as you came with a loud moan of Spencer’s name.

Spencer let out a groan, watching the way you fell apart from your own fingers. You were such a sight to behold. And without any warning, he felt himself cumming, a whine escaping his lips as a wet spot formed on his crotch. “Oh fuck,” Spencer groaned, unable to help it.

When you both came down from your highs, you looked at Spencer as you removed your fingers from your cunt. “D-did you-“ you stuttered, breathing heavily. “Did you just cum?”

Spencer swallowed, nodding his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice raspy. “I-I didn’t mean to.”

You bit your lip, thinking for just a moment before responding. “I think you’ve been punished enough,” you exclaimed before moving to crawl onto Spencer’s lap. “I think it’s now time for a reward, hmm?”

Spencer hummed in response, nodding his head. “Oh yes, please.” He replied, grabbing your hips.

And so, you gave Spencer the ride of his life.

[loovser]

better than cake

synopsis: during thanksgiving, you had an argument with tommy. thankfully, ellie is there to make you feel better.

wc: 1,7k

cw: nsfw, dom!ellie x sub!reader, fingering + oral (r!receiving), praise, cursing, licking/sucking fingers, use of pet names (doll, baby), brief mentions of weed. 18+ mdni smut.

the room is quiet. you couldn’t even hear the muffled voices anymore — it’s like they were never there to begin with. it finally brings you the peace and relief you were looking for.

today it’s thanksgiving. it’s a day when you are supposed to be grateful and enjoy your friends and family’s company. and you tried to. tommy and maria had invited joel, ellie, jesse, dina and their parents over to your house, for lunch.

you dressed up nicely, putting on clothes that you really liked. you felt good about it. you were having a good time, even managed to sit next to ellie. she is one of your dearest friends and… well. you have a huge crush on her.

but then, it happened. tommy wanted you to stop going on patrols and he brought it up during lunch. you engaged in a heated argument with him, telling him how it wasn’t fair. you get it, he was worried about you. but there isn’t any other way of learning how to deal with the world if you don’t really experience it.

however, he said something that hurt you deeply. about how you would get yourself and others killed because of your recklessness. fighting back the tears, you excused yourself from lunch and ran upstairs, to your room.

which is where you are until now, hungry and lonely. but you needed some time alone. it frustrates you, really, how one bad decision during patrol has been taunting you for so long. you’ve learnt from it. he is your father and should have some more faith in you.

a soft knock on the door makes you snap out of your thoughts. you sigh, thinking it is tommy. “look, dad, i’m not in the mood-“

“it’s ellie.” she cuts you off. you can almost hear the smirk in her voice. it makes you wonder how much raspier it could get.

“it’s unlocked. come in”

and she does. her auburn hair, which was half tied up, is now loose. it falls prettily, in a mullet.

“you thought i was your daddy?” she teases, her smirk getting wider when you blush.

“shut up.” you laugh.

then you see it — the little plate in her hands. there’s a slice of peach cake on it. your favorite. your mom always bakes it for thanksgiving.

“did she tell you to bring it to me?” you ask, curiously.

“who? maria?” you nod and she chuckles. “no. i know you like it, so… i brought it.”

it hits you like a train. the way she says it so genuinely. like it was natural for her to do so, to know you so well. you smile. she smiles back, getting closer to where you are.

your room isn't very big — cozy and cute, some would say it suits you perfectly. it has some posters of things you like. a big, comfortable bed. a vanity that you love, some book shelves.

there were plenty of times in which you and ellie would get high there, together. it was a secret you would share. no one else knew you smoked weed and honestly? you just liked doing it with her.

she puts the plate on your lap, her hand brushing on your thigh, making you shiver. thankfully, she doesn’t feel it through the fabric of your clothes.

“since you didn’t really have anything. this is the only thing i could bring, so eat it.” she murmurs, almost shyly.

it’s cute when she does something like this to you. she always gets flustered and avoids your gaze — just like she is doing now.

“have you tried it yet?” you ask, grabbing the fork and eating a piece of the cake.

“no. you know i’m not really into sweets.” she shrugs.

the peach is so fresh that when you bite into it, the juice runs down your chin.

“careful there…” ellie says, her voice a little rougher.

when you look up at her, she is already staring at you. there’s something in her gaze, something familiar. something that makes a shiver crawl down your spine.

she leans closer, thumb brushing your chin, wiping the juice away — and then she licks it clean.

you almost gasp, but you manage to keep it together.

“i thought you weren’t into sweets?” you smirk, teasingly.

“smartass. there are a few that i really enjoy.” her lips quiver as she says that.

“you haven’t tried the cake to know if you like it or not…” you insist and she laughs.

“you are right, i haven’t. should i?” she grabs the little plate from your lap, hands lingering on your thighs for a little longer than they should.

“yeah… you might like it” it’s all you manage to say, enticed by the way she’s looking at you. like she’s hungry, or even… starved.

“there’s another way i could taste it, you know?” her voice is low as she puts the cake away. you know what she means. but you want to hear it from her.

“which way would that be, ellie?” her green eyes suddenly darken.

“why would i tell you when i can show you?” it’s all you hear before her lips crash into yours.

they move hungrily, confidently. like she thought about it before, more than once. like she knew how she wanted to kiss you. and you give the same want back to her, your lips following hers just as needy.

her hand tugs at your hair and you moan into the kiss, which seems to fuel her even more. she sits beside you, thigh brushing yours, and you swear your heart skips. then she tugs you gently, guiding you into her lap without breaking it. it’s rough and passionate, like you’ve both been keeping those feelings buried and now that they are free, the longing and desire are being poured into it without hesitation.

your fingers tangle into her hair as her tongue explores your mouth with fervour, her own hands traveling down your back and gripping your ass. you can already feel the heat pooling in your panties and it makes you wonder if she’s in the same state that you are. though when she lets out a soft whimper against your tongue, you can tell that she is.

and when her hands squeeze your ass, you gasp. you feel she smirking at the sound, as she breaks the kiss to catch her breath.

“you were right. i like it.” she teases, her forehead against yours.

you chuckle, panting. your breaths mingle and everything feels too hot. but it gets worse when she moves her kisses to your neck. you feel like you might combust at any moment.

“you could taste something else…” you murmur, voice shaky, already half-lost in the way her tongue flicks on your sensitive skin, how her teeth graze against it. nipping, then biting. marking you as hers.

“oh, yeah? is that so?”

she trails kisses down to your collarbone as you confirm, caressing her scalp. “mhm”

“what is it? use your words, doll.” she bites harder in your skin.

“els, please… eat me out.” there’s no time to be embarrassed about it, not when she’s already taking your clothes off and settling in between your legs.

“so pretty… especially when you beg.” her breath is fanning over your cunt and it almost makes you squirm in your spot.

she teases, getting closer to where you need her the most. you know she wants to hear you beg again, by the way she shoots her eyebrows up, grinning.

“please… ellie, please.” you give in.

she slides a finger through your folds, letting out an approving hum. “so wet. all for me, yeah?”

you nod eagerly “yes. all for you.”

with that, she licks a long stripe from your soaked entrance all the way to your clit. you let out a whimper, melting against her tongue. “fuck, you taste so good, baby” she purrs. you can’t take your eyes off her and neither can she. she dives into your pussy, making it impossible for you to talk while she sucks and kisses you. like this is the best meal she’s ever had. she’s too good at it, it’s unfair.

all you can do is relish the feeling of her tongue on your sensitive flesh, sucking your clit and your folds. your hands find her hair, pushing her harder into you, drawing a moan from her mouth into your cunt.

“oh, shit, els! don’t stop!” you moan out, having her right where you want her and she groans, sliding a finger inside you.

“won’t stop until you cum for me. doing so good, baby.” she coos.

your hips grind against her face and her fingers before you can even think about it, seeking your release. when she slides another finger, all that leaves your mouth are whimpers, cries and incoherent words.

“thaaaaat’s it,” she says, pussydrunk. all she can focus on is tasting and pleasuring you “use me. show me how good it feels.” everything she says makes you closer and closer to the edge. no one has ever fucked you like this before, you can’t even talk properly.

she curls her fingers, hitting that spongy spot. you can see stars as she turns you into a babble mess. “can’t talk, hm? feels that good? fucking take it.”

her tone is teasing and demanding. it makes you crazy.

“i’m-“ you clench around her and she feels it, her own thighs pressing together, unconsciously.

“i know, baby.” she cuts you off, pumping her fingers harder as she sucks your clit. “cum f’me, i got you.”

and you do. that familiar knot in your stomach snaps as your orgasm washes over you. her name leaving your lips like a prayer as she rides out your high.

You're still breathless when she pulls her fingers out, leaving you clenching around nothing. before you can say anything, she sucks them clean.

“that’s much better than peach cake.” she murmurs, as she presses a kiss to your inner thigh, lingering there as your breathing slows. you laugh, light-headed and aching, as she curls up beside you.

i knooooow we are not anywhere near thanksgiving but i love the whole vibe it brings so i just had to do it! hope you like it 💘

[wosospacegirl]

Snapping, unintentionally - Aggie Beever-Jones

Summary: Y/n’s cranky, and Aggie's frustrated

Word count: 2.1k

a/n: request <3

MASTERLIST

..

Some would think a couple who played for rival teams would fight about football–about training, about the FIFA calendar, or about league scheduling.

But not Aggie and Y/n.

Up until this point in their relationship, they had never fought about anything football-related. Not even once.

Their first fight was actually because of something far more common–to both players and non-players.

Y/n woke up ridiculously early with cramps that made her whole body ache. Her lower stomach throbbed, her back was sore, her head was pounding–and worst of all, it was supposed to be her and Aggie’s day off.

A rare, precious day they could’ve slept in, maybe stayed in bed until noon, done nothing.

But no. Her uterus had other plans.

Y/n was unable to fall back asleep–she tried, so she forced herself. She even made breakfast for them, mostly to distract herself from the pain. By the time she placed the plates on the table, Aggie stumbled out of the bedroom, still half-asleep, eyes barely open.

She sat across from Y/n, grabbed a piece of toast, and mumbled, “Mornin’, love.”

Y/n blinked at her. “Do you have to chew like that?”

Aggie paused, confused. “I’m… eating toast?”

Y/n rolled her eyes, stood up without a word, grabbed her plate, and went to eat alone in the kitchen.

Aggie stayed at the table, chewing slowly, already bracing for what kind of day this was going to be.

..

Aggie had a lot of great qualities. She was confident, charming, charismatic, hard-working, incredibly caring, and humble, of course.

But unfortunately, one thing she did not have was the patience to deal with unexplained moods.

That’s why she and Y/n worked so well. They were chill. They talked things out. There was no miscommunication, no over-the-top drama, no emotional spirals. 

They were low-maintenance, just… easy.

Except once a month.

For some reason unknown to Aggie, Y/n turned into the complete opposite of herself when she was on her period.

Dramatic. Irritable. Snappy at everything.

She also had a particular problem: she refused to say she was on her period. Ever.

Which drove Aggie insane.

Aggie didn’t want a whole announcement, just a little heads up.

Because what was the point of being in a relationship if not to just say things like, “Hey, my uterus is trying to kill me, please tread carefully today”?

After the toast incident, Aggie gathered that Y/n might want some space. 

So she laced up her trainers, left her sulking girlfriend behind, and went for a run –even picked up groceries on the way back, including Y/n’s favourite chocolate and snacks, because despite the confusion, she did care and loved the girl very much.

When she got home, Y/n was curled up on the sofa, the heating pad sitting across her stomach, and a pout and frown fighting on her face.

Aggie felt immediately guilty for being annoyed earlier. She looked soft now, almost delicate.

She walked over and gently kissed her cheek–Y/n acted like she didn’t even feel it, though. 

“Do you want some medicine?” Aggie asked.

Y/n shook her head without looking at her.

“Alright,” Aggie said, digging into the grocery bag and pulling out the snacks she bought, handing them over. “Got you some stuff.”

Y/n looked at the bag. “What is this?”

“Just some snacks I thought you’d want,” Aggie said, her tone cautious.

Aggie went to the bathroom to freshen up a bit from her run, and when she came back, the bag was on the floor, tossed dramatically far from the couch.

“You’re not gonna eat anything?” Aggie asked, confused, picking up the bag and putting it on the coffee table.

“No, Agnes. Do you see my face? I have pimples everywhere!” she snapped, gesturing vaguely at her forehead. “Why would you give me chocolate?”

Aggie blinked, opening and closing her mouth. She wasn’t sure what she should say. 

“Okay…just don’t eat it then, love,” She said, her voice unsure. 

Y/n sat up slightly, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. 

“You didn’t even invite me to run with you.”

Aggie stared at her. 

“You’re joking, right? You’ve been snapping at me for everything. You got mad this morning because I brushed my teeth and got the sink wet. It’s a sink! It’s supposed to get wet!”

Y/n turned away with a huff.

Aggie flopped down at the other end of the couch. “I’m trying here, babe.”

"You’re doing it wrong,” Y/n said, her voice low but dripping with irritation, as she stormed off toward the other room.

Aggie stared at Y/n's figure.  Her chest tightened with a mixture of frustration and confusion. She knew Y/n could get snappy in time like this, but honestly, it was so exhausting.

She ran her fingers through her hair, letting out a long sigh. 

She’d tried to be thoughtful, had bought the snacks and given her space–what else could she do? What was wrong with just saying what she wanted or needed?

..

Y/n lay curled up on her side, facing the wall. Her room was dim–just the soft light coming through the curtains–and quiet, except for the occasional creak of the bed frame when she shifted. 

One of her hands was resting on her lower stomach, where the dull ache of cramps lingered. Not sharp anymore, just persistent.

More than anything, she was just… off. Tired. Not tired like sleepy, but tired of herself. 

She’d been short all day, saying things with more bite than she meant to, snapping without reason, huffing over small things. And she knew it. She knew she was being annoying. She just couldn’t seem to stop.

The door creaked open behind her.

Y/n didn’t turn. She already knew who it was by the way the door opened halfway, and then hesitated.

“You’ve been grumpy all day,” Aggie said, as if it were a statement. Not accusing. Just matter-of-factly.

Y/n exhaled through her nose, slow and silent. “Yeah. I know.”

There was a pause.

Aggie stepped into the room, but didn’t come all the way to the bed. “Then why are you acting like I’m the one who did something wrong?”

Y/n blinked at the wall. “I’m not. I’m just… not in the mood,” she said, her voice mumbly.

Aggie let out a soft scoff. “You’ve been in this mood since you woke up.”

Y/n didn’t answer.

Aggie leaned against the dresser. Her arms were crossed, but it wasn’t in a confrontational way. “I know you don’t feel good, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel anything either.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” Y/n said quietly. “I’m just… tired. And uncomfortable. And everything’s annoying. Including me.”

Aggie sighed. “Then say that. Don’t just huff at me every time that I…breathe.”

Y/n’s lips pressed together, her throat tightening a little. “I didn’t mean to. I just… I don’t have it in me to be nice right now.”

Aggie didn’t say anything right away. The silence stretched, not heavy, but enough to make Y/n shift uncomfortably under the blanket.

Finally, Aggie spoke again, a little softer. “I’m not asking you to be nice. I’m just asking you not to treat me like I’m the problem.”

Y/n didn’t move. She wanted to say she wasn’t, that Aggie wasn’t the problem. But she was too tired, and the words felt like they’d come out wrong again. She stayed quiet.

Aggie stood there for a few seconds longer. Then she pushed off the dresser.

“Alright,” she said, a little flat again. “I’m going to the gym.”

Y/n wanted to stop her. To say something like ‘please stay’ or even just ‘I’m sorry.’ But the lump in her throat was thick and stubborn, and the frustration in her chest still hadn’t settled. 

She didn’t want a fight, but she also didn’t want to pretend everything was fine when she was one wrong word away from crying over absolutely nothing.

The door clicked shut behind Aggie.

And even though she’d wanted to be left alone a minute ago, now that she was, the room suddenly felt colder.

..

Aggie walked into the Chelsea training centre, the familiar scent of sweat filling the air. She had been looking forward to this session, well, at least ever since she and Y/n had their disagreement.

She needed to clear her mind, work out the frustration she'd been carrying since the toast incident.

As she laced up her sneakers, guilt began growing on her, little by little.

The tension, the silence. It all made her feel like she was the one in the wrong. Aggie jogged out onto the field, the last sun rays of the day casting long shadows across the grass as she thought about how she should have been more patient.

She continued her warm-ups, pushing herself through the drills, but the thoughts kept flooding in. She wanted some time to focus on herself, but it wasn’t working...all she could think about was Y/N."

About how Y/n was always a sweetheart to her when she was sick, or how Y/n never complained when Aggie was cranky after losing a game–Y/N always stuck around, even when Aggie didn’t do the same for her

She kept running, harder now, her legs burning with the intensity. Each step forced her to reckon with the fact that she hadn’t been the best girlfriend she could be. 

She knew Y/n was in pain, that it wasn’t easy for her to talk about because she also didn’t understand why she was acting that way, and yet Aggie made it worse by being…impatient, insensitive.

..

Aggie came back to their apartment, sweat still dripping down her neck.

As she stepped inside, she noticed that Y/n was nowhere to be seen, so she probably hadn't left the bed since their last “fight”, if you could even call that a fight..

Aggie walked further into the apartment, throwing her gym bag on the floor and taking her shoes off. She got to the door of their bedroom and opened the door slowly.

Yn was lying on her side on the bed, her face scrunched up in the way it always did when she was upset.

Carefully, Aggie made her way over. 

She knelt next to the bed, right by Y/n’s side and leaned in and kissed Y/n’s forehead softly. “Hi, lovie,” she whispered, her voice filled with sincerity. “I’m sorry I was so rude earlier.”

Y/n’s eyes fluttered open, her lashes wet, as if she was crying before she fell asleep. She blinked up at Aggie, her face still in that familiar pout, but the look in her eyes was full of regret. 

“I’m the one who’s sorry ”, Y/n said, her voice thick with emotion. “I was a bitch.”

“No, baby, you weren’t,” Aggie said softly, her thumb brushing over Y/n’s cheek. “It’s okay, you’re just not feeling like yourself right now. We all have those days.”

Y/n’s lips quivered slightly, and she sniffled. “You don’t hate me, do you?”

Was Y/n being dramatic? Yes. But it was okay because she was almost bleeding to death,

Aggie laughed affectionately, kissing  Y/n’s forehead again. “Hate you? Never. You’re my girl.”

Aggie gently pulled Y/n into her lap, feeling the weight of the argument lift slowly as Y/n rested her head against her chest. The tension in the room started to dissipate, replaced by the comforting warmth of their embrace.

“You know,” Aggie said softly, running her fingers through Y/n’s hair, “we should’ve made an agreement. A ‘period protocol’ or something.”

Y/n tilted her head back, raising an eyebrow. “A period protocol? What does that even mean?”

Aggie smirked, “Like, whenever you feel your period is coming, you tell me, and I’ll be extra patient. You won’t have to snap at me, and I won’t get all frustrated.”

Y/n sighed, but nodded. “Yeah, that actually makes sense. I just have a hard time admitting when I’m being…irrational.”

Aggie smiled warmly. “It’s not irrational, love. You just need a little more care when things get rough. All I ask is that you tell me what you need, and I’ll try my best.”

There was a long pause before Y/n mumbled, “I’m sorry for screaming at you earlier, when you were making lunch.”

Aggie blinked at her, clearly confused. "You didn’t scream at me when I was making lunch, though?"

Y/n looked up at her, wide-eyed. "Oh… uh… maybe it was all in my head then?"

Aggie shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips as she kissed Y/n’s cheeks. “Grumpy.”

..

A/n: helloo, hope you guys enjoyed it!! <3

Masterlist

[izzih22]

Can you please write a fic where Azzi & KK got into an argument & Paige is kinda in the middle

Whose Side Are You On?

Note: I tried. Y’all earned this one 👏👏

The gym smelled like sweat, pine cleaner, and tension.

Practice had been rough. Not just physically, but emotionally—the kind of practice where no one was quite synced, Coach was in a mood, and everything felt just a half-step off.

Azzi was quiet the whole walk back to the locker room. Not her usual peaceful quiet. This was… different.

Paige noticed it right away. Azzi’s hands were tighter around her water bottle. Her mouth was set in a soft, irritated line, like she was trying not to be annoyed but couldn’t help it.

KK noticed too. And of course, she said something.

“What’s with the attitude, Az?” KK asked, dropping onto the bench across from her. “You’ve been walking around like someone kicked your puppy.”

Azzi didn’t even look up as she pulled off her shoes. “I’m not mad.”

“Didn’t say you were mad,” KK said, tone already rising. “Just said your vibes are off.”

Azzi finally looked at her, voice still gentle—but definitely not warm. “I’m just frustrated. Practice was messy.”

KK raised her eyebrows. “And that’s my fault?”

“I didn’t say that,” Azzi replied calmly.

“But you’re thinking it.”

“KK—” Paige started, already feeling her stomach twist.

“No, let her say it,” KK snapped, whipping around to face Azzi. “Let’s not pretend like you didn’t roll your eyes after that last drill. Real subtle.”

Azzi exhaled, still speaking like she was trying to keep things civil. “I just needed people to focus. It felt like no one was listening to Coach.”

KK let out a loud laugh, tossing her towel down. “Right. So it’s my fault now.”

“No one said that,” Paige cut in quickly, eyes flicking between them.

Azzi’s voice softened again, but the frustration was still there. “KK, I’m not trying to fight with you. I just… I don’t do well when everything feels loud and chaotic and we’re goofing off mid-drill. I get overwhelmed.”

“Cool,” KK said, standing abruptly. “So next time, I’ll just shut up and stop being me.”

Azzi blinked, clearly taken aback. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, that’s what it feels like,” KK said sharply. “And of course Paige isn’t gonna say anything because God forbid she ever disagrees with you.”

Paige’s head jerked up. “Whoa. What?”

“You always back her,” KK snapped, eyes narrowing at Paige now. “Every time something happens, you get all quiet and tense and protective like she’s made of glass.”

“I’m not—” Paige stammered, standing too. “I’m literally trying to keep the peace!”

“Yeah, but it’s obvious who you’re leaning toward.”

Paige looked at Azzi, who stood up too—calm but clearly hurt now, shaking her head slightly.

“KK, that’s not fair,” Azzi said softly. “Paige didn’t do anything.”

“That’s the problem!” KK fired back. “She never does when it’s you.”

Paige stepped between them—not aggressively, just enough to make them pause. “Okay, can we not do this? I’m not taking sides.”

KK crossed her arms. “But you are. Just not out loud.”

Paige swallowed, her jaw clenching. “You think I don’t care about you? You think I don’t have your back too?”

KK didn’t answer.

Azzi touched Paige’s arm lightly. “Let her cool down.”

“I am cool,” KK said, though her voice cracked a little. “I just didn’t know there were favorites now.”

“KK—” Paige tried again, but the damage was already done.

KK grabbed her stuff, mumbling under her breath, “Whatever. Hope you two have a great, focused, silent practice next time.”

She stormed out, leaving the door swinging behind her.

The silence that followed was thick.

Paige let out a long breath, running a hand through her hair. “Well… that went well.”

Azzi sat back down slowly, rubbing her hands over her face. “I didn’t mean for it to blow up.”

“I know,” Paige said gently, sitting beside her.

There was a beat.

“You’re not made of glass,” Paige said after a second. “But yeah… I do get protective of you sometimes.”

Azzi looked over at her, eyes soft and tired. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“Tell that to KK.”

Azzi leaned her head lightly on Paige’s shoulder. “She’ll come around.”

“You think?”

“I think she was hurt. Not angry. There’s a difference.”

Paige smiled faintly. “Why do you always have to be the emotionally mature one?”

Azzi just shrugged. “Somebody has to be.”

Paige bumped her knee. “That’s rude.”

Azzi laughed, a little, and Paige finally let herself relax.

For now.

⸻

Paige knew the second she walked into the locker room the next day that KK still hadn’t let it go.

KK was sitting on the bench, AirPods in, arms crossed, and the biggest, most dramatic scowl plastered across her face like it owed her money. She didn’t even look up when Paige entered—just knew it was her and angled her whole body away like she was an eclipse.

Azzi noticed it too. She was always noticing things.

“Do you want to talk to her?” Azzi asked softly as they sat side by side on the bench.

“I mean, yeah,” Paige muttered, “but I also don’t want to get smacked with passive-aggressive shade before film.”

Azzi reached for her laces, fingers methodical. “She’s still upset.”

“She thinks I chose sides.”

Azzi glanced at her gently. “Did you?”

Paige stared at her, scandalized. “You’re my girlfriend.”

Azzi smiled faintly. “So… yes.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Azzi said, tugging her shoes tighter. “But I get it. It’s okay.”

Paige sighed. “I hate when people I love fight.”

Azzi leaned her shoulder into Paige’s for a second. “I know.”

The film session went fine—if fine meant Coach dragging them for missing rotations and then replaying the exact moment yesterday when Azzi rolled her eyes and KK yelled about it.

No one said anything. But KK didn’t laugh at anything the whole session, which was very un-KK of her.

Later, after practice, Paige finally caught her in the hallway outside the locker room, alone.

“Hey,” Paige said, walking up beside her.

KK kept walking.

“You still mad at me?” Paige asked.

“I’m not mad,” KK said, expression blank. “I just realized where I stand. That’s all.”

Paige groaned. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” KK snapped. “State facts?”

“You’re acting like I don’t care about you.”

KK stopped, turning toward her. “I’m acting like you picked your girl over me. Which, like—fine. Whatever. I just didn’t think it’d be that obvious.”

Paige looked at her, guilt rising in her chest. “I wasn’t trying to pick sides. You’re important to me too, KK. You’re like family.”

KK’s expression cracked just slightly. “You didn’t even look at me yesterday. Not once. You just kept looking at her like you were waiting to see if she’d cry.”

“She was trying not to cry,” Paige muttered, then immediately winced. “Shit. That’s not helping my case.”

“Nope,” KK said flatly.

“Okay, look,” Paige said, stepping in front of her. “You’re right. I did get protective. And maybe I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want it to get worse. But it wasn’t because I care about you any less. I just… I know what Azzi looks like when she’s holding everything in, and I panicked.”

KK didn’t say anything.

“She doesn’t get mad easily,” Paige added, softer. “But when she does, she shuts down. I’ve seen it happen before, and it scares me a little.”

KK finally sighed. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I was just mad.”

“I know.”

KK glanced over at her, then squinted. “You’re still annoying.”

“Yeah, well. You’re dramatic.”

“Your girl’s dramatic.”

“No,” Paige said quickly, “she’s soft-spoken and rational. You, on the other hand, storm out of locker rooms like it’s a soap opera.”

KK tried not to laugh—but failed. A little snort escaped her.

“There she is,” Paige grinned.

KK rolled her eyes, but the tension was cracking now. “I hate that you’re funny.”

Paige shrugged. “It’s a burden.”

There was a long pause before KK finally said, “Tell Azzi I didn’t mean it. And I’m sorry.”

“Tell her yourself,” Paige said, nudging her. “We’re ordering takeout later. Come over. You can argue about fries and make fun of me in front of her. You love that.”

KK hesitated.

“C’mon,” Paige said. “You know she already forgave you. She forgives everyone. It’s part of her charm.”

KK sighed dramatically. “Fine. But I’m picking the place.”

“Bold of you to assume I won’t fight you for it.”

“You won’t. Because you’ll be too busy being whipped.”

Paige scowled. “That’s slander.”

KK smirked. “That’s facts.”

[bring-forth-his-sac]

THE MAN FOR THE JOB - PART 2

Link to Part 1! (part 1 is all step up, this is the smutty part lmao)

Summary:  Negan continues his mind games as he reminds you who’s in control. But when Negan actually starts to see you, you open up in ways you never anticipated (aka this is smut lmao)

Tags: daddy kink, coercion/manipulation, alcohol consumption, p in v penetration, vaginal fingering, loss of virginity, bare minimum aftercare, Negan’s an asshole who only wants one thing

Word Count: 8k

He watches you clutch the drink. Negan made sure not to fill it up too high, mainly because he doesn’t want to be wasting liquor on a gal who hasn’t let him pet her pussy yet. But also because he wants to gauge your sober reaction first.

Then later on, if you start playing by the rules, you can have a proper drink.

But for now Negan needs to focus on figuring out how to go about this. He’s had enough wives to know most fall into two categories. Either they want to give into hedonism, only needing a push to revel in living it large as a wife. Or, if they remain stubborn, Negan has to up the guilts to remind them of the severity of not just their situation, but of their loved ones too.

Watching you sit on the sleek couch across from him, Negan scoots forward. This is his opportunity to figure out which category you fit into and he’s not going to waste it.

“Y’know, this can be mutually beneficial,” Negan pitches “I mean, most gals your age got libidos ragin' like forest fires! Might do you some good to get out those pent up feelings”.

You stay quiet, trying not to nibble on your lip. The last thing you want is for Negan to know you’re nervous. You shake your head “No”.

“No, you don’t get a raging lady boner on the daily or no, you don’t want to fuck?”.

You hate how he talks. So casual and aloof despite everything. “I don’t want to do any of that stuff,” you clarify a little too quickly. 

Negan raises an eyebrow, taking in your choice of words. “None of that stuff, huh?” He repeats thoughtfully. With a long sigh, he leans back and takes a gulp of his drink. “Just thought I’d give you the option… must’ve been hard to get some dick action when you were travelling with your dad”.

You don’t reply. 

It’s not that you don’t mind talking about sex. You’ve never skydived either but you can hold a conversation about it. The problem is talking about it with him. If he gets any suspicions that you’re a virgin, Negan will have a field day. 

“I mean, it must’ve been hard. You got all these hormones and shit just buildin' up inside ya, some willing guys no doubt but ya also got Daddy watching over you and probably making sure nobody touches his little princess” he continues, talking without a care in the world.

You hold back a scoff. As if your father, who so easily gave you to the Saviors, would care if you had sex. Things could have been much worse for you. Your father didn’t know what kind of men Negan and his Saviors were. The only reason things have worked out so well for you is… well, is thanks to Negan.

Negan keeps digging, trying to find something that’ll give him some sort of a reaction. “So, did you have boy problems or just never find the right dick?” He prods.

You don’t know what annoys you more. The constant questions or the slow realization that Negan has done more to keep you safe than your own father. 

“That’s none of your business” you retort, wanting this conversation over. 

Negan is quick to snap back, his tone fringing on being sharp “Everything is my business”. 

You huff, not bothering to hide your frustration. That only makes Negan grin. “Oh yeah, this is what I like to see” he nods his head approvingly, much to your confusion. 

Negan revels in your baffled expression before clarifying “I’m starting to see little glimmers of that potty mouth gal who read her father to shit in front of everybody”.

Your father has always said you have a way with words. Always have been able to put your foot in your mouth and talk when it’s best to keep silent. Maybe that’s why you’re finally heeding his various warnings now and trying to stay quiet.

You shrug.

“When I saw her, that lady that was cursing out her father and trying to kick and slap my men silly,” he shifts in his couch, manspreading like there’s no tomorrow “Woo! Now that lady made my balls throb! I don’t think my pants tightened that much in years— and that’s saying something when I got a handful of wives!”.

Negan stands, downing the rest of his drink in one. You tense as he sets his glass on the table and moves around to sit beside you. 

One of Negan’s arms rest along the back of the couch. You ignore it and sip your drink. Negan watches with a chuckle, his tongue wetting his bottom lip. You’re a tough one, that’s for sure. But that just makes the chase even better.

When he realizes you won’t speak again. Negan tries a new approach. “So, if you don’t want to do any stuff with me, how’s about you tell me about the stuff you’ve done with other people” he smiles, as if requesting his favorite bedtime story.

“No”.

He laughs almost goofily, not taking your answer seriously “Oh c’mon, you into anal? Like being the one in control? Into feet or whatever weird shit people were into before the world got fucked?”. Negan throws as much as he can at you, already knowing he’s successfully flustered you after mentioning anal.

“Jesus! I don’t want to talk about those things, alright?” you get defensive, making no subtle movements as you scooch away from Negan on the couch “Just because you’re a fucking jackass doesn’t mean you have to be a huge pervert too”.

You can see the change in his face this time, predicting the mood swing and the loss of the fun persona. “Stuff? Things? You sound like a fourteen year old that’s too embarrassed to say ‘dick’ in front of her parents” he butts in, criticizing you.

“Is anything ever good enough for you?” You bite back “Is this why you have six wives but still prefer a bat?”.

Bringing Lucille up between you both, he grips her tightly. She wavers in front of your face for a moment but you make sure not to flinch. “I said I liked that you didn’t take shit, that doesn’t mean you get to talk like that to me” he warns.

You want to slap Lucille away from you. You want to pour the rest of the whiskey over his head and throw the empty glass at him afterwards.

But you don’t. You can’t. Instead, all you do is settle back and shut your mouth. 

“Darlin’ I’m trying to be civil here and give you the opportunity to confide in me,” he lets out a snicker as he looks around and drops Lucille back down by his legs “I mean, ain’t this a safe space?”. 

You don’t entertain his question by looking around and inadvertently giving yourself the reminder that you’re trapped in here with him, unable to leave until he allows you to. Negan leans back, lazy and disinterested, like a petulant child bored with a toy. 

His voice drops, casual, like he’s just making small talk "So how about it, huh? Why not open up that cold little heart of yours and tell me... you a virgin or what?"

The words land heavy, landing with a bite that makes your stomach churn. He says it like it’s nothing, but to you, it feels like a punch to the gut. "Not really something I care to share," you reply, eyes narrowing just enough to show you're not afraid.

Negan's laughter slices through the tension, loud and unapologetic. “Really?" he grins, leaning in just a little too close. "I mean, It's obvious, sweetheart. I could tell the second I laid eyes on you”.

He gives you a once-over, as though he's stripping you bare. "The way you hold yourself, all stiff and closed off… yeah, you don't need to say a word. It’s written all over you”.

Your face flushes, a hot rush of embarrassment crawling up your neck. You try to centre yourself, but his words linger in the air, cutting deeper than they should. You hoped you could keep that part of you hidden but now it feels like he's pulled it into the light for everyone to see, and suddenly, it’s all you can think about. 

You swallow hard “You don’t know anything about me”.

But even as you say it, doubt creeps in. Maybe he does. 

Letting Lucille slip out of his grasp, she rests on the floor, her handle leaning against the couch. Negan spreads his thighs, manspreading once again. “C’mere,” he orders. 

Despite every cell in your body protesting, you scoot closer. 

Negan scoffs, rolling his eyes as he pats his thigh “No, come here”. He can see your body instantly react. You go back into yourself, your body stiffening. 

There’s a few beats of silence and he knows you're internally debating it but it’s taking longer than he wants. With a sigh, Negan adds “Or I can come to you… not sure if that’d be better though; with me on you”.

That’s enough to convince you to comply. Standing, you put your glass on the small table before flattening out your dress. You don’t want to flash him or have your dress ride up, accidentally offering up more skin for him to ogle at.

With a gulp, you slowly lower yourself down on to him. Thankfully, you don’t feel anything. No boner or gun in the waistband of his jeans. You hold on to the end of your dress as you sink down, awkwardly straddling him. 

Negan’s fingers lightly skim your hips, waiting to see if you’ll flinch before finally settling his hands on either side of you. He smiles up at you, flashing you an almost boyish grin. It’s weird being this close to him, looking down at him and seeing every gray facial hair, every line on his face and faded scar. You try not to let your gaze linger but where else are you supposed to look?

“See, this ain’t so bad, is it?” he asks, giving your hips a testing squeeze.

“Can I get off now?” you don’t get the full question out before he gives you a disapproving grunt. Negan doesn’t hold on to you tighter, forcing you to stay where you are. He simply gives you a look and as it would have it, that seems to be enough for you to stay.

Negan lets the look fade before changing conversation, happy for now with simply having you on his lap. “Has your dad always been a dick to you?” he changes topics, making your stomach sink. You preferred his flirting to discussing your father, and more specifically, to confirm that yes, he’s always been an asshole.

“I guess,” you reply vaguely.

He hums, taking in your answer. “I’m sorry about that,” his words take a few seconds to sink in “you don’t deserve shit like that… even if you run your mouth every now and again”.

You try not to show a reaction. 

There’s a tension in your chest that you ache to ignore. You don’t deserve it. A simple statement, really. One you know yourself, deep deep down. It hits more than you expected, even as you try to hold everything back. You shouldn’t feel comforted by that. You shouldn’t let his words even touch the raw edges of your heart. 

You’ve spent so long distancing yourself from the idea of ever needing validation from anyone, least of all someone like him. But God, the fact that someone finally sees it? It's a blow to the walls you’ve built, and you’re not sure if that’s a relief or a pain you never asked for.

You try to keep your face neutral. It’s instinct to swallow down the sudden rush of emotion, to remind yourself how much you don’t want to lean into Negan’s words. You look away quickly, hoping he can’t read what you’re trying to bury.

Negan watches you closely, as if he can see that small crack in your armor. You’re good at hiding it, sure, but Negan has a knack for seeing what others miss. 

He leans back against the couch, deciding to take on this new approach. Maybe he had it wrong before. You don’t fit into the same old categories of wanting to embrace hedonism or need some guilty encouragement like the wives before you. No, instead Negan thinks you just need to be seen.

“I know you’ve just been surviving for a long ass time now, darlin’ and hell, if you want to keep doing that, then that’s fine with me,” just when Negan is starting to draw you out, he backs off. 

You feel his grip on your hips go slack, his hands falling to the couch cushions. You would never admit it out loud but you miss the warmth almost instantly. Just when you think he’s seen a flicker of who you are, he loses interest.

Negan's sudden withdrawal leaves a palpable void between you, the space where his warmth and attention once resided now chilling in his absence. His casual dismissal, as if your presence is inconsequential, strikes a blow to your self-worth. You stay on his lap for a moment, grappling with the sting of his indifference. Is it bad that it hurts this much?

Rationally, you should feel liberated by his dismissal, perhaps even eager to leave. Yet a part of you remains tethered, unwilling to let go. Moving slowly, you don’t pull away. You don’t know what it is that makes you do it, but you go forward, resting your forehead against his shoulder. 

Negan doesn't move. He doesn’t tense nor does he soften against you. He doesn’t even speak (a rare occurrence, truly) and lets the silence stretch, thick and suffocating, while your forehead rests against his shoulder like some pathetic white flag.

Just when you think you’ll have to admit defeat and awkwardly clamber off of him, a low and smug voice reaches your ear.

“You learnin’ how to be sweet, baby?”.

You can’t tell whether he’s being mocking or not. You should move but your limbs won’t listen. Negan’s hand moves slowly to your back, not to comfort but to remind you that he’s still the one holding the reins. Fingers drag deliberately, almost thoughtfully, up your spine. 

“You behaving now cause you don’t want me to get bored of ya?” he guesses “Or do you just want a strong voice tellin’ ya you’re worth a damn? Daddy not do that enough, sweetheart?”.

Your breath catches. He chuckles, pleased with himself.

“That’s what I thought,” Negan drawls. Slowly, you pull back to see his face again. He’s got you roped in and there’s nothing you can do. 

Every word that leaves his mouth drips with arrogance, laced with that mocking affection he wields like a blade and still, you hang on them. You convince yourself that there’s a warmth in his gaze, a weight that's surprisingly not as uncomfortable as when he used to watch you in the wives parlour. 

"Don't get me wrong," Negan continues, his voice dropping low, like he’s telling you a secret, "I could go on about how much of a piece of work your old man is, and shit, that’s only after seeing the grimy fuck for a little while… but I think we both know that's not what you need right now, huh?".

Negan’s got you pegged. It’s as if you’re already laid bare for him to see. It’s like he crawled into your psyche and made himself comfortable, propped his boots up on the furniture and lit a damn cigarette. No one's ever looked at you like that, past the fire and the walls and the venom to see the soft, shivering thing you swore to hide. 

But he has. He sees it and he’s circling it like a vulture. And no matter how much you tell yourself you hate him or that you’d kill him the first chance you get, you’re letting him do this. No, not just letting. You're leaning into it. Folding into his touch like it's inevitable. Like it's easier to give in than pretend he hasn’t already sunk his claws in.

“And hey, I know I don’t exactly have the cleanest record when it comes to making people feel all warm and fuzzy inside,” he says, flashing you a grin that’s got all the cockiness you expect “But I’m good at one thing. I’m good at knowing when someone’s got potential. And damn, I just think you and me got the potential to make this shitshow a little more fun”

Your pride is screaming. Your sense of self-preservation is banging on the walls, demanding you to snap out of it—but it’s like background noise now. Distant. Dull. Because here and now, with that smug glint in his eyes, you feel something you’ve never had long enough to trust.

“Look,” Negan continues his pitch  “I get it. You don’t trust me. I wouldn’t trust me either, not after everything”. His eyes watch you closely, as if he’s waiting for some micro expression to give away your feelings “But trust me on this. Sometimes, the world’s a lot more bearable when you’ve got someone there to screw your brains out and I think– no, I know that I’m the man for the job”.

Flicking your attention down to his jacket, you carefully trace a finger along it. Negan lets you, feeling how close you are to cracking. 

“That’s a stupid reason for thinking I’m a virgin” you go back to his previous comments, ignoring his monologue.

Negan doesn’t deny it. “Stupid but true”.

You don’t know how to do this. And to do this in front of Negan feels like you’re trying to make a creme brulee in front of a chef. This isn’t your forte. You don’t take the lead. Not in your old group. Not when dealing with your father or even with Negan… up until now, that is.

In a way, you don’t see this as Negan getting what he wants. This is getting the upper hand and finally making him be the one on the back foot. 

Bringing your head down, you shut your eyes and blindly shove your lips onto his. You don’t do it to be sweet or romantic or enact your alleged wifely duties. You do it to prove and point. And Negan can feel it.

He almost sputters out a laugh and it would’ve come out if your lips were swallowing up every attempted noise his mouth makes. You feel his hands grip your hips again, sliding up to your waist but this is different than before. He gives you a small tug, not to pull you flush against him like you expected, but away.

“Easy tiger,” Negan says once he can catch a breath, letting his head fall back on the couch to assure there’s space between your faces.

Your heart sinks momentarily, a rush of panic and rejection flooding your senses. You try to conceal the disappointment that threatens to show but you can't help the quick jerk of your head towards the floor, avoiding his gaze.

A part of you feels stupid, while another part of you is silently relieved. Negan is who you assumed him to be. An asshole! Who you can’t win with whether you do as he wants or the exact opposite.

As you begin to shift awkwardly on his lap, attempting to create some distance between you, his grip tightens, holding you in place. Negan notices the hurt in your eyes, the subtle withdrawal that follows his previous words. "Hey," he murmurs, his voice soft and reassuring as his hand runs up your back in a gentle caress "I didn't mean it like that."

Fuck.

Despite yourself, you listen. “I think maybe I should take the lead on this one, hm?” he talks so softly, you almost forget about his cruelty “I mean, maybe if we were practising the silent treatment then you could lead, seeing you’re a professional in that”. 

Negan tries to get you to crack a smile. You don’t. But you don’t get off his lap either and so he sees it as a win nonetheless.

“So how’s about you let me take care of you instead of you doing… whatever it is you call that” You don’t miss the diss at your own kissing style. Yet before you can argue back or rebuff him, Negan leans in and closes the gap between you both.

His lips meet yours with a fierce hunger, one less sloppy than yours. Negan’s hands urge you closer again as his tongue forces your lips apart, delving in to claim your mouth entirely.

You wonder if this is how he kisses all of his wives. If he can turn on this passion like a light switch and make each one of them feel like they’re the special one. Your thoughts evaporate when you feel his finger. How it got there so quickly without you noticing is beyond you— surely all this kissing isn’t distracting you, is it?

It’s just a slight nudge, maybe done with his knuckle. You’re unsure considering you can’t exactly see, your short dress obstructing your view. All you can see is Negan’s arm, running alongside your thigh until it disappears under your dress. 

When he nudges again, as if to feel you through your panties, you jerk your head back. Negan is quick to reassure you, moving his hand to your thigh and gripping it firmly. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” he tells you “I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”.

He waits for you to answer. You nod but Negan lets out a heavy exhale. “I want words,” he clarifies “I think we’re over the silent shit now, sweetheart”.

Automatically, your head nods again but you stutter out “Y-yeah, I know you said that but—“.

“So let me take care of you,” Negan cuts you off, giving your thigh a squeeze “this is all part of it, honey and if you want to just do this today then hell, that’s fine with me. We can just focus on you”.

You don’t believe him. You don’t want to believe him and let down your guard even more than you already have. “I don’t know…” you reply hesitantly.

Negan lets out a small laugh, trying to ease you as his calloused fingers inch closer to your panty line. “Well you don’t have to look so scared, I’m not gonna stick my whole fuckin’ fist up there” he jokes, planting a small kiss by your jaw. 

It feels like your mind is tearing into two. You hate it but it feels nice. His hands, his lips, the warmth in his voice. But dammit, is this what the other wives thought? Did they give in this quickly too?

As if hearing your internal monologue, Negan says “I won’t do anything you don’t want, baby, I just wanna show you a good time”. 

You believe him. You believe the man that took you from your only living relative and has kept you like a pampered prisoner. It doesn’t make sense in your head and yet the words slip out. “Ok… yeah” you agree reluctantly.

The boyish smile you get in return feels like a reward. 

“Just a peek” he promises, tentatively pulling the fabric aside and sliding his middle finger between your lower lips. You had thought he would have given you more of a warning before sliding a finger between your folds and yet this is exactly the sort of thing you assumed Negan would do.

Your body tenses immediately, your nose taking in a sharp suck of air. Negan can feel your thighs go rigid but he doesn’t comment on it. How can he when he’s distracted by how goddamn wet you are? His finger glides with ease, testing the very wet waters. 

You try to maintain your composure, steeling yourself against the overwhelming sensation. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm before he's even got a finger in you. Negan watches your determined expression, a smirk tugging at his lips as he slowly moves his finger around, gathering your wetness.

"Such a pretty little pussy..." He compliments and with no warning, begins to circle your clit. You jump from the sudden contact, leaving out a gasp as you grip his shoulder. “Shit, Negan,” you hiss with gritted teeth “You couldn’t give me a heads up?”.

He scoffs as his finger runs back through your folds. “Fine then,” he mockingly entertains your request “incoming!”.

“Wha—“ your mouth snaps shut as Negan plunges not just one, but two fingers inside of you. Your eyes snap shut for a moment, wanting no more than to focus on the digits working their way into you. 

“Goddamn it’s a tight fit for my fuckin’ fingers!” He says it like he’s amused. He slowly pushes his fingers deeper into your tight hole, moving them in and out at a slow pace.

"Poor baby, had to wait for the world to end to get laid," he teases softly, his fingers spreading you wider, preparing you for something much thicker than his digits.

You blink your heavy eyelids open to find Negan's gaze locked onto yours, his expression unreadable. There’s no smug smirk or no mocking glint in his eye. He looks... focused, almost genuine. His fingers continue to stretch you open, preparing you with single-minded determination.

It makes you realize how much you like his eyes. Your hips shift forward on their own accord, seeking more contact. The last barrier of doubt melts away as you give in to the pleasure he's building.

"Let's see if we can make this tight pussy come," he whispers, the heel of his hand rubbing against your swollen bundle of nerves. His fingers hook upwards, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. The pleasure builds rapidly, overwhelming your senses.

You whimper his name uncontrollably as your pussy coats his fingers with your juices, the sensation unlike anything you've ever experienced. "You're starting to feel it, ain't ya?" he says gruffly, his fingers curl and press against your g-spot, making your legs tremble.

Your inner muscles clamp down tightly around his fingers as a sudden, intense wave hits you. You cry out, your body stiffening and convulsing. You grab onto him for dear life, your nails digging into his skin as your orgasm tears through you.

As the final tremors of your orgasm ebb away, Negan slows his fingers to a stop and removes them. Not that you mind as you collapse against him, still trembling as your pussy flutters weakly. He wraps a strong arm around your waist, holding you close. “There we go, baby” he coos.

You want to stay like this forever. The warmth of your orgasm wrapping around your brain like a warm blanket and subduing you. As you instinctively shift to make yourself more comfortable, your thigh accidentally grazes against the prominent bulge tenting Negan's pants. 

You freeze momentarily, realizing with sudden clarity what your climax has done to him. He inhales sharply at the contact, his grip tightening reflexively around your waist. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean…” you trail off, unsure whether you should apologize for causing such a reaction. Negan shifts slightly, his voice low and strained as he adjusts himself. 

"Fuck, it’s ok, baby" he mutters under his breath. He nudges you off of his lap, depositing you down onto the rest of the couch. You flop down with no protest. After an orgasm like that, you feel too dazed to be moving around much.

Negan stays seated. Not crawling all over you but not standing up and walking away either. He looks over at you with a sigh. “I said I’d keep my dick in my pants, didn’t I?” His tone is rough, almost pained.

Is it weird to feel bad? He’s given you so much and yet he’s already blocked himself off from getting anything in return. “Yeah… you kinda did…” you trail off, feeling oddly awkward about confirming that. 

“And I guess you don’t want to lose it all in one day, huh?” Negan continues, knowing he has to be strategic about this “I get it, losing the V card can be a big fuck ass deal… well, it’s a fuck-pussy deal actually but y’get me”.

He earns a small laugh from you in response and Negan knows he’s on to a winning formula.

"I-I don't know," you say hesitantly, looking up at the ceiling. "Dicks are big and I know it’ll hurt no matter what… I don’t know, it’s just a lot”. He can tell you're conflicted, torn between the fear of the unknown and the primal desire to be filled.

You bite your lip, bringing your gaze back to him. Unfortunately he looks good. "I've read about it… before. But I don't know what it would feel like. Does it really hurt?" you ask blatantly.

Negan tilts his head as he thinks. Despite what people may think, he is an honest man. To a fault most of the time. But he’d hate to scare you off now, especially when you’re so close to saying yes.

He shrugs "Ain't like I'll be pounding into you. I can be gentle when I want to be. I mean, shit, shouldn’t I get a little something too?”. 

You stew on his words. As the afterglow of your orgasm slowly fades, you can still feel the wetness clinging to your panties. It's a reminder of how desperately your body craves more, urging that rationale side of your brain to say “fuck it!” and just go for it.

"I guess... we could try," you murmur softly, your voice barely audible as you gather your courage. You peek up at Negan through your lashes, trusting his word despite your shyness. "But you have to be gentle, and you have to stop if I tell you to, okay?".

"Baby, you know I'm not gonna lie to you," he says, his voice low and persuasive "It might hurt a bit at first, when I first push in... but after that? Fuck, you'll see stars. You trust me?”.

“No” you reply honestly, the admission escaping your lips amidst a flurry of giggles that betray the nervous flutter in your stomach. 

Negan doesn’t frown at the admission. Instead he grins “Guess I’ll have to give ya a reason to trust me, huh?”. You don’t answer, unable to when he moves down to you and captures your mouth in a kiss.

Without wasting a second, Negan is already yanking his jeans down, freeing his rock-hard erection. Before you can even blink, he's pressing his body against yours, letting you feel every inch of him. 

You give him a bewildered look as he kisses along your jawline, his sudden movement stealing your breath away. You mentally scold yourself for already knowing this aspect of Negan-- warnings aren't in his vocabulary, especially when he wants something.

Trying to process what’s happening, you hear him muttering some praise as he goes for your panties again. You lift your hips naturally as he tugs them off of you. You can't help but wonder if this is right, but your body seems to have its own agenda. It knows exactly what it wants, even if your mind is still playing catch-up.

Before you know it, Negan looks down at your pussy and you realize he’s already lining himself up. “Wait!” You exclaim. You try to sit up but can’t with Negan’s frame above you.

“Can’t I see it first?” You ask, knowing he'll understand your vague question. 

He lets out a low, breathy chuckle, his eyes never leaving yours. "Darlin'," he drawls, "all you need to worry about is feeling it, not seeing it”.

“But is there anything I need to do? Will I take off my dress?” You question hurriedly. 

Negan runs his tongue over his teeth as he listens, narrowing his eyes slightly at your incessant questions. “Christ, woman,” he tries to stay patient “You just gotta lay there and take it, hun”.

As if to make sure you don’t start blabbering again, Negan leans down and takes your lips in a demanding kiss. His tongue pushes its way into your mouth, silencing your remaining questions. As he kisses you, you feel something large and warm pressing against your sensitive pussy lips. You gasp into his mouth, realizing it's his tip. 

Your hands find their home on his face, cupping his stubbled cheeks as you kiss him back frantically. Negan begins moving his hips slowly, spreading your wetness along his length. The smooth head of his cock slides between your lips, making you shiver against him. 

"Fuck, you're so goddamn wet," he groans against your mouth, his praise making you blush. He begins to push inside, his thickness stretching you open. "That's it, sweetheart. Take my dick like a good girl."

All you can feel is the ache as his tip stretches you. You’ve heard it all before; how it hurts before the pleasure kicks in. With a slight grunt, you try to relax but you don’t exactly know how you’re supposed to do that. How do you relax your pussy when all it feels is pain?

Negan slowly moves his hips forward, trying to push himself further into you and yet… nothing. His dick opts to pop back out than go any further in. “Huh… you’re a tight one,” he compliments but all you feel is embarrassment. 

You can feel your eyes start to water, although you’re unsure if that’s thanks to Negan’s relentless efforts to fit or the fact that you’d rather him be balls deep inside you already. Subtly nudging your legs out wider, Negan lines himself up and tries again. He knows he made you cum earlier so he assumed this next part would be easier. Yet here you are, tight as a virgin… heh, literally.

Negan watches your face, trying to gauge your reaction as he presses into you. “You alright?” He grunts, trying to slowly ween his way in. When you don’t respond after a few moments, Negan lets out a strained huff “This ain’t the time for you to go quiet again”.

“It just hurts!” You snap more than you anticipated. A part of you was scared Negan would take it personally and reprimand you for your tone but thankfully he doesn’t. 

With a big sigh, Negan pulls out completely. You let out a grunt at the feeling and his tip pops back out, leaving your pussy sore. He stands, cock glistening and determined despite a frustrated Negan running a hand through his hair.

“What kinda cruel fuckin’ game is this,” he blabs “I get to pop a fuckin’ cherry but it just happens to be the tightest goddamn cherry ever? Talk about a blessing and a curse!”.

You sit up, tugging your dress down to cover you. “Sorry,” you mutter, looking anywhere but Negan and his… ahem, package.

He shakes his head, hand dropping back down to his side. “No, don’t apologize,” he replies, watching how you hold yourself, slowly retreating back into your shell.

“We can leave it at that, if you want,” Negan tries to hide the defeat in his voice. Here you are, the best damn gift in the world and he can’t unwrap it! “Maybe if the boys find some lube on a run we could try again,” he tugs up his pants, haphazardly shoving his dick away just for it to tent in his pants.

You watch him carefully as he slumps down beside you. Maybe this is a sign from some greater power that you shouldn’t be doing this. Not with him, anyways. Not after all he’s done. And yet, every time you look at him, that line between right and wrong starts to blur. 

There’s a voice in your head, the sensible one, telling you this isn’t a good idea. You’re supposed to be smarter than this. You’re supposed to know better. That’s what kept you alive for so long and yet you open your mouth and say “Would it help if we tried a different position?”.

Negan’s eyes immediately lock onto you. There’s a flicker in his gaze, a mix of surprise and admiration. A chuckle escapes him, but it’s different this time. It’s not the playful, sardonic laugh he’s known for, but something more appreciative, like he’s impressed. "Well, shit," he mutters, his voice deep and almost reverent "Didn’t expect that".

He stands again, wasting no time in getting his member out again. “I was about to ask if you’ve ever tried doggy,” he scoffs out a laugh as he rubs himself “but we both know the answer to that”.

A spark of excitement runs through you and before the rational side of your brain can stop you, you get into position. Sitting up on the couch, you turn your back to Negan, perching yourself over the back of the couch with your knees on the couch cushions. Arching your back, you glance behind your shoulder and ask “Like this?”.

“Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” you hear his voice behind you, trying not to shiver as he lifts your dress up over your ass. The couch cushions dip as Negan rests a knee besides yours, lining himself back up. 

You wait with a still breath, anticipating the stretch again. But it doesn’t come. You can feel him behind you, his body close enough to touch and yet all you feel is the heat radiating off of him.

Your body sways back, trying to feel anything. That’s when his voice meets you, low and smooth, right behind your ear. “Eager?” Negan asks.

“I just wanna see if it’ll fit” you downplay your feelings, ignoring the fluttering in your stomach. To help sooth you, Negan places gentle kisses down the side of your neck as he presses his cock into your hole.  

With a deep breath, Negan pushes forward slowly, feeling your tightness resist him. “Fuck, you're tight” he grunts as he starts to push in deeper, getting the tip fully in. You try to embrace the pain, to let him go deeper but as he slowly plunges deeper into you, you swat your arm back. 

“No, wait, just wait a second,” you close your eyes, trying to stay composed.

Negan stops immediately, his thick cock halfway inside you. “Easy there, sweetheart,” He coos , rubbing your back gently “I know it hurts. Just breathe through it and relax your muscles for me”.

That’s easier said than done. “I don’t know how,” you say loudly, hoping that’ll mask your groans of pain “I don’t know how to relax”.

Negan keeps his voice calm and steady, trying to help you through the discomfort. “Shh, it's okay. First time's always rough” he leans down, using a hand to turn your head sideways so he can capture your lips in a kiss. 

You kiss him back to distract yourself, hungrily pressing your lips against his. Negan moves his hips slowly as you kiss him, slipping his tongue into your mouth. 

Your pussy stretches, heat flooding your system until you feel something coarse. Pubic Hair. Reluctantly, you pull your mouth away from Negan and you try to look back at what’s happening.

“There you go, baby, that’s it,” Negan encourages you, slowly becoming breathless as he restrains himself. “Goddamn! All the way in, didn’t think I’d fuckin fit” he pants, giving you side a small approving rub.

You physically relax at that, knowing that this is as far as he could go. Talking you through it, Negan starts with shallow thrusts. He only moves a mere inch or two, just enough to get a feel for you without causing you too much pain. 

His deep voice rumble near your ear “You're doin' great, baby”. He reaches around to circle your clit with his thumb. Your body jerks, a small whimper escaping your lips as unexpected pleasure shoots through you.

You moan again as he hits a sweet spot inside of you. Without thinking, you arch your back and push your hips back slightly to meet his shallow thrusts. Negan watches the movement, his eyes darkening. 

Holding your hips firmly, he begins to move faster, his shallow thrusts turning into deep, powerful strokes. He pulls back and slams into you, his cock filling you completely. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air as he starts to properly fuck you.

A loud moan escapes your lips, your body jolting with the intensity of his movements. “N-Negan!” You gasp, your body jolting with the intensity of his movements.

"Fuck yeah," he pants behind you, one hand gripping your hip while the other tangles in your hair. Each thrust causes the couch to creak. "Jesus, your pussy's squeezin' me so good..." His voice becomes ragged as your inner walls clamp down around him.

You whimper and moan as Negan pounds into you, his earlier promises to be gentle long forgotten. The initial soreness has given way to a surprising pleasure as his thick length stretches you with each deep thrust. You understand now why people find this so good, why people can be so hedonistic when it comes to sex.

His hand in your hair gives a sharp tug, forcing your head up. "Ah—fuck," you gasp, words tumbling out in broken syllables. "That's it... fuck, if only Daddy could see you now..." Negan grunts.

You whimper, shutting your eyes. Everything feels as though it’s happening at once. It’s all too much yet not enough. "Who's your Daddy, baby?" Negan urges as he tugs on your hair, refusing to let up.

“You! Negan, Negan, Negan!” You spew out the words, your whole body feeling the force of his dick. You feel like you’d say anything, admit to anything if it meant he’d stay inside of you longer. 

Negan can feel it, that he truly owns you now as you repeat his name over and over again. You hold on to the couch as your body crashes again, another orgasm wrecking havoc over you. Somewhere along the line, you replace his name with one you’ve now awarded him. “Daddy!” You cry out again, your body still spasming.

Negan can feel his own body tense at your words, his grip tightening on your hips. "Shit," he hisses, trying to pull back. He manages to withdraw just in time, hot, sticky fluid shooting out and coating the back of your thigh. 

You stay where you are, your full weight on the back of the couch. Breathing heavily, Negan puts his hand on your back to steady himself. After a few seconds, he straightens up and steps back, admiring the mess he's made on your thighs. "Well, fuck me," he mutters, shaking his head slightly.

He pulled out so fast that you barely registered the loss of his length inside you, too busy dealing with your own high. Negan watches his cum slowly start to drip down your thigh. With a low hum of approval, he leans over and plants a kiss on your shoulder. “I’ll get a towel, don’t you move” he says, his voice drifting as he walks further away. 

And so, like the obedient wife you are, you wait. You blink slowly, your mind foggy from the post-sex haze, already imagining curling up in his strong arms. It’s an oddly comforting thought and something you wouldn’t mind coming into fruition.

Kneeling behind you, Negan gently wipes your thighs clean, occasionally pressing soft kisses to your skin while doing so. The contrast between his tender touch now and the ruthless dominant way he just fucked you has your heart fluttering. "Such a good girl," he mutters against your shoulder blades, placing a small kiss there.

You wait for more. Maybe he’ll scoop you up and bring you to his bed, or settle you on his lap again. Instead, you hear his footsteps walking away. You turn your head to watch him grab his empty whiskey glass from the table and head to his array of liquor. Negan pours himself another glass, not even looking back at you.

You pivot your body, settling back onto the couch cushions. Ignoring the dull ache in your stomach, you let your gaze wander around the room. Your eyebrows knit together when the realization kicks in.

“...Where did my underwear go?”.

Negan takes a quick sip of his drink, eyebrows raising as he scans the room. “Probably under the couch if they’re not on the couch” he offers up, not bothering to check himself.

With a slight huff, you slide off the couch and on to your hands and knees, looking underneath. Because this is a dignifying thing to do right after losing your virginity. Especially when you don’t even find it down there. 

You hum as you get back up and look around. “Fuck” you huff, making a mental note of Negan’s lack of help.

“Got plenty of shit like that back in the wives rooms,” Negan waves off your concern “y’can have your pick of panties”. Making his way back to the couch he just fucked you on, he sits nonchalantly.

It feels silly. You hate to admit something like this but considering he’s already been inside of you, the words come out. “I know but… they were mine. I mean, mine mine, the ones I was wearing when I got here first”.

His face practically lights up with amusement. “Oh, so the panties are a memento?” Negan chuckles “Guess there’s a first time for everything”.

You give him a deadpan expression and his face turns pitiful “If I find ‘em later, I’ll send them your way, alright?”. You’re reluctant to agree but there’s not much else you can do now. 

“Yeah, sure” you agree, knowing there’s not much else you can do.

He stands, kissing your head. It’s not the cuddling you expected after your first time but it seems to be all you’re going to get. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up? Have a shower back at the parlour” he feigns the suggestion. You know all too well that it’s an order.

“Right… yeah, I guess” you nod, knowing there’s nothing else to say. It stings to be cast to the side. Well, what hurts more is that you knew this would be the outcome yet you went with it anyways.You knew what Negan was like entering this room. You knew how this would end and yet you savour the kiss he gives you, wishing that maybe next time, you’ll get a bit more. 

It’s the scam all of the wives must fall for. 

You wander closer to the door, almost waiting for Negan to call out to you, to tell you to wait and come back to him. He doesn’t. With a small, almost silent sigh, you turn the door handle when you hear.

“Hey, sweet thing?”

“Yeah?” you sound so hopeful, you’d cringe if Negan wasn’t looking.

He vaguely points at you, that boyish grin that made you pussy wet coming back with vengeance as he gives you a wink. “You’ll be my Tuesday fuck from here on out, alright?”.

Your hope dwindles at his words, snuffing out any lingering warmth for the man. Oh. Just another fuck. His Tuesday release, to be more exact. You nod silently, retreating back into your shell as you quietly exit the room, leaving him to his whiskey and smug grin.

Negan waits a beat, ensuring the soft pad of your footsteps have faded. Only then does he lean over the couch, groping between the cushions until he finds your discarded panties. Right where he left them.

It may be your memento but it’s his trophy. Besides, needs something to show daddy… heh, your other daddy, that you’re fully cooperating with him. He needs to know his daughter is Negan’s now. Through and through. And this is the proof of that. Giving the panties a slight sniff, Negan grins.

Goddamn. He can't wait for Tuesday.

[kaayyyys]

How the walking dead men would react to you ignoring them because your mad at them

Daryl wasn't used to being ignored. Back in his old life, people either feared him or needed something from him. Now, with you, he was met with a warm, loving embrace. So, when you turned your back on him, a frown etched its way onto his face.

The first time you ignored him, he thought you were just busy. Maybe you were engrossed in a book, fixing something around the house, or simply lost in thought. He gave you space, figuring you'd come around when you were ready.

But the silence stretched on. You moved around him like he was a ghost, your eyes never meeting his. He'd try to catch your attention, clearing his throat or asking a simple question, but you'd brush past him as if he hadn't spoken.

Daryl was a man of few words, but he observed everything. He knew your routines, your habits, the way your eyes sparkled when you were happy. Now, your eyes were clouded, your movements stiff, and a knot formed in his stomach.

He started to wonder if he'd done something wrong. Had he forgotten an anniversary? Said something insensitive? His mind raced, replaying recent conversations, searching for a clue to your sudden coldness.

The uncertainty gnawed at him. He wasn't good at expressing his feelings, but he hated the thought of hurting you. He needed to know what was wrong so he could fix it, even if it meant swallowing his pride and apologizing.

Daryl decided he couldn't take it anymore. The silence was suffocating, the distance between you agonizing. He had to break through the wall you'd built.

He found you in the garden, tending to the vegetables you'd planted together. He approached slowly, his boots crunching on the gravel path.

"Hey," he said, his voice rough but gentle. You didn't respond, your hands continuing to pull weeds with a vengeance. He sighed and tried again. "(Y/N), what's wrong?"

You remained silent, your back still turned to him. Daryl's frustration grew, but he tamped it down. He knelt beside you, his calloused hand reaching for yours.

"Talk to me," he pleaded, his voice laced with vulnerability. "I can't fix it if I don't know what I did."

You flinched at his touch, pulling your hand away and standing up. You walked past him, heading back towards the house without a word. Daryl watched you go, his heart sinking.

Daryl was a simple man, but he wasn't stupid. He realized you were deliberately ignoring him, and it stung more than he cared to admit. He wasn't used to being denied affection, especially from you.

He started to crave your attention, your touch, your smile. He missed the way you'd lean into him at night, the way you'd laugh at his grumpy jokes, the way you made him feel like he belonged.

He found himself lingering in doorways, hoping you'd acknowledge him. He'd offer to help with chores, hoping to spark a conversation. He'd even leave little gifts for you – a flower, a smooth stone, a freshly caught rabbit – hoping to soften your heart.

Daryl's tough exterior began to crack. He became almost pathetic in his attempts to get your attention. He'd follow you around the house like a lost puppy, his eyes pleading.

He'd sit next to you on the porch, nudging your arm with his. He'd hum your favorite songs, hoping to jog your memory of happier times. He'd even try to imitate your voice, teasing you in a way he knew you usually found endearing.

It was all to no avail. You remained unmoved, your silence a constant reminder of his failure.

One evening, you were sitting by the fire, lost in thought. Daryl watched you from across the room, his heart heavy. He couldn't take it anymore.

He stood up and walked over to you, his movements slow and deliberate. He knelt in front of you, taking your hands in his. This time, you didn't pull away.

"(Y/N)," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "Please. What do you want from me? I'll do anything."

Tears welled up in your eyes, and your voice broke as you finally spoke. "I'm mad at you, Daryl. Really mad."

Relief washed over him. At least he knew what was wrong now. "What did I do?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You explained that you were upset because he'd taken unnecessary risks on a recent supply run. You were worried about him, scared that you'd lose him.

Daryl listened intently, his grip tightening on your hands. He hadn't realized how his actions had affected you. He'd been so focused on providing for you, he hadn't considered your feelings.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice sincere. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to make sure we had enough."

You sniffled, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. "I know," you said. "But you have to be more careful. I can't lose you, Daryl."

Daryl pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling your familiar scent.

"I promise," he whispered. "I'll be more careful. Just... don't ignore me like that again. It hurts."

You hugged him back, burying your face in his chest. "I won't," you said. "I'm sorry too. I just needed you to understand how I felt."

Daryl pulled back slightly, cupping your face in his hands. He looked into your eyes, his own filled with love and tenderness.

"I understand," he said. "Now, how about we forget about all this and just... be together?"

A small smile appeared on your face. "I'd like that very much," you said.

Daryl leaned in and kissed you, a slow, gentle kiss that spoke volumes. It was a kiss of apology, of reassurance, of love.

After the kiss daryl picked you Up bridal style carrying you to your shared bedroom, laying you down to cuddle and be close making sure you knew how much you meant to him and how much you both loved each other.

You're mad at Rick. Maybe it was a misunderstanding, a decision you disagreed with, or just built-up stress in the apocalypse that finally overflowed. Whatever the reason, you're giving him the silent treatment, and the great leader, the hardened survivor, is utterly lost without your attention.

Rick notices the shift immediately. It's like the sun dimmed a little. He walks into your shared space, a hopeful smile on his face, ready to greet you.

"Hey darlin'," he says, his voice a low rumble that usually makes your heart flutter. You offer a curt nod, your eyes focused anywhere but on him.

He frowns slightly, tilting his head. "Everything alright?"

Silence. You busy yourself with some mundane task – sharpening a knife, mending clothes, anything to avoid eye contact.

His confusion deepens. He hovers, unsure if he should press. Rick isn't used to being ignored, especially not by you. It throws him off balance.

Rick becomes hyper-aware of your every move. He watches you from across the camp, his brow furrowed with concern.

He notices the way you pointedly laugh at something Carl says, completely disregarding his attempt at a joke earlier.

He sees you offer a comforting hand to Daryl when he's clearly in a mood, while Rick’s own attempt to sit next to you at the watchtower resulted in you moving away.

He can practically feel the coldness radiating from you, and it makes him ache. He knows something is wrong, even if he doesn't know what.

Rick tries to initiate small talk. "Need any help with that?" he asks, gesturing towards the clothes you're mending.

You shake your head, your lips pressed into a thin line. Your needle moves with quick, precise movements.

He tries again later, "Heard anything on the radio today?" Another shake of the head.

His frustration grows, but he tries to keep his voice even. "Look, Y/N, what's going on? Talk to me."

You finally meet his gaze, your eyes flashing with hurt and maybe a little anger. But you quickly look away, offering nothing but silence. This hurts him more than any yelling could.

Desperate, Rick seeks out Michonne. "She's not talking to me," he confesses, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know what I did."

Michonne raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Think hard, Rick. What have you been doing lately? Have you been listening? Really listening?"

He thinks back, replaying recent conversations, his decisions, his actions. He remembers brushing off your concerns about a scouting mission, dismissing your opinion during a planning session because he was stressed and thought he knew best.

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. He hasn't been listening. He's been so focused on leading, on surviving, that he's neglected your feelings.

"Damn," he mutters, his face etched with guilt. "I messed up."

Rick doesn't do grand gestures in the traditional sense. He's not going to serenade you or buy you flowers (because, well, apocalypse). His grand gesture is vulnerability, honesty, and a genuine attempt to make things right.

He finds you alone, sitting by the campfire, staring into the flames. He sits beside you, close but not touching, giving you space.

"Y/N," he begins, his voice soft and sincere. "I'm sorry. I haven't been a good partner lately. I've been so caught up in everything that I haven't been listening to you, and that was wrong."

He continues, "Your opinion matters to me. Your feelings matter to me. You matter to me. More than you know."

He reaches for your hand, his calloused fingers gently wrapping around yours. "Tell me what I did wrong. Tell me what you need. I'll do whatever I can to fix it."

Your resolve starts to crumble. Hearing his apology, seeing the genuine regret in his eyes, melts the ice around your heart.

A tear slips down your cheek, and you finally turn to face him. "You didn't listen," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. "I felt like I wasn't being heard."

The floodgates open. You pour out your feelings, your frustrations, your fears. You tell him how his dismissiveness made you feel small and insignificant.

Rick listens intently, his eyes never leaving yours, his grip on your hand tightening. He nods, acknowledging your pain, taking responsibility for his actions.

After you've said your piece, Rick pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace. "I understand," he murmurs, burying his face in your hair. "I'll do better. I promise."

He holds you for a long time, just breathing you in, feeling your warmth against him. The silence is comfortable now, filled with understanding and forgiveness.

He becomes incredibly needy for your affection. He follows you around like a lost puppy, constantly touching you – a hand on your back, a brush of your hair, a lingering kiss on your neck.

He needs to reassure himself that you're not still angry, that you still love him.

At night, he holds you even tighter than usual, his body pressed against yours. He whispers apologies into your ear, peppering your face with kisses.

"Don't ever shut me out like that again," he murmurs, his voice laced with vulnerability. "I can't stand it when you're mad at me."

Later, as you're drifting off to sleep, Rick gently nuzzles your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

"Y/N?" he whispers. "Tell me you're not still mad."

You sigh softly and turn to face him, cupping his cheek in your hand. "I'm not mad, Rick," you say, your voice full of love. "Just don't do it again."

He leans into your touch, his eyes searching yours. "I won't," he promises. "I need you, Y/N. I need your voice, your opinion, your love. Please don't ever take that away from me."

He presses a soft kiss to your lips, then another, and another. Each kiss is filled with gratitude, relief, and a desperate need for connection.

"I love you," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

"I love you too, Rick," you reply, pulling him closer.

From that day forward, Rick makes a conscious effort to listen to you, to value your opinions, to be a better partner.

He realizes that his strength as a leader comes not just from his decisiveness, but also from his ability to listen to and understand the people he cares about.

He still messes up sometimes (he's only human, after all), but now he's quicker to recognize his mistakes and apologize.

And he never, ever, wants to experience the agony of your silent treatment again. He would do anything to avoid that. He will be attentive, and understanding.

Negan's Reaction to Your Silent Treatment

Negan struts in, Lucille slung over his shoulder, a cocky grin plastered on his face, ready to shower you with affection after a long supply run. "Honey, I'm home!" he booms, expecting your usual bright smile and a playful jab about him tracking mud everywhere.

Instead, he's met with silence. You're in the living room, pointedly engrossed in a book, not even a flicker of acknowledgment in your eyes.

His grin falters slightly. "Babe? Everything okay?" He tries, his voice laced with a hint of concern masked by his usual bravado. Still nothing.

He circles you slowly, like a predator assessing its prey, but really, he's just trying to figure out what he did wrong. The confusion is written all over his face, a stark contrast to the confident swagger he usually exudes.

Negan's never been one for subtlety. He tries the direct approach. Kneeling beside your chair, he peers up at you, trying to catch your eye. "Alright, spit it out. What'd I do? Seriously, I'm drawing a blank here."

You deliberately turn the page of your book, refusing to meet his gaze.

He sighs dramatically, running a hand through his hair. "Come on, (Y/N). Don't do this to me. You know I can't stand it when you're mad at me." His voice takes on a softer, almost pleading tone, a side of Negan few people ever get to see.

He starts listing possibilities, each one more ridiculous than the last. "Did I forget to feed Lucille? Did I accidentally wear your favorite shirt? Did I…oh god, did I use the last of your (favorite snack)?"

As the silence stretches on, Negan's attempts at humor fade, replaced by a growing sense of unease. He needs your attention, your reassurance, your affection. It's like a physical ache.

He starts resorting to physical affection, hoping to break through your wall of silence. He gently takes your hand, his calloused fingers intertwining with yours. "Please, talk to me," he whispers, his voice rough around the edges.

He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment, breathing in your scent. "I hate it when we're like this. You're my best girl, (Y/N). Don't shut me out."

He might even nuzzle into your neck, like a giant, needy puppy. "I'll do anything. Just tell me what I did, and I'll fix it. I promise."

Negan's pride is a formidable thing, but his love for you trumps it all. He's not above groveling, though he'd never admit it to anyone.

He starts offering bribes. "I'll do the dishes for a week. I'll even clean the latrines. Hell, I'll let you have the last word in every argument for the rest of our lives. Just…please, talk to me."

He pulls out all the stops, reminding you of your favorite memories together, of the times he made you laugh until your sides hurt, of the quiet moments of intimacy and understanding you shared.

He might even threaten to unleash Lucille on himself, though he knows you'd never let him. "I swear, (Y/N), if you don't say something, I'm gonna..." He trails off, realizing how ridiculous he sounds.

Finally, stripped of his usual swagger and bravado, Negan sits beside you, his shoulders slumped, his voice raw with vulnerability.

"I know I'm not perfect," he admits, his gaze fixed on his hands. "I know I screw up sometimes. But I love you, (Y/N). More than anything. And the thought of you being mad at me…it tears me up inside."

He looks up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of vulnerability and desperate hope. "Just tell me what I did, and I'll make it right. I promise. Just…don't leave me in the dark."

This is the moment where he truly breaks through. The raw honesty, the genuine vulnerability, it's impossible to ignore.

Whatever the reason for your silence, seeing Negan so genuinely affected melts your anger away. You finally break your silence, explaining your frustration, whatever it may be.

Negan listens intently, his eyes never leaving yours, nodding occasionally, offering apologies and reassurances.

Once the air is cleared, he practically smothers you with affection. Hugs, kisses, whispered apologies, and promises to never upset you again (though you both know that's a lie).

He's incredibly clingy for the rest of the day, following you around like a lost puppy, constantly touching you, needing to be near you.

Later that night, as you lie in bed, wrapped in his arms, he whispers, "Don't ever do that to me again, (Y/N). I can't handle it." He presses a kiss to your forehead, holding you tighter than ever, cherishing the feeling of you safe and sound in his arms.

From that day on, Negan is even more attuned to your moods, more sensitive to your feelings. He makes a conscious effort to be more attentive, more understanding.

He still slips up occasionally, of course, but he's quicker to apologize, quicker to make amends.

And anytime you even look slightly annoyed with him, he gets that same panicked look in his eyes, the same desperate plea in his voice. "What is it, (Y/N)? What did I do?"

You can't help but laugh, knowing that even beneath his tough exterior, Negan is just a big softie who's completely and utterly head over heels in love with you. And that, more than anything, is what makes your relationship so special.

[hmhas-00]

Ch. 35

Hit Me Hard & Soft

A/N- like & rb 💔 crying, screaming, dyinggg with y’all. Trust me!

Billie’s POV

Ellie knew. She wanted to see if I would lie to her.

I want to run to her, hug her, and make her feel okay again. But, how could I do that when I’m the one who caused her so much pain.

I stood there, my nose runny and my cheeks hot. As tears fell, I thought about how awful she must’ve felt last night about the things I said to Finneas.

“Fuck!” I shout as I throw my phone at the floor, across the room, the screen cracking on impact.

I can’t even begin to explain how much I hate myself. Of course I managed to fuck up this relationship too. I had the sweetest, most caring girl all to myself, and here she is now, crying because my heart won’t let me love her right.

“God. Ellie—“ I walked towards her.

She stood against the foot of my bed. The bed she’d slept in almost every day since January. Her hands wiping away at her tears, facing away from me as I approached.

“Fuck. I’m so, so, sorry.” My words came out slow, putting emphasis on every one.

She didn’t say anything, she just shook her head, weeping. My heart breaks a little with every tear she sheds.

I took her hands gently, removing them from her face. She sighs, falling back and sitting on the foot of the bed.

“Ellie, you were never supposed to see that.” I got on my knees in front of her.

“Obviously.” She whispered.

I closed my eyes, rubbing my face, desperate to think of anything that might make it better.

“Look, it’s not what you think. She doesn’t even know about it. For years I’ve—“

“I know. I read all of it Billie.” Her voice so sad, it was the color blue.

“Nothing happened, okay? I’d never do that to you.” I looked directly at her, wide eyed, wanting her to know I would have never acted on my feelings.

“But you wanted to. You felt it in your heart, and that’s even worse.” Her face fell back into her hands.

I watched her cry, feeling like the worst human to ever exist. She was right. It was worse. And I hated myself for it. The feelings I could not control, or repress, drove me insane. The images of her will not go away, no matter how much I want them to.

“Why did you string me along, all this time?” She asked, killing me slowly with her sobs.

The truth is, I don’t know. I want to keep lying to her, keep telling her how much I need her, that I love her, keep telling her she’s all I want… But she doesn’t deserve that.

I want to love Ellie the way she loves me, and more. But, she deserves someone who loves her a million times more than I ever could. She always did.

“This is so unfair!” She bawled, “I gave you so much of me! I trusted you! I was there for you!”

“I know, baby, I know.” I put my hands on her knees, wanting to touch her, feel her soft skin under my calloused fingers. I just wanted to feel she was still here with me.

“Stop calling me that!” She called out, betrayal in her tone.

“I’m sorry.” I apologized over and over. All I could do now is apologize over, and over, and over, until it was really over.

I buried my head in her lap, crying into it.

“Is it true? You think of her when we have sex? When you smell me, when you touch me?”

My stomach turned. I felt sick. My most darkest thoughts coming to light were taunting me, laughing at me. And I deserved it.

All those times I used Ellie to try to get over Remy… The way I used Ellie’s body to let my frustrations out, to not feel at all, to just forget about my fucked up thoughts… Thinking I was proving something to her, when I needed to prove it to myself. I feel so selfish, so reckless.

“It is true, isn’t it?” She asked again, pain in her voice.

I couldn’t answer, all I could do was weep.

“Why, Billie, why wasn’t I good enough for you?”

“No, it’s not you! That’s not it at all!” I shook my head, meaning every single word. “You are plenty good enough, El, you are not the problem, okay? I am.” Tears fell from my eyes involuntarily.

“I feel like such a dumb bitch.” She looked away, up at the ceiling, beating herself up for simply having a heart of gold.

“I felt it too, I just didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to believe you could hurt me like this.”

“Ellie—“

“I didn’t want to believe you’d sleep with me and secretly wish you were fucking someone else.” Her face scrunched up, as if the words physically hurt her as they came out.

“Believe me when I tell you that every single time we had sex, I wanted nothing but you. I wanted you all the time, Ellie. It wasn’t like that. I don’t know how to explain it, but you need to know, I didn’t fuck you wishing you were someone else.” I spoke so fast, I wasn’t even sure she heard all of it. “Sometimes I just wanted to shut my brain off.”

“That’s not much better.” She wiped her eyes to no avail. “You still used me!”

“Ellie, I cared about you. I still do! You weren’t just some toy I played with when I got bored!” I tried to find the words to explain my jumbled up feelings, but everything sounded horrible no matter how I said it.

“If you cared about me, you would’ve been honest with me, Billie.”

“I didn’t want it to be true either.” I shook my head, blinking away the tears I didn’t deserve to cry.

“I don’t understand why you’d do this to me. How could you look me in the eye and tell me you care about me, when you’re in love with someone else?”

Her words cut deeper than knives.

“God, the worst part of it all is…” She managed to get out between sobs, “I actually do love you.”

This broke me. I broke into a million pieces in front of her, then reminded myself I don’t get to break. Not when I’ve taken every last bit of her heart, and chewed it up, only to spit it out. Not when I’m the reason she’s suffering. Not when I'm the reason she’s breaking too.

I got up and sat next to her, pulling her weakened body into my arms, the way I’d been doing every single night since January. Her body trembled and her cries turned into strained, high-pitched shrieks. I held her tight, cursing myself out internally.

I held her tight, knowing today would be the last time.

My throat tightened, a lump forming that made it difficult to speak. “I wanted to love you. I wanted to love you so badly, Ellie.”

“I wanted to be in love with you. I still want to be in love with you.” I whispered, unable to speak without choking. “Please, believe me.”

“Come here, please.” I slide back in my bed, leaning down towards my pillows, pulling her with me. She resists at first, but ends up next to me, our bodies parallel to each other.

All I could do was watch her eyes pour.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Ellie.” My eyes continued to betray me.

As she cried, her tears went sideways into the pillow. I wiped them away, only to have to do it again, and again.

“This hurts so much.” She whimpered.

I put my hand over her heart, “I’m sorry, this is all my fault. I should’ve been up front about my feelings. I was scared.”

She buries her face into my neck, holding onto me as she sobs. I thought about every single time she caught me staring at Remy, every time she had to gaslight herself into thinking everything was okay. She knew for a while, she just wanted me to love her back.

I began to cry. I cried for her, I cried for all the times I lied to her, I cried for her broken heart. I cried for myself, feeling like I’ll always be a broken human being, incapable of loving anyone else ever again.

We both held each other for a while, falling apart at the seams.

After some time, her wails had calmed down long enough to hear mine. I was embarrassed. I didn’t deserved to cry like this, however, I couldn’t contain myself. I never wanted it to stop. I just wanted to hold her so she never had to go.

She pulled out of my chest slowly, looking up at me with tears in her eyes. Her cheeks were red and hot, her eyes were puffy, and her eyelashes wet. Those big beautiful eyes drained of all tears for the next year, it seemed like.

She put her hand around me, keeping her gaze on me as I broke down.

“I’m sorry, Ellie, I’m so sorry.” I bawled, “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. I tried to love you, I really did. I wanted to love you the way you love me.”

She shook her head slowly, her eyes scanning mine, “Your heart belongs to somebody else.” She said softly, her voice frail and sorrowful. “Hopefully she doesn’t make you feel like this.”

Her words sank into my soul, and burned into my memory. She didn’t deserve to feel like this, I did.

“I love you.” She whispered. She’d never said it to me before today. And she’d never say it again.

She brushed the hair off my face, leaving a kiss on my forehead. “I can’t do this anymore. I hope you understand.”

“I’m sorry.” Is all I could manage to get out.

“I know.” She said, her voice calm and steady. Well, more steady than before.

“My pretty girl.” I rub her cheek with my thumb, tears pouring out of my eyes. I look at her lips, then her eyes, knowing it’d be the last time. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know, Billie, I forgive you.” She nodded slowly, “I hope everything works out the way you’d like it to.”

Her well wishes made me feel even worse. I didn’t deserve her kindness. I never did.

I watched the light leave her eyes today. Their usual glow, no longer there, and it was all my fault.

I grazed her lips with my thumb, gently, taking in the last few moments with her.

“Can you kiss me, one last time?” Ellie asked in barely a whisper.

I nodded, my heart empty, hoping it’d fill up. I just wanted to love her. Why couldn’t I love her?

I softly pushed my lips into hers, gently tugging on the bottom one. They moved in sync, passion building ever so slowly. I could feel tears streaming between us, but neither of us knew whose they were. This is the last time I’ll kiss these beautifully honest lips.

She breaks our kiss, looking into my eyes, the color on hers almost gone. “You need to tell her. You should be honest with her, at least.”

“El… I can’t. I’m scared.”

“Of what?” She wiped away the last few tears on her face, focusing on mine.

“I’m scared I’ll lose her. Like, what if she doesn’t feel the same.” I shrugged.

“Guess you’ll never know, then…” She wipes my tears.

“I wish I wasn’t so fucked up. I wish I wasn’t this broken, so I could be everything you want me to be.”

She shook her head slightly, then laid her head on my chest, one last time. “Maybe in another life. In this life, you belong to someone else.”

I kissed the top of her head, taking in her sweet, vanilla scent, one last time.

“I’m sorry I hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you.” Tears continued to run down my face, silently. It felt wrong to cry, like I was making it about myself. All I could do was rub her back, and brace for impact. Soon, she’d get her things and leave.

“I know.” She said.

We laid in silence, until we ran out of tears. Just like I thought, she grabbed her things, and she left. But, not without giving me the biggest, warmest hug.

“Take a chance, Billie.” She said before driving away, one last time.

I walked back upstairs, into my emptier bedroom. I threw myself on the bed, smelling the sweet amber aroma that is Ellie. My head ached, knowing I fucked up. Knowing I couldn’t give her what she gave me, no matter how much I wanted to.

I fear I’ll never love anyone the way I love Remy. And, I fear she’ll never know.

[wordsfromthymouth]

My lady, my lady

< kisuke wakes up to find his lady feeling a little off today and does his very best to take care of her >

♥️ pairing: kisuke urahara x f reader: readers physical appearance is as non-descriptive as possible for inclusion, aside from having hair (sry bald kings and queens)

< i decided my first Bleach love needed some appreciation. word count: 2.1k >

🔔 warnings: 🔞 smut. kids, don’t fucking read this

reader feels shitty, teasing, massage, oral, safety’s off (raw) pet names, kisuke is a rlly devoted partner

It was a Sunday, and Kisuke had slept in. By the time he opened his eyes, your side of the bed was already empty. Yawning and stretching lazily, he reached over and plucked his hat off the corner of the desk. Putting that and his haori on before shuffling to the bathroom to wash up.

The rest of the house was quiet, which was no surprise. Tessai was an early riser, and by mid-morning on a Sunday, he was most likely out at the shops running errands. Jinta and Ururu would be enjoying their day off in the town. But you were unaccounted for.

Making his way downstairs, he could hear the sound of the kettle starting to steam. He walked into the kitchen to find you standing in front of the stove preparing tea.

“Mhmm, good morning, pretty lady.” Kisuke’s husky voice was against your ear as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against him. You leaned into him, a heavy sigh leaving you and right away he knew something was off.

“Uh oh! What’s going on?” He said, leaning around you to meet your gaze.

“I feel off today,” you said, prompting him to touch a hand to your forehead, though your temperature was normal.

“Feeling sick?” He asked, concern on his face. You shook your head.

"No, not sick…just…off.” You shrugged, though you didn’t really know what that meant because you couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was you were feeling.

It was just one of those days where everything felt like it was upside down. Left felt right, and right felt left. You weren’t feeling any one emotion; it was more like a warbled, mixed-up mess simmering inside you. Was it lack of sleep? Hormones? You hadn't a clue, but your best explanation was feeling everything and nothing at the same time—which was frustrating as hell because how do you even begin to explain that?

Kisuke hummed thoughtfully, and when you pulled away from him to reach for the kettle, he let you go, moving to lean against the counter instead. You poured the hot water into the teapot, which had already been packed with loose tea. After a few minutes of letting it steep, you poured some for the both of you.

"Thank you, honey," he said, reaching out to take the cup you offered him. Your own cup sat steaming on the counter while you waited for it to cool, your eyes fixed outside of the kitchen window.

It was a gloomy day for summer, rainy and humid. The plants and trees all hung low, weighed down from all the water that'd been coming down steady since sometime in the night. Heavy dark clouds loomed overhead, with no end in sight—a perfect accompaniment to how you were feeling.

Kisuke was watching you closely; he could practically see the thoughts swirling around in your head. Your face looked tense and troubled, and that would not do. He placed his cup down, taking both your hands in his and bringing them up to his face.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, pressing a kiss to them and earning a small smile from you, "how about we go back to bed, and you let me take care of you, hmm?” A sly grin played at his lips as he spoke, and you laughed lightly.

“Take care of me, huh? That sounds like you want to get me naked,” you replied, giving him a knowing look. He gasped dramatically, throwing a hand over his heart.

“You wound me, my lady! To think I have anything but honorable intentions is an insult to my very soul!” He flailed his arms about, mock despair on his face, and you laughed. Kisuke was goofy at the best of times, but very, very endearing.

“Oh my, please forgive me!” You said, clutching the fabric of his haori for emphasis. He stilled, flashing a charming smile at you, and leaned in close, his face almost touching yours.

“You’re forgiven, love. Now, off to bed,” he murmured, taking your hand and leading you upstairs.

When you'd gotten back upstairs to your room, he walked over to the futon, folding himself down beside it.

"Alright, come here," he said, patting the bed, his smile wide. Your stomach tensed in anticipation, imagining all the things he could do to you, as you toed off your slippers and sat down.

"Take this off," he said, fingers skimming over the fabric of the sweater you wore. You looked up at him coyly, raising a brow.

"Honorable intentions," he said, taking off his hat and placing it against his chest. You bit back a grin, thinking you might just be enjoying this little tease of his, and pulled off your sweater, leaving you in your undershirt. Your hands went down to pull off your shorts next, naturally, but Kisuke's hand on yours stopped you.

"Naughty girl, I never said take off everything. Now, lie down on your belly," he ordered, placing his hat on the floor beside him and shrugging off his haori. You were confused now but obeyed. Crossing your arms under your chin, you laid down flat.

You heard the snap of a lid and felt something oily drip down onto the back of one of your feet.

"H-hey, what are you...?" You looked behind you to see him rubbing some kind of oil onto his palms.

"What does it look like? I'm giving you a massage," he grinned, all too aware of where your mind was going.

You smiled sheepishly. Admittedly, you hadn't actually expected this when he ordered you to get in bed. Usually it was Kisuke who was the pervert; apparently it was you who had your mind in the proverbial gutter.

He started with your feet, taking hold of your right one he began to gently massage it, but as he pressed his knuckles into the arch, you twitched away at the unexpected sensation.

“Ah! That tickles,” you squeaked. Kisuke chuckled, and his touch lightened but didn’t retreat.

“Try to relax, honey. It’ll feel better if you relax your body,” he reassured you. You nodded, laying back down flat and focused on relaxing your legs all the way down to your toes. Unclenching muscles you didn’t even realize you’d been tensing.

His knuckles pressed down again, softer this time, and you wanted to squirm at the feeling, but you held still. Keeping yourself loose, after a few seconds the pressure felt surprisingly nice.

He’d finish with the right and then the left, before he started on your calves, and once more you had to make a conscious effort to relax. His hands were warm and strong, working out any tender spots with ease. As he worked his way up your legs to your hips, thumbs drawing circles into the tight muscle there, you found yourself melting into the mattress, eyes slipping closed.

"That's better, good girl," he murmured, and you buried your face in the crook of your arm, your face going warm from his praise.

He took his time, humming quietly to himself, in no real rush to finish. Slowly working up your back, hands running up and over your shoulders.

It was very good, and at some point you'd even started to drift off, until the feel of his lips pressing against the curve of your neck lulled you back into consciousness. Once, twice, soon he was peppering kisses down your spine. His hands that had been working at a knot in your shoulder started running down your back and smoothing over your ass, and you let out a soft sigh at the feeling.

“Mhmm, what are you doing, Kisuke?” You murmured, eyes still closed.

“Hush, pretty girl. I’m taking care of you,” he whispered as his fingers curled around the waistband of your shorts.

To his credit, he'd held off far longer than you'd expected. Despite his best efforts to keep up the innocent facade, it wasn't long before you found yourself naked from the waist down, your hands tangled in his hair and your knees pushing down into the futon as you ground yourself against his tongue.

His hands palmed your ass, keeping you pressed firmly against his mouth, which was working hard to please you. Your soft moans and the lewd, wet sounds Kisuke was making as he devoured you were all that could be heard throughout the room.

“Kisuke….Kisuke….” you breathed, closing your eyes as you focused on that wonderful, familiar pressure beginning to build, and he could only groan in response.

He’d wanted to say something, to urge you on with all the filthy things running through his head, but he wouldn’t dare pull away. Not when you were moaning his name in those soft, breathy pants, wet cunt dripping right down his chin. Instead, he kept on lapping at you greedily, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts through your shirt.

Somewhere in your dazed state, you glanced behind you. Eyes falling to where his cock was straining against the fabric of his hakama, painfully neglected. He was making you feel so good; how could you ignore such a sight? It wouldn't be fair.

You reached behind you, slowly sliding your hand over his chest and down his stomach, feeling his muscles tense as you did. With some effort, your hand slipped beneath the fabric, and you wrapped your fingers around his cock, running your thumb along the slick gathering at the tip.

With your focus shifting towards him now, you could feel your impending climax slowly ebb, but you didn't mind. You wanted him to feel good too; you could wait.

You began working your hand up and down his length, keeping a slow and steady pace, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock, making him twitch each time.

Kisuke gritted his teeth at the feeling, pulling away from you momentarily; he let out a steady breath. Part of him wanted to stop you, to swat your hand away.

This was for her, he thought to himself.

But he was truly defenseless under your touch, and when you pulled your hand back to spit in your palm, he couldn't help but jerk his hips up into the sensation of your slick fist sliding down his length.

His tongue started delving into your core with renewed efforts now, his hips driving up to meet each one of your thrusts. You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing once more on the feeling of his tongue against you.

It didn't take long for that pressure to build up, stronger now. Sweat broke out over your body as you began rocking your hips against his mouth, your breaths coming out in short pants, until finally, you exploded.

You grit your teeth, muffling a cry as you came on his tongue, your hand working in tandem to give him some relief, his cock throbbing in your grasp.

Wave after wave washed over you, and Kisuke did not let up. Not until you pulled away from his mouth, hips twitching as you became overstimulated. You didn't even see him move, but in mere seconds he had you face down against the mattress, one hand flat against your back, the other lining himself up with your still-throbbing cunt.

You felt him press into you, and you jerked forward because of how sensitive you still were. His hands went to your hips, holding you in place, and he began to grind into you.

Right away it was too much, the feeling so overwhelming you could barely hold yourself up. His movements were hard and fast—driving deeper each time—and it was ruining you. Feeling the slick running down the inside of your legs and that horribly sensitive jolt, like an electrical spark every time he thrust into you, had you whimpering.

“Shhh...a little more… pretty girl…just a little more…” Kisuke soothed you, moving faster as he felt that tingle at the base of his spine.

When he finally came, pressing deep inside you with a low groan, you slid down flat against the mattress, unable to hold yourself up any longer. You felt him lean over you, breathing hard, and he pressed a kiss to your shoulder blade. You whimpered again as you felt him shift inside you.

"Easy now, easy," he murmured, slowly pulling out of you before lying down and pulling you against him. You rested your head on his chest, breathing in deeply as you recovered. His hand came up to brush some hair away from your sweat-soaked face.

"Feeling better, my lady?" He said teasingly, and you glanced up at him, for all he looked a little flushed, but his eyes were bright, and he already had that mischievous grin plastered on his face once more, whereas you were utterly spent. But you gave him a lazy smile, and laying back down against him, you nodded.

"Good," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

If there was anything Kisuke was good at doing, it was taking care of you.

[kikyoupdates]

Made to Destroy ⭑˚💎⭑ 𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

bnha x op!reader

op!reader, my hero academia x fem!reader, reverse harem, over powered reader, f!reader

You are the product of a series of twisted experiments, an anomaly that shouldn’t have ever existed in the first place. Thankfully, you are taken into the arms of a hero and given a new purpose in life. But as you soon discover, it isn’t easy to deny your true nature, especially when you were made to destroy.

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“...[Name]? [Name]!”

Your eyes open to the sight of countless people crowding around you, and at the very center of it all is Izuku, who keeps calling out your name while choking back sobs.

The poor thing has clearly been crying nonstop, if the gritty marks on his cheeks and puffy eyes are any indication.

“I’m okay,” you mumble. “I was just... a bit tired.”

Izuku sniffles, and you can see that some of the other kids have been crying too. Perhaps it’s out of concern for you, or perhaps they still haven’t gotten over how frightening the experience was. They could have easily died, after all. That’s more than enough to scare a grownup, let alone a bunch of helpless children.

“Midoriya, give her some space,” the teacher instructs. Her eyes are heavy with concern as she helps you sit up. “How are you feeling, [Name]? Don’t worry. The police is here, and the ambulance will get here soon too. They’ll check to make sure you’re okay.” She then turns towards one of the police officers and waves her hand. “Excuse me! She’s awake now!”

While the officer walks over, you rub your eyes. “What happened to the villain? Is everyone safe?”

“They’ve already arrested him, so he’s not going to hurt anyone else.” She pauses for a moment, then wraps you in her arms. “That was amazing, [Name]. You were so brave. I’m the teacher, and I’m supposed to look after you... but I failed. You shouldn’t have had to do something like that. I’m sorry for not being able to protect you.”

You’re not sure why she’s apologizing, because she certainly didn’t do anything wrong. This is the villain’s fault, not hers.

“Don’t be sad,” you say, patting her back in consolation. “I’m stronger than I look, so I’ll be fine.”

Her lip trembles, and for a moment, it looks like she’ll start crying too. Clearly, today’s been hard for everyone.

“I’ll take it from here,” the police officer says. He gestures for the group to step back a bit, and once he fixes you in his gaze, his brow creases slightly. “I knew you looked familiar. You’re [Name], aren’t you? The kid Aizawa’s taking care of.”

“Wow, you know Aizawa too?” you blink. “He must be popular.”

“Haha. Well, I guess you could say that.”

You’ve never met this man before, but he’s plenty familiar with you thanks to the ongoing investigation. Naturally, he doesn’t disclose the details in front of the others, although he can’t help but feel especially frustrated on your behalf. You’re dealing with so much already, and now you’ve been caught up in a hostage situation on top of everything else? Not to mention that you were shot?

The world really isn’t kind to you, it seems.

“I heard you have a regeneration Quirk,” he says, then gestures to the blood on your leg. “Is the injury gone? We’re going to have the medical professionals examine you when they get here, but does it still hurt at all?”

You shake your head. “No, it’s fine. I’m just feeling kind of tired still.”

He bends down to take a look at the bullet wound. Or, what used to be a bullet wound. They found the bullet on the ground earlier. It passed clean through your leg, and sure enough, he doesn’t see any signs of lasting damage on your skin.

But that’s what makes it all the more strange. Your Quirk heals you. He’s staring at the evidence right now.

So then, how in the world did you render that villain unconscious?

For just a moment, he turns back towards your class and addresses your teacher. “I know you already said this before, but are you sure it was this girl that knocked the villain out? All by herself? It must have been an incredibly frightening situation, so it’s possible that you may be misremembering some details. Take a moment to really think back.”

“It was her,” the teacher insists. “I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life. To think that such a small child has so much power...”

The other kids nod in agreement, some even chiming in about how cool you were, and how your strength reminded them of All Might. Of course, children aren’t exactly the most reliable eyewitnesses, but if the teacher is confirming it, and the other bystanders in the room are even saying the same thing...

Without a doubt, you fought that villain. And won.

The police officer scratches his head. It’s just so strange. Every single one of your circumstances is strange, for that matter. But he supposes he won’t get to the bottom of it right now. The other kids are clearly in shock, so he needs to make sure that everyone is attended to.

He stands up and adjusts his coat. “Alright. For the time being, let’s bring everyone to a different room and tape off the crime scene. We should start contacting the kids’ parents at this stage and fill them in on what happened. The medics are almost here, so hopefully we can get everyone home safe and sound soon.”

Just as the officer instructed, everyone who was involved in the attack is filed into another room. The rest of the museum, including the scene of the crime, has been closed off, and you all group together until the medics arrive and give everyone a quick examination.

“She looks fine,” one of them is able to confirm after looking you over. She then offers you a gentle smile. “No injuries left over. But more importantly, how are you feeling?”

Everyone keeps asking you that for some reason, and you don’t understand why, because clearly, you’re unharmed.

What you fail to realize is that not all wounds are physical. Some wounds—like the fear Dr. Garaki instilled in you—remain long after the fact, and certain wounds might never heal at all.

But you are fine. You meant what you said. It was scary, you can admit, but knowing that you protected your classmates, as well as the other innocent civilians, makes the fear much more bearable.

If you were ever put in this situation again, you would take another bullet to save everyone else, no questions asked.

“I’m alright,” you reassure. It’s clear that people are worrying about you, so you smile for good measure. “Everyone is safe. That’s what matters most.”

The medic’s eyes widen, and even though she doesn’t voice her thoughts aloud, she secretly marvels at how brave you are, not to mention how unwavering your spirit is.

Izuku is the one who inevitably says what everyone is thinking.

“That... that was incredible,” he mumbles in awe. He squeezes his hands into little fists, and when he faces you, his green eyes are gleaming with adoration. “You’re so strong, [Name]. And so, so cool. You saved everyone. Just like a hero would.”

A hero?

You blink repeatedly. A hero, as in... like Aizawa and Present Mic?

His words make your chest swell with pride. You weren’t even thinking of that when you stepped up and fought that villain. You just knew that something bad would happen if you didn’t, and the thought of anyone else getting hurt was scarier than getting hurt yourself.

But now that Izuku’s said that, you realize you quite like the sound of it.

Yeah. A hero.

Perhaps becoming a hero is your true purpose in life.

A lot of the kids are still rather shaken up, but those that have recovered and are feeling better approach you alongside Izuku, practically singing your praises. They're so caught up in the incredible feat they just witnessed that they don’t even realize how confusing the whole thing is. They don’t question that you somehow have two powers instead of one.

Your time in the spotlight doesn’t last much longer though, because eventually, they arrive.

“[Name]!”

Aizawa and Present Mic rush over to you without sparing a breath. They drop to their knees and pull you into their arms, so overwhelmed with relief that they don’t realize they’re smothering you.

You try to poke your head out to get a proper breath of air. “I’m—I’m fine,” you insist. “Aizawa, Mic... it’s hard to breathe.”

They hastily let go, but their eyes don’t leave you for even a single moment. You can tell they’re scanning you from top to bottom, searching for signs of injury. Of course, they won’t find any, because you’ve already healed up. Actually, there’s no reason that they should even find out about—

“[Name] was shot,” the medic says. “Her Quirk healed her, and I’ve examined her just to be safe, but she’s been through a lot today. It must have been a traumatic experience.”

Aizawa’s jaw drops open, Present Mic’s jaw drops open, and your jaw drops open.

“You told on me,” you huff, pointing towards the medic accusingly. “Now Aizawa and Mic are going to be worried for no reason. Katsuki said that people who tell on others are losers.”

The medic chuckles. “I’m sorry, kid. This isn’t something I should be keeping a secret. Your guardians need to know exactly what happened here today, so that they can watch over you and make sure you recover well.”

You cross your arms and pout. You still feel like it was rather unnecessary, especially since your bullet wound is already a thing of the past.

Your overprotective dads don’t seem to think so, though.

“She got... shot,” Present Mic mumbles weakly. It looks like his soul is about to leave his body. “My sweet little girl... got shot... by a villain.”

He buries his face in his palms and wails obnoxiously. You actually can’t tell if he’s being serious or putting on a show, like he usually does. But you make sure to pat him on the back just in case.

Aizawa, however, reacts very differently.

He’s completely silent. In fact, he doesn’t so much as breathe a word. Instead, his dark eyes search the room, and after a brief pause, he calls out to one of the officers on-site.

“The villain,” he mutters. “Where is he?”

“Huh? Oh, we already arrested him a while ago. We removed him from the crime scene as soon as possible for the victims’ peace of mind.”

Aizawa blinks robotically. The villain held an entire class of kids hostage, as well as several other people who were in the room at the time. He attempted to steal valuable art pieces, and although there weren’t any casualties, he shot and gravely injured a child. The punishment for such a crime certainly won’t be light, that much goes without saying.

But whatever the villain’s sentence may be, Aizawa knows it still won’t be enough. Nothing will ever be enough to make up for what he’s done to you.

It’s actually a good thing the villain was removed before Aizawa showed up, because quite frankly, he’s not sure if he would’ve been able to hold back.

He might have actually killed him.

Aizawa takes a deep breath to collect himself. In all his years of being a hero, he’s never once had such dark thoughts before. Quite frankly, it scares him.

Because it means he cares about you even more than he realized.

“[Name],” Aizawa mumbles softly. He reaches his hand out and gently caresses your cheek. “You must have been so scared. I’m sorry we weren’t here for you. You did such a good job holding out until the police showed up. You’re amazing.”

Before you can respond, the police officer clears his throat. “Actually... that’s the thing. We’re not the ones who apprehended the villain. [Name] did.”

Aizawa blinks.

“Sorry, what?”

“The villain was unconscious long before we arrived. [Name] was the one who stopped him. She fought him and saved everyone. That’s what all the witnesses have said.”

Aizawa blinks again. Then a second time. And a third. And a fourth.

Goddammit. He just can’t seem to stop blinking, but what the hell else is he supposed to do?

He’s fucking flabbergasted.

“Uh, what exactly do you mean?” Present Mic gapes. “She’s... she’s just a kid. And the villain had a weapon. I don't understand what could have happened there.”

“We’re all as confused as you are,” the officer admits. “But it seems unlikely that everyone who was here would be fabricating a story. Apparently, she punched the villain and blew him back so hard that he passed out.”

Aizawa and Present Mic exchange disbelieving looks before finally turning towards you again.

You grin cheekily and make a peace sign, just like you did earlier. “I won,” you say simply. “Does this mean I get lots of burgers as a special treat?”

Seriously.

What the actual fuck is going on?

Neither of them knows what to say, and meanwhile, the other kids’ parents have slowly started to trickle in. They all rush over, and both the parents and the children break down into tears at the sight of each other. It must be such a relief that everyone’s unharmed. Aizawa can attest to how terrifying that phone call was, even though the police assured him you were safe.

Izuku’s mom shows up, and to no one’s surprise, she has a tendency to cry her eyes out. Like mother, like son, you suppose. Still, it makes you happy that you were able to protect your classmates. They’re able to return to their families safely now, and it’s all because of you.

Mitsuki shows up too, and although she’s not as much of a crier as Inko is, you can still see her entire body shaking as she squeezes her son close. There’s another man that you don’t recognize, and he drops to his knees to gently pat Katsuki’s head, so he must be his father.

Anyways, everyone is safe. That’s the important thing. It sucks that such a scary thing happened, and you know everyone’s going to be dealing with the aftereffects for a while, but at least no one got hurt.

Apart from you, of course.

“Burger time?” you ask hopefully. Aizawa and Present Mic stare down at you, astounded by how calm you are, despite what you endured. It’s a testament to how strong you are mentally, and you suppose you have Dr. Garaki to thank for that, because he unintentionally taught you how to rise above your fears.

“Yes, we’ll get you burgers,” Aizawa promises. He still can’t comprehend how this happened, though. Your Quirk is some form of self-regeneration. It certainly doesn’t grant you the ability to punch a grown adult and knock them out in one hit.

A more thorough investigation is needed. As much as it pains him, he’ll have to pay Dr. Iwase another visit and bring you by the hospital again. Something about your body just isn’t adding up. He can’t think of a single person he’s ever met that had two Quirks instead of one.

Aizawa and Present Mic both grab one of your hands, so that the three of you form a cute little line, with you in the middle. They’re eager to get out of here as soon as possible. Even if you’re putting on a brave face, being held hostage is a stressful, traumatic experience. A change of scenery would certainly do you good.

They pull you along, but they don’t get very far.

Katsuki blocks your path.

Aizawa grimaces, and immediately, he thinks, this little asshole again?

But much to his surprise—and yours—Katsuki isn’t here to pick a fight.

“You beat that villain,” he says. He’s only stating the obvious, but there’s something about the way that he says it, and the way that his crimson eyes shine as he stares at you. “He shot you in the leg. You were bleeding so much, and it must have hurt. But... you still beat him.”

“I know,” you blink. “What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing.” He lowers his head a bit, but for some reason, he doesn’t look angry, like he usually does. “I just thought it was pretty cool. I still don’t like you, though. But... yeah. It was cool.”

He turns away right after, mainly so that you can’t see the blush spreading across his cheeks. Katsuki isn’t one to praise others, but after what he just witnessed, he was so in awe that for a few moments, he was actually able to set his ego aside.

But make no mistake—the next time you see him, that ego will be back, and more obnoxious than ever.

Still. It was nice while it lasted.

“Whoa,” you gape, watching as Katsuki walks off with his parents. “He actually said something kind of nice for a change. Am I dreaming?”

Present Mic chuckles. “You’re awake, kiddo. When you do impressive stuff, people are bound to notice it. Even rude little guys like him.”

A smile rises to your lips. It’s nice to be acknowledged. You were happy just being able to protect everyone, but now, more than ever, Izuku’s words resonate deep within your heart.

“You saved everyone. Just like a hero would.”

“Aizawa, Mic.” You pause for a moment, then smile brightly. “I think... I want to be a hero. Just like you guys.”

They stare down at you, and immediately, you feel their hands squeeze yours.

“You can do it,” they both say.

After what they just heard, there’s not a doubt in their minds.

“She has two Quirks?”

Dr. Iwase stares at you in disbelief. As always, you’re sitting on the exam table and happily swinging your legs out. Unfortunately, it seems like these hospital visits have become a regular occurrence for you. It’s a good thing you’re so carefree. Most kids would hate to have to keep coming here.

Aizawa nods gravely. “There was an incident. I’m not sure if you heard, but the other day, there was a hostage situation at the museum. [Name]’s class was there, and apparently, she somehow fought off the villain who attacked her. Some kind of superhuman strength, people described it as. And I’ve tried to get her to demonstrate the ability, but she claims she can only do it sometimes, and doesn’t know how.”

“It’s like a rush of energy,” you try to explain. You look down at your hands and frown. “But it’s only happened twice so far. Once, when I escaped from the bad man, and then the other day at the museum.”

Dr. Iwase isn’t sure what to say.

“I suppose it is possible for certain Quirks to have dual abilities,” he acknowledges, “but ultimately, it’s still just one Quirk. And the abilities would have to have some relation to one another. In [Name]’s case, her Quirk heals her, but now you say she’s also capable of channeling impressive strength? I just don’t see how a single Quirk could result in such vastly different abilities.”

“That’s why everyone’s confused. But it wouldn’t make any sense for everyone at the museum to have lied about what they saw. I guess it’s possible that they were all really scared, and their eyes might have deceived them... but would so many people really imagine seeing the same thing?”

“No. That sounds far too coincidental for it to be the case.”

“Right,” Aizawa sighs. “I wasn’t really sure what to do about this, so I brought her by, but it figures you can’t really explain it either. Having multiple Quirks, it’s just... it’s unheard of. Then again, you did say [Name] was unique before. Something about her data not measuring up normally. Is it possible she’s some kind of exception?”

“If so, she’s probably the only case that’s ever been recorded. If we’re talking about hybridism, then genetically speaking, one of her parents would have had the ability to regenerate, and the other would have had superhuman strength. But I feel to see any cohesion between these two abilities, and it sounds like they’re manifesting as two entirely different Quirks.” Dr. Iwase rubs the crease between his eyebrows. “Sorry. I wish I could offer more insight, but even with all the tests we’ve done, I can only speculate at this point...”

Aizawa looks back at you. So much about you doesn’t make any sense. He’s never met any other person as shrouded in mystery as you are, and it frustrates him, because he wants to help, but it feels like he keeps missing the big picture.

No existing records. No parents that have come looking for you. Strange medical data, and now, two Quirks instead of one.

Aizawa knows it’s a long shot. He knows you must have been through a lot, and even just trying to remember probably brings you immense pain. But at this point, there’s nothing else to go on. If you can recall just a few more details... it would make all the difference.

He walks over to the exam table and takes your hand in his.

“[Name],” he says. “I’m sorry for asking you this again, but really rack your brain. What happened on the day you escaped from the bad man? You say you used your powers to get away, the same powers that you used back at the museum?”

“Hm? Oh. Yeah,” you nod. “The bad man was hurting me, and I got scared, then I felt that rush of energy, so I punched him and ran away. I came out of a building... but I don’t remember where it was. I walked for a long time. It took me hours to get to the city.”

“Somewhere isolated,” Dr. Iwase frowns. “It sounds like you might have been in a rural area, or at the very least, far removed from most people. And? Is there anything else from that day that you can remember?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Like Aizawa said, it’s kind of scary. You don’t want to think about Dr. Garaki. Out of everything that’s happened to you so far, that experience was easily the most frightening one, because you instinctively feel that if you hadn’t managed to escape, a horrible, gruesome fate would have awaited you.

You’re trying. You’re really, really trying.

“He was cutting me,” you say, wincing at the recollection. “He kept cutting me, over and over again... but he said there was no reason for me to be afraid, because he made me durable. He said it was important for me to be durable, because he didn’t want me to break.”

“He... made you durable?”

“I think so. That’s what he said.” You scrunch up your brows. The memories are fuzzy. Most of what stayed with you is the pain. But you can tell that it’s important to Aizawa and Dr. Iwase that you try to remember more, so you grasp at something, anything that you’re able to remember.

Ah.

“He talked about Quirks,” you realize. “And I didn’t understand it at the time, because I didn’t know what Quirks were. He said something about... transplanting a Quirk. I think. Yeah, that’s what he said.”

It only takes a moment for both of their expressions to sink.

Dr. Iwase swallows hard. “[Name]. When we first met, you told me that the bad man was wearing a coat like mine, remember?”

He gestures towards his white lab coat, to which you nod.

“Mhm. He was wearing one just like that.”

“And... you say you don’t remember having met your parents. You say that you don’t remember anything before the day you woke up and the bad man was in front of you.”

You nod again, and suddenly, Dr. Iwase looks like he’s going to be sick.

He pulls Aizawa out of the room and closes the door, making sure you can’t hear.

“I don’t yet have any concrete evidence for this,” Dr. Iwase grimaces. “But... right now, it’s the only plausible explanation I can offer. You told me before that there’s an ongoing investigation to bring [Name] back to her family, but even now, they still haven’t found any records that match up with her. Is that correct?”

Aizawa can feel his blood run cold. “Y-Yes. It is.”

“There’s nothing. No proof of her having lived anywhere in the city, and even other cities have joined the investigation, but to no avail. No one knows who this little girl is, and even now, not a single person has tried to start a search for her and bring her back home.”

Aizawa doesn’t say anything, but something is terribly wrong. He can feel it.

“One possibility is that [Name] is from overseas,” Dr. Iwase says. “It’s possible that she was kidnapped and brought to Japan, hence why she has no records here. But even if she was a foreigner, it still wouldn’t explain her general lack of knowledge when it comes to most things. She didn’t know what Quirks were. She didn’t know what school was. These are universal terms that every child is aware of, regardless of which country they’re from. And of course... there’s also the matter of her medical records. Time and time again, they continue to astound me. I just don’t know what to make of them. Her body is functioning normally despite all of the data telling me that it shouldn’t be. On top of everything else, I’m now hearing that she has two unique abilities, which is unprecedented.”

Dr. Iwase stops to catch his breath, then continues.

“She has no records. She’s unfamiliar with a handful of common terms. And she says she doesn’t remember anything before the day she woke up next to the bad man, who apparently mentioned something about ‘transplanting Quirks’. And perhaps this might seem like a stretch, but to me, it’s an important detail. The lab coat. When she first mentioned it, I thought the man might be a doctor, and it’s still possible he could be. However, I think a more accurate term to use would be scientist.”

Aizawa leans his hand against the wall, trying to steady himself. He doesn’t feel well. He really, really doesn’t feel well.

“Perhaps it’s still possible that she suffered extreme memory loss, but considering all the other factors in play, I find myself reaching a tentative conclusion.”

Dr. Iwase pauses, visibly hesitant, and it clearly brings him immense discomfort to utter the next words.

“I... don’t think [Name] is a real human.”

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[chaos--s]

platonic yandere! wolf hybrid x puppy!hybrid reader

--

Tough, aren't you?"

Nikolai smirked when you snapped at him, baring your teeth at him when his fingers get too close to your cage. He tilts his head, puppy hybrids backed down around wolves. Especially around him, yet you didn't.

"Don't worry pup, not here to hurt you. Seems like you've been hurt enough already." He muttered, noticing your scars both healing and fresh. You were getting abused.

Pity wasn't something you were used to, especially from a scummy wolf hybrid. You growled at him again, hoping that he would just leave you alone. But he just looks at you with that soft gaze that makes you feel safe.

"Boss, guy says he doesn't have the money."

He sighed, eye twitching as his attention was pulled away from you. He wasn't a fan of people interrupting him, he looked at the cowering owner who was already kneeling in front of him. Hands pressed together as he begged.

"Give me another week please. I-I swear I'll come up with some of the-" The owner flinches when Nikolai moves forward, his tail flicking in frustration. "I've given you more than a month."

The owner opens his mouth to beg some more but Nikolai raises his hand. "Enough. You can pay off your debt easily."

He raises a clawed finger and points at your cage. "Them. I'll leave you and your shop alone afterwards."

You freeze when the owner looks at you, it takes no time at all for him to make his decision. He nods frantically, scrambling to find the keys to your cage.

You should be happy. You're leaving the shelter that has been abusing you all these years. But by the looks of these wolves, it feels like you were just falling into the hands of another abusive hybrid. Compared to him you're adorable, a small puppy trying to intimidate wolves that are way stronger than you.

But you didn't care. It doesn't stop you from growling at Nikolai as he unlocked your cage. You snap at him when he tries to coax you out. "M'not going anywhere with you freaks." You growl out.

He laughs. He laughs instead of getting mad at you, he doesn't flinch when you bite his hand. "It's alright, pup. I'm not going to hurt you for being scared."

Oh. You release him, but still remained wary of him. You can't trust him, you won't. But he wasn't all that bad, not right now at least.

–

"Quit your fuckin' crying. God, are you a child? Hm?" You shake your head. He scoffs, you were a lost cause. Compared to the other fighting dogs, you were a fucking puppy. He wasted his money on you for nothing, so the only thing you could do for him was shut up yet you couldn't. The longing whimpers as he starved you for days on end, it echoed throughout the shelter.

"I said shut the fuck up!" He kicks the cage when you beg him for water or food. Fuck, you need to eat something. But he just looks down at you with disgust in his eyes. "If you stay quiet, I'll throw you a treat. How's that sound."

This is your life. You had to get used to it because there was no one that cared about you enough to save you from this hell.

You woke up in a cold sweat, heart racing so fast it hurt. You wiped the stray tears from your cheeks at the memory that played in your mind. You're not there anymore, you reminded yourself, you were safe.

Instead of the harsh cold metal ground of your cage you've grown accustomed to, you sat awake on a large plush bed.

"Your new bed. Get a good night's rest, pup." He had told you with that fake softness in his voice.

That bastard wolf that had carried you from the shelter not acknowledging how you kept snapping at him. Demanding that he just dump you on the street.

But he obviously doesn't listen to a word you say as he carries you, despite your kicking and screaming, to his home. The bed he places you in makes you pass out almost immediately from how comfortable it was.

A proper pillow, a giant fluffy blanket to keep you warm. It was everything you wished for and more. But you couldn't enjoy all of this, there was no doubt in your mind that this was fake.

It had to be.

The door to your room opens and you flinch, pulling the blankets up to your face as you flop down. Trying to pretend you were asleep the whole time.

Nikolai had to keep himself from laughing when he saw you fall down into the bed, trying to act as if you had been sleeping the entire time.

"Still sleeping, I see." He says, watching as the little mound of blanket tenses with every word that comes from his mouth. "It's about to be noon, you should get up, you know?Unless you want to miss lunch too."

You stay silent, hoping he will take the hint and leave you alone. Instead, he takes a seat in an empty spot on the bed, right next to you. You bite back a groan as he starts talking to you again.

It's a one sided conversation about how his day went, him talking to your back as you pretended to sleep. 

“...I can keep talking about my day if you’d like, I know you’re awake pup.” He finally says. You shot up, turning around to snarl at him. “Take a hint, weirdo. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Aw, how hurtful. Even after I saved you? Gave you a place to stay?” Your tail flicks angrily as a low growl escapes you. “I didn’t ask for it. I wanted to leave and you forced me here.”

You flinch back when he reaches for you. Ears folded in on themselves as you waited for the hit, the painful sting. But, nothing. His hand stops midway, he wanted to give you a reassuring pat on the head. Maybe a little bit of teasing, but you flinch so hard as if he was going to hit you. Something bad coils in his stomach, you’re so young yet you have faced so much hardships. 

Maybe it's the way you cower so fearfully from a hand that had no intention to hurt you, or the scared whimpers that you try to suppress. Nikolai was never someone who was reasonable, your reaction set something deadly in him. His jaw tightens as he slowly gets up.

You still have your eyes squeezed shut when he tells you, “I’ll be back pup, food’s on the table when you get hungry.” He doesn’t try to touch you again and you hear the door shut. Confused, your eyes open as you find yourself alone again. He left so abruptly, did you make him mad?

The whole day goes by and the house is fairly empty, other than the few of his people guarding the door (unfortunately). You don’t know how you found yourself lounging on the couch, maybe it’s because the wolf hybrid isn’t around, but you’re watching a random sitcom when the channel flicks to a children’s show. 

“Wha- hey I was watching that!” You turn around to see who it was. Nikolai. Blood covering most of his white button up, holding the remote in one hand and holding a small stuffed toy in his hand. You clamp your mouth shut as he moves to sit next to you. 

“Found this in your cage.” He hands you the only thing that comforted you through cold nights in the wretched shelter. A small worn out stuffed dog. Trembling hands when you grasp it, you look up at him with teary eyes. “He’s gone, he’s gone and he will never hurt you again.” 

You should be screaming at him to get away from you, he did murder someone after all. But you sit there, feeling oddly more comfortable with him than you did with anyone. “Thank you.” You muttered, fiddling with the stuffed toy in your hand. He smiles. “Anything for my pup.”

[chrattvibe]

Request/ idea! Matt and reader get a little- freaky... before a flight

៹ Standby. matt sturniolo.

smut ig, brattamer!matt if you squint, semi-public setting, tension + release (sort of), suggestive content, mutual teasing, established relationship, use of pet names.

"The airports at dawn always have something...".

From Los Ángeles to Boston, and from Boston to Los Ángeles. It had always been that way. Well, for the past couple of years at least. Matt always includes me in his trips to visit his family and honestly, I love it. I get along great with his parents, even with their friends. I’ve always felt comfortable in Boston, and the hours leading up to going back home used to be tough, reluctant. But not today.

I didn’t want anything more than to go back to Los Ángeles. To my apartament, even. Everything had felt frustrating for the past few hours.

The speakers kept announcing flights that weren’t ours, as if even the airport refused to let us leave Boston that easily. Time seemed slower than usual. People sleeping on the seats, others walking fast, even a baby crying in the distance.

And then there was us, sitting with one seat between us.

I didn’t look at him. I had my earpods in, music playing loud enough to drown out everything else around me.

I could feel Matt’s eyes on me. He looked tense, just like his brothers, who had noticed from the start that something wasn’t right. They both chose to stand far enough from us, giving us our space.

Matt slid subtly into the seat next to mine. He didn’t say anything at first. I kept staring at my playlist, not because I needed to change the song, but because staring at the screen was easier than looking at him.

He sat with that laid-back confidence that comes so naturally to him, legs open like he owned the whole row. His knee bumped into mine —once, twice— and I knew it wasn’t by accident.

When he saw I was still ignoring him, he reached one arm behind my seat and leaned in slightly. One of his hands pulled out one of my earpods and let it drop onto my shoulder.

“Are you gonna stay like this until we land in L.A.?” he murmured with a half-shy smile into my ear, trying to make me smile. To get a giggle out of me.

I glanced at him sideways, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a direct answer. Just silence.

“Baby, what's wrong?” he whispered, more serious now, searching my gaze.

“Are you really gonna make me remind you about last night?” I said softly, the discomfort burning in my throat.

This time, I did look at him. His furrowed brow softened, but he didn’t say anything.

A few hours earlier, after dinner, we went to bed. I wanted to be close to him, so I lay on his chest, resting a leg over his bare thighs under the sheets. He barely wrapped an arm around my shoulders, eyes still glued to his phone. Scrolling through reels like I wasn’t even there. I kissed his neck softly, seeking attention. He replied with a kiss on my forehead, put down his phone, and mumbled that we should get some rest before the flight.

I tried again a little while later, with clearer signals. Nothing. His “goodnight, sweetheart. Love you." paired with a warm kiss on my cheek, ended the conversation before it could even start.

I turned around, giving him my back, and forced myself to sleep with that awful feeling in my chest.

He, on the other hand, seemed convinced he’d made the right decision, and so, with that little discomfort in my stomach, we fell asleep.

At 2 a.m., I was already awake, packing in silence. Matt got up soon after, and although he tried to soften the mood with kind words, I stayed quiet. I knew he didn’t understand a thing, and that made me even more irritated.

“Ready? Everything alright?” he asked while loading the suitcases into the trunk. I just nodded.

In the car, the silence was thick. He tried to match my rhythm, not understanding what was going on. To him, he hadn’t done anything wrong. And he didn't, sure. But it felt bad and he apparently did not care

And that’s what hurt the most. That he didn’t get it. That he hadn’t even asked. Until now.

Matt looked at me again, more attentively this time. I noticed how his smile curved slightly, like he had suddenly connected the dots.

“Oh... Is that what’s causing that little wrinkle on your forehead?” he murmured, with that half-playful, half-tender tone.

I shot him a sharp look but didn’t say anything. He took advantage of the silence and gently placed his hand on my knee. He didn’t move it at first, just let it rest there. The perfect weight. The perfect warmth.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart… I thought you were tired too,” he added, lowering his tone, almost a whisper. “I didn’t mean to make you feel rejected. I just… wanted you to get a good rest. I didn’t think it would upset you that much.”

His thumb traced slow circles on my skin, his hand gradually moving upward, and even though his words sounded honest, something inside me kept itching.

“Matt, I tried twice,” I said without raising my voice, almost sadly. “How could I not care at all?”

Matt didn’t answer immediately. He held my gaze for a second more, then looked down at my thigh, where his hand had climbed.

“Come with me,” he said quietly, standing up from his seat to offer me his hand. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

I took his hand. Not because I felt like obeying, but because there was something about the way he touched me that made me want to follow him. And I did, a bit confused, dodging other people’s eyes while he walked purposefully down the wide hallway. His fingers laced with mine. His steps sure, unhurried, with a clear direction.

We stopped near a wide column, semi-hidden behind a row of vending machines. At that hour, the airport wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t crowded either. The soft dim lighting and distant murmurs made that corner feel more private than it really was.

He turned me gently and subtly pinned me against the wall. He didn’t touch me right away, but he was close enough that the air between us felt different.

“Now we’re alone. You can drop the little attitude,” he murmured with a half-smile. It was passive-aggressive.

I looked at him without answering, breathing harder.

He tilted his head, pushed my hair back to let it fall down my back, and his mouth barely brushed the skin of my ear.

“Listen, ’m so sorry, alright?" he whispered against my skin. “I was a fucking idiot last night.”

He dragged the words to my neck, where he left a kiss, light as a sigh.

“I should’ve paid attention to you.”

Another kiss, a little lower.

“How could I ignore you… all you...?”

His hands landed —one on the back of my neck, the other on my waist— pulling me closer. I was still mad. I wanted to stay mad. But his gentle way of touching me weakened me.

I let out a small, almost nervous laugh. From the situation, the adrenaline. From having him so close.

He smiled.

“Laughing already? I must be doing something right.” He grined over my lips.

“You’re an idiot,” I muttered with a giggle, not moving an inch away from him.

The closeness grew heavier. The scent of his cologne, the heat of his body, the way his eyes wandered over me like he was still trying to figure out if I was still mad or if this had become something else.

And then he kissed me. Soft at first. His tongue quickly asked permission by brushing my bottom lip, and the kiss turned messy the moment he felt me respond. It became clumsy, almost desperate, like he suddenly realized just how much I had been wanting this. My hands clutched his shirt, and his lips moved down my jaw, my neck, leaving wet traces that matched my erratic breathing.

I felt his hands sneak under my shirt, his cold fingers pressing against my skin.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he said, caressing me as he returned to my mouth. “C’mon… tell me.”

“Matt…” was all I could say when I felt his leg sliding between mine.

“See what you do to me?” he said over my lips, pressing his hips against mine. The bulge in his jeans made it clear he wasn’t exaggerating.

I shivered. I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t want to think. I just wanted to feel him. I wanted that very specific way he had of tangling me up.

Another kiss, deeper. His tongue met mine without rush, like we had all the time in the world. His hand slid down a bit more, barely grazing the curve of my hip, and I didn’t move a muscle.

“So mad just because you didn’t have my attention, huh?” he murmured between kisses. “So needy?”

I laughed, a mix of frustration and desire. But my laughter was swallowed the second his thigh found friction against me.

“Let me make it up to you.”

“Don’t— don’t be like that…” I said in a sigh, more begging than warning.

“What... hm? Like what?” he said now, pulling away from my lips to look me straight in the eyes. His blue gaze almost burned me. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop, baby… you jus' gotta say it.”

“You’re… such a tease." I said, nearly breathless, holding his gaze.

I didn’t want him to stop. I was far from it. I wanted to double down. I wasn't going to show weakness now. I slid my hands down his torso until I reached his jeans, touching the fabric over his crotch.

“Don’t test me, ‘cause you know I will…” I warned.

I smiled proudly when I saw Matt’s expression. He hadn’t expected it —flinched slightly— but quickly regained his composure. He leaned in, tilted his head, and his gaze kept drifting between my eyes and my mouth.

"You will, huh? What’s stopping you?"

I didn’t answer. I kissed him again—wilder this time. Our hands explored each other's bodies. He let out a deep, guttural moan into my mouth and pulled me closer, no longer holding back, and the sound that escaped from both of us was more than obvious.

And just then, an announcement echoed through the speakers:

“Passengers of flight twenty forty-three to Los Ángeles: you may begin lining up at gate number nine. Boarding will commence shortly.”

We both froze, breathing heavily. Matt rested his forehead against mine and laughed under his breath.

"Fuck… you’ve gotta be kidding me."

I laughed too, somewhere between frustrated and shocked by what had just happened. I could still feel his hand on my waist. My breathing was still ragged.

"We should go." I said, catching my breath.

He kissed me one last time, slowly. Like he was trying to leave something with me. Like that kiss was his way of apologizing for everything he hadn’t been able to say before. We pulled apart and shared an honest smile. We fixed our clothes, and quietly laughed when we noticed his jeans—and how obviously turned on he still was.

"This isn’t over. Not even close..." he murmured, adjusting himself to hide it a little.

"Just wait till we get home."

"Wait till we get on that plane." —He corrected, and I gave him a knowing smirk.

He took my hand and we walked back to where Chris and Nick were, both seemingly scanning the crowd for us.

As soon as they spotted us, Chris hurried over to me, and Nick to Matt.

"Yo, can I sit with you on the flight? I fought with Nick and if I hear him complain one more time, I’ll punch him in the face" Chris said, with the expression of a little kid mad at his best friend. It was almost funny.

I looked over at Matt—clearly Nick was asking him the same, probably explaining the fight based on his gestures and annoyed expression. Matt listened closely, then looked at me and got it immediately. One glance was enough for both of us to understand that our moment would have to wait a little longer.

Masterlist!

Notes: hi!, thanks to the anon who asked for this one💌 hope u like it!

—chrattvibe.

[the-haunted-office]

Doom finds it a bit ironic that Russell says he gets the impression of her that she's had to take care of things for people and be the caretaker, and that he doesn't want to do that to her too, but in a way... he is doing it to her. Making her feel like she has to babysit his feelings and tiptoe around him. Everything seems to upset him and bother him and make him feel like he has to walk on eggshells around others, at least from her perspective. He is constantly shifting himself to adjust to others, as if afraid of how the other person is going to react to every single thing he does and honestly...

...Doom gets it. It's exhausting, it's annoying, but Doom gets it. She used to be like that. She hopes she isn't like that anymore, but she remembers a time in her life when she used to put the burden of her own anxiety on other people without realizing it. And now she sees how tiresome it can be.

She doesn't want to be angry about it, despite how frustrating it can be, because she very much doubts it's stemming from any amount of self-centeredness or selfishness at all. Quite the opposite, actually. If anything, she bets it's from a lifetime of having people turn things around on him, of faulting him for everything, of pulling the rug out from under him, to the point where he might feel like he'd better apologize now, in advance, for every perceived slight, before someone abandons him. That's what happens when you've never had any stable ground to stand on - you'll do anything, say anything, apologize for everything, even the things that aren't your fault, to keep the ground beneath you.

Yeah. She gets it. At least, she thinks she does.

So, rather than expressing any of her frustration, Doom takes a breath and lets it out, pushes it aside. She can let it go, because Russell is her friend, and she cares about him.

"I'm all right, but I'll let you know if it's too much. I doubt it will be, though," she says, not bothering to go into detail and open that can of worms and instead offering a small, reassuring smile. "If I need anything, I'll be sure to let you know. I'm all right, though. Right now, I mean. I mean, listening is just... you know, sometimes really all a person needs. For me, at least."

"But anyway," she says, letting out a sigh and hoping she hasn't said the wrong thing. She's never been very good at saying the right thing, despite trying her best. "About the whole ocean thing. I'm not really sure how it came about for me. I just remember one time being out on this lake with my family on my dad's pontoon boat that he bought with this money he got from almost winning the Powerball lottery - we used to be really poor, see, and so when we got that boat, we'd go out on the lake all the time, fishing and stuff."

"I remember looking down into the water one time and seeing this- this whole tree down there, just under the surface of the water. Like, I could see this whole top of a tree, submerged on the water, it was murky and I couldn't see the entire tree or the bottom of the lake, and for some reason it really freaked me out. After that, I was really afraid of things in deep water, especially if I couldn't see the whole object or what it was all attached to. I think it's called thalassaphobia."

Doom shrugs at the end of her story. "It's stupid, I guess, but I was afraid of that kind of stuff for a long time. Shipwrecks. Seaweed. Kelp forests. Just- any big thing underwater. And then after I died and was a ghost, I just.......... I guess... stopped being afraid," she says, shrugging again.

She looks to Russell, almost casually. "What about you?"

Russell feels his cheeks turning a little bit pink as he sees the look on Doom's face, and he rubs at the back of his own neck again. He couldn't help but get the feeling that he had said or done something wrong and had annoyed Doom in some way.

Perhaps he had, but not in the way that he might have assumed. But then he gives a small nod.

"Th-thank you, Doom," Russell said, "That, that makes sense. I, I guess you, you did, you did ask. But um, if, if I ever do um, have, have a bit, a bit of a vent or, or something, just, just let me know if, it's a bit much."

Russell swallowed, before he hesitantly continued.

"You, you've um, you've given me the, the impression that you've had, had to, to take care of, of things for, for people, or, or be the, the caretaker, and, and I don't want to, to do that to, to you too," Russell added, "You, you deserve a, a break from all, from all that."

He really hoped he hadn't gotten the wrong end of the stick entirely.

"And, and of, of course, you, you can, you can talk to, to me ab-about anything if, if you'd like to as, as well," Russell said, "I, I may, I may not be, be always able to, to help with a, a problem, but, but I can listen. But, but I will keep, keep that in mind."

But then some sympathy crept into Russell's eyes on hearing that. Hopefully Doom hadn't gone through something awful to have became afraid too.

"I, I see. From, from the sounds of it, you, you managed to overcome it, and, and I'm, I'm happy that, that you did," Russell said, smiling then, "Do, do you rem-remember how?"

He was mainly asking out of curiosity. Russell didn't know if he'd be able to apply what Doom did to himself, but he wanted to give Doom a chance to talk about that kind of accomplishment.

[tackykachowch]

Don't care if it's a hot take or not, but the most complex, interesting, and arguably even the funniest, trio Jinx ever has in the show is with Silco and Sevika. And the only reason why it's not popular in the fandom is because the other two are "the bad guys". Well, not even Sevika is, because apparently Silco's death automatically stripped her of all of her past actions and moral grayness she had. But Silco is a big scary bad man who eats children for breakfast, so he can't possibly have even a littlest bit positive and interesting dynamic with Jinx and Sevika, what are you even talking about.

[qoldenskies]

Donnie for sure the second youngest but I don’t think he probably thinks of Leo as older practically. They’re probably only a few months apart at most and I don’t think Donnie would consider that developmentally significant enough to see Leo as a big brother like he does Raph. Leo on the other hand, absolutely views Donnie as a bratty little brother. Basically they’re not twins but still do the twin thing when someone asks who’s older.

Younger: we’re twins it doesn’t mat-

Older: me I’m older

its honestly why i usually like to make their twinship a compromise for donnie's sake. he doesn't really accept the idea of there being a power dynamic between them with their ages (even though there kind of is? raph and leo are in their own little camp separate from donnie and mikey, it's pretty clear by the way raph puts so much pressure on leo in particular) and i usually dont have him bring it up much it at all unless he's thinking more about mikey because i think them having solidarity over having to deal with their older brother bullshit is true and like. genuinely kind of canon? they're so fed up with them LOL

like ngl i actually care so much about second youngest donnie BECAUSE of his relationship with mikey. b team is my favorite thing in the world

(also yes absolutely no matter how small the gap is to me, leo will use EVERY opportunity to hold it over donnie's head. i mean i think episodes like lair games make that clear. when he grabbed donnie's vambrace and held it out of reach in smart lair too LMFAO... genuine bastard older brother behavior)