#i miss her and i just want everything to be okay

[moonlightwritingf1]

Mine to Touch | LN4

🌸 summary ━━━━━━━ Lando’s obsessed with missionary—because he can rub her clit, watch her fall apart, and fuck her deep. And sometimes? He makes it soft, slow and absolutely passionate.

🌸 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

🌸 word count ━━━━━━━ 4.2k

🌸 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, p in v, multiple orgasms, teasing?,

Based on this request.

The low hum of the city outside her apartment window was almost comforting, but Y/N couldn’t shake the tightness in her chest. Lando had texted her an hour ago, saying he was on his way over.

“Be there soon, princess.”

Her heart fluttered at the nickname, just like it always did. It wasn’t the first time he’d called her that—he’d said it a handful of times before, usually soft and playful, always without hesitation—but somehow, each time still made her stomach flip. She never got tired of it. Princess. It felt too good, too tender, especially coming from him.

Her eyes drifted to the bouquet of roses sitting quietly on her kitchen counter, the petals still fresh and vibrant despite the week that had passed since he’d sent them. She had cried when they arrived—hot, uncontrollable tears streaming down her face the moment she read the note tucked inside.

It had been a terrible week. One of those weeks where everything felt heavy and dull and wrong. And then, out of nowhere, the flowers had shown up. From him.

No one had ever given her flowers before. Not once. Not even during birthdays, not even from past boyfriends. But Lando had. Just because he knew she’d had a shit week and wanted to make her feel better.

She didn’t even know how he found out she’d been struggling.

But somehow, he knew. And he sent roses. And he called her princess.

And now he was on his way.

She adjusted the hem of her oversized sweater, the one she’d stolen from him months ago. It still smelled like him—his cologne, his warmth. It was a dangerous reminder of how much she’d grown to crave him, even if she hated admitting it to herself. The way her fingers curled tighter around the fabric made her feel stupid, like she was trying to hold on to something she couldn’t name. Something fragile. Something that scared her just as much as it comforted her.

Because she wanted him. In ways that ran far deeper than she’d ever planned.

The knock at the door startled her, and she took a deep breath before opening it. There he was, leaning against the doorframe, his hair slightly messy, that teasing grin on his face. “Hey, baby,” he said, his voice low and warm.

Why did he have to look like that? She stepped aside to let him in, her cheeks already heating up. “Hey,” she replied, her voice softer than she intended.

He didn’t waste time. As soon as the door clicked shut, he pulled her into his arms, his hands sliding around her waist. She could feel the firmness of his body against hers, the way his presence seemed to fill the room. “Missed you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear.

She shivered, her hands instinctively gripping the front of his shirt. “I missed you too,” she admitted, though the words felt heavy on her tongue. Missed him. She always missed him when he wasn’t around, even when she told herself she shouldn’t.

Lando’s fingers traced a path up her spine, sending a jolt of electricity through her. “You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, his voice soft but probing. “Everything okay?”

Quiet. She had been quiet. She’d been avoiding him more than usual—dodging his calls, making vague excuses to skip out on group hangouts. It wasn’t just him. It was everything. The weight of it all. The exhaustion. The overwhelming pressure she couldn’t explain without falling apart.

“I’m fine,” she lied, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her.

He didn’t look convinced. His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing gently over her skin. “You’re not fine, princess,” he said, his tone soft but unshakable. “Talk to me.”

She hesitated, her eyes searching his. There was so much she wanted to say—how work had been suffocating, how she’d been running on empty, how she didn’t even recognize herself some days. But the words caught in her throat, too heavy to voice, too fragile to release.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispered instead, her voice cracking just enough to betray her.

He didn’t press. He just looked at her like she was something precious. And when she leaned into his touch, her lips parting as he leaned down to kiss her, it felt like breathing for the first time in days.

It was soft at first, almost tentative, as if he was testing her. But then she kissed him back, her hands sliding up to his neck, pulling him closer. The tension between them shifted, the air crackling with something unspoken.

Lando’s grip on her tightened, his hands sliding down to her hips. He broke the kiss, his breath warm against her skin. “Let me take care of you,” he murmured, his voice rough with need.

She nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t trust herself to speak, didn’t trust herself to stop him even if she wanted to. And right now, she didn’t want to.

He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her to the bedroom. His lips found hers again, harder this time, more demanding. She felt the heat building between them, the way his body pressed against hers as he laid her down on the bed.

His hands were everywhere, touching her, exploring her, making her feel things she couldn’t ignore. She arched into his touch, her breath hitching as he pulled off her sweater, leaving her in just her bra and leggings.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, his eyes filled with desire as he looked down at her.

She blushed, her hands fumbling with the hem of his shirt. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled, the sound low and throaty as he helped her pull his shirt off. His chest was bare, his skin warm under her fingertips. She traced the lines of his muscles, her heart racing as he leaned down to kiss her again.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of her leggings, pulling them down slowly with a teasing drag. She lifted her hips to help him, her legs trembling as the fabric slipped down her thighs and off her ankles. The cool air kissed her skin, sending a shiver through her body. Lando’s eyes darkened as he took her in, his gaze trailing up her legs, her hips, her stomach, like he was memorizing every inch of her.

Next, his hands moved to the clasp of her bra, his fingers deft and steady despite the hunger in his eyes. She held her breath as he unhooked it, the fabric falling away to reveal her breasts. His low groan of appreciation made her blush, but she didn’t look away. She could see the intensity in his gaze, the way he seemed to worship her with his eyes alone.

Finally, his fingers hooked into the edge of her underwear, pulling them down with the same deliberate slowness. She lifted her hips again, her heart pounding as he revealed her completely. There was no hiding now, no barriers between them.

Even after all this time—after all the nights tangled in his sheets, after countless times they’d undressed each other with trembling hands and hungry mouths—she still felt shy when she was naked in front of him. Something about the way he looked at her, like he saw everything, always made her chest tighten and her cheeks burn.

But she also felt safe. In a way she couldn’t quite explain. Like he didn’t just want her—he cherished her.

Lando’s hands skimmed her thighs, her hips, as if he was savoring the moment. His gaze never left hers.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire. “You’re so fucking perfect, baby.”

She bit her lip, her cheeks burning as he leaned down to kiss her again. His hands kept moving, his touch sending shivers through her body. When he finally stripped off his own clothes, she couldn’t help but stare. He was beautiful, every inch of him, and she felt a surge of desire that she couldn’t ignore.

He settled between her legs, the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress in the most intoxicating way. She could feel him—hard and ready—against her inner thigh, and a gasp escaped her lips as his hips shifted, brushing against her sensitive core. His hands gripped her hips firmly, anchoring her in place as he leaned down to kiss her neck, his lips warm and insistent.

His teeth grazed her skin, sending a jolt of electricity through her that made her arch into him. She could feel his breath, hot and uneven, against her ear as he whispered, “You feel so good, princess.” His voice was rough, almost a growl, and it sent a shiver down her spine.

One of his hands slid up her side, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist before cupping her breast. His thumb brushed over her nipple, teasing it into a stiff peak, and she couldn’t hold back the soft moan that escaped her. “Lando,” she breathed, her hands clutching at his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.

He responded with a low groan, the length of his hard cock pressing and grinding against her slick folds, teasing her clit with slow, deliberate movements. She gasped, her hips instinctively arching into his, craving more of the delicious friction. His cock felt so good against her, the heat of it sending waves of pleasure through her body. His lips trailed lower, down her collarbone, his teeth nipping gently at her skin as he moved. Every touch, every kiss, felt like he was worshipping her, like he couldn’t get enough.

Lando’s hips shifted slightly, the tip of his cock brushing against her clit in a way that made her whimper. “You like that, baby?” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. She could only nod, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. He was teasing her, driving her crazy with the slow, deliberate pace of his movements, his cock sliding against her sensitive clit, making her toes curl and her body tremble with need.

“You’re so wet for me,” he said, his voice rough and filled with satisfaction. His hand slid down to where their bodies were pressed together, his fingers brushing against her slick folds, making her moan. He was torturing her, in the best way possible, his cock still rubbing against her clit, his fingers teasing her entrance, driving her closer to the edge with every touch.

“I love the way you react to me,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. His lips found hers again, his kiss deep and consuming, his tongue teasing hers as his hands explored her body. She could feel the urgency in his touch, the way he seemed to be holding back, but only just.

She was losing herself in him, in the way he made her feel, and she didn’t want it to stop. Every touch, every kiss, was pulling her deeper, making her crave more. He was all she could think about, all she could feel. And she knew, in that moment, she was completely his.

“Lando,” she breathed, her hands gripping his shoulders.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispered, his voice rough with need.

He reached down, his fingers finding her clit, circling it with a gentle yet firm pressure as he positioned himself at her entrance. She could feel the heat of him, the thick, hard length of his cock pressing against her slick folds, teasing her, making her body tremble with anticipation. Her breath hitched, her nails digging into his shoulders as she waited, her stomach tightening with a mix of nerves and desire.

Then, slowly, oh so slowly, he pushed inside her.

The moment his tip breached her entrance, she gasped, a sharp, breathy sound that filled the room. Her pussy clenched around him, hot and tight, as he stretched her, filling her in the most exquisite way. The sensation was overwhelming—his cock was thick, hard, and insistent, sliding deeper with every inch, igniting a fire in her core that she couldn’t ignore. She felt full, achingly so, as he sank deeper, her body yielding to his, welcoming him with a shiver of pleasure that ran through her entire being.

Lando’s breath caught, a low groan escaping his lips as her warmth enveloped him. She was so tight, so wet, the heat of her pussy gripping him like a vice, making his head spin. He could feel every ridge, every pulse of her walls around him, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to lose himself in her entirely. “Fuck, baby,” he muttered, his voice rough, almost pained with desperation. “You feel so fucking good.”

She could see the strain in his face, the way he was holding back, his jaw clenched as he fought to keep himself steady. His eyes were locked on hers, filled with a hunger that made her stomach clench. He moved slowly, his hips grinding against hers, the thick length of his cock dragging against her sensitive walls in a way that made her moan, her hands gripping him tighter.

“You’re so tight,” he breathed, his voice trembling as he pushed deeper, his cock stretching her in the most delicious way. “So wet for me, princess. Fuck, I can feel how much you want me.”

She could barely form words, her body too consumed by the sensation of him inside her. Every inch he pushed in sent waves of pleasure through her, her pussy clenching around him as if trying to pull him deeper. She could feel the weight of him, the way his hips pressed against hers, his cock filling her completely, touching her in places that made her see stars.

He paused when he was fully sheathed inside her, his breath hot and uneven against her skin. “You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice raw with possession, his eyes never leaving hers. “All mine.”

Then he started to move—slowly, deliberately, his hips rolling against hers, his cock sliding in and out of her with a torturous rhythm. Each thrust sent a jolt of pleasure through her, her clit pulsing with need as he rubbed it with his fingers in perfect sync with his strokes.

She was everywhere—the way her arms clung to him, her nails digging into his skin, her thighs trembling beneath him. Lando’s forehead rested against hers, his breath hot and uneven as he rocked into her, slow and deep, each thrust dragging a gasp from her lips. His hand was between them, fingers rubbing gentle circles on her clit, the pressure perfect and maddening. “That’s it, baby,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, “You feel that? You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

She gasped his name, the sound barely audible over the pounding of her heart. He kissed her then—deep, desperate, reverent—his tongue tangling with hers as if he could consume every part of her. “Look at me, princess,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers as he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Don’t look away. I need to see you fall apart.”

Her legs quivered as he pinned her wrists above her head, his body flush with hers, his slow, deliberate strokes dragging her closer to the edge. “Say it,” he growled, his lips grazing her neck, his teeth nipping at her skin. “Say you’re mine.”

She could barely think, let alone speak, her body shaking as his fingers worked her clit with relentless precision. “You’re mine, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with possession. “My princess. My everything.”

Her thighs spread wider, her hips lifting to meet his every thrust as he took her deeper, his forehead pressed to hers. “This,” he groaned, the rhythm of his hips steady and unrelenting. “This is how I always want to have you. Just like this, princess. Every damn night.”

Her breath hitched, her eyes fluttering shut as the tension coiled tighter, threatening to snap. “Why?” she managed to whisper, her voice trembling. “Why... like this?”

His answer was immediate, his lips brushing her ear as he murmured, “Because I can see your face when you come. Because I can feel you better. And because—” His fingers worked her clit harder, the pressure making her back arch. “—this is the only position where I can love you and ruin you at the same time.”

She was already shaking, her body hovering on the edge, when he whispered it again, his voice rough with desire. “I love fucking you like this because I can touch you like this.” His fingers rubbed her clit harder, his eyes locked on hers, watching her come undone. “And because no one else gets to see you like this. No one.”

His thrusts grew messier, his rhythm faltering as his fingers worked her clit with relentless pressure. “You don’t get it,” he panted, his breath hot against her skin. “I’m obsessed with this. With you. With making you come like this.”

She tried to hide her face, her cheeks burning as she felt herself nearing the edge, but he wouldn’t let her. “Eyes on me, baby,” he growled, his fingers rubbing her clit harder, his thrusts deep and rough. “You’re so fucking pretty when you come. Don’t look away.”

Her legs began to tremble, her whole body shaking uncontrollably as he kept thrusting, kept rubbing her clit just right. “You always do this,” he murmured, his voice ragged, his eyes locked on hers. “Always shake when you’re about to come. Drives me fucking crazy.”

He pushed deeper, his fingers working her clit fast and messy, until she cried out, her body convulsing as she came undone beneath him. “That’s it,” he whispered, his voice rough with need. “Let me feel you fall apart. I need it.”

And fall apart she did, completely and utterly his. Her body seized, a wave of pleasure crashing over her so intensely that her vision blurred. Her pussy clenched around him, pulsing, tightening, as if trying to pull him even deeper inside her. Lando groaned, his cock still buried to the hilt, his hips stuttering as he felt her walls gripping him like a vice. “Fuck, baby,” he growled, his voice raw, trembling. “You’re so tight. I can feel you squeezing me—every fucking inch.”

She gasped, her back arching off the bed, her fingers clawing at his shoulders as the sensation consumed her. Her clit throbbed under his relentless touch, her pussy quivering around his cock as he kept thrusting, slow but deep, dragging out every last shiver of her orgasm. “Lando,” she whimpered, her voice breaking, her body trembling uncontrollably. “I can’t—it’s too much—I—”

But he didn’t stop. He kept moving, his cock sliding in and out of her slick, swollen folds, her pussy still fluttering around him as he pushed her higher, dragged her further. “Look at me, princess,” he commanded, his voice rough, desperate. She forced her eyes open, meeting his gaze, and what she saw there—pure, unrelenting desire—sent another wave of heat crashing through her. “Good girl,” he murmured, his hips grinding against hers, his cock filling her so completely she thought she might break. “You feel so fucking good when you come. I can’t get enough of it.”

And then, just as her orgasm began to ease, his rhythm faltered. His breath hitched, his jaw clenching as he drove into her one last time, deep and hard, her name a ragged whisper on his lips. He came with a low, guttural groan, his cock throbbing inside her as he spilled himself, hot and thick, filling her in a way that made her shudder. Her pussy milked him, her walls still clenching around his length as he emptied himself, his body trembling against hers.

For a moment, they were both still, the only sounds their ragged breathing, the heat of their bodies pressed together. Lando’s forehead rested against hers, his breath hot and uneven as he whispered, “You’re mine, princess. Forever.” 

And in that moment, she believed him. The words hung in the air between them, raw and heavy, as his forehead rested against hers, their breaths uneven and tangled. She felt the weight of his confession in the way he held her—like letting go wasn’t an option. He was still inside her, warm and throbbing faintly, grounding her in a way that made her feel both exposed and safe. She wanted to believe him—needed to—because this… this was everything.

Lando shifted slightly, his hand sliding down her side in a slow, deliberate caress. His fingers traced the curve of her hip, then moved between her thighs, finding her clit with practiced ease. He rubbed in slow, steady circles, his touch soft but certain, and a soft gasp escaped her lips.

“This,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “this is why I love missionary. Because I can feel all of you.”

Her cheeks burned, eyes fluttering shut as he kept working her clit with maddening precision. He knew every inch of her, exactly how to touch her, how to break her down.

“I can see your face,” he whispered against her skin. “Every little reaction, every breath, every moan. All mine.”

Her hips lifted instinctively, seeking more, and he chuckled—low and deep.

“You’re so fucking responsive,” he said, fingers pressing harder. “Every time I touch you, you act like it’s the first time. Drives me insane, baby.”

She could still feel him inside her, thick and pulsing, his hips slowly grinding against hers.

“And I can rub you just like this,” he murmured, circling her clit with expert rhythm. “I can make you come while I’m still inside. Feel you tighten around me like you’re pulling me deeper.”

She moaned, her hands gripping his shoulders as he kept going, relentless.

“I love it,” he breathed against her ear. “The way you feel wrapped around me. The way you hold me like you never want to let go.”

Her clit throbbed under his touch, her body clenching around him in anticipation.

“And this,” he said, his voice a rasp, “your clit… so sensitive. I love knowing I’m the one who gets to touch it like this. The one who gets to make you fall apart.”

She was already there, tension winding tight, her body poised on the edge. And he knew. He always did.

“You’re close, aren’t you, princess?” he murmured, fingers quickening, pressure unyielding. “I can feel it. I can see it in your eyes.”

She nodded, breath hitching, legs trembling.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered. “Let go for me. Let me feel it. Let me see you.”

And she did. Her body convulsed, pussy clamping down around him as she came hard, waves of pleasure crashing through her. He didn’t stop—kept rubbing, kept thrusting slow and deep, drawing out every last ripple of release.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, breath ragged. “You feel so fucking good when you come.”

When she finally stilled, her body limp and trembling, he leaned down to kiss her, his lips soft and tender. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, his fingers still tracing the curve of her hip. She sighed into the kiss, her eyes fluttering shut as she savored the warmth of his lips against hers. But then his hand moved lower again, his fingers brushing against her clit, and she gasped, her body jerking at the sudden sensitivity.

“Lando,” she breathed, her voice shaky, her hands pressing against his chest. “Stop. It’s—it’s too much. I’m too sensitive.”

He chuckled, the sound low and teasing, his fingers dancing lightly over her clit, just enough to make her squirm. “Oh, baby,” he murmured, his lips grazing her ear. “You’re so fucking sensitive right now. It’s adorable.”

“Lando,” she whined, her hands gripping his shoulders as she tried to push him away, but he didn’t stop immediately. Instead, he lingered, his touch still light but insistent, his lips brushing against her neck as he whispered, “Just one more touch, princess. You know you like it.”

She shook her head, her breath hitching as his fingers teased her clit again, the sensation almost too much to bear. “Please,” she begged, her voice trembling. “Stop. I can’t—”

He finally relented, his hand moving away from her clit, but he didn’t pull out of her. Instead, he stayed right where he was, his cock still buried deep inside her, his warmth filling her in the most intimate way. He kissed her again, his lips soft and tender, his hands moving to cup her face as he whispered, “Okay, baby. I’ll stop. But I’m not done loving you yet.”

His lips trailed over her face, kissing her cheeks, her jawline, her forehead, every touch so gentle it made her heart ache. He was everywhere, his breath warm against her skin, his lips worshipping her as if she was the most precious thing in the world. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I could spend forever just like this, just loving you.”

She felt her cheeks burn, her heart swelling at his words. He was so tender, so loving, and it made her feel things she couldn’t put into words. Her hands cupped his face, her fingers brushing over his stubble as she whispered, “I love you, Lando.”

His eyes locked with hers, a soft smile playing on his lips as he leaned down to kiss her again. “I love you too, princess,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “So fucking much.”

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 3: May 2023

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: 

Welcome to 8k of my waffling. Warnings: we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussion of toxic relationships in the past, also discussion of very toxic thoughts about intimacy, and discussion of past dubious consent, Max being a simp for his girl, ...I think that's it? If I missed something, let me know.

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

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Hey, just a heads-up—it’s Mother’s Day this weekend.

Max: …Okay?

Isabelle: I always remind my brothers, or they forget. Thought I’d do the same for you.

Max: Thanks, I guess? But I ordered flowers and her favorite sweets three weeks ago.

Isabelle: …You what?

Max: Yeah. And a handwritten card.

Isabelle: THREE WEEKS AGO?

Max: Yes?

Isabelle: Do you understand how unfair this is??

Max: What do you mean?

Isabelle: You’re making every other man in my life look terrible.

Max: Maybe they should simply try harder.

Isabelle: You don’t get it. I usually have to remind them, nag them, and buy the gifts myself so they don’t show up empty-handed.

Max: Again. Not my problem.

Isabelle: You’re actually infuriating.

Max: Because I remembered a holiday in advance?

Isabelle: Because you remembered without me having to tell you!

Max: This is a weird thing to be mad about.

Isabelle: I’m not mad, I’m just—adjusting.

Max: To what?

Isabelle: To a boyfriend who actually does things without needing to be reminded?

Max: Well, get used to it.

Isabelle: I might cry.

Max: Please don’t, you’ll make me feel bad.

Isabelle: You should! For setting the bar so high I can never accept bare minimum effort again!

Max: Good. You deserve better.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo) 

Isabelle: Reminder—it’s Mother’s Day. Call Maman.

Charles: …Right.

Arthur: Oh. Yeah.

Lorenzo: Was just about to text about that.

Arthur: Did we get her a gift?

Isabelle: Her favorite flowers and the perfume she’s been wanting.

Charles: …We did?

Isabelle: Yes.

Arthur: Perfume? Again?

Lorenzo: Arthur.

Arthur: I’m just saying, it’s kind of boring.

Charles: Yeah, maybe we should’ve gotten something else?

Lorenzo: Like what?

Arthur: I don’t know. A handbag? A candle? Something a bit more exciting?

***

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments: 

@/charles_leclerc: Happy Mother’s Day to Maman! 💖

@/arthur_leclerc: Love you Maman! You’re the best 💐✨

@/lorenzo_leclerc: Happy Mother’s Day!

@/f1gossipqueen: Such a beautiful tribute, Isabelle! Happy Mother’s Day to Pascale 💐💖"

@/tifosi_in_monaco: Happy Mother’s Day! You’ve clearly been raised with so much love ❤️

@/trackside_tales: That’s the sweetest! Happy Mother’s Day to your beautiful mom ❤️

@/f1_ultimatefan: Your mom must be so proud of you! Wishing her the best Mother’s Day 💖

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Max: Hey Mom, just wanted to make sure the flowers arrived okay and that you liked them.

Sophie: Max, they are beautiful! 💐 Thank you so much for thinking of me. The flowers are stunning, and the sweets were a lovely touch, especially my favorites! The card... well, it made me tear up a bit. ❤️ You really didn’t have to.

Max: Of course I did. It’s Mother’s Day. 😊

Sophie: And I heard you bought something for Victoria too? She texted me already—said you got the exact bag she’d been eyeing for months? How did you even know that?

Max: She mentioned it once during Christmas when I was half asleep on the couch. Guess I wasn’t that asleep.

Max: She’s always there for me, so I thought I’d do something nice for her too.

Sophie: You’re becoming dangerously thoughtful. Should I be worried? 

Max: I’m evolving.

Sophie:  Speaking of evolving… How are things with your girlfriend?

Max:  She’s…

Max: Honestly? She’s kind, and steady, and smart in this quiet way that gets me every time.  She makes everything feel lighter. Even the hard parts.

Sophie: Max.

Max: What.

Sophie: That was almost romantic. Who are you and what have you done with my son?

Max: He’s still here. He’s just tired of being an emotionally constipated Dutchman.

Sophie: Well, I’m proud of you. I’m looking forward to meeting her one day. You deserve someone who makes you happy, Max. Just make sure you don’t wait too long to introduce her to me.

Max: Don’t worry, I’ll bring her home when the time’s right. But seriously, I’m just really happy with her.

Sophie: I can tell. Take care of her, Max. You’re both lucky to have each other.

Max: I will, Mom. Thanks. Love you.

Sophie: Love you too, Maxie.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: He just brought me coffee. Exactly how I like it. Without me even asking.

Emilie: …Okay?

Isabelle: He just knew.

Emilie: Isabelle, you’ve been together for over a month. Of course he knows how you take your coffee.

Isabelle: But I didn’t say anything. He just handed it to me and kissed my forehead like it was normal.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: And now he’s sitting across from me, just existing all content and relaxed, and it’s weird.

Emilie: Oh my god.

Isabelle: Why is he so nice to me? Why does he just do things for me?

Emilie: BECAUSE HE LOVES YOU.

Isabelle: …but??

Emilie: No. No buts. You deserve this. This is what a relationship is supposed to feel like.

Isabelle: I know that logically. It’s just… I’ve never had this before.

Emilie: You mean, you’ve never been with someone who actually pays attention to you and treats you like you matter without you having to remind them?

Isabelle: …Yes.

Emilie: Yeah. I figured.

Isabelle: It just feels like I should be doing more.

Emilie: You don’t have to earn love, Isabelle. It’s not conditional. You don’t have to do something for him to treat you well.

Isabelle: But I want to do something for him too.

Emilie: That’s different. Wanting to give back because you love him, not because you feel like you owe him, is different.

Isabelle: …How do I stop feeling like I owe him?

Emilie: Time. And maybe letting yourself actually believe that you’re worth all of this without needing to repay it.

Isabelle: …I’m trying.

Emilie: I know. And so does he.

Isabelle: He just put my feet in his lap and started rubbing them like it’s nothing.

Emilie: And let me guess, your brain short-circuited again?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: Good. Now shut up and let the man spoil you.

***

Max leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching as Isabelle sat on the floor of his apartment, completely lost in play with the cats. She didn’t even notice him.

Sassy was curled up in her lap, purring so loudly Max could hear it from across the room, while Jimmy was perched on the back of the couch, watching with sharp eyes as Isabelle dangled a feather toy just out of reach. She giggled when Jimmy finally pounced, batting at the toy with his paws, determined to “win.”

Max couldn’t help but smile.

There was something about watching her like this—soft, unguarded, completely comfortable—that made his chest ache in the best way. Isabelle, for all her quiet confidence and composed demeanor, had a way of melting around the cats. She whispered to them, scratched behind their ears just the way they liked, and let them nuzzle into her like they’d been hers all along.

Sassy stretched out in her lap, belly up, a clear sign of trust. Isabelle laughed, running her fingers through his fur. “You’re so spoiled,” she murmured.

“Wonder where they get that from,” Max teased.

Isabelle glanced up, startled, as if she’d forgotten he was even there. Her face warmed slightly, but she didn’t move, just kept stroking Sassy’s fur. “Not my fault they like me better,” she said, grinning.

Max huffed a laugh, pushing off the doorway and walking toward her. He crouched down beside her, reaching out to scratch behind Jimmy’s ears. “I think they just know you’re gonna spoil them rotten”

Isabelle playfully nudged him with her shoulder. “You say that like you’re not just as bad.”

Max didn’t argue—because she wasn’t wrong. He spoiled the cats, and now, without even realizing it, he was doing the same with her. Small things: the flowers he sent her, the extra blanket he made sure was always on his couch because he knew she liked to curl up with one, the way he always stocked her favorite tea.

Jimmy finally lost interest in the feather toy and instead padded over to Isabelle, rubbing his face against her arm. She smiled, scratching under his chin as he flopped dramatically onto her lap.

Max just sat there, watching.

His life had always been fast—races, flights, training, the never-ending cycle of the season. But this? Watching Isabelle on the floor of his apartment, surrounded by his cats, like she belonged there?

This was the kind of moment he wanted to hold on to.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo) 

Charles: Maman’s birthday is next week. What’s the plan?

Arthur: Same as last year?

Lorenzo: Dinner at her place?

Charles: Sounds good.

Arthur: What about a gift?

Lorenzo: Something nice.

Isabelle: I’ll figure it out.

Charles: Perfect.

***

Isabelle: Okay, everything is sorted. Dinner is handled, and I ordered her favorite cake. I also picked out a necklace for the gift.

Charles: Oh, great.

Arthur: Nice.

Charles: This was way easier than I expected.

Arthur: Yeah, that came together fast.

Lorenzo: Good teamwork.

***

Max hadn’t meant to look at her phone. It was just there, sitting on the coffee table, screen lighting up as another message from Lorenzo came in.

“Good teamwork,” it read.

Max frowned. Teamwork, his ass.

Isabelle, curled up at the other end of the couch, didn’t even react. She had a book in her lap, one of the cats purring against her side, completely unbothered.

“You planned the whole thing yourself,” Max said, still staring at her phone.

Isabelle sighed. “Max—”

“No, seriously,” he cut in, looking at her now. “You did all the work, and they don’t even realize it. They just said ‘Good teamwork’ like they did anything.”

She shrugged, turning a page. “That’s how it always is.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “And you’re just okay with that?”

“It’s easier if I do it.”

“That’s not the point.” He sat up, shifting so he was facing her properly. “They should see you, Isabelle. They should appreciate you.”

She didn’t answer. Her fingers absentmindedly scratched behind the cat’s ear.

Max exhaled sharply. “You know that’s not normal, right? They just expect you to handle everything, and you let them.”

She finally glanced up from her book. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” Max argued. “You deserve better than being the invisible one in your own family.”

She blinked at him, lips pressing together.

Max softened, reaching over to take the book from her hands and set it aside. Then he tugged her closer until she was against his chest, arms wrapped securely around her.

“I’m going to steal you away,” he murmured into her hair, “and never give you back.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “That’s dramatic.”

She still curled into him, holding on just as tightly.

Max pressed a kiss to the top of her head, resting his chin there for a moment. “I mean it,” he said, voice quieter now. “You don’t have to do everything for them.”

Isabelle sighed, her fingers curling slightly against his shirt. “If I don’t, no one will.”

“That’s not your problem.”

“It is my problem.” She pulled back slightly to look at him. “Because if I don’t, things don’t get done. And then—then it’s just easier if I handle it.”

Max studied her, eyes searching hers. It wasn’t just about their mother’s birthday, and they both knew it.

“How long have you been doing this?” he asked softly.

She hesitated. “Since I was a kid,” she admitted eventually. “Lorenzo was always busy, Arthur was younger, Charles had racing… Someone had to take care of things.”

Max exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “And no one ever thought to take care of you?”

Her expression flickered, something like surprise flashing across her face. She didn’t answer, but that was answer enough.

Max swore under his breath and pulled her back against him, wrapping his arms around her again. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be, schat.”

She didn’t say anything, just buried her face in his shoulder.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: So. That was… something.

Emilie: Oh no. What happened?

Isabelle: Max found out how my brothers treat me.

Emilie: Ohhhhhh shit.

Isabelle: Yeah.

Emilie: What did he do??

Isabelle: He got angry. Like, not just annoyed. Not his usual “ugh, Ferrari” face. Like actually angry.

Emilie: …Is it bad that I love that for you?

Isabelle: He kept pacing around, ranting about how they take me for granted, how they never prioritize me.

Isabelle: He was like, “You deserve better than being the invisible one in your own family.”

Emilie: Honestly? Valid.

Isabelle: And then he just—sighed and pulled me into a hug. And said, “That’s not how it’s supposed to be, schat.”

Emilie: Isabelle, I am going to CRY.

Emilie: You realize he’s ready to go to war for you, right?

Isabelle: For the first time in my life, I feel like someone’s actually on my side.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: Do you ever just want to punch someone?

GP: I work with you. Weekly.

Max: I’m being serious.

GP: …Okay, who do I need to be concerned about?

Max: Isabelle’s brothers.

GP: Charles, Arthur and Lorenzo??

Max: Yes.

GP: What did they do?

Max: More like what they don’t do. They don’t appreciate anything she does for them, and barely acknowledge her unless they need something.

GP: That can’t be right. They seem close?

Max: No. They’re close with each other. Isabelle just gets ignored.

GP: …How bad are we talking?

Max: Bad. Their group chat is a constant barrage of stuff Isabelle does for them without so much as a thanks. Every year, she reminds them about their mother’s birthday, Mother’s Day, everything. Buys the gifts for them. They wouldn’t remember otherwise.

GP: That’s… actually insane.

Max: I know.

GP: Why does she still do all this for them?

Max: Because she loves them. And they don’t even see how much they take her for granted.

GP: …Okay, I get why you want to punch someone.

Max: Thank you.

GP: So what’s the plan? Because I assume you have one.

Max: I take care of her. Since they won’t.

GP: …Yeah, I think that’s a good plan.

Max: I know it is.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Be honest. Was I ever a bad brother to you?

Victoria: …What? Where is this coming from?

Max: Just answer the question.

Victoria: No, Max. You were annoying, but you were never bad. Why?

Max: Because I just watched Isabelle’s brothers completely forget she existed. And I needed to know if I ever did that to you.

Victoria: …What did they do?

Max: Only notice her when they need something. She reminds them of every holiday, every important date, and then buys their gifts for them so they don’t look bad.

Victoria: You’re joking.

Max: I wish.

Victoria: That’s—what the hell?

Max: Yeah.

Victoria: Oh my god.

Max: So, again. Was I ever like that with you?

Victoria: No, Max. You and I fought, but you never made me feel like I wasn’t part of the family.

Max: Okay. Good.

Victoria: But seriously—how does she put up with that?

Max: Because she loves them. And she keeps hoping they’ll notice.

Victoria: …That’s heartbreaking.

Max: I know.

Victoria: What are you going to do?

Max: The same thing I’ve been doing since we got together. Make sure she never feels like that again.

Victoria: …You really love her, don’t you?

Max: Of course I do.

Victoria: No, I mean—not just in the way you say it. But in the way you see her when no one else does.

Max: She deserves to be seen.

Victoria: Yeah. She does.

Victoria: So, what’s the plan?

Max: Plan?

Victoria: You’re Max Verstappen. You don’t just sit back and let things happen. You’re already scheming. Spill.

Max: It’s not scheming. It’s just… making sure she gets everything they don’t give her.

Victoria: Which means?

Max: I remember her birthday. I get her gifts she actually likes. I make sure she knows she’s appreciated.

Victoria: That’s the bare minimum, Max.

Max: Yeah, well, they don’t even manage that.

Victoria: True.

Max: I just want her to know she’s not invisible. Not to me.

Victoria: She does. I promise you, she does.

Max: I hope so.

***

Isabelle Leclerc had never been so deeply, shamefully down bad.

She knew it the second she opened Instagram and was met with a carousel of Max’s sweaty, post-race pictures. His fireproofs clinging to his torso, curls damp against his forehead, jaw set in that sharp, focused way that made him look unfairly good. She scrolled further—pictures of him on the podium, champagne dripping down his neck, his Red Bull suit unzipped just enough to make her brain short-circuit.

She dropped her phone onto her chest, staring at the ceiling.

"I’m doomed," she muttered.

Sassy, Max’s cat, meowed from her place curled up on Isabelle’s stomach, completely unimpressed with her crisis. Jimmy was sprawled next to her, purring away, blissfully unaware that his owner’s girlfriend was currently struggling with an epiphany she hadn’t been ready for.

Because it wasn’t just that she found Max attractive. Of course she did—she had eyes. But this was the first time she’d ever felt like this. Like she actually wanted. Like she craved more than just stolen kisses and his hands warm on her waist.

And the worst part? Max wasn’t even here to do anything about it.

She groaned, throwing an arm over her face. "This is your fault," she told the cats. "If he hadn’t given me a key to come play with you, I wouldn’t be stuck here thinking about him."

Sassy let out another meow, clearly judging her.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Where do I buy the best lingerie?

Emilie: …Excuse me???

Emilie: Are you finally planning to jump your ridiculously in love, multi-millionaire, world champion boyfriend??

Isabelle: …

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: I tried, okay?!

Emilie: What do you mean you tried??

Isabelle: I mean I tried but he wanted to take things slow!

Emilie: …You’re telling me that Max Verstappen—the man who drives at 300 km/h for fun—wanted to take things slow?!

Isabelle: YES.

Emilie: Are you sure he’s Dutch and not secretly Victorian??

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: No, because I’m actually stunned. You’re telling me you’ve been together for two months, he’s madly in love with you, bought real estate just to see you more, and still hasn’t—

Isabelle: No.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: He said he didn’t want me to think this was just about that. That he wanted to show me he was serious.

Emilie: That’s actually disgustingly romantic.

Isabelle: I know. But also, Emilie, I am going to combust.

Emilie: Oh, I am absolutely taking you shopping.

Emilie: We’re getting you the best lingerie. The kind that makes a man forget the concept of “taking things slow.”

Isabelle: I don’t want to pressure him.

Emilie: Isabelle, babe, I love you, but you could show up in a paper bag and he’d still be obsessed with you. This is just insurance.

Isabelle: Insurance??

Emilie: Yes. For when you inevitably break him.

Isabelle: …

Isabelle: That’s not how insurance works.

Emilie: It is in this scenario. Now, when are you free? We’re going shopping.

Isabelle: You’re way too excited about this.

Emilie: Because I am emotionally invested!! Do you have any idea how rare it is for a man to be this in love and still have the self-control of a monk??

Isabelle: I don’t know whether to be flattered or frustrated.

Emilie: You can be both! But mostly, you can be prepared. Because trust me, the moment he decides he’s ready, you need to be ready.

Isabelle: … I did buy silk sheets.

Emilie: YES, that’s my girl!! Now tell me, what’s Max’s favorite color on you?

Isabelle: Emerald green.

Emilie: Oh, we are going all out.

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

***

Isabelle hadn’t been this nervous in a long time.

Not during presentations, not in meetings, not even the time she accidentally spilled coffee on a potential client’s Hermès bag (it had been black, mercifully, and Max had made her laugh about it later).

But this? Standing in Max Verstappen’s bedroom, bathed in the soft golden glow of his bedside lamp, wearing lingerie she had stared at for weeks before buying? This made her heart hammer so loud she swore he could hear it.

She had planned this—carefully. She knew he was expecting her. She’d texted earlier, promised takeout and a quiet night. That part wasn’t a lie. But the bag of food now sat forgotten on the kitchen counter, and she stood in front of him wearing forest green lace and every ounce of courage she’d been hoarding since their first kiss.

Max didn’t speak.

He didn’t move.

Just stared at her, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly, like he’d forgotten how to function. And for a single, terrifying moment, she thought she’d misjudged everything.

“Say something,” she whispered, her voice far steadier than she felt, her fingers fiddling with the strap of the lingerie. “I’m starting to think this was a bad idea.”

But then—he moved.

In an instant, he crossed the room, hands warm as they settled on her waist, pulling her gently closer. His eyes met hers, and they were nothing short of reverent.

“Not a bad idea,” he said, low and rough. “A very, very good idea.”

Her breath left her in a shaky laugh, part relief, part giddy disbelief. Her hands found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like she needed something to anchor her.

“You like it?” she asked, her voice small now, almost teasing.

Max swallowed visibly, eyes roaming over her again like he still couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “Isabelle, I think my brain just stopped working.”

That earned a crooked smile from her, some of the nervousness melting into something bolder, flirtier. “That good, huh?”

Instead of answering, Max let his hands drift lower, tracing the curve of her hips, fingers skimming the sheer lace with maddening care. He looked like he was touching something precious. Something rare.

“You did this for me?” he asked, quieter this time. Like it surprised him.

She nodded, heart thudding. “Wanted to surprise you.”

He exhaled slowly, leaned in. Pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her temple. The edge of her mouth.

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

The words made something flutter and twist deep in her chest. She arched into him without meaning to, breath catching as his grip on her waist tightened just slightly.

“Then show me,” she whispered.

And the look he gave her after that? Wicked. Worshipful. Dangerous in the best possible way.

Max Verstappen had never turned down a challenge in his life. And from the way he kissed her next, Isabelle knew he wasn’t about to start now.

His mouth met hers with quiet intensity—no rush, no urgency, just the kind of kiss that made Isabelle feel like she was being memorised, piece by piece.

Max kissed her like the world had narrowed to her skin and the space between them.

And God, the way he touched her.

His hands were still firm on her waist, thumbs brushing gently along the edge of lace like he didn’t dare go further without permission, like she was something sacred—not because she was wearing lingerie, but because she was Isabelle.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, then lower, over her jaw, down the curve of her neck.

Isabelle let her eyes fall shut, a soft breath escaping her as her hands slid from his shirt to his shoulders, pulling him just a little closer.

“Still thinking this was a bad idea?” he murmured against her skin.

She let out a breathy laugh, fingers threading into the back of his hair. “No. Definitely not.”

Max pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her, his expression shifting from teasing to something quieter—like he was checking in, even without asking.

And it struck her again—how different this was from every other time she’d tried to be brave for someone. This wasn’t performance. This wasn’t her trying to prove she was enough.

With Max, she was.

“You okay?” he asked, quietly, sincerely.

She nodded, and that time, it felt real. “Yeah.”

“Good.” His hands moved to cradle her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks, his eyes never leaving hers. “Because I want to take my time with you.”

That sentence alone nearly undid her.

She didn’t respond with words—just kissed him again, deeper this time, letting herself lean into it, letting herself feel it.

It was slow. Gentle. Everything she’d dreamed of, and somehow… so much more.

Max kissed her like he had all the time in the world, like the moment mattered more than the destination. His hands slid across her skin like a question, never demanding, only asking. Always waiting. Always listening.

And Isabelle—Isabelle gave herself over to it. To him.

For a while.

Because this was different. Because Max made her feel safe. Because she wanted this.

But even as her body responded—arching into his touch, breath catching when his mouth dragged down her collarbone—something inside her began to unravel.

She didn’t notice it at first. Not really.

It started as a quiet overwhelm. The weight of his hands on her waist. The way he whispered her name like it meant something. The softness in his eyes, the care in every kiss.

He touched her like she was precious. Like she was the most important thing in the world.

And it broke her.

Because no one ever had. Not like this. Not without expectation. Not without making her feel like she had to be performative, or perfect, or grateful.

She gasped—not from pleasure, not from panic, but from the sudden ache of being held so gently.

And then the tears came.

At first, she didn’t realise she was crying. Just a strange heat behind her eyes, a tightness in her throat. She blinked hard and tried to breathe through it, tried to hold onto the moment.

But Max noticed. Of course he noticed.

His hands, which had been skimming her skin, froze. His brow creased, worry flickering across his face. “Schatje,” he murmured, voice impossibly soft. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head quickly, pressing her lips together, embarrassed. “Nothing.”

His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, catching the tear that slipped free anyway. “That doesn’t look like nothing.”

She swallowed hard. “I just…” A shaky breath. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

Max went impossibly still. His blue eyes searched hers, something flickering behind them—understanding, frustration, something else entirely. He exhaled slowly, then pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You deserve this,” he whispered. “All of it.”

Isabelle broke.

She curled into him, burying her face in his neck as his arms tightened around her, grounding her, holding her together.

No one had ever held her like this before. No one had ever made her feel like she wasn’t just something to take from.

But Max wasn’t like anyone else.

Max didn’t rush her. He didn’t push or pry. He just held her, one hand smoothing over her back, the other tangling gently in her hair as she clung to him.

Isabelle took slow, shaky breaths, letting herself settle, letting herself believe—that this wasn’t just desire, that Max didn’t just want her for a fleeting moment, that he was here because of her, all of her.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were still damp, but the knot in her chest had loosened. She met his gaze hesitantly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Max frowned immediately. “Why?”

She let out a breathy, almost self-conscious laugh. “Because that’s not exactly what you expect when you bring your girlfriend to bed.”

His expression softened. “Isabelle,” he said, tilting her chin up so she had to look at him. “I don’t care how long this takes. I don’t care if we stop now or in ten minutes or in ten weeks.” His thumb brushed over her cheekbone. “I just want you.”

Something deep inside her cracked open.

Isabelle had spent so long being overlooked, taken for granted, expected to give without ever receiving. But Max didn’t expect anything from her. He just wanted her—whether she gave him pieces or the whole damn thing.

She swallowed hard. “I want this,” she said, and she meant it. She really meant it.

Max searched her face, his fingers tightening slightly on her skin. Then, slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers.

This kiss was different. It wasn’t urgent, wasn’t hurried. It was deep and consuming, felt like something more.

Isabelle melted into it, into him, into the warmth of his body and the way he touched her—carefully, reverently, like she was something to cherish.

And for the first time in her life, she let herself believe she was.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: So.

Emilie: So.

Emilie: I let you run off with a bag full of very expensive and very effective lingerie, and I have received zero updates.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Emilie: I am not a patient woman.

Isabelle: I genuinely don’t know how to process last night.

Emilie: …Good or bad?

Isabelle: I think I need therapy.

Emilie: Therapy???

Isabelle: Emilie, I thought sex was supposed to be uncomfortable. I thought it was normal. To just… grit my teeth and wait for it to be over. To pretend it was fine. To pretend I liked it.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: I’m serious. I thought it was normal for it to be awkward and underwhelming, and that I just had to deal with it.

Emilie: …I suddenly have a burning need to hunt down every single one of your exes.

Isabelle: They didn’t care if I enjoyed it.

Emilie: …What do you mean?

Isabelle: I mean, it was always just about them. Their pleasure. Their satisfaction.

Isabelle: I was just a body.

Emilie: Oh my god.

Isabelle: It wasn’t just bad—it was awful. Sometimes painful. Almost always embarrassing.

Emilie: Belle.

Isabelle: I thought that was normal.

Emilie: You’re joking.

Isabelle: I used to fake it just to get it over with.

Emilie: What the actual fuck?!

Isabelle: Em…

Emilie: No, because I was expecting you to say like, oh, it was awkward. Or boring. But this?!

Isabelle: I just thought that’s how it was.

Emilie: IT’S NOT.

Isabelle: I know that now.

Emilie: Oh my god.

Isabelle: It was so different with Max.

Emilie: …Because he actually cares.

Isabelle: Yes. The first time I just…

Emilie: What happened?

Isabelle: I… broke down.

Emilie: Oh, Belle.

Isabelle: I just—panicked. Everything hit me at once.

Emilie: What did he do?

Isabelle: He stopped immediately. Held me. Told me we didn’t have to do anything, that he just wanted me to feel safe.

Emilie: Oh my god.

Isabelle: And then the next time…

Emilie: He remembered everything.

Isabelle: Every single thing I liked. What made me feel good. What made me feel wanted.

Emilie: Because he pays attention.

Isabelle: Exactly.

Emilie: That’s that racecraft in bed, huh?

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: No, but think about it! The man lives to optimize performance. He knows how to read data, analyze conditions, adjust his approach for maximum efficiency—

Isabelle: STOP.

Emilie: No, because it’s true!

Isabelle: …I mean. You’re not wrong.

Emilie: I KNEW IT.

Isabelle: I hate you.

Emilie: No, you love me. But not as much as you love Max Verstappen blowing your mind every night.

Isabelle: I’M BLOCKING YOU.

Emilie: So tell me everything.

Isabelle: I already told you enough.

Emilie: Isabelle. You literally admitted that every guy before Max made sex feel like a chore, that you had to fake it, and that it was sometimes painful. And then, suddenly, Max comes in?  You owe me details.

Isabelle: It was just… different. From the second he touched me, it was like he was paying attention to every single reaction, every little noise I made. I didn’t even have to say anything—he just knew.

Emilie: Oh my god.

Isabelle: And it wasn’t just physical. It was—I felt safe. I wasn’t just a body, I wasn’t just there to be used. He made me feel like I was the most important thing in the world to him.

Emilie: Belle.

Isabelle: I was so nervous at first. I wanted it to be good, I wanted to enjoy it, but I had all these bad experiences in my head, and I kept waiting for it to go wrong.

Emilie: But it didn’t?

Isabelle: No. Because Max—he’s so patient. Even when I got overwhelmed, he just slowed down and made sure I was okay.

Emilie: And then?

Isabelle: And then it was… mind-blowing.

Emilie: Define mind-blowing.

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: I’m serious. Because I need to understand how we went from you faking it to you losing your mind completely.

Isabelle: …Okay.

Emilie: Yes.

Isabelle: So, you know how Max is in the car, right?

Emilie: Oh my god.

Isabelle: The way he reads conditions, the way he adapts in real time, the way he knows exactly when to push?

Emilie: STOP.

Isabelle: It’s the same.

Emilie: I KNEW IT.

Isabelle: I’m serious. He’s so in tune with everything, like he’s constantly adjusting, constantly making it better.

Emilie: He’s optimizing performance.

Isabelle: YES.

Emilie: Max Verstappen. Two-time World Champion. Fastest driver on track, fastest learner in bed.

Isabelle: I am not dignifying that with a response.

Emilie: But you’re not denying it.

Isabelle: …

Emilie: BELLE.

Isabelle: I didn’t even know it could feel like that.

Emilie: Wow.

Isabelle: Like, I thought those romance novels were lying. I thought all that passion and chemistry and overwhelming pleasure was just fake.

Emilie: But then you met Max Verstappen.

Isabelle: He’s just… so good to me. And not just in bed. He takes care of me, he makes me laugh, he listens to me. He actually sees me.

Emilie: I love that. But also, I need to understand the full scope of the dominance we’re dealing with here.

Isabelle: You sound like an F1 journalist trying to analyze Red Bull’s advantage in the regs.

Emilie: I am an F1 journalist trying to analyze Max Verstappen’s advantage in the bedroom.

Isabelle: …I hate that sentence.

Emilie: Okay, but is he like methodical with it? Like does he go in with a strategy?

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: No, I need to know if he’s a precision driver or a send-it-and-hope-for-the-best kind of guy.

Isabelle: …He’s both.

Emilie: EXCUSE ME???

Isabelle: It’s like he’s calculating everything in real-time, but then when the moment’s right—he just commits. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Emilie: So what I’m hearing is… late-braking masterclass.

Isabelle: I knew you were going to say that.

Emilie: AND I’M RIGHT.

Isabelle: He literally waits until the last possible second, and then it’s like—boom. You can’t react fast enough.

Emilie: So he takes the racing line and the perfect approach angle.

Emilie: I’m just saying, if he starts looking at data after, I’m going to scream.

Isabelle:

Isabelle: …He does kind of ask for feedback.

Emilie: STOP.

Isabelle: And then he actually remembers everything I like.

Emilie: You’re telling me Max Verstappen actively takes notes on how to ruin your life?

Isabelle: Pretty much.

Emilie: If he ever applies this level of dedication to anything else, we’re all doomed.

Isabelle: He already does. It’s called Formula 1.

Emilie: And now he’s doing it to you.

Emilie: I need a moment.

Isabelle: Take your time.

Emilie: …Actually, no, I don’t, because I need to ask the most important question.

Isabelle: Oh, no.

Emilie: How many times?

Isabelle: EMILIE.

Emilie: I NEED TO KNOW.

Isabelle: …four.

Emilie: FOUR?!?

Isabelle: I told you. Life-altering.

Emilie: Max Verstappen is out here setting lap records and you’re only telling me now??

Isabelle: Well, I wasn’t going to text you midway through.

Emilie: I AM SO HAPPY FOR YOU.

Isabelle: Thank you. So am I.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: Max Verstappen ruined you.

Isabelle: He rebuilt me.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/paddocktea: Isabelle Leclerc is my Roman Empire and here’s why: 

@/paddocktea: People know her as Charles Leclerc’s baby sister, born right in the middle between him and Arthur. 

@/paddocktea: But there is so much more to her…She’s the most overlooked yet most intriguing Leclerc sibling. She’s always there, always supporting, but somehow, she remains in the background. 

@/paddocktea: And because it’s her 24th birthday today… Here is everything you need to know about Isabelle Leclerc. 

@/paddocktea: While Arthur’s karting career was put on ice to fund Charles’ career, a lesser known fact is that the family also sold Isabelle’s childhood horse to help fund Charles’ racing. 

@/paddocktea: They SOLD HER HORSE. HER. HORSE. To help fund Charles’ career. Like, imagine being 13, losing both your sport and your horse while your brother gets to keep racing. If I were her, I’d still be holding a grudge.

@/paddocktea: …but instead apparently it’s a throwaway line in the family lore that Charles has only ever mentioned once in an interview, while he has mentioned Arthur’s “sacrifice” multiple times. 

@/paddocktea: Still, instead of causing drama, she put her head down and worked. She studied architecture while also being there for every major moment of her brothers’ careers. It wasn’t just about showing up to races—she was always supporting them.

@/paddocktea: The few times she does give interviews? It’s never about her. She just hypes up her brothers. Every single time. No complaints, no bitterness—just, "They work so hard, I’m really proud of them.” If I sacrificed as much as she did, I’d be insufferable, but she’s just so sweet and adores her brothers more than anything else. 

@/paddocktea: Anyway, Isabelle Leclerc is the backbone of the Leclerc family, and I need people to start appreciating her.

↳@/paddockinsider: WAIT. They SOLD her horse to fund Charles’ career?! I did NOT know this. That’s actually insane.

↳@/formulatea: They really said ‘sorry girl, no more childhood joy for you, we gotta get Charles to F1’ 😭

↳@hoofbeatsandcheckeredflags: As a horse girl, I would NEVER forgive them. I would be bringing this up at every family dinner.

↳ @f1drama: No bc imagine your parents sitting you down like ‘hey, your brother needs to go fast so we’re getting rid of your best friend, hope you understand xx’

↳@f1archivist: How did this never make it into Drive to Survive?? Like hello, Netflix, this is PEAK drama.

↳@girlmathf1: They stole her childhood and she still shows up at races supporting them. Isabelle Leclerc is a better person than me fr.

↳@gossipinthepaddock: So you’re telling me Charles got a career and Arthur got a second chance at racing, while Isabelle got… character development???

***

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments: 

@/charles_leclerc: Happy 24th! 🎂

@/f1fashionista93: Happy birthday, Isabelle! You deserve all the happiness in the world. 💐✨

@/emilie_abadie: Happy birthday to my favorite human! You deserve the best year ahead—can’t wait to see what it has in store for you 💖"

@/leclercsquad_: Happy birthday, Isabelle! I can’t wait to see all the amazing things you do this year! 🎉💐

***

Her phone had buzzed all morning with Leclerc family group chat notifications—heart emojis from Arthur, a single “Joyeux anniversaire x” from Charles, Lorenzo asking if she’d gotten the spa voucher he emailed (“it expires in two months, so use it soon!”), and her mother’s text: “Hope you like the book. And the suit!”

The book was titled “How to Be More Assertive: Owning Your Voice in a Loud World.

The suit was black. Structured. Corporate.

Isabelle had never worn a pantsuit in her life. She barely wore pants, unless she was on a horse or doing pilates.

Arthur’s gift had arrived wrapped in glossy blue paper—inside was a heavy coffee table book about the history of golf. 

Charles had sent an Amazon gift card.

She had smiled. Said thank you in the chat. Told herself they were trying. That they were busy. That this was just how birthdays went for her in her family—slightly impersonal, vaguely thoughtful, and always… a little off.

And it wasn’t like she needed more. Emilie had taken her out the evening before, dinner just the two of them, which had been lovely… and which had ended with a single chocolate cupcake with a lit candle that she had blown out with a huge grin on her face. The two of them had giggled like teenagers and ended up sharing it. 

Emilie had given her a whole basket full of things, like she was always prone to be doing. It was stuffed full with Isabelle’s favourite things, from her favourite bar of chocolate, to her favourite soap, a new bottle of signature perfume (always Miss Dior), new workout clothing, because she had mentioned in an offhand way that the zipper on her favourite jacket kept opening up… filled with the kind of thoughtful little things that Emilie Abadie hoarded like the french dragon with expensive perfume and perfect eyeliner that she was. 

Really, that basket more than made up for anything her family did. 

And now, here she was sitting on the sofa a at Max’s place that evening, sipping her favourite wine in her favourite sweater, legs tucked under her.

She was happy. Completely and utterly content. 

Max came in from the kitchen, a little grin tugging at his lips, something behind his back.

“Okay,” he said, “I know you said you didn’t want anything fancy…”

She narrowed her eyes. “Max.”

“But,” he continued, stepping closer, “you’re turning twenty-four, and that feels like it should come with something a little special.”

He pulled a small velvet box from behind his back.

Isabelle blinked. “Max—”

“Just open it,” he said, sitting beside her. 

She opened the box slowly—and froze.

Inside was a bracelet.

Diamonds and Emeralds connected with delicate gold fixing. The emeralds were a deep, deep green. 

The exact shade of green that lit her eyes when she was excited, or furious, or pretending not to cry during animal rescue commercials.

She didn’t speak.

Max leaned in, his voice softer now. “Emeralds. Because it’s your birthstone. And because every time I see your eyes in the sun, I think—how does that color even exist?”

Her breath caught. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did,” he said. “You’re the easiest person in the world to pay attention to, Belle.”

She bit her lip, suddenly blinking too fast. “It’s beautiful.”

He unclasped it, slid it gently onto her wrist, then lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

“You deserve beautiful things. Not because it’s your birthday. Just because you’re you.”

Isabelle didn’t mean to tear up. She really didn’t.

But here was Max—watching her with that look like she mattered—giving her something not just expensive, but personal. Thoughtful. Kind.

She laughed through the tears, wiping at her face. “Sorry. I’m being ridiculous.”

“You’re not,” he said, pulling her into his chest. “You’re just not used to being seen properly. But I see you.”

“I love it,” she whispered. “It’s perfect.”

And she meant it.

Because it wasn’t about the bracelet.

It was the way he saw her.

The way he always did.

Not as the sister. Not as the quiet one.

Not as someone who needed a personality makeover or to be more “assertive.”

Just as Isabelle.

And for once—just once—that was more than enough.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max got me a bracelet.

Emilie: Of course he did.

Isabelle: Emilie. It’s emerald.

Isabelle: He said it’s my birthstone and that it matches my eyes.

Emilie: Isabelle, I need you to breathe.

Isabelle: I AM TRYING.

Emilie: This man is not just spoiling you; he is actively ruining you for anyone else.

Isabelle: Right???

Emilie: Send a picture. Now.

Isabelle: Attachment: photo.jpg

Emilie: Holy. Shit.

Emilie: That is not just a bracelet. That is a statement.

Isabelle: What statement?

Emilie: “You are mine, and I will give you the world.”

Isabelle: …

Emilie: You’re staring at it right now, aren’t you?

Isabelle: I haven’t taken my eyes off it since he clasped it onto my wrist.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: How are you still alive?

Isabelle: Unclear. Might be running purely on shock at this point.

Emilie: I warned you. I told you he was in deep.

Isabelle: I didn’t think this deep.

Emilie: Oh, honey. He is drowning.

Isabelle: What am I supposed to do with this??

Emilie: Love him back. That’s literally all he wants.

Isabelle: …I already do.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: I thought you were joking.

Emilie: Oh, Max. I wish I was.

Max: Arthur really got her a coffee table book about golf.

Emilie: She doesn’t even like golf.

Max: EXACTLY.

Emilie: I’m convinced he just panic-bought it at the airport.

Max: And Charles… a generic Amazon gift card.

Emilie: Isabelle literally used last year’s gift card to buy presents for other people because she didn’t even want anything from Amazon.

Max: I actually feel secondhand embarrassment.

Emilie: Welcome to my world.

Max: Lorenzo got her a Spa Voucher with only 2 months left on it. I am pretty sure that was a gift he once got. 

Emilie: That’s still better than the self help book her mother bought her “How to be more assertive”. (I mean I guess she tried, she did buy her that new pantsuit…just that Isabelle has never worn a pantsuit in her life. She never wears pants, AT ALL, unless she works out or is at the stables.) 

Max: I— No. I need to sit down.

Emilie: Oh, don’t worry, Max. She’s used to it. That’s what makes it worse.

Max: That’s actually depressing.

Emilie: Right?? I feel like I’m the only one who actually pays attention.

Max: I feel like I need to apologize on their behalf.

Emilie: Oh, you’ve already done enough. You got her a bracelet with emeralds to match her eyes.

Max: That’s just normal? It’s not hard?

Emilie: Max, you put more thought into one gift than her family has in a decade.

Max: Good. She deserves better.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: So… still in love?

Max: More every day.

Victoria: You’re such a sap.

Max: You asked.

Victoria: I did. Because I knew you’d say something like that.

Max: And yet, here you are, pretending to be surprised.

Victoria: Not surprised, just entertained.

Max: Glad my happiness is amusing to you.

Victoria: Oh, it is. You’re actually just gone.

Max: I know.

Victoria: And you’re fine with that?

Max: More than fine. Best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Victoria: …Wow.

Max: What?

Victoria: Nothing. Just… I’ve never seen you like this.

Max: Me neither. But I don’t want it to stop.

Victoria: Then don’t.

Max: I won’t.

Victoria: Good.

Max: …You’re being suspiciously nice.

Victoria: I can be supportive, you know.

Max: Yeah, but usually there’s teasing first.

Victoria: True. But I don’t think I need to say anything. You’re already completely and utterly done for.

Max: Not wrong.

Victoria: So, when do I get to hear about the inevitable dumb thing you’ll do to impress her?

Max: What makes you think I’ll do something dumb?

Victoria: Max. You bought an entire penthouse just to work with her.

Max: …That’s not dumb. That’s practical.

Victoria: Sure, sure. Practical.

Max: It is! I needed a new place anyway. And I have great taste.

Victoria: She has great taste. You just followed her lead.

Max: …Still counts.

Victoria: Sooo, can I follow your mysterious girlfriend on Instagram yet, or is she still top secret?

Max: …

Victoria: Max. It’s been two months.

Max: And?

Victoria: And I want to know who she is! Give me something. A name? A clue? Anything?

Max: Isabelle.

Victoria: Isabelle what?

Max: …Leclerc.

Victoria:

Victoria:

Victoria: HOLD ON.

Victoria: As in Leclerc-Leclerc?? Like, Charles Leclerc???

Max: Yes.

Victoria: AS IN HIS QUIET LITTLE SISTER FROM KARTING???

Max: Yeah.

Victoria: OH MY GOD.

Victoria: I remember her! She was always at the races! Super quiet, always watching. 

Max: That’s her.

Victoria: AWWWW. MAX.

Max: What?

Victoria: She’s perfect for you! She was always so sweet!

Max: …Thanks?

Victoria: Does Charles know??

Max: No.

Victoria: Max.

Max: Isabelle wants to keep it private.

Victoria: But why??

Max: Her family… it’s complicated.

Victoria: What do you mean? The Leclercs are like, the most wholesome F1 family ever.

Max: Her brothers are close with each other. She just…exists in their periphery and is forgotten 90% of the time. 

Victoria: Max, that’s awful.

Max: I know.

Victoria: And they still don’t know you’re together?

Max: Nope.

Victoria: You haven’t told Charles??

Max: Isabelle doesn’t want them to know.

Victoria: I mean, I get it, but… that’s really sad.

Max: Yeah.

Victoria: But you make her happy?

Max: I try.

Victoria: Good.

Victoria: But just so you know, when this does come out, Charles might actually explode.

Max: I know.

[asxgard]

Heartbeat | one shot

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x pregnant wife!doctor!reader

Summary: You get called in to assist with the mass casualty event on your day off and you’re grateful to be there when your husband finally breaks.

Note: episode 13 hurt a lot so I wrote this to cope. Likely will write more specific stuff after I’ve fully processed.

Word Count: 4.4k+

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content

Warnings: age gap (16ish years, I have a problem okay? The age gap trope feeds me), hospital/medical inaccuracies, hurt/comfort, panic attack, foul language, angst (it’s who I am), gore/gun violence (Pittfest), vague details from ep. 11-13, pet names (baby, my love), non-graphic shower scene, fluff at the end because we deserve it after that episode???

not beta read

You had met Dr. Robinavitch when you started in the ED as an attending. While your love blossomed slowly, it bloomed into so much more than you were expecting. It had been a bit of a whirlwind, from dating secretly to Dana and Jack finding out only a month after, to getting engaged just a year later.

You had done what you could to keep it from the hospital administration, but the time came where you got married and paperwork needed to be filed. You kept your maiden name to ensure there was no confusion, plus it added to your privacy. Everyone you worked with knew you were married, just not to each other, but it was more of an open secret to some of the nurses and other attendings.

Gloria nearly moved you to a different department. She tried separating you by shifts, maybe hoping you would leave and find work in a different hospital. Michael was technically your boss, after all. In her reports, however, she found that when you two were on shift together, it was seamless. Like you two operated on a frequency that no one else was even aware of.

Despite the bumps in the road, and Michael’s aversion for talking about his feelings, you made it work. Some shifts could be frustrating, and that sometimes got carried home, but you respected each other immensely. Michael was not keen on letting such a good thing in his life go that easily, and eventually opened up about Adamson and the toll the pandemic had taken on him.

After that hurdle, everything else was easy. Eventually, you decided to grow your family, and you got pregnant not even five months later.

—

On the fourth year anniversary of Adamson’s death, you were surprised to find Michael preparing for a shift.

“Didn’t you take off?” You asked, watching him dress into his scrubs.

“Yeah,” he said, not looking at you. “Peterson had a family thing, and I know they’re short staffed.”

You frowned, “You could’ve asked me.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” He said, turning to look at you and his heart swelled at the sight. “I don’t want you to cancel your appointment.”

You sat on that for a moment. For as busy as you both were, Michael had made time for every appointment you had after finding out you were pregnant.

“I know, I know. I promise I won’t miss the next one.”

That satisfied you. For all Michael was, someone to break his promise was not one of them.

“I was hoping to find out the gender today,” you said with a tiny smile. “But a little anticipation never hurt anyone.”

He looked grateful at your words, moving to kiss you. He tasted like mint, holding your head so gently in his hands. Your hands moved to his chest, wanting to hold him against you, but you released him.

“Jake know yet?”

He smiled, “Yeah. He asked to take his girlfriend instead.”

You raised an eyebrow and grinned, “Oh?”

You and Jake had gotten close slowly, him being like a step-son to Michael, but now you loved the kid.

“If you need anything, just call, alright?”

He nodded, grabbing his coffee, giving you one last lingering kiss before heading out the door.

—

Your day was mildly uneventful, taking your time with a handful of chores before sitting out on the balcony to have lunch. Your OB appointment had gone well, and you got a recording of the heartbeat, knowing Michael might need to hear it after his shift.

As time moved, you missed that Michael had not been able to be there with you. You missed his touch and his presence beside you. Dinner came with a takeout box of your latest craving, before your phone rang.

Jack Abbott’s name flashed on your screen. You still worked a few shifts with him from time-to-time, but Michael had you mostly scheduled for days, with him.

“Hey,” you said when you answered.

“Did you hear?”

“That’s so specific, Jack,” you said, opening the fridge to scan your snack options.

“There was a shooting at Pittfest, unknown number of casualties. Closest trauma center is PTMC.”

Your heart stuttered to a stop, “What?”

“Heard it on the scanner. You’ll likely get an alert that it’s all hands on deck, but I wanted to give you a heads up before traffic got too bad.”

Despite not being super close with Jack, you were still friends and you knew he had your back. While you hated being treated with careful hands at work now that you were pregnant, part of you still appreciated the gesture of it. It was like something unspoken had happened between Michael and Jack months ago, both of them moving to take the more combative patients whenever you were around.

“Shit, Jack.” You breathed out, rushing into your bedroom to grab your scrubs. “Fuck, Jake is at Pittfest. Let me try to reach him.” You fumbled through your drawers, taking a deep breath through your nose. “I’ll be in. See you soon.”

“Drive safe!” He said before the call disconnected.

After changing, you moved to grab a few odd snacks and water bottles, stuffing them into your lunch bag, along with your cell phone charger. Who knew how long this was going to take, or if Michael had had the chance at any point today to eat. He hadn’t texted or called, but that was not uncommon. The Pitt never made it easy, which was why you were grateful that you worked most of your shifts with your husband.

You tried reaching Jake, leaving a voicemail and a text message before reaching out to his mother. You briefly explained the situation and asked for an update as soon as she heard anything, before you promised the same.

When you got into your car, you took a deep breath to steady your heart before beginning your way to PTMC.

Michael called you, your phone ringing through the car’s Bluetooth.

“Hey, don’t have much time, but I need you.” He told you, his voice quiet but full of so much emotion.

“I’m already on my way. Abbott called ten minutes ago. Tried calling out to Jake, too, he didn’t answer. Told his mom to reach out to either of us if she heard anything.” You said in a rush, coming to a stop at a light. Almost there.

He let out a breath that almost sounded like relief.

“I’ll see you in a few minutes, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The mass alert came through your phone as soon as he hung up. Thank fuck for Jack.

You made it into the parking garage, waving at the security guard now posted at the entrance. You sat in your car for just a minute to get your bearings, knowing tonight was going to be a shitshow.

As you entered the Emergency Department, you saw patients leaving, escorted by nurses and admin staff — and you moved quickly into the back. It was a circus, but you spotted Michael and Jack and beelined for them.

Michael’s brown eyes caught you as you approached and his face relaxed, though his shoulders were still tense. Dana was beside them, and her usual quip of “Oh I get Dr. R squared today?” did not fall from her lips, but she was sporting a black eye. You looked at her in alarm, but she waved it off.

“Just another happy customer.” She said, but you only frowned at her.

Michael spoke next, introducing you, and then quickly running down the new faces to you: Dr. Mel King, an R2, Dennis Whittaker, an M4, Victoria Javadi, an M3, and Dr. Trinity Santos, an intern. You tried to remember their names, but knew you would not likely remember them in the chaos.

You went to quickly put your stuff down, and when you turned around, Michael was standing there. To everyone else, he appeared neutral, controlled, normal. To you? He was wearing his shift all over his face and you could see plainly that it had not been a good one.

“This is going to be stressful, I should’ve let you stay home—”

While you appreciated his concern, you would have come anyway. “I promise, if I get too stressed out, I’ll let myself take a few minutes. But you have me. What can I do to help?”

“I need you in pink zone.” He told you, moving right back to business. “You’ll be with McKay and Javadi, and incoming night shift. But I need you at the head of it.”

“You got it.” You said, honored he was trusting you to run point on your zone.

—

While the victims did not stop coming, you found yourself moving mostly on instinct. Assessing, treating, moving along — trying to do your best to teach when you came across any of the new faces. You flitted into red zone when there was a particularly bad patient and then moved to triage so Dr. Shen could take a quick bathroom break.

When you assisted Michael, you moved together like a well oiled machine — and despite the tragedy, it came to you both naturally. You only barely registered the tension between Michael and Dr. Frank Langdon — a senior resident, and someone Michael had taken under his wing. You would have to remember to ask about it.

Time moved by in a blur, but you were painfully aware of every minute, every patient that came under your care. All the blood, all the death, all the tragedy.

It only got worse when Jake arrived, thought were thankful he was alive. He was asking about his girlfriend when you approached.

“Jake?” You got his attention as you began to take in his appearance. Jesus Christ, he was covered in blood.

“It’s mostly her blood,” he told you blankly, eyes moving around the room at the carnage. “It’s mostly her blood.”

You called for a wheelchair, your gaze searching for Michael. He was working on a patient, giving CPR from the look of it, the patient blocked from your view by the charge desk.

“Take a seat, Jake.” You told him softly, gently touching his shoulder. “Let me take a look at you, yeah?”

He sat down, his head swiveling around to locate his girlfriend. “I think—I think I got hit in the leg.”

You nodded, moving him into the yellow zone so you could bandage him up. You were not related and there were no official familial ties, so there were no problems of ethics — at least that was what you told yourself.

He moved to stand, and you pushed his shoulder back down.

“Let me assess you and then I promise I’ll go check on your girlfriend, okay?”

Jake nodded numbly and moved onto the gurney so you could look at his leg. His injury was not as bad as you had feared, and while you knew he would need stitches, you made do with some bandages for the time being.

“What’s her name?” You asked, trying to bring his attention back to you.

“Leah,” he told you, voice heavy with emotion. “I need to see her.”

While you did not understand the full panic he was experiencing, you knew Leah was in good hands.

“She’s with Robby, Jake. Leah is getting the best care.”

He was still not looking at you, and you got him set up with an IV antibiotic drip.

“Jake? Jake, can you call your mom for me? Cell service might not be great right now, but can you try? She’s worried about you.”

He took that information in slowly, before nodding.

The call did not go through, but you made him promise to keep trying while you assured him you were going to check on his girlfriend.

By the time you reached Michael, he was calling time of death and your heart constricted. You wanted to scream. By the look in his eyes, you can see he wanted to as well. You could feel Jack’s gaze on you and when you turned, he simply shook his head at you. You easily translated that to ‘your husband is not doing good’.

“I couldn’t save her.” Michael whispered, and only you caught it.

You gave his hand a subtle squeeze.

Jack was there then, reading the situation perfectly, “No one could have saved her. Maybe if this was a normal day, but it tore right through her heart. There was not much we could do.”

Fuck, you thought, she’s so young. You hoped she did not suffer.

Michael moved to find Jake and you followed him, but he stopped you.

“Can you take over for me in red so I can let Jake know?”

Every part of you screamed to go with him, but you nodded, turning to step back into pace with the work. You tried to push away your emotions, packaging them away to deal with later, but compartmentalizing was tough. You felt guilty for never meeting this girl, someone Jake had so obviously cared a lot about.

You attempted to get lost in the work, but you caught sight of Michael wheeling Jake out of Peds — the current place they have been putting the deceased — and the look on your husband’s face made your heart plummet. He had moved back into the room, leaving Jake just outside and you quickly gestured to a passing nurse to get him back to yellow.

The security guard did not make any comment when you walked into Peds, and you were devastated at what you found. Aside from the deceased, the number of them slowly ticking upwards, it was the sight of Michael on the floor in tears that truly struck you.

After ripping the curtain closed behind you, to block the view into the hall, and give you both just a small amount of privacy, you moved back toward Michael. It had been a long time since you had seen him like this. He had broken down when he told you about Adamson and the weight of his choice, and once he had even broken down after a particularly bad argument, but nothing like this.

“Baby, baby, hey,” you crouched down beside him, but you did not move to touch him.

His breath caught in his throat, but his sobs continued, hyperventilating with his arms pulled across his bent knees.

“Michael,” you tried, a name you had never called him when within the walls of the hospital.

His watery gaze met yours for just a moment, before his eyes were back in his lap, face scrunched. His ears were red, as well as his face, with red rimmed eyes that broke something in you.

“Michael.” You stressed again, moving so your hands hovered just above his arms. “Can you look at me?”

“I—I—I couldn’t—fuck—I didn’t save her.” His breaths came in short bursts, in in in out, in in out, tears coming down his face, his cheeks red.

You found yourself at a loss on how to help him — you knew none of his thoughts were rational at the moment, and anguish rushed through your veins, feeling so helpless. So useless.

An odd idea struck you, and you pulled out your phone before you could doubt yourself. You flipped through a few of your apps before settling on the one you had used to record your baby’s heartbeat.

“Can you take a deep breath with me?” You asked gently. You took a deep breath in through your nose and then out through your mouth.

You didn’t give him time to respond before you were pressing play on the recording. The sound of it filled the room with something other than Michael’s panic, and he quieted just enough to listen to it.

“That’s our baby.” You told him, though the sound of it was obvious enough, racing steadily like hoof beats.

His eyes found yours, and while he was still breathing quickly, he seemed to have returned to the reality around you, rather than stuck in his head. Relief took a bit of the weight from your shoulders.

“Can you breathe with me?” You asked again, finally touching his arm.

His hand found yours immediately and squeezed, but he nodded. You took a few more deep breaths, in through your nose and out through your mouth, watching as he mirrored you.

Aside from the quick beats of your baby’s heart, the deep breaths you both took filled the room. You desperately tried to ignore the dead around you, trying to solely focus on the man in front of you. When the recording came to a stop, Michael’s hand twitched toward your phone.

“Can you play it again?”

You nodded, pressing play and handing him your phone. The fast heartbeat filled the space again, and he cradled your phone like it was a lifeline. Maybe it was.

“Very active today.” You told him. “Wouldn’t sit still.”

A ghost of a smile passed over his lips, but it was gone in a moment.

“I have a video file that they sent me from today, but I didn’t want to look at it without you. Figured if either of us looked long enough, we’d be able to tell the gender ourselves.”

“Can we?” He asked, looking at you with tears still in his eyes.

You smiled, moving to sit next to him. You did not know how long the moment was going to last — sooner or later, someone was going to come looking for either of you. You tried to ignore it, trying to center yourself in this moment with Michael, forgetting about the outside world for just a moment.

Clicking on the video you had saved, you both sat quietly watching your baby move. Michael grabbed your hand in his and held it close to his chest. This was only going to be a bandaid, but any distraction was a welcomed one in that moment.

“They’re healthy. Measured 6.6 inches, 11 ounces.” You rattled off, moving your other hand to his head and running your nails along his scalp and through his hair. Any time in the past that he had had a panic attack in your company, you found that at the tail end of it, he enjoyed the feeling of your hands on him. Like it was grounding.

Michael’s hyperventilating had fully stopped, though a handful of tears still slipped through. His face was still scrunched in pain, but he watched the video attentively.

“You did all you could, my love,” you whispered. “No one could have saved her. Not even if it was all of us and just her. I’m so sorry.”

“Jake—”

You hushed him, “Jake is still in shock. He’s grieving. Whatever he said to you, he didn't mean it.”

“No, no, he does. I didn’t save her. I told him I would. I told him.”

You brought your lips to his temple, closing your eyes and willing no tears to come. You couldn’t, not now.

Michael tapped on the video again, watching as your baby moved, kicking against your womb like it was their job.

“It’s not your fault.” You told him, moving across the floor until you met his gaze. “I would never lie to you, you know that. I promise. If anyone could have saved her, it would have been you.”

His face scrunched again like he was going to cry.

You held him in your arms, squeezing him tight to your chest, hoping perhaps the more you squeezed, the more he would believe you.

You held his face in your hands, and willed him to look at you. “I love you so much, Michael. This was not your fault. Blame the shooter, they caused this whole thing. Jake will see that eventually, you haven’t lost him.”

Brown eyes held steady on yours, searching them with a gaze that nearly made you shy away. But you hold strong, wiping away the tears on his cheeks with your thumbs.

“Robby! Robby!” Dana’s voice came through the curtain, before it was pushed aside.

Dana only blinked at the sight of you, you knelt in front of your husband, both of your faces twisted and pained.

You found your voice, “Just two minutes, Dana. Please.”

She only nodded, closing the curtain again and disappearing.

“I can’t promise the rest of this is going to be any easier, but,” You paused. “Fuck it, if you want to leave, we can blame me right now. Say I have high blood pressure and you want to make sure I get home safe. I don’t care. Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”

You remembered all the times he covered for you when your morning sickness made you late, or when he had taken time away from the hectic flow to talk you through a bad case, or a death. When he shouldered the weight of an abrasive family member or aggressive patient, even before you were married. The times he let you leave early when you were having a bad day, or encouraged you to take breaks even when he didn’t.

“Let me try to take care of you right now. Please. Whatever you need.”

Michael took a long breath, rubbing his eyes. “Let me just splash some water on my face. After…stay by my side?”

“Done. If you need a minute, tell me to take a break and come with me. I can shoulder that right now.”

You did not say it because you thought he was weak, but simply because you felt you had the capacity to bear the brunt of the remainder of this shift. People knew he was going to worry about you regardless of the situation, so him ‘checking in’ would not phase them.

“Michael,” you started as you both moved to stand, him offering a hand to help you, “You’ve always been so great with Jake, just give him some time.” You paused, “You’re going to be an amazing father to our child.”

Tears flooded his eyes again and you felt like you had just made it worse while trying to make it better.

“You’re the best thing to ever happen to me. How on earth did I—”

You cupped his cheek and hushed him again, bringing his face to yours until your foreheads touched. “I’m the lucky one.”

He kissed you softly, before bringing you into a hug, careful of your growing bump.

When you parted, he took one last deep breath before facing the chaos that awaited you both out in the ED. You knew the heavier parts of your conversation were going to have to be shelved until you got home.

Michael moved toward the closest bathroom and you rushed back to red zone. There were no words to exchange with Jack, but with a knowing glance at him, he seemed to understand.

“Robby’s moving me to red. Bilal’s got pink covered.” You told him, referencing the night attending.

Abbott only nodded.

When Michael returned only a minute later, you watched him — had you not known him that well, you might not have been able to guess what had just transpired. You were thankful no one else in the hospital knew him as well as you did.

You got back to work, busying your hands to try to stop your mind from worrying too much. Whatever he had done in the bathroom, he had clearly thrown his panic attack into a bag and stuffed it deep inside his mind. It made your heart ache, but you would help him unpack it once you were both in the safety of your home.

Michael still made sound decisions, and not once did you feel the need to question his judgement. Jack was steadfast with you both, and you were grateful for him.

—

It was 10pm by the time the dust began to settle and the situation finally simmered to a more controllable level. You were beat and you had only been there a few hours, Michael encouraging you to take a seat and have some water while he checked on a handful of things. You took that moment to find Jake — who now had been stitched up and was with his mom.

“I’m so sorry, Jake. I really wish I could have met her.”

He nodded numbly, “You would’ve really liked her.”

A sad smile formed on your lips, “I’m sure I would have.”

You wanted to tell him to go easy on Robby, but the words did not form on your tongue. It was still too soon, and while you did not want Jake to blame him, you knew it wasn’t the time or place.

You parted from them sadly, before going to check on the med students and finally finding Michael with Jack.

It was a half hour later that you both finally left, Michael following you silently to your car. You were still digesting it all, wondering how the hell you were even going to begin processing it.

At home, you both quickly discarded your scrubs to the floor and made your way to the bathroom. It went unsaid that you both needed to wash this shift off, more so mentally than physically, but being clean would certainly make you feel better.

It was amazing how well you had learned to read each other, and you held onto him under the warm water for a long moment. He kissed the side of your head before grabbing the soap, sudsing up his hands and gently cleaning your skin. You relished in the feeling of him.

Once you rinsed off, you returned the favor. You moved your hands over his arms, his chest and then his back. You added a kiss here and there, knowing he enjoyed your touch just as much. He held your belly in his hands, eyes faraway again — but you brought your hand to his face to get his attention.

You kissed him, holding onto him and trying to translate all the things you felt into it. He returned the kiss and you felt yourself sigh in contentment.

It was quiet, but cathartic.

You both dried off, and changed before collapsing into your bed, Michael immediately pulling you close. You rested your head on his chest to listen to the calming sound of his heart.

Moving off his chest, you pulled him close to you and let him rest his head on you, his hand going to your belly. His breathing was slow and controlled, but you knew his mind was racing. You held him tight, your fingers going to his hair.

“I’d like to talk about today.” You said. “Not right now. Maybe not even tomorrow, or this week. But eventually.”

He was quiet, fingers absentmindedly drawing shapes on your stomach. “We can do that.”

“I’m here when you’re ready.” You told him.

He moved to press his lips to yours, peppering your face with kisses, before bringing you back to his chest. He held you for a long time and you did not even dare let go.

“I saw what it was.” He said.

“Oh?” You questioned against his chest, leaning your head back to look at him.

“Our baby.”

“Well don’t leave me in suspense.”

He grinned and kissed you deeply. Truth was, it didn’t matter. And as you held each other, you knew it was all going to be okay.

All Dr. Robby Content: @cherriready

I need to give him a hug

[ashwhowrites]

Eddie as a girl dad

A small blurb that ran through my head

Finding out-

He stared at the pink stick in his girlfriend's hand; the two lines started right back at him. He kept blinking; truly, he was seeing things. He stepped forward and gently grabbed the stick, gulping as he looked at it as close as possible.

"You're pregnant?" He asked, his throat closing in. He turned to look at her, her bottom lip trembling. "It's okay! We'll be okay!" He said softly, throwing his arms around her as he set the stick on the counter.

She sobbed into his chest, every possible fear she had running off her tongue in sobs. Eddie closed the bathroom door to give them more privacy. Even though he was scared as hell himself, he did everything he could to calm her down.

~

"I can't believe we already get to find out the sex," Y/N gushed excitedly as Eddie parked the van. He helped her and held her hand as they walked into the office.

"What are you hoping for? And none of that healthy baby bullshit," Eddie said. Y/N smacked his chest for his inappropriate words as the nurse laughed to herself.

Y/N jumped as the cold jelly hit her stomach, "I want a girl. What about you?"

Eddie never thought he'd have children, and certainly didn't think he'd be this young. His answer was a boy, he wanted a boy. But as he looked into her eyes, smiling face, and growing belly, he wanted another her.

"I want a girl too."

~~~

Meeting her-

"Keep pushing, baby. You can do this," Eddie whispered, clenching Y/N's hand as she pushed. She had been in labor for hours, tears down her face as she begged for their baby to come out. Eddie was out of words, encouraging her the same way over and over. He wished he could do more to help her but standing here and holding her was the only thing he could do.

"Here she is! You're doing it!" The doctor said, Eddie smiled as he kissed Y/N's cheek. "One more."

Before they knew it, cries filled the room. Eddie never looked at another girl since he met Y/N, but his eyes couldn't help but look at the small girl in the doctor's arms.

Y/N cried as she grabbed their daughter, holding her close. "Jesus, Eddie. She looks just like you."

Eddie sniffled as he blinked away his tears, looking at his daughter. "She's beautiful."

~~~

Growing up-

Y/N groaned as another call went unanswered. "I'm going to kill him," Y/N said as she tried to call Eddie again.

She made it home, unlocking the door as she dropped the groceries at her feet. "Edward!" She walked into the house, no sign of him or Alex.

"Eddie?" she called out, she walked to Alex's bedroom, noticing the door was closed and some classical music was playing. She smiled before she opened the door, already knowing what she would see on the other side.

"Mommy!" Alex cheered as she ran to her mom. Y/N picked her up, the pink puffy dress bunched in her hands. "I see Princess Eddie has arrived at the ball," Y/N teased.

Eddie flicked her off, a tiara in his hair. A pink fluffy dress was thrown on over his shirt and dark jeans. Eddie sipped on the empty tea cup.

"Mommy, will you play princess with us?" Y/N let Alex down, letting her join Eddie at the small table.

"One of us has to make dinner. Do you want mommy or daddy to play?" Y/N asked, a smirk on her face knowing Eddie was going to be in that dress a lot longer.

"DADDY!"

~

"She is finally asleep," Eddie yawned, throwing himself down on the bed. Y/N laughed, pulling back the blankets so he could crawl in.

"I've missed you," Eddie groaned, his hands on her in seconds. Y/N smiled as his lips worked on her neck and up to her lips. Y/N gave him a quick peck, tasting lipgloss.

"You've still got some lipgloss on you," she whispered, wiping Eddie's pink lips. "I can see why boys like this, make your lips so much more kissable."

Y/N rolled on top of him, her hands moving down to his pants. "Wanna have some fun?"

"We gotta be fast, I promised Alex I'll drive her to the princess breakfast tomorrow," Eddie said reaching forward to take Y/N's shirt off.

"Wait, isn't that like three towns over?" Y/N asked, scooting back as she looked at Eddie like he was insane.

"Yeah, and?"

"You are going to do a four-hour car ride to take Alex to go eat a plate of eggs that she'll have two bites of?" Y/N asked as she looked at the clock.

"She wants to see the princesses!" Eddie fought.

~

"Did you tell Dad about your boyfriend?" Y/N asked, placing the small bowl in front of her. Alex dived her spoon into the bowl, collecting her cereal as she answered with a mouth full.

"No"

"Boyfriend?" Eddie asked, sitting up from the couch across the room. His feet quickly carried him to the kitchen table as he stood over Alex. "We didn't discuss boyfriends."

"He's super nice and funny!" Alex smiled, a few teeth missing.

"Well if he's funny, laugh. You don't have to date the kid!" Eddie argued.

"Mom went for nice and funny too. They are the good ones," Y/N spoke up, enjoying the way Eddie was uncomfortable.

"Oh, you are not dating someone like me, not happening," Eddie fought, sitting next to Alex. "No boys until thirty!"

~~~

"Dad! Seriously! I'm sixteen, I think I can go to a party!" Alex argued, stomping her way through the house.

"I don't care how old you are. You will not be at a party with drugs, alcohol, and hormonal boys!"

"Mom! Can you talk to him?" Alex asked, walking into her parent's bedroom as Y/N folded the laundry. Eddie was a few steps behind.

"Eddie, she's a responsible and smart girl. She'll be okay," Y/N sighed, already tired of hearing the fight as soon as they walked through the front door.

"You were responsible and a smart girl at eighteen and you had sex with me," Eddie explained. Alex gagged as she covered her ears.

"Please, I don't need to hear about your guy's sex life"

"Well it resulted in you, so no party and still no boys!" Eddie declared as he left the room.

[littelovelunette]

hii you know since first time i read ur works i fell in love with it, darlin

can i request sevika x runway model!reader but make it fluff? Since reader are busy on fashion week, sevika and reader are barely met. One day, when fashion week is over sevika decide to take reader a culinary date because she knows on fashion week reader must maintain her weight, thank you <33

Culinary Date

Contains mentions of starving, dieting and meal skipping, model!r, girlfriend!Sevika.

You had been extra busy with work lately. All the dieting and everything often made you lightheaded because you really needed to watch your weight. Working in the modelling industry definitely wasn't for the weak. Your girlfriend, Sevika, noticed this. She always noticed even the slightest little change in you.

A perfume swap, a new earring or even just new shoes— she'd point it out and chances were high she'd compliment you on it. "Baby, when can we meet again?" Sevika asked, her voice bordering on melancholy. It almost broke your heart knowing you were so busy you couldn't provide enough time to your girlfriend and now she was there asking you when you could meet her again in that puppy tone of voice.

You caved, "Tomorrow my fashion week finally ends, soooo, we could grab lunch together!" You said a little more excitedly than you wanted to let on.

"You sound really happy for someone who tells me she's totally not starving herself." Sevika mumbled on the other side of the phone.

"I am eating properly. Just need to watch my weight is all." You said with a shake of your head. "I'll be fine. You be there on time, pick the location, okay? I have to get going. Bye, I love you." You blew kisses to her before giggling— "Love you too, doll."— and hanging up.

The hurried conversation that day left Sevika to do some deep thinking, and after a while of contemplating she decided she'd take you out a food marathon. A little culinary date to improve your weight after the fashion week. She'd hate to have you blown away by the wind.

The reason why Sevika needed such a long time to come to the conclusion was because she wasn't the time to coddle you and you knew it. Sevika never love bombed. Of course, she bought you the most expensive shits ever, be it perfume, bag or jewelry. Sevika ensured whatever you wore was worth being on your skin. Sevika marked all the restaurants and cafés she planned she'd take you to, spending the night going through their reviews and whatnot.

The next morning, she took more time than usual getting ready and dressing up for you. You deserved the best and you both hadn't been on a date for so long. She missed spending time with you and today she wanted to give you the whole world. She got inside her car, revving the engine and pulled out of the driveway.

“You look stunning.” Sevika smirked seeing you walking out of the runway studio.

You were dressed in a white mini dress with cherry prints paired with a red cardigan. You look absolutely gorgeous, you click-clacked upto Sevika with your red Mary Jane heels that were a gift from her.

“You also look like you lost a lot of weight.” Sevika said, wrapping one arm around your waist and pulling you close.

“Yeah, a little.” You shifted. “Hey, can we talk later and get in your car? I'm feeling awfully heady.” Sevika's eyes filled with concern and she didn't let you argue her on it, picking you up bridal style immediately. She placed you down into the passenger seat of her car, closing the door and getting seated herself at the driver's seat.

“Are you okay?” She asked.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Just… I guess, this fashion week really took it out of me.” You chuckled nervously hoping Sevika didn't get the hint that you'd been skipping meals every now and then to stay in shape.

“Well, that is why I'm asking you out on a culinary date.” Sevika said, reversing the car and pulling out of the parking lot.

“A culinary date? Well, aren't you fancy?” You teased.

Sevika rolled her eyes. “Mainly because you look like skin on bones right now.”

“That was mean.” You pouted.

“Baby, this looks delicious!” you squeaked seeing the pretty strawberry shortcake. Sevika chuckled and pushed your coffee towards you which you eagerly took a sip of. Sevika watched you with a mix of amusement and concern as you took small bites of the cake.

She could see the hesitation in your movements, the way you seemed almost guilty about indulging in something sweet. It made her frown. “You better finish that,” she said, her tone teasing but firm. “I didn’t bring you here just to watch you pick at your food.”

You sighed dramatically but took another bite, letting the strawberry glaze melt on your tongue. “Happy?”

“Getting there.” Sevika leaned back, sipping her espresso. “You really need to start taking care of yourself, doll.”

You rolled your eyes. “I do take care of myself.” Sevika shot you a look.

“Skipping meals isn’t self-care.” Your lips parted slightly, but you had no response. Instead, you stirred your coffee absentmindedly, avoiding her gaze.

“Hey.” Sevika reached across the table, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet her eyes. “You know you don’t have to do this to yourself, right?” Your breath hitched slightly. The warmth in her voice, the softness in her usually sharp gaze—it made your chest tighten.

“I just…” You exhaled shakily, gripping your spoon. “There’s a lot of pressure, Sev.”

“I know,” she murmured. “But I don’t give a damn about any of that. You’re already perfect to me.” You let out a small laugh.

“That’s cheesy.” “Maybe,” Sevika smirked. “But it’s true.” You hesitated for a moment before taking another bite of cake, a real bite this time. Sevika nodded approvingly and gestured toward your coffee. “Drink up. I’ve got more plans for us after this.”

You raised a brow. “More plans?”

Sevika’s smirk deepened. “Yeah. If I have to, I’ll personally make sure you get three full meals today.”

You huffed but couldn’t fight the small smile forming on your lips. Maybe, just maybe, letting Sevika take care of you wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

[fuctacles]

<< sixteen | 😺 | eighteen >>

Wayne, while being the best uncle he's ever had, was also the worst. And not because he’s the only one Eddie knows; he'd beat any uncle Ben or Sam in a landslide. 

(Actually, if you do count Uncle Sam, Wayne might not be the worst.)

"She's a sad lady, isn't she?" he asks out of nowhere during their drive to the hospital. "Still here while everyone she knows move away."

Eddie frowns at the yellow light in front of him. 

"You're the one who told me to talk to her," he points out. He slows to a break at the intersection, the light now red, and turns towards his uncle. "Is this a ploy to keep me in Hawkins? You want me to marry and settle down?" He raises his eyebrows. As if the same fantasy didn't run through his mind at least once a day since meeting Steph. 

"Hell naw." Wayne grins at him. "I want you to live a life of your own. I know you hate this place." 

"It hated me first," Eddie reminds him.

"It's not for a wild thing like you," he agrees with a nod. "Hawkins is for old farts like me. The thing is—Green."

Eddie quickly shifts back into gear before the cars behind him start honking. 

"Stephanie seems to think she's an old fart too," Wayne finishes his thought. 

"Yeah, I've noticed," Eddie grumbles. "And what do you want me to do? Steal her away into the big city?" he jokes. 

Wayne's answering silence grows heavy in the van.

"She's a grown woman, I'm not going to uproot her life," Eddie argues a point his uncle didn't make. It's not that he doesn't want to, more like he doesn't think he has the power to do it. Besides, they just got off together once, it's way too early to make plans like that. He has been daydreaming about them, yes, but he's painfully aware of the difference between fantasy and reality. 

"You know, Jim got really into gardening recently," Wayne says apropos of nothing. 

"Okay, go on…" Eddie nods slowly, patiently.

"He told me some plants have to be uprooted to grow properly. You know, when the pot is too small? Because the roots grow too, and they need space."

The van has finally reached the hospital, so Eddie waits until they're parked to turn towards his uncle. 

"Did you just use a plant metaphor on me?" he asks, baffled. 

"I simply shared some gardening wisdom from a friend," Wayne shrugs.

"Which you just though of."

"You're the one who used the word 'uprooting'," he fires back. 

Eddie pulls the key out of the ignition with a tired sigh.

"You know, I kind of miss the fishing metaphors. They were less convincing." 

Wayne raises his eyebrows. 

"This is the rudest thing you've said to me since you told me the trout was disgusting."

"It's a terrible, stinky fish and you know it!" Eddie protests as they exit the van. 

"How is Wayne's leg?" Steph asks later that day.

"Surprisingly well. The doctor said it healed better than expected and he'll probably be cleared for work the next week."

"I'm guessing he's happy to hear that?"

"Oh, yeah," Eddie snorts. He angles his head so Steph's scratches get where he wants them. "He's been walking up the walls for the past few days, and he hated all the movies the employee at video rental recommended to him. If he doesn't go back to work soon, he'll make it everyone's problem."

Steph hums thoughtfully.

"I get it. Don't you feel restless, too? Here in Hawkins, I mean."

"Huh?" Eddie blinks his eyes open. He hasn't realized when he even closed them. "The opposite, actually. I don't have to rush anywhere, there are no midterms; I can kick back and relax, forget the responsibilities and just be Wayne's favorite nephew again." He smiles. "It's like I'm putting my life on pause for a few days. And it's kind of terrifying how easy it is."

Steph remains silent, so he takes a cautious glance towards her. She's not looking at him or the television; her eyes are distant, focused on her thoughts. 

"Everything is slow and old here, isn't it?" she muses.

"I swear to all that's unholy, if it's another opening to remind me how 'ancient' you are..."

Steph rolls her eyes and dips down to shut him up with a kiss. Unfortunately, it works perfectly in her favor. There's probably no argument against him that she couldn't win. All she has to do is press her hand against Eddie's chest, pinning him to the couch, and he can be easily persuaded into anything. 

He kisses and licks back, trying to keep up with her, but with the last remains of a logical thought, grasps at her hand to slow her down. They separate with a wet smack, but don't move more than an inch away.

"Do you want—?"

"I'm taking you—"

They both smile and shuffle away to properly look at each other. 

"Ladies first," Eddie gestures with a nod of his head. 

"Do you want to stay the night?" she blurts out quickly, with little hesitance. 

His jaw drops open and his heart stops in his chest. 

"Like... on the couch?" he asks to clarify. The other option to good to be true.

Steph rolls her eyes, and it should be embarrassing how much he likes when she does it, even at his own expense. 

"In my bed, idiot. Just to sleep, of course."

"Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming." He pinches his arm, and Steph does too, much harder. He yelps, making Arwen look at him with distaste. "Hey!"

"Do you want to?" she presses. 

"Of course I do!" he bristles. "With you, I'd take celibacy vows," he says reverently, grabbing her hand in his. 

She raises her eyebrows, and then pointedly looks him up and down.

"With you, I'd rather not."

Eddie grins despite his blush.

"What did you want to say?" she asks, pulling him back from his salacious thoughts. 

It takes him a second to reel his thoughts back on track.

"Oh. I'm taking you on a date tomorrow." He takes a glance at the clock above the TV. "Yeah, tomorrow." 

"You're taking me?" She raises an eyebrow. 

At that, Eddie quickly slides off the couch and onto his knees, her hand still clasped between his palms.

"Oh, pardon me, princess. Would you do me the honor of going out on a date with me tomorrow?" he asks, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. 

Her eyes are wide and startled, and the first thing she can even manage out of her mouth is a laugh.

"You're such a dork," she murmurs. "Yeah, it's fine, I guess." She shrugs nonchalantly. 

"Fine?" Eddie bristles, frowning. "What do you mean, fine?"

"I mean yes, you can take me on a date," she says, straightening her back to give herself a more regal posture. "I'll allow it."

He grins, and proceeds to press kisses up the length of her arm, slowly crawling back up onto the couch. 

"Thank you for giving me this privilege, your majesty. A peasant like me, ha!" He throws his head back, briefly startling Steph into another laugh. "The town folk will not believe their eyes, a simple man like me, allowed by the side of a queen." Eddie presses a final kiss to her shoulder, and sits back. As Steph stares at him, he realizes his own outburst. 

"Too much?" he asks with a sheepish smile, fierce flush taking over his cheeks. 

"Just a little," Steph admits, pinching her fingers close together. Her face is tinted pink as well. "You know..." she trails off, falling against the back of the couch, their fingers still entwined. "I hated being called a king in high school, but... Queen sounds so much better." She lets her mouth curl into a small smile. 

 "Like something precious," Eddie catches on, leaning sideways so they can face each other. "Powerful yet feminine."

"Yeah." She nods absentmindedly. 

"How about princess?" he asks next. 

Guessing from how red Steph's face has gotten, she must have liked it. Eddie grins. 

"Well then, princess, I truly hope a humble bard like me can at least make you laugh. I may not know swordsmanship, but I know my way around a lute." He waggles his eyebrows. 

Steph pushes him away with a hand to his face and he falls backwards, cackling. 

"Didn't you say you were bisexual?" she asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Uh... Yeah?"

"So you should know both the lute and swordsmanship.... you know?" Steph extends both her index fingers and crosses them, miming a battle as if they were tiny swords. 

Eddie stares at her blankly. 

"Are those supposed to be penises?" he asks, flabbergasted. 

"Yes." She nods confidently, putting her hands back in her lap. 

"You're perfect, holy shit." Eddie scrambles to sit back up. "You compared dick to a sword and I'm supposed to not marry you?"

She scoffs. 

"Keep at it and you'll be sleeping on the couch." 

Eddie clutches at his chest.

"Already feeling like a married man. Be still, my heart!"

"Yep, it's couch for you." She stands up with finality. 

But when he holds her wrist, she goes back down easily, sinking into a kiss. Maybe the power to win arguments went both ways.

"Fine," she folds. "But we're sharing with Garfield."

"Well, where else would he sleep?"

ko-fi | Steddie masterpost

tags: @wheneverfeasible @steddieinthesun @hattsy-likes-pretty-stuff @bumblebeecuttlefishes @phantomcat94 @tartarusknight  @tinyplanet95 @steddiefication @estrellami-1 @disrespectedgoatman @madigoround @tartarusknight @blasvemous @cryptid-system @hiei-harringtonmunson @hellowhatthehellisgoingonhere @dreamercec @manliest-of-muppets @bookbinderbitch @marklee-blackmore  @icecat @rootbeerandmusic @mollymawkwrites @milojames16 @ellietheasexylibrarian @sadiea20

[shikaizer]

slip up. jujuwatkins x reader.

wc 1.7k

during one of your teams live, you accidentally exposed your relationship with juju watkins whos on the opposing team.

you always knew dating juju was risky, not because she wasnt worth it, God, she was so worth it, but because of the rivalry, the pressure, the eyes constantly watching both of you.

UConn versus USC, But still , she caught your heart like a no-look pass, and ever since that moment at Team camp, things had never been the same.

every stolen glance during practice. every whisper over facetime late at night, every quiet moment in hotel rooms when your teammates were asleep and you were curled up on the phone with her, just listening to her breathe.

nobody could know, thats what you both promised.

but your teammates found out eventually, maybe it was the way your phone always lit up with her name, maybe it was the secret smile you had whenever USC played and you saw her drop thirty like it was nothing, but your UConn girls, they knew, and surprisingly, they didnt judge, they actually protected your secret like it was their own.

“i mean, its juju watkins” Ice teased once “i'd risk my scholarship too.”

you laughed it off, because what else could you do? As long as the media didnt know, everything was fine.

but then came that night, you were chilling in your dorm, exhausted from back to back practices, some of the girls had just wrapped up a workout and decided to go on instagram live while you were half dozing on the common room couch, you didnt even realize the phone was rolling, you didnt notice the red circle, didnt hear the comments flooding in.

you were just... tired, tired and aching in the space only JuJu could fill, so when someone mentioned USC in passing, you sighed and mumbled, without even thinking “i miss juju so much…”

the room froze, you blinked, sat up “what?”

kk's eyes widened, nika slapped her forehead, ice started laughing “that was live” she said between gasps “that was on live, girl.”

your heart stopped “what?” the phone was still in kk’s hand, comments blowing up the screen like fireworks.

“Wait, JUJU WATKINS?”

“UConn girl dating USC???”

“NO WAY this ain’t real!”

“We need receipts!!”

“Did she just say she misses JuJu???”

panic set in. Your chest tightened. Your fingers trembled as you reached for your phone, already seeing the notifications.

texts from JuJu.

|babe??

|what happened???

|theyre tagging me like crazy right now…

|tell me whats going on.

|are you okay??

you didnt even know how to answer, the rest of the night was a blur, your Instagram was swarmed, people were either shipping you two like it was a damn fanfic or trashing you for “disrespecting the rivalry”

you curled up in your room, overwhelmed and silent, until your phone rang again, it was her.

you almost didnt pick up, almost, but her voice was the one thing that grounded you “hey.” you closed your eyes “im sorry, i didnt mean to—”

“i know” she said softly “i know you didnt”

you swallowed “they werent supposed to find out like that, i was tired, i wasnst even thinking…”

juju was quiet for a moment, then “you miss me?” your heart cracked open “so much it hurts.” she laughed gently, but it had a shaky edge to it “i miss you too, baby.”

You stayed on the phone for a long time that night, she made you laugh through your tears, told you she didnt care what anyone thought, that she’d be damned if she let the media take away what you had “let them talk” she said “we’ve been hiding too long.”

“but what about Coach? what about your team?”

“they dont pay rent in my heart” she said, her voice fierce now “you do.”

the next day, she posted a picture.

it was from that weekend in L.A, when you visited her under the radar you were in her hoodie, smiling into her neck, and she had her arms around you like she never wanted to let go.

Caption: " my love."

the internet went wild, your names trended for two straight days, USC’s media team had to release a statement, UConn’s PR scrambled to shift the story to the “power of love and sportsmanship” angle, but you?

you finally breathed, because after months of hiding in shadows, you could finally walk in the light with her.

and when UConn played USC later that month? The energy in the arena was electric, every camera was on you two when you locked eyes across the court, she winked, you smirked.

—ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

later That Night, the hotel room is dimly lit, warm and quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of the outside world, the city hums beyond the window, headlights flashing against the curtains, but none of it matters in here, in here, its just you and her, no cameras, no rivalry, no expectations, just the two of you and the weight of everything you held back for far too long.

she drops her duffel bag by the door, rolling her shoulders like shes finally letting go of the tension from the game, you watch her from where your sitting on the edge of the bed, your hoodie pulled over your knees, feeling the familiar ache in your chest, its the same feeling you always get when you have to love her in stolen moments, when time together is measured in whispers instead of forever.

she notices the candles flickering on the nightstand, the soft glow making shadows dance along the walls, a slow smile tugs at her lips.

“you remembered the candles” she murmurs, stepping closer.

you nod “figured we deserved a little peace.”

her eyes darken slightly as she stops in front of you, theres something different in the air now, charged, heavy with unspoken words, her fingers reach for your chin, tilting your face up to hers “this feels like home” she whispers.

“i hated leaving you after the game” you admit, your voice muffled against the fabric of her hoodie "every time i saw you out there, i just wanted to” you pause, breathing her in “i wanted to run to you.”

she kneels in front of you, her hands slipping under your hoodie, fingers tracing slow, familiar patterns against your skin “i felt the same way” she murmurs, her breath warm against your lips “every time we locked eyes, I forgot the scoreboard even existed.”

her confession makes your chest tighten, you cup her face, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones, memorizing the way she looks at you in this moment, completely yours “kiss me” you whisper.

she doesnt hesitate, the first kiss is slow, like shes relearning the shape of your lips, the way you sigh against her mouth, but theres something behind it, something deeper, more desperate, a kind of need that has been building for months, stretching between late night calls, secret hotel rooms, and quick touches stolen in empty hallways.

her hands slip under your hoodie again, pushing it up inch by inch until you lift your arms and let her pull it over your head, she stares at you, eyes dark and hungry, before she leans in again, her lips pressing to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your neck.

“you drive me crazy” she murmurs against your skin.

your fingers curl in the fabric of her hoodie, tugging her closer “then do something about it”

she laughs, a low sound that sends shivers down your spine, and then she’s pushing you back against the mattress, her body fitting perfectly between your legs, the kisses turn rougher, more urgent, her hands map out familiar territory, your ribs, your waist, the small of your back, until theres nothing between you but heat and longing.

clothes are shed slowly, deliberately, every inch of exposed skin is met with reverent touches, like shes worshipping you, her name tumbles from your lips in a breathless whisper when her mouth finds the places she knows drive you insane, she takes her time, drawing out every reaction, savoring every gasp and shudder like shes memorizing you all over again.

when she finally gives you what you need, its overwhelming, you arch into her touch, your hands tangled in the sheets, your breaths coming in broken, desperate whispers of her name, she holds you through it, her lips never straying far from yours, grounding you even as she completely unravels you.

the night stretches on, tangled limbs and whispered confessions, bodies moving in sync, slow and deep and intoxicating.

it’s love in its purest form, unhurried, consuming, endless.

by the time you collapse against her, breathless and spent, the city outside has quieted, her fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine, her lips pressing soft, lingering kisses to your temple.

“i wish every night could be like this” she murmurs, you smile sleepily, curling into her warmth “one day” you promise “it will be”

she tightens her arms around you, and for once, you let yourself believe

masterlist.

🔖 — @addl0vee @tndaqlwifwy @mrsarnold @melpthatsme @bellaprintz25 @janaelalfysblunt @ellehoops @belsoulss @apbueckers @uwupaige @janaelalfysloml @paige05bby @azzisbueckers @paigeluvvr @giavonnii @jupitermoonbaby @shootingstarrrrr @dalilahissilly @luldejamleer @d7dream @gabbyygoo @bravemode @latenighttalkinqwp

[ghstyles]

For Worse or For Worse

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. WC: 6.3K

. Masterlist

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Three days 

Three days and Harry was losing his mind. Why wasn’t she responding?

The silence stretched like an eternity. Harry paced the length of their bedroom, phone clutched in his hand as he checked, for what must have been the hundredth time that hour, to see if Y/N had responded to any of his increasingly frantic messages.

Nothing. Not since the brief text she'd sent when boarding her flight. Not a single call, message, or even a social media update to indicate she was okay.

"Fuck!" he swore, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Something's wrong, I know it."

Grumps looked up from his spot on Y/N's side of the bed, where he'd been sleeping since she left. The cat whined softly, as if sharing Harry's concern.

Harry glanced at the clock—3:17 AM. He'd barely slept since Y/N left, his mind spiraling between anger, worry, and a creeping fear he couldn't shake. Each scenario his brain conjured was worse than the last.

Had she changed her mind about them? Had she decided their relationship wasn't worth pursuing after all? Or was something actually wrong: an accident, an illness, or something that prevented her from reaching out?

He's tried everything—calls that go straight to voicemail, texts that remain unread, even DMs on social platforms that show no sign of being seen. He’d have emailed but he remembered how she once said she rarely checks her email. He’s contacted the airline to confirm her flight landed safely (it did), and considered, in increasingly desperate moments, calling her mother's landline. Only his awareness of how that might seem has stopped him so far. He'd even swallowed his pride and called Jeff, asking if there'd been any unexpected media about Y/N that might explain her silence.

Nothing. It was as if she'd vanished.

Harry dropped onto the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion and worry. Grumps shuffled over to rest his head on Harry's thigh, offering silent comfort.

"What if she's hurt?" he murmured, scratching behind the cat’s ears. "What if she needs me and I'm just sitting here like a fucking idiot?"

He groaned, falling back into the bed, the ache in his heart growing by the second.

What if the distance has given her perspective, made her realize that their relationship isn't what she wants after all? What if she's using this time away to figure out how to end things when she returns?

"No," he says aloud, rejecting the thought even as it threatens to take root. "That's not it. She wouldn't just disappear."

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Three days earlier - Immediately after landing

Y/N exits the plane, already fumbling in her bag for her phone to call Harry as promised. Her fingers brush against empty fabric where her phone should be, causing immediate panic to rise in her throat.

"No, no, no," she mutters, stepping aside in the jetway to more thoroughly search her bag while other passengers stream past her. She empties the contents: wallet, passport, lip balm, headphones, gum—but no phone.

A flight attendant notices her distress. "Everything alright, miss?"

"I can't find my phone," Y/N explains, trying to keep her voice steady. "I think I left it on the plane."

The attendant helps her look, checking under seats and in seat pockets, but the device is nowhere to be found. A sinking realization hits Y/N—she must have dropped it at the airport, or worse, on the street outside Harry's house during their goodbye.

"I'm so sorry, but we don't have any unclaimed phones," the attendant finally says. "You can leave your information at the lost and found desk."

Y/N nods, thanking the woman despite her growing distress. Harry will be expecting her call. He'll worry when she doesn't reach out.

As she makes her way through the airport, her mother's familiar figure comes into view, waiting beyond security with an excited wave.

"Y/N!" her mother exclaims, pulling her into a tight embrace. "Oh, how I've missed you!"

Y/N returns the hug, momentarily distracted from her phone predicament by the warmth of her mother's embrace.

"I've missed you too, Mom," she says, meaning it deeply despite the undercurrent of anxiety about not being able to contact Harry.

As they collect her luggage, Y/N explains the situation. "I need to call Harry right away. He's expecting to hear from me."

Her mother frowns slightly. "We can try when we get home, but the landline's been acting up since the storm last week. Cell service at the house has always been spotty too, you know that."

Y/N's stomach drops. The costal location of her family home suddenly feels like an insurmountable obstacle.

"Maybe we can stop somewhere on the way? I just need to let him know I'm okay."

"Of course, dear," her mother assures her, though Y/N can see the slight puzzlement in her expression. Her mother still isn't quite convinced that her relationship with Harry is as genuine as Y/N has recently claimed.

___

Day One - Evening

Y/N sits on her childhood bed, frustration mounting as she tries again to place a call from the ancient family computer. The internet connection keeps dropping, the video call attempt failing for the third time.

"Any luck?" her mother asks from the doorway.

Y/N shakes her head, fighting back tears of frustration. "The connection's too weak for a call. I tried sending an email, but I don't even know if it went through."

Her mother sits beside her, placing a comforting hand on her back. "The repair company said they can't get someone out here until after the New Year. But Mrs. Peterson down the road has better service. We can drive over tomorrow and use her phone."

"He must be so worried," Y/N whispers, imagining Harry checking his phone repeatedly, wondering why she hasn't called as promised.

"If he cares for you as much as you say, he'll understand once you explain," her mother says, though Y/N doesn't miss the note of skepticism in her voice. The lingering doubt that Harry Styles could genuinely care for her daughter beyond their contractual arrangement.

Y/N doesn't blame her mother for the doubt. Until recently, she might have shared it. But after Christmas, after seeing the vulnerability in Harry's eyes when he spoke of their future...

"He does care," Y/N says firmly, more to herself than to her mother. "And I need to let him know I'm okay."

___

Day Two

The drive to Mrs. Peterson's house ends in disappointment when they discover the elderly woman has gone to stay with her daughter for the holidays. The local library, their next hope, is closed for renovations.

"The general store has a payphone," Y/N's younger brother suggests during dinner. "Old-school, but it works."

Hope flares in Y/N's chest. "We'll go first thing tomorrow."

Her mother eyes her with growing concern. "You really are worried about him, aren't you? This isn't just about keeping up appearances?"

Y/N meets her mother's gaze steadily. "It's not about appearances, Mom. Not anymore."

For the first time, her mother seems to truly consider the possibility that her daughter's feelings for Harry might be genuine.

"Tell me about him," she requests softly. "The real him, not the celebrity."

Y/N finds herself smiling despite her anxiety, words flowing easily as she describes the Harry she's come to know. His kindness to Grumps, his unexpected cooking skills, the way he listens when she talks about her father, how he remembers the smallest details about things that matter to her.

By the time she finishes, her mother is looking at her with new understanding. "You love him," she says simply. It's not a question.

Y/N doesn't deny it, the truth of it settling in her chest with surprising certainty.

___

Day Three - Morning

The general store's payphone turns out to be out of order, a handwritten sign apologizing for the inconvenience. Y/N barely restrains herself from kicking the useless device in frustration.

"There's got to be some way to contact him," she insists, turning to her mother and brother who've accompanied her on this increasingly desperate quest.

Her brother snaps his fingers suddenly. "What about the internet café in Millfield? It's about an hour's drive, but they should be open."

Y/N nearly hugs him. "Yes! Let's go now."

Her mother hesitates. "The roads to Millfield aren't great after the storm—"

"Mom, please," Y/N interrupts, not bothering to hide the desperation in her voice. "I need to let Harry know I'm okay. He must be going out of his mind by now."

Something in her expression must convey the depth of her concern, because her mother's resistance crumbles.

"Alright," she agrees with a sigh. "But we're taking the SUV, and if the weather turns, we're turning back."

The drive to Millfield is tense, all three of them scanning the horizon for signs of more flooding. When they finally arrive at the small internet café, Y/N nearly leaps from the vehicle, rushing inside with renewed hope.

The café is dimly lit but mercifully open, a handful of computers lining the wall. Y/N approaches the counter, explaining her situation to the bored-looking teenager working the register.

"Twenty minutes for five dollars," he informs her, barely looking up from his own phone.

Y/N hands over the cash and settles at a computer, fingers flying over the keyboard as she logs into her email. She quickly types an email, explaining about her lost phone and the communication difficulties, apologizing repeatedly for the worry she's caused him.

Just as she's about to hit send, the lights flicker ominously. The teenager at the counter looks up with a grimace.

"Power's been going in and out all morning," he explains with a shrug. "Storm's messing with the lines."

Y/N increases her typing speed, desperate to get the message sent before—

The screen goes black as the power cuts completely, plunging the café into darkness except for the gray light filtering through the windows.

"No!" Y/N cries out, slapping the side of the monitor as if that might somehow revive it.

"Sorry," the teenager offers, sounding genuinely apologetic for the first time. "Backup generator's busted. Might be a while before it comes back on."

Y/N slumps in her chair, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. So close, yet still unable to reach Harry.

Her mother approaches, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We should head back before the roads get worse," she says softly. "We can try again tomorrow."

Y/N nods numbly, allowing herself to be led back to the car. As they drive home through increasingly heavy and dark clouds, she stares out the window, thinking of Harry alone in their house, checking his phone, wondering why she hasn't called.

"He thinks I've abandoned him," she whispers, more to herself than to her family. "That I've changed my mind."

Her mother reaches across to squeeze her hand. "If he loves you, he'll wait for an explanation."

Y/N turns to look at her mother, surprised by the certainty in her voice.

"Do you think he does?" she asks quietly. "Love me, I mean."

Her mother considers this for a moment, eyes on the snowy road ahead. "From what you've told me? Yes, I think he might. And if that's the case, a few days of silence won't change that. Trust me on this."

Y/N wants desperately to believe her mother is right. That the connection she and Harry have built is strong enough to withstand this unexpected test. As they make their slow way back to the family home, she sends a silent promise across the miles separating them: I'll find a way to reach you. Just hold on a little longer.

Knock knock knock

 The unexpected knock startled Y/N as she sat in her childhood bedroom, surrounded by old photos and memories. Three days without being able to contact Harry had left her anxious and frustrated. She'd tried using her mother's landline again, but no one answered at their mansion, and she didn't have his personal number memorized. A deliberate defiance in the beginning that she deeply regretted now.

Opening the door, she found a stiff-looking man in an expensive suit, briefcase in hand, his expression professionally neutral.

"Ms. Y/N? I'm the Styles family lawyer sent on their behalf."

Her heartbeat quickened. "Is Harry okay? I lost my phone at the airport and I've been trying to reach him."

The lawyer's expression didn't change as he held out a business card. "Mr. Thomas Blackwood, representing the Styles family interests. May I come in? This is a rather private matter."

Confusion and unease settled in her stomach as she stepped aside. "Of course."

Once seated at her mother's small kitchen table, Mr. Blackwood opened his sleek leather briefcase with methodical precision. He removed a thick manila envelope and a separate document folder bound with a ribbon.

"Mrs. Styles," he began formally, "I've been instructed to deliver these to you directly. The first is a cashier's check for the agreed-upon amount as stipulated in your marriage contract with Mr. Styles."

He slid the envelope across the table. Y/N stared at it, her confusion mounting.

"I don't understand. The contract isn't up for months."

Blackwood's expression remained impassive. "The family has elected to fulfill the financial obligations early. The second item," he continued, placing the bound document before her, "is a petition for uncontested divorce, which the family requests you sign immediately."

The word "divorce" hit Y/N like a physical blow. She stared at the papers, her mind struggling to process what was happening.

"Divorce? But Harry and I just—we decided to—" She stopped herself, unwilling to share the intimate details of Christmas with this stranger. "This doesn't make any sense. I need to speak with Harry."

"I'm afraid Mr. Styles has made his wishes quite clear," Blackwood replied, his tone revealing nothing. "The family believes this arrangement has served its purpose, and continuance would be...unnecessary."

A chill ran through Y/N as the lawyer's words sank in. Harry wanted out? After everything they'd shared? After promising to tear up the contract and try for something real?

Her fingers shook as she reached for the divorce papers, flipping through to see Harry's signature already there on the last page. The sight of it—that familiar scrawl she'd seen countless times on notes he'd left around the house—felt like a betrayal so profound it stole her breath.

"When did he sign these?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm not privy to that information," Blackwood replied smoothly. "I was simply instructed to obtain your signature and inform you that the family appreciates your discretion throughout this process."

"Who sent you here?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.

For the first time, a flicker of discomfort crossed the lawyer's face. "I represent the Styles family interests as a whole. Now, if you could sign where indicated—"

Y/N's thoughts raced. Could Harry really have agreed to this? After the way he'd held her, the vulnerability in his eyes when he'd asked her to come back to him?

But the evidence was right in front of her.

His signature

The lawyer

The check

Had it all been an act? Had he been planning this all along, waiting until she was away to send someone else to do his dirty work?

Hot tears threatened, but she refused to let them fall. Not in front of this man, this messenger for a family that had always seen her as beneath them.

Something cold and hard settles in her chest as she realizes the truth: she'd fallen in love with a man who had apparently been counting the days until he could end their arrangement. While she'd been desperately trying to contact him, worried sick about how her silence might be affecting him, he'd been preparing divorce papers.

"Ms. Y/N?" the lawyer prompts, his impatience barely concealed beneath his professional veneer. "If you have concerns about the settlement terms, I can review them with you, but Mr. Styles has been quite generous."

Of course he has, Y/N thinks bitterly. Money has never been an issue for Harry. It's always been about what he can buy with it. Including, apparently, a convenient temporary wife who was foolish enough to believe she might become something more.

Her mother hovers in the doorway, clearly distressed by the scene unfolding in her living room. "Y/N, honey, maybe you should think about this. Wait until you can speak with Harry directly—"

"There's nothing to discuss," Y/N interrupts, her voice steadier than she expected as she reaches for the pen. "This was always the arrangement. A business deal."

The lawyer nods approvingly as she signs her name beside Harry's, the finality of the action sending a wave of nausea through her.

Each scratch of the pen felt like another crack in her heart. By the time she signed the final page, Y/N felt hollow inside, the pain so acute it had circled around to numbness.

"Excellent," Blackwood said, gathering the documents with practiced efficiency. "The divorce should be finalized within six to eight weeks, given the prenuptial agreement and the uncontested nature. The funds are yours to keep regardless, as stipulated in your original contract."

Y/N barely hears him, her eyes fixed on the coffee table where the document had been moments before. Had she imagined the past few months? The gradual softening between them, the genuine connection that had formed beneath the contractual obligation?

"Is there anything else you need from me?" she asks, desperate now for this man to leave, to take his briefcase and his paperwork and his clinical dismantling of her heart away with him.

"No, that's all," he confirms, standing and extending his hand for a formal shake that Y/N mechanically returns. "On behalf of the Styles family, I wish you all the best. They appreciate your cooperation in this matter."

The Styles family. Not Harry specifically. Something about the phrasing nags at the back of her mind, but she's too numb to examine it closely.

After he left, Y/N sat motionless at the table, staring at the envelope containing the check. 

The price tag for her heart, apparently. 

As her mother shows the lawyer out, Y/N remains seated, staring blankly ahead. The tears will come back later, she knows. Right now, she's suspended in a state of shock that mercifully dulls the edges of her pain.

Her mother returns, sitting beside her and taking her hand in a gentle grip. "Oh, sweetheart. I'm so sorry."

Y/N turns to her, confusion and hurt warring in her expression. "He didn't even wait to tell me himself. To explain why."

Her mother's face darkens with anger. "That's not the action of someone who cared about you, despite what you told me."

The words sting because they force Y/N to confront the possibility that she'd been wrong. That the moments of tenderness, of apparent genuine connection, had been manufactured by a man accustomed to playing whatever role was required of him.

"I thought—" she begins, but her voice cracks as the first tears finally break through her shock. "I really thought he..."

She can't finish the sentence, can't admit aloud how completely she'd been fooled. Her mother pulls her into a tight embrace, murmuring soothing words as Y/N finally allows herself to break down, her body shaking with the force of her sobs.

Slowly, the sadness began to recede, replaced by a building anger. How dare he? How dare Harry make her believe they had something real, only to discard her like this—sending a lawyer while she was hundreds of miles away, unable to even confront him?

Fine. If this was what Harry wanted, she'd give it to him. She wouldn't call again. She wouldn't beg for explanations. She'd take the money—money she desperately needed for her mother's medical bills—and she'd move on with her life, just as she'd always planned to do once their arrangement ended.

___

Back in London, Harry's phone chimed with an incoming call from his mother. He considered ignoring it. He wasn't in the mood for another lecture about Y/N's continued absence but reluctantly answered on the fourth ring.

"Mother," he greeted tersely, exhaustion evident in his voice.

"Harry, darling," Anne's voice was unusually warm, almost triumphant. "I’m so happy. How did you get rid of her so soon? How did you get her to not only sign but initiate the divorce"

Harry's blood ran cold. "What are you talking about?"

“What? You didn’t hear? Our lawyer just called and said Y/N called him and asked for the divorce papers to sign. Since you had signed them from the beginning it was easy. She even took the check. This calls for a celebration!” 

Harry felt like his heart was being ripped out. It didn’t help that Grumps was purring in his lap

Harry felt the floor drop out from beneath him, his mother's words hitting like physical blows. His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white.

"What. Divorce. Papers?" he managed to get out, each word clipped and sharp.

Anne's laugh tinkled through the speaker, light and unconcerned. "Oh, don't play coy, darling. The ones you signed months at the beginning. We always kept them ready for when she inevitably showed her true colors."

Harry's mind raced, trying to make sense of what his mother was saying. Papers he'd signed months ago? He vaguely remembered signing a stack of documents Jeff had presented early in their marriage—something about asset protection that seemed standard at the time.

"You...you had divorce papers drawn up without telling me?" The realization dawned slowly, horror creeping through his veins like ice water.

"Of course I did," Anne replied, her tone suggesting this was perfectly reasonable. "I was protecting you, as I've always done. And thank goodness I did! The moment she's away from you, she's calling our lawyers, asking about money and divorce. Just as I predicted."

Grumps shifted in Harry's lap, whining softly as he sensed the tension in his human's body. Harry absently stroked the cat's head, trying to steady himself as rage and disbelief battled for dominance.

"She contacted our lawyers? When?"

"Today! Thomas just called me. Said she was surprisingly eager to sign everything. Barely even read the papers. Just wanted to know where to sign and if she could keep the money." Anne's voice dripped with satisfaction. "I told you she was only after your fortune, darling."

Harry's free hand curled into a fist, his breathing becoming shallow as the implications sank in. Something didn't add up. The Y/N who'd melted into his arms on Christmas Eve, who'd looked at him with such tenderness before leaving for her trip. That woman wouldn't do this. Not without a word of explanation. Not without at least the courtesy of a conversation.

But a treacherous voice in the back of his mind whispers: Wouldn't she? After three days of silence? After leaving with barely a backward glance? Perhaps this is the reason she hasn't called. She's been planning her exit strategy all along.

"Did she say why?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice level. "Why she suddenly wanted a divorce?"

"Does it matter?" Anne dismissed. "The important thing is we're rid of her. I've already called the PR team to prepare a statement about an amicable separation. We'll need to get ahead of any narrative she might try to spin."

"Where is she now?" he demands, pushing the doubts aside. "I need to speak with her directly."

Anne's laugh is light and dismissive. "That's the beauty of it, darling. She specifically requested no contact. Thomas said she was quite clear about that. And really, it's for the best. Clean break and all that."

Harry stops pacing, a terrible coldness spreading through his chest. "You're lying," he says again, but with less conviction this time. "This has your fingerprints all over it. What did you do, Mother?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry. She wanted out. Thomas said she practically snatched the pen from his hand."

The image of Y/N eagerly signing away their marriage cuts him deeper than he would have thought possible even a few weeks ago.

"I don't believe you," he says, though uncertainty threads through his voice now. "Y/N wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't what? Take the money and run? That's exactly what that sort of girl does, Harry. I told you from the start—"

"Stop!" Harry interrupts, his voice rising to a shout that startles Grumps into darting from the room. "Don't you dare speak about her like that. You don't know her. You've never even tried to know her."

There's a loaded silence on the line before Anne speaks again, her voice tight with controlled anger.

"I know enough. And apparently, so did she. The papers are signed, Harry. It's done. You should be thanking me for facilitating such a clean exit from what was clearly becoming a messy situation."

Harry closes his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose as he tries to regain control of his emotions. The betrayal cut deeper than he'd thought possible. Had he been such a fool? Had their connection been nothing more than his imagination? The memory of Y/N's smile, the warmth of her skin against his, the way she'd promised to return to him—had it all been a lie?

"I have to go," he said abruptly, unable to bear his mother's triumphant tone for another second.

"Shall I come over? We could open that bottle of Cristal I've been saving—"

"No," he cut her off sharply. "No, I...I need to be alone right now."

He hung up without waiting for her response, letting the phone slip from his fingers onto the couch beside him. Grumps looked up, concerned by the sudden stillness that had overtaken his human.

Harry sat in stunned silence, trying to reconcile the Y/N he thought he knew with the woman his mother described. The calculating, mercenary who was only interested in what she could get from him.

It didn't track. None of it made sense. The Y/N who'd challenged him at every turn, who'd seen through his defenses and called him on his bullshit. She wouldn't take the coward's way out. She wouldn't avoid confrontation like this.

Unless...unless she'd never felt what he thought she had. Unless Christmas had been a momentary weakness, and distance had given her clarity.

The thought twisted in his gut like a knife. Harry pushed Grumps gently off his lap and stood, needing to move, to do something with the energy coursing through him. He paced the living room, mind racing between hurt, anger, and confusion.

If she wanted out so badly, why not just tell him to his face? Why the silent treatment, the sneaking around with lawyers while he'd been going out of his mind with worry?

Harry grabbed his phone again, dialing Y/N's number even knowing it was futile. The familiar automated message played: "The number you have dialed is not in service..."

Of course. How convenient.

A surge of anger propelled him across the room to the bar cart, where he poured himself a generous measure of whiskey. He downed it in one burning swallow, welcoming the heat that spread through his chest—anything to counteract the cold emptiness taking root there.

His mother's words echoed in his head: "She was surprisingly eager to sign everything." The image of Y/N calmly signing away their marriage while he'd been losing sleep over her safety made his stomach turn.

Harry poured another drink, his movements growing more aggressive as hurt crystallized into anger. Fine. If this was what she wanted, he wouldn't chase her. He wouldn't beg. He had his pride, after all—what was left of it after falling for someone who clearly saw him as nothing more than a meal ticket.

He raised his glass in a bitter toast to the empty room. "To freedom, then," he muttered, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

As the alcohol began to dull the edges of his pain, Harry's phone lit up with a text from Jeff:

"Just heard from Anne. Need to discuss statement ASAP. Available tomorrow morning?"

Harry stared at the message, reality sinking in with crushing weight. This was happening. Y/N had signed divorce papers. Their marriage was over before it had really begun.

He didn't respond to Jeff's text. Instead, he took his drink and walked out to the balcony overlooking the darkened garden. The night air was cold, biting at his skin, but he welcomed the discomfort. It was better than the hollowness spreading through him.

Somewhere, miles away, Y/N was probably celebrating her newfound freedom—and wealth. The thought made him drain his glass, the burn of alcohol no match for the burn of betrayal.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

In her mother's small house, Y/N sat on the edge of her childhood bed, staring blankly at the wall. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, but the tears had finally stopped, leaving behind a numb emptiness that seemed to echo through her entire body.

Her mother had offered comfort, outrage, and finally practical advice: "Sleep on it. Things often look clearer in the morning."

But Y/N doubted any amount of sleep would make this situation clearer. Harry had signed divorce papers—had them ready and waiting. While he'd been holding her, kissing her, making her believe they had a future, he'd already prepared for their end.

And he couldn't even face her himself. Instead, he'd waited until she was hundreds of miles away, vulnerable and unreachable, to send his lawyer to do his dirty work.

The betrayal cut so deep precisely because she'd begun to believe in him.

In them

She'd let down her guard, allowed herself to hope for something real, only to have that hope shattered in the most humiliating way possible.

Y/N glanced at the envelope containing the cashier's check, still sitting unopened on her nightstand. Part of her wanted to tear it up, to reject his blood money and the implications that came with it. But the practical part of her—the part that remembered her mother's mounting medical bills and the mortgage payments she'd fallen behind on. Knew she couldn't afford such a gesture.

He'd bought her, used her, and now he was discarding her with a payout. Just as their arrangement had always intended. The fact that she'd foolishly begun to believe it was more was her own fault.

Tomorrow, she decided, she would deposit the check. She would call her mother's doctor and arrange to pay off the outstanding bills. She would contact the mortgage company and bring the payments current.

And then? Then she would figure out how to piece her heart back together.

For now, though, she simply lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling as the weight of everything she'd lost pressed down on her chest until it became difficult to breathe.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

One month crawled by, each day bleeding into the next with a sameness that should have been numbing but somehow wasn't. The pain remained fresh, a wound that refused to heal.

Harry stood at the window of his studio, guitar abandoned on the couch behind him. He'd been trying to write—something, anything to channel the maelstrom of emotions that had been his constant companion since that phone call with his mother. The pages of his notebook remained stubbornly blank, save for a few crossed-out lines, coffee stains, and tear stains.

Jeff had been pushing for a public statement about the divorce. The PR team had drafted three different versions, each more sanitized than the last. 

"mutual decision" 

"remain friends"

"ask for privacy during this time" 

All the usual celebrity divorce platitudes that said nothing while pretending to say something.

Harry had rejected them all. Announcing the divorce felt too...final. As if speaking it into existence would somehow make it more real than it already was. As if there would be no coming back from it once the world knew.

His phone buzzed on the table, probably Jeff again, wondering why the statement wasn't approved yet. Harry ignored it, taking another sip of cold coffee instead.

Sleep had become a distant acquaintance, visiting briefly and unreliably in the small hours of the morning. Dark circles had taken up permanent residence under his eyes, and his usually meticulous appearance had given way to an unkempt beard and wrinkled clothes.

The house felt impossibly empty without her. Even with Grumps moving around, scratching occasionally at Y/N's closed closet door, the silence was deafening. Harry found himself accidentally making tea for two, setting out two plates for dinner, turning to share a thought with someone who wasn't there.

The anger had faded somewhat, leaving behind a confused hurt that was almost worse. In his darker moments, he imagined Y/N living it up somewhere, spending his money, laughing about how easily she'd played him. But those thoughts never lasted long. They didn't align with the woman he knew. The woman who'd challenged him, surprised him, seen through his carefully constructed walls.

Something still didn't add up. In his more lucid moments, usually after the first coffee of the day but before exhaustion set in again, Harry would try to piece together what had happened. His mother's triumphant tone. The divorce papers he apparently signed months ago. Y/N's sudden decision to end things without so much as a conversation.

He'd tried calling her mother's house twice more, hanging up when the answering machine picked up. Pride and hurt kept him from leaving a message. What would he even say? "Why did your daughter rip my heart out? Was any of it real?"

With a sigh, Harry picked up his phone, scrolling to his last photo of Y/N. Taken on Christmas Eve, her face illuminated by the firelight, a soft smile playing at her lips as she looked at something off-camera. His thumb hovered over the delete button, as it had dozens of times over the past month. And, as always, he couldn't bring himself to press it.

Instead, he put the phone down and reached for his guitar again. Maybe today the words would come.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

In her mother's modest house, Y/N sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by paperwork. Medical bills marked "PAID," mortgage statements showing a zero balance, and a stack of brochures from nearby community colleges.

The money from Harry had done what it was supposed to do: provide financial stability and a fresh start. Her mother's medical bills were paid in full, the mortgage was current with a buffer, and there was enough left over for Y/N to consider going back to school. Something that had seemed like an impossible dream just months ago.

By all accounts, she should have felt relieved, even happy. The weight of financial worry that had been her constant companion for years had lifted. She should have been celebrating her freedom, her new beginning.

Instead, she felt hollow. The relief of financial security couldn't fill the void that Harry's absence had left. The house that had once been her safe haven now felt like a cage, each room filled with memories she couldn't escape—her father's death, her mother's illness, and now, the bitter end of what she'd foolishly begun to believe was a real relationship.

Her mother entered the kitchen, moving much more easily now after a month of proper physical therapy. She took one look at Y/N's face and sighed.

"You're thinking about him again," she observed, not unkindly.

Y/N shook her head, gathering the papers into a neat stack. "Just organizing."

"Mm-hmm," her mother hummed disbelievingly, sitting down across from her. "You know, for someone who's supposedly relieved to be out of a fake marriage, you've been doing an awful lot of sighing and staring into space."

"I'm fine," Y/N insisted, the words so practiced they came automatically now. "Just tired."

Her mother reached across the table, placing a weathered hand over Y/N's. "Sweetheart, I've known you your entire life. I know when you're heartbroken."

Y/N pulled her hand away, standing abruptly. "I'm not heartbroken. I'm angry. There's a difference."

"Is there?" her mother asked softly.

Y/N didn't answer, busying herself with making tea she didn't want just to have something to do with her hands. The truth was, she didn't know what she felt anymore. The hurt and betrayal had become so familiar they were almost comforting in their constancy.

Her phone, a new one, with a new number, chimed with a notification. For a split second, her heart leapt with the irrational hope that somehow, impossibly, it might be Harry. But of course, it wasn't. It was just a reminder about an upcoming doctor's appointment for her mother.

Y/N stared at the screen, trying to ignore the crushing disappointment. This was her life now. Practical. Responsible. Safe. No more fantasy, no more pretending she belonged in Harry's world. To Harry

So why couldn't she stop wondering what he was doing? Why did she still reach for her phone instinctively when she saw something that would make him laugh? Why did she still wake up in the middle of the night, reaching across an empty bed for someone who had never really been hers to begin with?

The kettle whistled, startling her from her thoughts. She poured the boiling water over a tea bag, watching the color seep out in swirling tendrils. Like her life with Harry—vibrant and beautiful, but ultimately just something temporary dissolving away.

Her mother watched her with knowing eyes but said nothing more. They both knew there was nothing left to say. Whatever had happened between Y/N and Harry was over. All that remained was to move forward. Even if moving forward felt like walking through quicksand, each step requiring more energy than she had to give.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

A/N: So…the weather?

I know this is shorter than usual, but I wanted to get this one out first before proceeding with the rest. I promise it gets better 🙏🏻

hehe

Taglist: @mysunflowerposts @lydiasfalling @panini @ell0ra-br3kk3r @donutsandpalmtrees @sunshinemoonsposts @angeldavis777 @fangirl509east @maudie-duan @indierockgirrl @harryssunflower17 @lizsogolden @daphnesutton @spinninc @behindmygreyeyes @wheredidmyeyesgo @matildasatellite @drewrry @inlikea-coolway @jerseygirlinca

[dashbag-art]

I was finally able to finish my first Mel fic🥹 it was inspired by this song

Masterpiece

Melissa Schemmenti x artist!fem!reader

Summary: After a long day of renovations in Abbot, your creative ego was offended, and Melissa decided to show you exactly how much she loves and supports you.

Warnings: Smut 👀😏

"Ava?! Are you serious?!" The teachers exclaimed.

It all started just a week before the start of the school year. Principal Coleman started the staff meeting with tales about her summer vacation, but then suddenly hit the teachers with the news about classroom renovation. No one expected those news...

"Absolutely. The district won't give us any money to hire the workers. We don't have enough budget for that, and you all keep complaining about how shitty your classrooms look. So we only have two options. You can all continue to teach without any renovation, or you can paint the walls by yourself." Ava shrugged. "I will purchase the cheap supplies, and you have the whole week to do it. It's like a hella amount of time."

"Ava, that's ridiculous!" Janine exclaimed. "This week is for the preparations, not for painting the walls! Are you telling every one teacher to paint their classroom by themselves?"

"You can share if you want extra work, dummy..." Ava rolled her eyes. "Or you can ask your imaginary friends to come and help you for free. You decide what you want to do, I don't care. The meeting is over."

With that, principal Coleman left the gym. But the problem stayed. The classrooms needed to be painted, and the teachers had to decide what they're gonna do next.

"I can't believe Ava did that to us..." Janine sadly told the group of coworkers.

"Did you expect somethin' else from Miss 'I spent the month drunk in the five-star hitel's pool'? Or did you want some actual decisions from Miss 'I lost my Gucci sunglasses in the hookah bar in Vegas'? Both of them are our irresponsible boss, don't forget that." Melissa chuckled, scrolling her phone.

"Well, Ava did actually offer a solution. I definitely would not paint my walls alone... I'll ask Gerald for help." Barbara shook her head.

"That's brilliant, I'll ask my girlfriend. I think she's free for this week." Melissa said, putting her glasses away.

"Well, you're lucky. You have partners! I gotta do it all by myself..." Jacob threw his hands in the air.

"Oh my God! I have a boyfriend too!" Janine almost jumped in excitement.

"Um...I'm sorry to ruin your expectations, but I also have a classroom to paint..." Gregory said softly. "B-but I can help you when I'm done!" He tried to cheer Janine up.

"Okay, I'm tired of this whole thing, I'm goin' home. See yous tomorrow when all this execution will start. Barb, do you need a lift?" Melissa stood up, gathering her bag and jacket.

"Thank you, dear!" Barbara followed her friend. "Goodbye, everyone!"

The next day, the teachers gathered in the school. They were moving chairs and desks, putting boxes with books and materials away from the classrooms to prepare everything for the renovation. Ava asked Mr. Johnson to deliver buckets of paint, brushes, and paint rollers to the teachers so everyone could start working. Janine looked out from her classroom to see Melissa standing in front of the opened doors of her classroom, typing something on her phone.

"Hey, Melissa! Why aren't you painting?"

"I'm waitin' for my girlfriend. I ain't climbin' the ladder, pipsqueak." Melissa answered without looking up from her phone. Right in time, the front doors opened, and you came in. Melissa waved, waiting for you. "She's with me!" She yelled across the hall to the security.

When you came to her, redhead hugged your waist, kissing your cheek. "Hi, baby."

"Hi, Mel." You smiled back at her.

"Oh, Melissa, is that your girlfriend?" Janine looked you up and down surprised.

"No, I'm her uncle." You rolled your eyes, grinning at the redhead.

"Hah! That's a good one, babe." Melissa grinned back at you. "Yes, shorty, that's Y/N, she's my girlfriend. But I ain't explainin' anything else, go mind your own business."

And with that, Melissa pulled you into her classroom, leaving Janine alone with the newfound fact. When she explained everything you needed to know about the renovation, you took off your jacket and rolled the sleeves of your old shirt that was already covered in paint stains from the artistic activities of yours. Melissa was moving small boxes and chairs while watching you towering on the ladder with a paint roller in your hands. She had to admit that you looked incredibly sexy standing on top of the ladder, focused on painting carefully, hands covered in paint splashes, brows frowned. She liked watching you paint your artworks at home. You used to dive deep into the process, so she wasn't afraid to be caught watching you. She was impressed when you first showed her the paintings. She's already told you millions of times how incredibly talented you were to create characters and worlds from scratch and to imprint different complex emotions on the canvas. But you never listened to her. You didn't think highly about your artwork, as you always thought about it as a hobby. Your family used to tell you that you need to find a real job and do real things instead of wasting paint and money. Melissa was the first person to really support your hobby. It all started from silly sketches on the napkins that you would put in her bag during the coffee shop dates, and now she lets you settle your painting studio in her garage and model for your studies.

Suddenly, Melissa was pulled out of her thoughts by two inseparable, annoying coworkers.

"Oh, wow, Melissa, your ceiling looks much cleaner than mine! I got it all stained with the paint." Jacob said, peeking in the doorframe.

"Yeah, and how you don't have any splashes on the floor? When I'm painting, all the paint drips down on the floor..." Janine looked surprised, examining the classroom.

"Well, because my classroom is getting painted by a very careful girl." Melissa winked at you, spotting how you blushed.

"Oh, hi dear! Y/N, how lovely to see you here!" Barbara suddenly appeared in the doorframe, waving at you.

"Hello, Barbara!" You waved back, going down the ladder.

"I shall tell you, the portrait you drew was incredible. My sister loved it very much! Thank you again."

"No problem, I'm happy she liked the present." You simply smiled, not being used to public praise in front of strangers.

"Wait, what portrait?" Janine asked.

"Y/N is an artist. A couple of weeks ago, I asked her if she could draw a portrait of my sister for her birthday. The painting was incredible!"

"You are an artist? No doubts why the walls are so accurately painted!" Janine joked.

"Wait, what?" You turned to face the second-grade teacher.

"Well, you're skilled, that's why you paint the walls so accurately..." Janine tried to explain.

"Janine, stop..." Melissa interrupted her coworker.

"Are you saying that I'm painting the walls accurately just because I'm an artist and I've got skills of moving a brush with paint across some surface?"

"Well, yes... It comes naturally for you. No?"

"Well, I'm sorry to destroy your theories, but painting walls has nothing to do with what I draw. The walls texture and canvas have nothing in common. The tools I'm using aren't the same you use for painting walls. Why do I even need to explain it to you?"

"Babe, calm down, don't listen to her." Melissa tried to calm you down by putting her hand on your lower back. "Janine, go mind your own business. You, Jacob, too."

You threw the last stern look at the woman before she went away.

"Babe, I'm sorry for what she said. She doesn't know what she's talking about." Melissa hugged you, drawing circles with her hand on your lower back. "Forget what she said."

"Okay..." You muttered quietly in the crook of her neck.

At the same time, in Janine's classroom, the second-grade teacher was pacing around the ladder, waiting for Gregory to come and help her paint the borderline between the walls and the ceiling.

"Janine, what happened? I heard some noise from Melissa's classroom." Gregory asked, walking in.

"Yeah...um...there's Melissa's girlfriend, Y/N, in there. And she kinda helps Melissa paint the walls. And...so...appeared she's the artist. And I just praised her work, that's all."

"What exactly did you say?"

"Well... something like that's the reason why she painted the walls so good, because she's a professional, its natural for her. That's what I said. I didn't say anything offensive, but she was so defensive..."

"Well, you basically said that drawing artworks is the same as painting walls... Did you know that people actually study before they can paint walls professionally and work with a renovation team? And it's not the same as drawing portraits. You need different skills for both activities." Gregory shrugged.

"How did you know she draws portraits?"

"A week ago, Barbara might have told me about that birthday present she purchased from Melissa's mysterious girlfriend... I didn't ask. She was just too excited not to share."

"Okay.. but I still don't understand why she got so offended?"

"Alright. Let's say... someone you don't know came to you and asked you to explain them trigonometry and chemistry of the 9th grade. Would you do it?"

"No, because I'm a second grade teacher. I can teach them about the solar system."

"Yes, and then they tell you that you should know that, because you're a teacher, it shall be natural for you to know everything. What a teacher are you, if you can't teach someone? Even if you don't specialize in that... You can't know exactly why Y/N got so defensive, but the thing you said offended her."

"Okay, I got it... I shall apologize to Y/N." Janine said and left the room. She immediately saw you walking towards Melissa's classroom as you've just washed your hands in the bathroom after finishing painting.

"Hey, Y/N!" Janine exclaimed, drawing your attention. "I'm sorry for what I said."

"Okay..." You still wasn't impressed by the apology. "You shall know that my skill of painting walls has nothing to do with my drawing skills. My parents used to do renovations all on their own. And they would make me participate since I was a little girl, saying that i shall put my artistic interest to some good use. They would say, 'Hey, we've got a task for a real artist!' And then they would make me paint walls and doorframes. So I simply had to learn a thing or two from them, I had no choice. That's why I do it so well." You said and disappeared into Melissa's classroom.

By the end of the day, you helped Melissa clean all the dust and move the furniture back to its place. You were waiting next to the car for her to say goodbye to Barbara. You still were a little sad because of what redhead's coworker told you. Even after all Melissa's support, you still felt insecure about your paintings, and Janine's words cut you deep, revealing all the doubts you got from years of making fun of. The thoughts were spiraling in your head. You had all the fights with your parents about your interest on loop, so you simply didn't notice as redhead came to you, fidgeting the car keys in her hand.

"Are you hanging here all alone, beautiful?" Melissa joked. "Hey, are you alright? Is it because I asked you to help?"

"Huh? No, no, it's not. I was glad to help. There was no way I would let you climb the ladder, woman." You tried to joke back. "I think I'm just a little tired."

"Oh. Does my girl want to have a little romantic evening as a payback for her help?" Melissa stroked your hand, intertwining your fingers. You simply nodded, squeezing her hand in yours. "Okay, baby, let's go home and have some nice dinner."

The ride was quiet. You enjoyed the sound of Melissa humming some familiar tunes. When you came back home, the redhead cooked you an amazing dinner. All her cooking was incredible. She was an amazing cook. After dinner was finished and dishes were washed, you enjoyed the company of each other while sipping on wine. You curled in her side. She had her arm draped over your shoulders. Melissa's steady breathing and warmth of her chest calmed you, but still thoughts were spiraling in your head. You were pulled out of your head by soft kisses to the top of your head.

"Hon, you're so distant tonight. What's going on in this creative mind of yours?" Melissa asked, hugging you.

"I dunno, I just feel a little bit down tonight." You shrugged.

"Y/N, is it 'cause of that Janine incident?" She looked dead in your eyes.

"Yeah... I know I should forget about it, but her words somehow got deep in my mind, and now I'm rotting from inside..." You looked down where her fingers intertwined yours. "I just keep remembering my parents' words and how they've talked about my art and everything. No one ever took my art seriously. For everyone, it was just a funny hobby. So now, every time I look at my paintings, I simply don't see anything good, always see the mistakes. For some reason, people think that if you're an artist, then you should be good at any creative activities. And it's so frustrating for me. It's like I'm back at my parents' house and being told that the only thing my artistic skills are good for is painting walls..." You looked down as the single tear dropped down your cheek.

"Hon..." Melissa hurried to wipe the wet road off of your cheek, cupping it. "You don't have to listen to anyone. You've put so much effort into that. You've been working so hard to improve your skills. I've seen your artworks and they're incredible! It's okay to see mistakes in your paintings, 'cause you have the whole image in you head, you know a lot so you can spot the mistakes, but it doesn't make your art bad. It gives you the opportunity to improve your techniques in the next piece. People only see the result, they don't know the idea, so they can only judge the final art. And I know that your art is amazing. And people also don't know a shit. Anyone who's ever made fun of you were just jealous, that all. They were trying to make you feel miserable so you would quit your thing. Because they feel that they can not do the same. But you can. You need to be stronger, bolder, to show people that you really love what you're doing and nothing can change your mind!" To put an end to her thought, she kissed your forehead and smiled at you.

And you were ready to drown in her soft green eyes that were looking at you with unimaginable love and support. You've never felt like this in your life. No one ever fought for you like Melissa did. The way she was so passionate about supporting you felt so warm and safe for you. It's like you were finally seen and heard. An, what's more important, you were loved. Every bit of your existence was loved by the redhead woman in front of you.

"Thank you, Mel. I love you." You smiled at her, wrapping your arms around her neck.

"I love you too, Y/N." She smiled back and kissed you.

The kiss was soft and slow at first. Both of you were pouring every ounce of love you had for each other into this dance of lips. But then you felt Melissa getting bolder and hungrier. The kissing got faster, messier. Melissa brought you closer, holding your waist. Her full, soft lips were capturing yours with force. You got drunk on her smell and taste. You buried your fingers in her auburn hair, scratching the scalp, bringing her closer than it was possible. Once her hand got under your shirt, she stopped the kiss and looked in your eyes. Her pupils were blown, eyes got almost black.

"I'm gonna tell the dumbest thing..." She put her hand on your thigh. "You've got an artist inside you. Tonight, let the artist inside me be you... Baby, paint me like a canvas. I want to see you dripping colors on the bedsheets." She was whispering in your ear. Her hot breath tickled the sensitive skin.

"Melissa..." You almost whined under her.

"I want you to dip your brush into my pallet and make a mess tonight."

"Jesus Christ..." You gripped her thighs, closing eyes."That's the hottest thing someone's ever told me."

"And you know what? You never let the paint run dry..." She looked seductively in your eyes and licked her kiss-swollen lips.

"Bed. Now."

Melissa took your hand, jumped off the couch, and almost ran up the stairs to the bedroom. When the door closed behind you, she pulled you on top of her, falling on the bed. The kiss never stopped. The clothes dropped down on the floor. You both were craving bare skin contact, gripping, touching, caressing, and scratching. You wanted to feel every inch of soft skin. You remembered what she said. "Paint me like a canvas..." And paint you did. You left the road of open-mothed kisses, red hikeys and light bites from her lips to her breasts, kneaded the supple flesh of her full breasts, traced small patterns around her nipples taking each one in your mouth. You sucked them, kissed them, bit them, pulling more and more whines and moans from Melissa. She was holding you by the back of your head, never letting go. When you gave one of her nipples a harder suck she arched her back, moaning out a high "Baby, please..."

"Mel, come sit on my face." You told her getting up from her chest.

She quickly changed places with you, leaving you laying on the bed and cradling up to your face. When she put both of her thighs around your head, you hugged hot, soft flesh and gave her inner thighs quick kisses. You looked up, spotting the most gorgeous sight. Melissa was looking down at you with eyes full of lust and adoration. Her hair was a mess, cascading down her shoulders and chest. Perky nipples were almost red from your manipulations. Soft pale skin was covered in slightly visible marks. "Beauty," you thought. You let her lower herself on your tongue and heard the most beautiful moan ever. She quickly started grinding on your tongue, burying your nose in her slightly trimmed bush. You could smell her sweat and arousal, could taste her sweet lust and craving. You couldn't stop yourself from lowering your hand to your core. You could feel your own wetness covering your fingers and inner thighs. You sinked one finger in, feeling how easy it went and moaning into Melissa's pussy. All the vibrations were driving her crazy and she fastened her movements, while you started slowly fucking yourself. First with one finger, but then you let the second one slide in. You were desperately fucking your own hole while eating the redhead out. Her grinding got faster, she gripped the headboard and shot her eyes closed, reaching her orgasm. You could sense her release, so you curled your fingers and thrusted a couple more times, while sucking hard on her clit. It pulled Melissa and you into the burning flame of you shared culmination. She moaned loudly, grinding a little more, and then stilled catching her breath.

Your pussy was clenching around your own fingers, crying for more pleasure. You kissed the woman's sensitive clit, feeling how it twitched, and tapped her thigh. She layed down next to you, kissing and feeling her own taste on your lips.

"Are you ready for the next round?" You asked her, sitting up.

"I sure am." She smiled at you, caressing your thigh.

You pecked her lips, feeling her grinning, and hurried to open the nightstand and pick out a double-sided dildo. When you dipped one end inside your tight hole, you crawled on top of Melissa, peppering her breasts and shoulders in kisses and making her giggle. You ended up pinning her wrists and making out.

"Please, hon', you gotta finish what you started... Oh God!" Melissa moaned when one of your hands lowered to her core and stroked her clit.

"Your wish is my command." You grinned at her, sitting up and lining the tip of the lubed dildo with her entrance.

With one slow thrust you entered her with the full length, pulling the most pornographic moan out of her. One end was buried deep inside you and the other was deliciously hitting redhead's G-spot with every thrust. She was moaning and squirming under you, locking her legs around your thighs. The room got filled with wet sounds of flesh meeting, her loud moans and your muffled whimpering. The dildo was bent, so with every thrust it was massaging your clit, sending electric shots through your whole body. You've found the steady rhythm that was driving Melissa crazy. She kneaded her breasts, twisting and tugging her perky nipples, moaning your name and muffled curses. You grabbed her thigh with one hand and started circling her clit with the other, making Melissa arch her back and cry out in pleasure. Her hips were meeting you halfway, silently asking for your wet thrusts to fasten. You were able to look down at her through the white heat of your own approaching orgasm and your mind went blank. The view was breathtaking. Her covered in stretch marks thick milky thighs were hugging you. Swolen clit was twitching under your touch. Her soft lower belly was slightly moving with every thrust of a long dildo inside her. Her covered in hot sweat body was squirming, waiting for the wave of pleasure to wash over. Huge heavy tits were bouncing, while she groped them and played with her nipples. Her beautiful face was showing all the pleasure she was experiencing. Brows frowned, eyes closed shut, mouth opened, while filthy high pitched moans were spilling out.

"Hon'...p-please..." Mel suddenly moaned.

This view and the sound of her pleading almost made you cum immediately. You fastened your thrusting, angling her legs so you'd go deeper. Your movements were fast and short, the dildo inside never exited her. You were so close to her you could feel the heat radiating from her. The smell of sex, her sweat, and juices were hitting your nose, making you absolutely feral. Her loud moans and the sound of wet sloping filled your head, erasing all the thoughts except for the thought of how wonderful it would be if you could fill her hot hole up. Fill her with the blazing slick love you had for her. You could breed her again and again until you both would go numb. And then watch her tight pussy contract in aftershocks and your mixed juices would spill out of her, covering her lips and ass. Just the thought of it made you cum harder than ever. With the lust sloppy thrust, you arched your back, screaming her name, feeling your own walls tighten around the end inside you. On the other end, Melissa has also fallen apart. With a lound "FUCK!!" she bent in half, her forehead meeting your chest. Her body was shaking, and warm liquid gushed on your stomach. Your belly and thighs were covered in her wetness, while she was a panting mess. You caressed her thighs, making sure to comfort her before you would pull the toy out. When you did so, she whimpered at the sudden emptiness and opened her eyes slightly, watching you taking the other end out of you and dropping it on the floor. You picked up your shirt, that was on the floor the whole time, and cleaned her juices on your body.

"Sorry for that.." She mumbled.

"No worries, it was hella hot, babe. Wait a sec, I'll go get a...." You started but was cut off by her.

"No, fuck it, the washcloth can wait. I need you, come here." She said, opening her arms and stretching on the bed.

You happily climbed back and hugged her, letting her nuzzle face in the crook of your neck. You smelled her ginger locks amd kissed the top of her head, while caressing her shoulders and back. You felt her squeeze your waist and kiss your collarbone.

"Do you know, I love you?" She asked muffled.

"Yeah, sweetheart, I know. I love you too. Thank you for everything you said and for all your support, Mel."

"You are the most amazing person in the world, and the most talented artist ever, hon'. I guess we made the shades of you and me a masterpiece..." She wiggled her eyebrows at you and you both laughed.

You held her tight, knowing that she would always be by your side, making sure you know you deserve to shine.

[lilangelbud]

I know it's not everyone's thing, but I have a raging impregnation/pregnancy fetish.

Any chance you could write a short story of a dad knocking up his daughter? Or them dealing with the consequences a bit later on?

He sat on the couch, a drink in hand, his thoughts wandering like they always did when the house was this still. She walked in, her face shadowed with something he couldn’t quite place—sadness, maybe, or longing. He didn’t ask. He never did. Instead, he patted the seat beside him, a silent invitation she’d come to understand as something more.

She sank into the couch, her body close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just let the silence wrap around them like a blanket. The tension between them was nothing new. It had been there for months now, simmering beneath the surface, a secret they kept hidden from the world. But tonight, it felt different. Heavier.

“Are you okay?” he finally asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.

She shrugged, her gaze fixed on the flickering screen. “I don’t know. Just... feels like something’s missing.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing against hers. A simple touch, but it sent shivers through her. She turned to look at him, her eyes searching his for something she couldn’t name.

“What’s missing?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She hesitated, her breath catching in her throat. “A family,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I want a family.”

His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in their depths. He didn’t pull away, didn’t frown or scold her like she half-expected him to. Instead, he leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin.

“You want a family,” he repeated, his voice rough now, laced with something that made her heart race. “With who?”

She swallowed hard, her chest tightening. She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The look in his eyes told her he already knew. It had always been there, this unspoken thing between them, a line they’d never crossed but had danced dangerously close to for far too long.

“With me?” he asked, his voice dropping even lower, sending a wave of heat through her.

She nodded, barely a movement, but it was enough. Enough to break whatever restraint he’d been holding onto. His hand cupped her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek as he pulled her closer. Their lips met in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was hungry, desperate, all the things they’d been holding back pouring out in that one moment.

He pushed her back against the couch, his body pressing into hers as his hands roamed her body, pulling at her clothes like he couldn’t get them off fast enough. She didn’t stop him. She couldn’t. Not when this was all she’d wanted, all she’d dreamed about for so long.

His hands were rough, his movements frantic, but she didn’t care. She wanted this. Wanted him. His lips trailed down her neck, her collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. She arched into him, her fingers tangling in his hair as he pushed her thighs apart, settling between them.

“Tell me you want this,” he growled, his voice thick with need. “Tell me.”

“I want this,” she breathed, her voice trembling with desire. “I want you.”

He didn’t need to hear it again. He surged into her, a groan escaping his lips as he filled her completely. She cried out, her nails digging into his back as he began to move, each thrust deeper, harder than the last.

Their bodies moved together, a rhythm only they could understand. It was raw, primal, everything they’d been denying themselves for so long. Her moans filled the room, mingling with his grunts as he drove into her over and over again, each thrust bringing them closer to the edge. His hand slipped in between her legs and started circling her bundle of nerves.

“I’m gonna…” he panted, his voice strained. “I’m gonna…”

“Inside,” she begged, her voice barely a whisper. “Please.”

He didn’t hesitate. With a final, powerful thrust, he let go, his release spilling into her as he groaned her name. She clung to him, her own climax crashing over her as she felt him pulse inside her, the warmth of his seed filling her in a way that made her heart race.

They stayed like that for what felt like forever, his body still pressed into hers, their breaths mingling as they came down from the high. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch surprisingly gentle now.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked, his voice soft, almost vulnerable.

She nodded, her eyes meeting his. “I’m sure.”

Days turned into weeks, and the tension in the house only grew. She felt different now, her body changing in ways she couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t until the nausea hit that she realized what was happening.

She stood in the bathroom, staring down at the small stick in her hand, her heart racing as two lines stared back at her. Pregnant. She was pregnant.

She didn’t have to say anything when she walked into the living room, the test still clutched in her hand. He took one look at her, at the way her hand trembled, and he knew. He stood up, his eyes locked on hers as he crossed the room, his hands cupping her face.

“Is it…” he started, his voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. “It’s yours, daddy.”

A smile spread across his face, something she hadn’t seen in so long. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight as he whispered in her ear. “We’re going to have a family.”

She buried her face in his chest, the weight of everything she’d been carrying finally lifting. For the first time in so long, she felt complete. “We’re going to have a family,” she repeated, her voice filled with hope.

He pulled back, his hands resting on her stomach as if he could already feel the life growing inside her. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he promised, his voice steady, strong. “I’ll take care of you. Both of you.”

She believed him. With everything in her, she believed him.

[honeypiehotchner]

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part sixteen

Y'all. I swore this fic wasn't going to be novel-length, but *gestures to the current WC in progress* I fear I've done it again. There's still so much to happen, so it's likely that this will be another 30ish chapter fic😭 That being said, we've reached our turning point for these two...maybe things will start looking up soon 👀

Warnings: angst :( the truth comes out :(

You wake to a missed call from Penelope and an ache in your bones. The day comes back to you in fits and starts: speaking to Richard Monroe again, arguing with Hotch again, the car chase, the hospital— Hotch knows the truth.

A wave of nausea overtakes you when you remember. Hotch knows. Hotch knows and not because you told him, but because he went behind your back.

God, and he probably told the entire team, so now they all know, and they probably hate you for keeping it a secret from them.

Your phone buzzes again with a text and you pick it up, seeing that it’s just Pen asking if you’d like some company for dinner. Just you, her, and some Chinese takeout.

You tell her Of course because you’ll never turn down time with Pen, especially not including food. And because…maybe this will be good. Hotch said he looked at your file, and there’s only one person capable of pulling it and unsealing it for him.

You can’t be mad at Pen, though. Not ever. Because Hotch is her superior just like he is yours, so you can’t blame her for doing what she was told. You just wonder if she read it and kept it a secret, or if she didn’t glance at it at all.

Pen answers that question for you the second she gets to your apartment with the food. As soon as everything is set out on the coffee table in your living room, she blurts it all out.

“I didn’t read your file,” she starts to ramble. “And for the record, I told Hotch that what he was doing was stupid and a betrayal of your trust and that I didn’t agree with it at all. I gave him your file because he asked and he’s my boss, but I made sure to give him a piece of my mind when I did. You don’t just go around digging into people’s pasts like that! He should’ve just asked you! And now he’s got the whole team on high alert being all cryptic and—”

“Pen. Pen, slow down.”

She does, pausing to suck in a deep breath. She takes both of your hands in hers. “I just wanted you to know I’d never do that to you.”

You smile softly, squeezing her hands. “I know.”

“And that if you need anything, anything at all, I don’t care what it is, I’m here,” she continues. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you assure her. “A little sore, but I’m okay.”

“No, I mean,” she pauses, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Are you in any kind of trouble?”

Your eyebrows furrow. “What makes you say that?” Did Hotch seriously spill your secret?

“Hotch had me bring out everything from the last few cases, and dig up everything on Richard Monroe. I know you were speaking to him because he kept asking for you, and Hotch sounded really worried, but he wouldn’t tell any of us what this is all about, so I’m just…I’m scared.”

You frown. “Don’t be scared, Pen, I’m okay.” You pause, wondering if you should let her in. It seems like Hotch hasn’t told anyone, so only he and Rossi are in the know on why he’d want Garcia to dig all of this stuff up. And if he asked for everything from the last few cases, his suspicions might be the same as yours. “You really didn’t look at my file when you unsealed it?”

She shakes her head vigorously. “I didn’t. Shut my eyes and everything. You should’ve seen the sticky note I put on it— I don’t even remember what I wrote but I know it was scathing. I kind of hoped it would make Hotch have second thoughts about digging through your past like that.”

Oh, Penelope. “Well,” you let out a strained laugh, “I appreciate that. He— Pen, what I had sealed was about my biological father.”

She stares at you, eyes wide and expectant.

“My father is The Strangler,” you say, searching her eyes for any recognition. “Carson Adkins. My mom had her and my last name changed back to her maiden name when I was fourteen, and she moved us all the way to Washington to escape from all that he had done. We started over then, and I thought I’d never have to deal with any of it again, but working at the FBI, obviously I had to disclose any other names I had for a background check, and, well…”

“Oh,” Pen breathes. “Oh my god.”

You nod. “Strauss agreed to let me seal that portion of my file since it was twenty years ago now, and my father is dead, so it’s not like any of it is truly relevant — or so I thought, I guess.”

“Wait, but if he’s dead, then…”

You know what she’s asking, and you don’t have an answer. “I know. And I have no idea. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Okay,” she exhales, squeezing your hands again. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll…I’ll turn over every piece of information that I have to, I’ll hack into anything, I’ll—”

“Pen,” you laugh, pulling her toward you to wrap your arms around her in a hug. “Thank you.”

She holds you tight. “Thank you for telling me.”

You shrug as you pull away. “Figured it was time, I guess.”

She shakes her head. “It’s yours to tell, so whenever you were ready would’ve been the perfect time.”

You smile sadly. “I was getting ready, I was going to talk to Hotch about it soon. But then Richard brought it up, and…” You sigh. “It all went downhill from there.”

Pen frowns. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you deflect, starting to feel that you’ve had enough of talking about this. “What should we watch while we eat?”

Pen takes the bait with ease, immediately launching into an eager retelling of some movie she just heard of that she has to show you. It’s a welcome distraction.

+++

You return to the BAU the next day with your head held high, arriving much earlier than usual on purpose. You’d rather be settled in when the rest of the team arrives than walking in with their eyes all glued to you.

It works in your favor, except for the fact that Rossi is already there and stirring his coffee when you walk through the doors.

“Back already?” he muses, but you can see the concern in his face.

“Yep,” you nod, setting your stuff down on your desk. “Why are you here so early?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Well, don’t,” you huff. “Move over.”

You grab a mug from the cabinet, pouring the coffee nearly to the brim. You can feel Rossi watching you, but he doesn’t say anything.

You decide to beat him to it. “Yes, I’m fine, no broken bones, no concussion, just badly bruised and got some scrapes everywhere,” you gesture to your arms and your forehead. “I’m fine.”

“Glad to hear it,” Rossi replies, still watching you with a certain look you can’t place.

You sip the coffee, watching him just as intensely. “So,” you pause. “How much did Hotch spill yesterday while I wasn’t here?”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“Sure,” you scoff. “Did he tell you what he did? How long he’s known?”

Rossi looks down at his own coffee. Guilty. 

“Of course he did,” you roll your eyes, turning to head back to your desk. You pause halfway, spinning back around. “Why didn’t you tell me he knew?”

“I wanted him to tell you that himself,” Rossi replies. “Because he was out of line doing what he did, and I’ve told him that. He should’ve asked you, and believe me, I’ve told him what he should’ve done.”

You pause, gripping your mug. “Right.”

“I knew you would be upset,” Rossi says. “And you have every right to be.”

“Thank you,” you say, startled by his validation. “He didn’t tell the team?”

“No,” Rossi shakes his head. “He told everyone to go home early.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “But—” The words die in your throat when you see Hotch come through the glass doors, pausing just inside when he spots you here so early, coffee already in hand.

“Agent L/N,” Hotch says, shock all over his face.

“Hotch,” you reply with a curt nod. 

He doesn’t bother with anything else, walking past you to head up to his office in silence. You watch him go.

You hate this. The silence between you two, the clipped words, the averted eyes. You’re used to the heat, the arguing, the glares. You don’t know why, but you want that back. 

But you’re tired. You’re so tired of this. Keeping this secret from the team, hiding behind a new name, pretending like there’s nothing deeper underneath the anger you and Hotch share.

Your feet move before you know what they’re doing, and you’re standing in Hotch’s office before you realize it.

Hotch freezes where he’s standing behind his desk, unpacking his briefcase. He stands up straight, waiting for you to break the silence.

“I’m going to tell the team the truth today,” you say firmly. “Garcia and I had dinner last night, and she told me you had her bring up everything from the last few cases. Do you think they’re connected?”

Hotch hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “Do you?”

Your fingers tighten around the mug as you nod slowly. “Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Since we found the body outside the elementary school,” you murmur, focusing on the spine of a random book on Hotch’s shelf. “That’s where my dad— where Adkins usually dumped bodies.” You pause, swallowing thickly and dragging your eyes back to Hotch’s. “I thought I was just on edge from Richard somehow recognizing me, and that I was forcing connections that weren’t there, so I pushed it down. But after yesterday…” I’m scared. Don’t make me say it. But I’m terrified.

Hotch nods slowly, looking down at his desk for a moment. “Alright. When everyone gets here, we can meet in the conference room.”

“Okay,” you reply. You turn to leave, pausing in the doorway when Hotch calls out your name. You don’t turn to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I should’ve let you come to me.”

You shake your head as you leave, heading back down to your desk.

Slowly, the team begins to trickle in. Reid first, nose shoved in a book like always. JJ and Prentiss next, coffees in hand. Garcia and Morgan next, coffees also in hand, except there’s a third one with your name on it that Derek hands off to you. You take it easily, having already finished the mug you filled earlier.

Once you take stock of everyone being here, you nod toward the conference room. “Let’s head up. I’ve got something I need to talk to you guys about.”

Morgan’s eyebrows furrow immediately. “Oh…‘kay.”

You head up the stairs, passing by Hotch’s office to knock softly. He’s on the phone. “Everyone’s here.”

Hotch nods once. “I’ll call you back.” He hangs up and follows you. 

Rossi peers out of his office, following behind Hotch as you all file into the conference room. 

You don’t bother sitting down, standing up front by the screen, though nothing is on it, and there won’t be. At least not for now. Everyone sits around the table, eyes expectantly watching you, Derek most of all. So Hotch must’ve hinted at something, but not given anything away.

This feels like a reverse intervention. You push past that feeling.

You purposefully don’t look at Hotch as you begin speaking, though you do glance at Rossi.

“Well,” you pause, adjusting your grip on the takeaway coffee cup. “I haven’t been exactly honest with you all, but not out of any malicious intent. I didn’t think this was relevant, but the past few weeks have started to convince me otherwise. So.” You take a deep breath. “My real surname is Adkins. My father was Carson Adkins, The Strangler.”

Silence echoes all around you in the conference room.

You clear your throat, moving forward, because unfortunately, that isn’t the biggest bomb you have to drop on them. “I believe the last few cases we’ve gone on have been connected somehow. Lila’s kidnapping mirrored mine almost exactly, down to her father turning himself in to help find her. Richard Monroe somehow recognized me — that I still don’t understand, but after what happened yesterday when we finished speaking to him, I believe he’s connected to the unsub we’re looking for.”

“Um, what unsub are we looking for?” Reid pipes up.

“The one who left us the note,” you answer. “Gambit. I’d find it hard to believe if it wasn’t him who chased Hotch and I in the car yesterday, given that the car he drove was a victim’s from the last case. He had to know somehow that we were leaving the prison, he had to get her car somehow. The way he disposed of the bodies was almost exactly the same as my father, not to mention strangling them.”

“So this guy’s a copycat?” Morgan asks.

“Not exactly,” Reid says.

“It’s almost like he’s doing a Greatest Hits tour,” Prentiss says.

“But why?” JJ asks.

“He’s playing a game,” Hotch says. “He’s taunting us.”

“Or taunting me,” you add. “And I don’t know why. Maybe he knew my dad, I don’t know. But it’s getting out of hand, and…” You pause, looking around at everyone, even daring to glance at Hotch. “I need your help.”

“Whatever you need,” Prentiss says.

“We’ve got you,” Morgan says firmly. “What do you need?”

“That’s the problem,” you laugh shakily. “I don’t know. I don’t know who we’re looking for, I don’t know why he’s coming after me twenty years later, I don’t know anything.” 

“Then we’ll figure it out together,” Morgan says. “Where do we start?”

You’re at a loss for words again.

Thankfully, Garcia fills the silence for you. “I’ve pulled everything from the other cases, and everything on Richard Monroe. I’ll send it to all of you.” She starts gathering her things.

“Dig up anything you can on Carson Adkins,” you add. “Nothing is too small. And I’ll fill in the blanks with what I can remember.”

Garcia nods slowly, squeezing your shoulder as she passes by you.

Rossi pulls the empty chair next to him out for you, gesturing for you to sit. You take it, your legs shaking, and not from the coffee.

“I’m proud of you, kiddo,” Rossi murmurs, giving you a fond look. 

“Thanks,” you sigh. You look up at everyone around the table, their eyes all watching you with mixes of sympathy, sadness, pity, and whatever else. “Alright guys. I’m an open book, so. What do you wanna know?”

JJ leans forward onto her elbows. “Are you okay?”

You nod, though you’re not so sure of your answer. “Yeah, I just— I really wanna find this guy.”

“We will,” Rossi says quietly. “Why don’t we start with the conversation with Richard? What did he say to you?”

You see Hotch tense, just barely. Probably imperceptibly to the rest of the team, but you see the change — the clench of his jaw, the way he goes as still as a statue.

“Nothing important, seriously,” you say. “He wasted our time for most of it, but then he said I know who’s doing this, just that I don’t want to admit it to myself.” You pause, looking around the table. “But I don’t know who’s doing this. Richard thinks it’s someone who was close with my dad, but I don’t know anyone who was.”

You’re careful not to mention Richard’s taunting about Hotch being your guard dog and all the implications that comes with. Or that the car chase involved you sitting in Hotch’s lap. Which you still haven’t forgotten about, and will be bringing up to him one day — in private at least.

“Is there someone we can ask?” JJ asks tentatively. “Someone who knew your dad?”

You shake your head. “My mom passed away last year,” you answer. “And I don’t have contact with any of his family. They didn’t like that my mom moved us away and changed our name.”

Silence coats the room.

“If he had friends, I didn’t know about them,” you continue. “Mom and I never really talked about him once we moved away.”

“I’ll have Garcia look into it,” Hotch says. Then, almost regretfully, he adds, “Unfortunately, this won’t be the only thing on our plate today. Use of Force Reports are due again soon, and Strauss doesn’t want any delays this time. So, while we wait for some information to come in, I need you all to work on those, please.”

Everyone nods, standing from their chairs to return to their desks to tackle the paperwork. The sooner those reports get done, the sooner all their attention can be devoted to figuring this gambit out.

As you’re about to walk around Hotch to leave, he stops you with the briefest of touches on your arm. Barely there, you’re almost unsure of if he actually touched you.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says quietly. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make this easier for you.”

You nod slowly, despite knowing there is absolutely nothing he can do — or anyone, for that matter — to make this any easier. “Thank you,” you say anyway. “I appreciate it.”

He nods once and leaves you alone, returning to his office. As you pass by, you hear him returning the phone call he was on earlier.

He leaves his door and blinds open, clearly sending the same message in his actions as he did with his words. If there’s anything I can do.

You’re not sure what to do with that.

[issues4him]

➼ firefighter!rafe flirts with teacher!reader during the class field trip :]

cw : flirting, tension

the second your school bus pulled into the firehouse parking lot, your stomach twisted. you’d been mentally preparing all morning—lesson plan printed, permission slips triple-checked, bus snacks secured, and twenty sugar-high second graders bouncing in their seats behind you like they’d pre-gamed with red bull. the only thing you hadn’t been ready for was him.

there he was. leaning against the open bay door like a walking cliché, rafe cameron, clad in a tight gray station tee and those stupid navy pants with the suspenders hanging loose at his hips. one hand was gripping a rag, wiping off whatever grease he’d just gotten into. the other was casually hooked in his belt loop. and then he looked up—right at you. his smirk could’ve melted steel. you swallowed, hard, “well, well,” he called out as you stepped off the bus, clipboard clutched to your chest. “look who finally brought her whole fan club.”

you didn’t look at him. you couldn’t. not when you already felt your cheeks warming. “be nice,” you said under your breath, forcing a smile as your students began piling off behind you like an unhinged stampede. “they’ve been excited all week.”

he didn’t miss a beat. leaned in just slightly, voice lower, smoother, “didn’t say i was talkin’ about the kids.”

you blinked, “w-what?”

he only smirked wider and turned to the group, voice booming, “alright, little rascals—who wants to see the fire truck?”

a sea of hands shot up, shrieks of “ME!!”’s echoing through the lot. you took a steadying breath, reminding yourself you were a professional. you were in charge. you were not affected by the man currently holding a five-year-old like a football while explaining hose pressure. well… okay, you were a little affected.

inside the station, it was a kid’s dream—red everything, shiny trucks, walls lined with helmets and gear. you walked behind your class, occasionally reminding them to not touch anything, even as rafe encouraged it with a crooked grin and a wink your way, “we don’t usually let people climb inside,” he said, lifting one of your smaller students up to the front seat. “but i guess i can make an exception. miss is bein’ real persuasive.”

you rolled your eyes, yet unable to hide the heat rushing to your cheeks, “please stop flirting with me in front of seven-year-olds.”

“technically, i’m flirting at you. they’re just witnesses.”

you made a strangled noise, faking a cough to hide your smile as one of your kids yanked on your sweater sleeve, “miss,” they whispered behind a cupped hand, eyes wide and serious, “i think the firefighter has a crush on you.”

you froze, “oh?” you said, voice an octave too high. “why do you think that?”

the kid shrugged. “he keeps staring at you like how my daddy stares at my mommy.”

lovely.

later, during the equipment demo, rafe knelt beside one of the kids, patiently explaining how the hose connects to the hydrant. he looked completely in his element—calm, focused, his big hands moving confidently as the child watched with open-mouthed awe.

and then he looked up at you, “y’know…” he said casually, standing and dusting off his palms, “i think i’m pretty good with kids.”

you raised a brow. “thinking of a career change?”

he tilted his head, “nah. just thinkin’ you and me would make a solid team someday.”

your jaw dropped. he grinned like the cocky bastard he was and walked off before you could respond, leaving you standing there speechless, flustered, and violently aware of the way he looked in those pants.

at the end of the visit, while your class gathered near the bus for a group photo, rafe waved you over, “c’mon, teach, gotta get you in the picture too.”

“oh—i’m good behind the camera—”

“nope.” he took your clipboard and handed it to a fellow firefighter, then gently pulled you in. his arm slid around your waist, low and warm and way too casual for your fragile heart. you barely heard the countdown. all you could feel was him—tall and solid beside you, his hand pressing against your hip, the faint smell of smoke and soap on his shirt. the camera clicked. you stepped back fast, heart racing.

once the kids were loading back onto the bus, rafe walked you over quietly. the teasing was gone from his voice now—something a little softer had replaced it, “you did good today.”

you looked up at him, “so did you.”

he rubbed the back of his neck, like he was working up the nerve, “…you free sometime? without twenty small humans between us?”

you blinked, “are you asking me out, firefighter cameron?”

he grinned. “is it workin’?”

you bit your lip, cheeks hot, “…kinda.”

“good.” he winked, then stepped back as the bus door closed behind you.

and as you took your seat behind the kids, still breathless, still flushed, your favorite student turned around and whispered, “told you he liked you.”

you didn’t even try to deny it

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 2: April 2023

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: 

...I am definitely blown away by the reception this story got. I did not expect that AT ALL, so thank you very much...and here you have Chapter 2! Warnings: we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Bad Real Estate decisions, Max being a simp for his girl, discussion of former toxic relationships...I think that's it? If I missed something, let me know.

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

"Isabelle," Max murmured against her lips, his hands firm but steady on her waist.

She barely heard him. Not when he kissed her like this—slow and deep, his thumb brushing over her hip, his body warm and solid against hers. She curled her fingers into his shirt, pulling him closer, tilting her head to kiss him harder. When he groaned softly, she took it as encouragement, pressing up against him and reaching for the hem of his shirt.

But just as her fingers grazed the skin of his stomach, Max caught her wrist, pulling back slightly.

"Wait."

She blinked up at him, lips parted, breath uneven. "What?"

His hands slid from her waist to her arms, a soothing touch. "We don’t have to rush."

Isabelle frowned. "I know we don’t have to. But I want to."

Max exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "I don’t want you to think this is just about that."

She froze, her mind stuttering over his words. "What?"

He studied her carefully, thumb rubbing small circles into her skin. "I like you. A lot. And I want you to know that I’m serious about this."

Isabelle stared at him, something in her chest tightening. No one had ever said that to her before. Every other boyfriend had been eager, had expected, had—

She swallowed. "You don’t… want me?"

Max’s expression softened, his grip on her tightening just slightly, like he wanted to anchor her in place. "Of course I do," he said, voice low, almost reverent. "I just don’t want you to think that’s all I want."

Her breath hitched.

She had never been anyone’s priority. Never been someone who wasn’t easy to forget, easy to leave behind. But here was Max, the most wanted man on the grid, telling her he wanted her—but not just her body.

Something like disbelief flickered in her chest. "You’re serious."

Max huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his nose against hers. "Very."

Isabelle swallowed again, her throat tight, and let herself relax into him. She let herself believe him.

"Okay."

Max smiled, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Good."

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Max.

Max:  Good morning, Schatje.

Isabelle: Don’t start. Did you actually buy that penthouse?

Max: Yes.

Isabelle: And did you demand that I be the only architect allowed to work on it??

Max: Yes.

Isabelle: Do you have any idea how bad this looks?

Max: What’s bad about wanting the best?

Isabelle: MAX.

Isabelle: Do you know what people at work are saying now??

Max: That I have excellent taste in architects?

Isabelle: They think I got this project because of Charles.

Max: … What?

Isabelle: Oh yeah. The rumors are great. Apparently, I’m here because I’m a Leclerc, not because I actually worked for it.

Max: … That’s stupid.

Isabelle: Tell that to my coworkers.

Max: You think I’d let Charles pick my architect?

Isabelle: No, but they don’t know that.

Max: Then tell them.

Isabelle: Oh sure, that’ll go well. “Actually, my brother had nothing to do with it, my boyfriend just demanded that I be the only one allowed to work on his project.” That sounds so much better.

Max: Ok, maybe that doesn’t help.

Isabelle: You think??

Max: I just wanted to work with you.

Isabelle: Yeah, and now people are whispering about nepotism and favoritism and how I’m only here because of my family name.

Max: They clearly don’t know you.

Isabelle: I KNOW. But it’s still frustrating. I’ve worked my ass off, Max. I didn’t want my name getting me jobs. I wanted my work to.

Max: And it has. That’s why I picked you. Not because of your name. Because I trust you.

Isabelle: You could have given me a heads-up, you know.

Max: And you would have said no.

Isabelle: That is not the point.

Max: But would you?

Isabelle:: …

Max: That’s what I thought.

Isabelle: You really bought that penthouse just so I could design it?

Max: I bought that penthouse because I liked it. But I only wanted you working on it.

Isabelle: You’re impossible.

Max: And you’re brilliant.

Isabelle: Thank you.

Max: Always.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: You are NOT going to believe what Max did.

Emilie: That sentence could mean literally anything.

Isabelle: He bought the penthouse. THE penthouse. The one we talked about once in passing.

Emilie: …Okay, that’s insane, but also, congrats? You love that place.

Isabelle: THAT’S NOT THE POINT.

Emilie: Oh, I think it is.

Isabelle: He also demanded that I be the architect working on it. Wouldn’t sign anything unless my name was on the project.

Emilie: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Isabelle: It’s not funny!

Emilie: No, it absolutely is.

Isabelle: People at work are already saying I only got the project because of Charles!

Emilie: Oh. Yeah, I can see that.

Isabelle: Which is wrong. Because I didn’t get it because of Charles. I got it because of my boyfriend, which is somehow worse.

Emilie: You say worse. I say deeply, deeply romantic.

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: Isabelle. 

Emilie: Your rich, lovesick boyfriend is out here spending millions just to have an excuse to see you every day, and you’re MAD?

Isabelle: I AM TRYING TO BE PROFESSIONAL.

Emilie: He is trying to wife you.

Isabelle: I hate you.

Emilie: No, you don’t. Now tell me—when’s the housewarming, and how much champagne should I bring?

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: You CANNOT keep doing this.

Max: Doing what?

Isabelle: Abusing your “professional client” status to drag me to fancy lunches.

Max: I’m not abusing anything. We have important business discussions to conduct.

Isabelle: You mean the penthouse where you’ve approved every single one of my plans without question?

Max: Exactly. We need to make sure I have no doubts.

Isabelle: You just want an excuse to take me to a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Max: And?

Isabelle: That’s not how professional client-architect meetings work.

Max: It is when I’m the client.

Isabelle: Max.

Max: You don’t have to say yes.

Isabelle: …

Max: But you want to.

Isabelle: That’s not the point.

Max: Just think of it as me paying you for your excellent work.

Isabelle: That’s what your actual payments are for.

Max: But those aren’t fun.

Isabelle: MAX.

Isabelle: People at work already think I got this job because of Charles. Now you’re making it worse.

Max: First of all, you got this job because you’re brilliant.

Max: Second, if they think that, they’re idiots.

Max: Third, I booked a table with a view.

Isabelle: Max.

Max: Don’t pretend you don’t want to come.

Isabelle: That’s not the point.

Max: You didn’t say no.

Isabelle: …

Max: I’ll see you at one.

Isabelle: I officially regret ever mentioning my favorite restaurants to you.

Max: That was your mistake, not mine.

Max: But I’ll make it up to you with dessert.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: You will not believe what Max is doing.

Emilie: Oh, this is already good. Go on.

Isabelle: He’s using the penthouse project as an excuse to take me to fancy lunches.

Emilie: …And the problem is???

Isabelle: Emilie. People at work already think I got this job because of Charles. If they find out I’m going to Michelin-starred restaurants in the middle of the day with a client, I will NEVER hear the end of it.

Emilie: Okay, but is he actually talking about the penthouse during these lunches?

Isabelle: He pretends to for about five minutes. Then he just orders my favourite foods for me and acts like we’re on a date.

Emilie: …So you’re saying you’re mad because your boyfriend is taking you on nice dates and feeding you good food?

Isabelle: THAT IS NOT THE POINT.

Emilie: Oh, I think it is the point.

Isabelle: I just—he’s impossible!

Emilie: What restaurant was it this time?

Isabelle: Le Louis XV.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle:

Emilie: You are sitting here complaining to me after being wined and dined at ALAIN DUCASSE’S RESTAURANT???

Isabelle: I AM TRYING TO BE PROFESSIONAL.

Emilie: Shut up and tell me what you ate!

***

Isabelle laid out fabric swatches on the table, neatly arranging them in rows. “These are the options for the curtains,” she said, keeping her voice professional. “I’ve chosen materials that complement the lighting and textures in the space while also being durable.”

Max picked up a swatch at random, turning it over like he’s actually considering it. “Yeah… so which one do you like best?”

Isabelle sighed. “That’s not the point, Max.”

“But it kind of is,” he countered, leaning back in his chair. “You know what looks good. I trust you.”

She exhaled, trying to keep the conversation on track. “My job isn’t to pick what I like, it’s to give you the best options based on your preferences and the space—”

“My preference,” Max interrupted, “is to not think too hard about curtain fabrics. So, tell me, which one would you put in your own place?”

She pressed her lips together but eventually pointed to a light cream fabric with a soft texture. “This one.”

Max immediately nodded. “Perfect. We’ll go with that.”

“That’s not how this works,” Isabelle protested.

“It is now.” He grinned, tapping the swatch like the decision is final.

She gave him a look but moves on, pulling out samples for the kitchen backsplash. “Alright, for the tiles—”

Max smirked. “What do you like best?”

Isabelle groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “You are impossible.”

Max chuckled, thoroughly enjoying himself. “I don’t see the problem. You have good taste. I want my place to look good. This seems like a win-win situation.”

Isabelle lifted her head, giving him a flat look. “Max.”

“Yes?”

“You are literally paying me to make these decisions for you based on your preferences, not mine.”

Max shrugged. “Yeah, but my main preference is trusting you.”

She stared at him, unimpressed. “That’s not how this works.”

“It is when I’m the client.” His grin was infuriatingly smug.

Isabelle sighed, shaking her head, but she couldn’t quite hide the small smile creeping onto her face. “Fine. But if you hate something later, I’m telling everyone this was your fault.”

“I won’t hate it,” Max said easily, glancing at the tile samples. “So… which one would you use in your own kitchen?”

Isabelle groaned dramatically. “You are impossible.”

Max just smirked. “You already said that.”

Isabelle rubbed her temples like she’s trying to ward off a headache. “You know, most clients want a functional, cohesive design that suits their lifestyle.”

Max leant back against the kitchen island, watching her with amused eyes. “And I want a functional, cohesive design that you think looks good.”

“That’s not—” She exhaled sharply. “Okay, fine. I’d go with the marble option for the counters. It’s classic, it won’t date badly, and it works with the natural light in here.”

Max nodded like that’s exactly what he was going to pick anyway. “Perfect. Marble it is.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “You’re just agreeing with me so I stop arguing with you.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “Or maybe I actually value your opinion.”

She huffed, flipping through the fabric swatches again. “Alright, what about your bedroom curtains? Darker shades are better for blocking light in the mornings.”

Max hummed, looking over the options. “Which one do you like?”

“Max.”

“What? You just said you’re designing for functionality. You clearly think one of these is the best choice.”

She muttered something under her breath, then points at a deep navy fabric. “This one. It’ll keep the room dark, and it’s not too heavy for the space.”

“Done.”

Isabelle levelled him with a suspicious look. “You’re making this way too easy.”

Max shrugged. “I told you. I trust you.” He gestures around the penthouse. “Besides, I plan to spend most of my time here with you. Might as well make sure you don’t hate it.”

She stilled for half a second, but then rolls her eyes like she’s not affected. “Professionalism, Max.”

Max just smirked, reaching for another set of samples. “Alright, Miss Leclerc, what’s next?”

Isabelle pointedly ignored the way her stomach does an annoying little flip at his words and refocuses on the task at hand. She flipped open her notebook, determined to keep things professional. "We still need to finalize your living room furniture. You said you wanted a sectional, right?"

Max nodded, leaning slightly over her shoulder to glance at her notes. "Yeah, something big enough to stretch out on. And for the cats."

She glanced up at him. "And for guests?"

Max blinked. "I mean, sure. If I have guests."

Isabelle sighed. "Do you ever think about designing your space for other people?"

"I am thinking about other people," he countered easily. "I’m thinking about you. You like to sit in the corner with a book, so we should get one with a deep chaise. And you like soft blankets, so whatever fabric we pick needs to feel nice."

She stared at him for a beat too long. "You—" She shakes her head. "You notice a lot more than you let on."

Max shrugged. "I like watching you."

Isabelle blinked rapidly and turned back to her samples before he could see the flush creeping up her neck. Professionalism. She needed to focus.

"Okay," she said, clearing her throat. "Fabric choices for the sectional—"

Max leant forward, already grinning. "Which one do you like?"

Isabelle groaned, slamming her notebook shut. "You are impossible."

Max just laughed. "I’m making sure my designer is happy with her work. That’s important, right?"

"That’s not how this works."

"Sure it is," he said breezily, nudging her shoulder with his. "If you think this place should feel like me, then I think it should feel like you, too."

Isabelle gripped her pen a little too tightly. "You’re insufferable."

Max grinned. "And yet, here you are."

Isabelle exhaled slowly, flipping through the swatches with more force than necessary. “Fine. You want my opinion? This one.” She pulled out a deep green fabric, soft under her fingers. “It’s comfortable, durable, and it won’t clash with anything else.”

Max reaches out, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “It’s nice.” Then he grins. “You just like it because it’s your favourite colour.”

She paused. “That is not why I picked it.”

“Sure,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “But I remember you said you like green because it reminds you of home. And I want you to feel at home here.”

Isabelle’s fingers tighten around the fabric. “Max—”

“So, green it is,” he cut in before she can say anything else, grabbing the sample and setting it aside. Then he leans back, smug. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You have to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like this apartment is for both of us.”

Max tilted his head. “Well, you are spending a lot of time here.”

“That’s because I’m working.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, unconvinced. “And when the project is done?”

Isabelle pressed her lips together, not wanting to answer that question. Because the truth is, she didn’t know. She didn’t want to think about finishing this penthouse and walking away.

Max must have sensed her hesitation because his expression softened. “You know, you don’t have to leave when it’s done.”

She swallowed, trying to ignore the way her heart pounds. “Max.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, voice light but eyes serious. “I don’t mind having you around.”

Isabelle forced herself to focus back on her notebook. Professionalism. Boundaries. She had to remember them.

But as she moved on to the next decision—choosing dining chairs—she couldn’t  help but feel like she’s already losing that battle.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max is going to drive me insane.

Emilie: What did he do now?

Isabelle: He refuses to make a single decision about the penthouse. Not one.

Emilie: Oh, this is going to be good.

Isabelle: I showed him flooring samples, and he just said, “Which one do you like best, schatje?” I asked him about the kitchen walls, and he went, “I trust your taste.”

Emilie: He’s so in love with you, it’s actually disgusting.

Isabelle: EMILIE, I NEED HIM TO HAVE AN OPINION.

Emilie: He does. His opinion is that your opinion is the only one that matters.

Isabelle: That’s not how this works! He’s the one who has to live there!

Emilie: You will be the one living there with him, if he gets his way. He’s just pretending it’s not obvious.

Emilie: He’s setting up your future home together and letting you build it exactly the way you want. That man would let you paint the walls hot pink if it made you happy.

Emilie: He’s letting you pick everything because he wants you to feel at home.

Emilie: Tell me I’m wrong.

Isabelle: I hate you.

Emilie: No, you don’t. Now, if you suggested, hypothetically, that the whole kitchen should be neon green, how fast do you think he’d say yes?

Isabelle: He wouldn’t even hesitate.

Emilie: This man is whipped.

Emilie: He’s so gone for you. It’s actually hilarious.

Isabelle: This is a nightmare.

Emilie: Just be glad he’s not insisting on Red Bull colors.

Isabelle: I take it back. It could be worse.

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

****

"I think I’m falling in love with him."

Isabelle hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It just slipped out, quiet and uncertain, as she sat across from Emilie at their usual café.

Emilie, mid-sip of her drink, slowly set her cup down and arched an eyebrow. “No shit.”

Isabelle groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “I mean too fast,” she muttered. “It’s too fast.”

Emilie leaned back, unimpressed. “Define ‘too fast.’”

“I don’t know.” Isabelle exhaled, sitting up and fiddling with the edge of her napkin. “It’s like—I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to go wrong. For him to change.”

Emilie just stared at her for a long moment before sighing. “Belle. He’s treating you better than your own family ever did. That’s not ‘too fast.’ That’s just right.”

“That’s not—” Isabelle started, but Emilie held up a hand.

“Let’s review,” she said, counting on her fingers. “He listens to you. He remembers things you like. He makes time for you. He prioritizes you. That’s the bare minimum of what you deserve, Belle. And you know damn well you’ve never had it before.”

Isabelle swallowed hard.

Emilie’s expression softened. “Look, I get it. It’s scary when someone actually cares about you, especially when you’re used to being the afterthought. But Max? He’s not going anywhere. And you? You’re not falling too fast. You’re just finally being caught.”

Isabelle exhaled, staring down at her coffee.

“Also,” Emilie added, smirking, “you’re absolutely screwed, because I think you’ve been in love with him for weeks.”

Isabelle groaned again, and Emilie just laughed.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie. I think something is wrong with Max.

Emilie: Oh god, what happened??

Isabelle: He just gave me flowers.

Emilie: …And???

Isabelle: There’s no occasion. No reason. He just handed them to me and said, “Thought you’d like these.”

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: And then he pulled out my favorite wine. Already chilled. Already opened. Just there.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: AND THEN he sat with me. No phone, no distractions, just me. He asked about my day. Actually listened.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: WHY DO YOU KEEP SAYING MY NAME.

Emilie: Because you’re being so stupidly loved and acting like it’s a problem.

Isabelle: I just don’t know what to do with it. I feel like I should be doing something in return??

Emilie: You are. You exist. You let him love you. That’s enough.

Isabelle: But I’ve never—no one’s ever—

Emilie: I know. But this is what it’s supposed to be like.

Isabelle: …It feels weird.

Emilie: You’ll get used to it.

Isabelle: Will I?

Emilie: Yeah. And then one day, it won’t feel weird at all. It’ll just feel like love.

Isabelle: …Huh.

Emilie: Huh, she says. Like I haven’t been telling her this for years.

Isabelle: Shut up.

Emilie: Nope. Now go drink your fancy wine and let your boyfriend adore you.

Isabelle: …Fine.

Emilie: That’s my girl.

***

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@/arthur_leclerc: ??? From who?

@/charles_leclerc: Since when do you get flowers??

@/emilie_abadie: 👀👀👀

@/F1GossipQueen: OMG IS ISABELLE SOFT LAUNCHING A BOYFRIEND???

↳@/paddockprincessx: We are watching this situation VERY closely.

@/leclercsiblingtea: The Leclerc brothers seem deeply unsettled by this turn of events. 

@/lorenzotl: Be honest. Did you buy these for yourself?

***

Isabelle wasn’t trying to snoop.

She was just tidying up a little while Max was in the kitchen—because, frankly, he lived like someone who was always on the road (which he was). That’s how she spotted the iPad on the coffee table, screen still on. She had only glanced at it in passing, but then something caught her eye.

French lessons.

Her first reaction was confusion. Then amusement. Then something warmer, something that made her heartbeat do something a little ridiculous in her chest.

“Max?” she called out, picking up the iPad.

“Yeah?” His voice floated back from the kitchen, followed by the sound of the fridge opening. “Do you want some water?”

She walked in, holding up the iPad like it was evidence in a trial. “Are you secretly moving to Paris?”

Max turned around, brow furrowing. “What?”

She waved the iPad at him. “Since when are you learning French?”

His face did not do a good job of hiding his guilt. His eyes flickered to the screen, then back to her, and he shifted on his feet like he was debating snatching it out of her hands. “Oh. That.”

“Yes, that.” Isabelle crossed her arms, fighting a smile. “What’s the story, Verstappen? Career change? Planning to start giving post-race interviews in French?”

Max sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I live in Monaco. Figured it was time I actually learned, you know, the main language people speak here.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“What?” He shrugged. “It makes sense.”

“It does make sense.” She took a step closer. “Except you’ve lived in Monaco for years and have never cared before.”

Max glanced at the iPad again, like it would somehow save him. When it didn’t, he exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Fine. Maybe I had another reason.”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “And that reason is?”

His ears were turning pink. “You.”

She blinked. “Me?”

“You switch to French when you’re with your family,” he muttered, looking anywhere but at her. “Or when you’re distracted. Or when you get really excited about something. And I—I wanted to understand you better.”

Oh.

Oh.

Isabelle stared at him, warmth flooding her chest. “Max…”

He sighed again, clearly bracing himself for teasing. “Look, if you think it’s stupid—”

“I don’t,” she interrupted, her voice soft. “I think it’s… really sweet.”

Max relaxed slightly, still wary. “Yeah?”

She smiled. “Yeah.” Then she nudged him. “Okay, say something.”

He groaned. “Now?”

“Yes, now.”

Max hesitated. Then, after a deep breath, he said—slowly, carefully—“Je veux tout comprendre de toi.”

I want to understand everything about you.

Isabelle’s breath caught.

She looked up at him, and suddenly, the teasing was gone. Her heart was thudding, her fingers itching to reach for him. “Max.”

He shifted again. “Did I say it wrong?”

She shook her head. Then, without thinking, she leaned up and kissed him.

Max made a startled sound but recovered quickly, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. When she finally pulled away, his grin was dazed.

“So,” he said, slightly breathless. “That was because of the French, huh?”

She laughed, tucking her head against his shoulder. “Guess you’ll have to keep practicing.”

Max tightened his hold on her. “Done.”

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max is learning French.

Emilie: ???

Emilie: Like YOUR Max? The one who has lived in Monaco forever and has survived just fine with English and Dutch?

Isabelle: Yes!!!

Isabelle: I found his iPad open with some French lesson on it, and when I asked, he said he lives in Monaco so it was about time he learned.

Emilie: That… does make sense.

Isabelle: But then I pressed him, and he admitted he’s actually doing it because of ME.

Emilie: Oh.

Emilie: Ohhhh.

Emilie: Isabelle. He’s in LOVE love.

Isabelle: I don’t even know what to do with this information.

Emilie: Girl, you kiss him stupid, that’s what.

Isabelle: I already did that!!!

Emilie: Good. Keep doing it.

Emilie: Good for him. He’s putting in the effort. He’s out here grinding on Duolingo just to impress.

Isabelle: That’s what’s shocking me the most… Nobody has ever done that for me before.

Emilie: Well, he’s not just anybody, is he?

Isabelle: No. He’s Max.

Emilie: Exactly. And Max Verstappen? He doesn’t do anything halfway.

***

Text Messages:Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: Need your help.

GP: If this is about strategy on a Monday at 11 in the evening, I’m hanging up.

Max: It’s not.

GP: Then what?

Max: Isabelle’s birthday is coming up. I need a gift.

GP: …You do realize just because I’m married, I’m not a fountain of romantic wisdom, right?

Max: Who else am I supposed to ask?

GP: Literally anyone else?

Max: You’re the only one I trust not to be an idiot about this.

GP: I feel like that was a compliment and an insult at the same time.

Max: Just help me.

GP: Alright, what are you thinking?

Max: Something personal. Not just perfume or a handbag.

GP: Already doing better than most.

Max: That’s a low bar.

GP: True. Jewelry? Something meaningful?

Max: I was thinking emeralds. Her birthstone. And it matches her eyes.

GP: …Wow. You’re actually in deep.

Max: Not the point.

GP: Sure, sure. Bracelet? Necklace? Something she can wear every day?

Max: Yeah. Probably a bracelet.

GP: Go for it. But just so you know, if you keep setting the bar this high, you’re making the rest of us look bad.

Max: Not my problem.

GP: Yeah, that tracks. Let me know what you pick.

Max: Will do. Thanks.

GP: Anytime. Just remember, I’m charging a consulting fee next time.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: This is Max. Isabelle’s Max.

Emilie: …Hello, Isabelle’s Max. To what do I owe the honor?

Max: I need help. It’s about Isabelle’s birthday.

Emilie: Go on.

Max: I need Isabelle’s wrist size.

Emilie: …What.

Max: Her wrist size.

Emilie: That’s it? No explanation? No context? Just casually asking for her wrist size like that’s a normal thing?

Max: Yes.

Emilie: I don’t trust you.

Max: That feels unnecessary.

Emilie: UNNECESSARY? MAX, I HAVE SPENT YEARS FIGHTING A LOSING BATTLE AGAINST HER FAMILY’S COMPLETE INABILITY TO GET HER A DECENT GIFT.

Max: …

Emilie: Charles once got her a Ferrari-branded umbrella. ”In case you ever come to a race and it rains.”

Max: …

Emilie: Arthur once got her a stuffed animal from an airport gift shop, because he nearly forgot entirely one year. Just straight-up forgot Belle had a birthday.

Max: …

Emilie: Lorenzo got her candle last year. A SINGLE. GENERIC. VANILLA. CANDLE. SHE DOESN’T EVEN LIKE VANILLLA; SHE GETS HEADACHES FROM IT.

Max: That’s actually embarrassing.

Emilie: Thank you. But I’m not done.

Max: Oh no.

Emilie: Their mother gave Isabelle a cookbook.

Max: That’s… not the worst?

Emilie: It was a diet cookbook.

Max: …

Max: What the hell.

Emilie: EXACTLY.

Max: And you’re saying this happens every year?

Emilie: EVERY. YEAR. Max, I have a Google Doc. I have an entire spreadsheet dedicated to “How to Make Sure Isabelle Actually Gets Something Nice.” I am fighting for my life out here.

Max: Not anymore.

Emilie: Wait.

Max: Attachment: Image of three emerald bracelets

Max: I’m thinking emeralds. It’s her birthstone. Matches her eyes.

Emilie:

Emilie:

Emilie: MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN.

Max: What.

Emilie: YOU ALREADY PICKED OUT OPTIONS???

Max: I was narrowing it down.

Emilie: NARROWING IT DOWN. LIKE A FUNCTIONING HUMAN MAN. LIKE SOMEONE WHO ACTUALLY PUTS THOUGHT INTO GIFTS. LIKE SOMEONE WHO KNOWS HER FAVORITE GEMSTONE AND HOW IT MATCHES HER EYES.

Max: …Yes?

Emilie: DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW INFURIATING THIS IS FOR ME. I HAVE BEEN CARRYING THIS FAMILY.

Max: So you don’t know her wrist size?

Emilie: FIFTEEN CENTIMETERS. 

Max: Appreciate the help.

Emilie: Oh, and just for future reference—her ring size is 50.

Max: …

Max: Just for future reference?

Emilie: Just saying. You never know.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1GossipQueen: 🚨 UM. Just saw Max Verstappen in a jewelry store in Miami. He was looking at bracelets and asking about emeralds.

@/OversteerAndTears: Not me immediately googling “Max Verstappen girlfriend emerald jewelry” like I’m gonna find something.

@/SoftForMax: Max Verstappen. In a jewelry store. Asking about emeralds. Who is she.

@/F1GossipQueen: He was so serious about it too. Like asking the salesperson about different settings and cuts.

@/CheckeredHeart: SETTINGS??? DIFFERENT CUTS?!?!

@/F1GossipQueen: Yes!!! And he was like, “She likes emeralds, but I want something subtle.” Like WHO, MAX??

@/FastCarsAndDrama: “She likes emeralds.” SHE??? I’M GONNA THROW UP.

@/MaxIsMyGOAT: So we’re just casually learning that Max Verstappen not only has a girlfriend but knows her jewelry preferences well enough to mention them in a store???@/OrangeArmy82: Maybe it’s for his mom or sister. We don’t know it’s for a girlfriend.

[blairwbb]

August

pairing: Paige Bueckers x fem!oc

summary: Paige Bueckers and Knox rivers grew up side by side in Hopkins, their friendship evolving over the years from childhood pals to something deeper, though neither ever dared to label it. They shared everything, from inside jokes to their dreams for the future, but something unspoken always lingered between them, creating an uncharted tension neither knew how to navigate.

A/N: This is loosely based ‘August’ By Taylor swift. I’m new to writing so enjoy!

-

Sitting on the porch in Hopkins, Minnesota, after being away for a while feels like stepping back into a quieter, familiar part of my life. It was different from North Carolina. The warm breeze of spring or the crisp air of fall gently brushes against my skin, making me realize how much I have missed the simple, peaceful moments here. The sound of birds chirping and the occasional hum of a distant lawnmower fills the air, but it's the neighborhood's calm rhythm that stands out.

The houses around me are cozy, with their well-kept yards and a sense of community that feels grounded in time. The trees, taller and fuller than before, offer shade, casting dappled light across the porch. I take in the smell of the earth and greenery, a mix of fresh grass and the faint scent of nearby flowers, a reminder of the seasons that come and go.

I can hear the distant sounds of traffic, but they’re muffled, more like background noise than a distraction. The streets, which once felt familiar, now seem a little quieter, almost like they’ve slowed down with me. The town feels like it has grown in some ways but stayed exactly the same in others, like a snapshot of what you remember, with small, subtle changes that only time can bring.

It's a moment of reflection, a mix of nostalgia and a slight sense of detachment, like reconnecting with an old friend after years apart. It’s comforting, yet a little strange. Strange because she was back also. She as in Paige Bueckers

It feels different now, being back in Hopkins, especially with Paige. I hadn’t seen her since that last summer before you both left for college. It was a summer full of familiar warmth, laughter, and easy moments, but it also ended with something unexpected. The kiss.

It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t something either of us had talked about before, but there it was—a quiet, unexpected spark that both of you had felt lingering in the air. It wasn’t the type of kiss that changes everything, but it was enough to make things feel a little more complicated than they were before. We both left that summer with unspoken words hanging between us, things we didn’t know how to address. Neither of us brought it up, and slowly, the distance between us grew—not just physically, but emotionally, too. College, new lives, new routines—it all just took over.

Now, we’re both back. Her return feels like stepping into a moment frozen in time, but also one where everything feels slightly off, like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. We’re both trying to find your way around the awkwardness, but there’s an undeniable tension that I can’t ignore. She’s the same Paige—kind, easy to talk to, but there’s something different, a sense that maybe both of you are just trying to figure out what this is now, what it all means after that summer.

Our families are as close as ever, and it’s easy to fall back into those old rhythms of family get-togethers and shared moments, but you can’t help but feel the weight of the silence between you two. It’s not a bad silence, not something that holds animosity or regret, but it’s there. Both of you are different now.

When you catch her eyes, it’s clear she feels it too. There’s a soft, almost apologetic smile from her, like she wants to bring things back to the way they were, but doesn’t quite know how. You’re not sure either. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe some things are better left unspoken. Maybe, over time, it’ll all come back to a place where things are easy again—just like they used to be, before everything got complicated.

-

The families are celebrating the fact that everyone’s back in town, and it’s the kind of gathering that feels right—filled with the warmth of familiar faces and the easy chatter of old friends. My sisters, of course, know all about the night with Paige. It’s hard to keep things like that a secret, especially when Im surrounded by people who’ve seen you both grow up. They’ve been giving me knowing glances all evening, exchanging quiet conversations, like they’re just waiting for the two of us to figure it out and talk about what happened.

When the grocery run is suggested, it feels like a natural way to slip away from the attention of the gathering. Paige and I share a brief, almost relieved look before we both agree. It’s the perfect excuse, and a welcome break. As we drive through the familiar streets of Hopkins, everything feels easy again. The tension starts to dissolve the further away you get from the house, and the conversation comes back like it always did—effortless.

We talk about the usual stuff first—how school’s going, how your families have been. But then there’s that moment where things shift, the way conversations often do when you're with someone you’re close to. The air between us grows a little thicker, and it’s clear both of us are dancing around the thing that’s been unsaid for so long.

Paige’s voice breaks through the quiet first, her tone softer than usual, almost like she’s testing the waters. “I miss this,” she says, glancing over at you, her eyes briefly meeting mine. It’s not just about the grocery run or the conversation; it’s about everything—the simplicity of being around each other again, the familiarity that comes with time spent together.

I nod, a small, tight smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I miss It too,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them. There’s a vulnerability in the air now, something unspoken but understood. i want to say more, to explain everything that’s been swirling around in my head for months. But the words don’t come.

The car pulls into the grocery store parking lot, and there’s a quiet moment where neither of you moves to get out. You both know the time for the big conversation hasn’t come yet. There’s still a lot of unpacking to do, but in that moment, the silence feels comforting. It’s not awkward—it’s just... right.

“Knox, I know we’ve both been avoiding it,” Paige says, her voice quieter this time, “but I think we need to figure this out. Whatever happened that night...”

I don’t answer right away, but i don’t need to. She knows we’re both on the same page, both waiting for the right moment, the right words. But for now, being here, together again, is enough. You’re not rushing to fix everything. You’re just letting it flow, letting the distance between us shrink a little more with each passing minute.

When you finally get out of the car, it’s easy, almost like nothing changed. We walk side by side into the store, the quiet understanding between us enough to carry us through whatever comes next.

The celebration is in full swing by the time me and Paige get back from the grocery run. Laughter spills out from the house as soon as you step inside, the familiar sounds of your families blending together in a way that feels like home. It’s easy, effortless—just like things between paige and I  have started to feel again.

My sisters are the first to notice the shift. They don’t say anything outright, but the knowing glances they exchange are enough to make you roll your eyes. They’ve been waiting for this, watching from the sidelines like it’s some long-running TV show they’re personally invested in. And honestly, they kind of are.

Dinner stretches into late evening, and the teasing starts slow—little comments from your mom, a raised eyebrow from Paige’s dad when we end up sitting next to each other, the way everyone conveniently seems to leave just enough space for both of us to end up paired together. It’s subtle at first, but then my older sister, MK, never one for patience, finally says what everyone’s been thinking.

“So, have you two figured it out yet, or are we gonna have to lock you in a room until you do?”

 I nearly choke on your drink, and Paige just laughs, shaking her head like she’s completely unbothered. “Figured what out?” she asks, playing along, though the slight flush on her face gives her away.

“Oh, come on,” another sibling chimes in. “You guys always do this. Dance around each other, act like it’s nothing, and then—boom—you finally admit what we’ve all known for years.”

There’s laughter, a few exaggerated sighs from family members who have clearly been waiting for this moment longer than I even realized. I glance at Paige, and she’s already looking at me, amusement flickering in her eyes, but there’s something else too. A quiet understanding. A silent, yeah, they’re not wrong.

You shake your head, fighting back a smile. 

“Y’all are delusional.”

“Uh-huh,” My sister snorts. “Just wait. You two will figure it out.”

The conversation moves on, but the energy lingers. And the thing is… they’re right. You and Paige willfigure it out. Maybe not tonight, maybe not even tomorrow. But being here, with her, with your families, laughing and teasing like nothing ever changed—it feels like the start of something.

Or maybe, the continuation of something that never really ended.

The days pass, and little by little, things start falling back into place with Paige. The awkwardness from before fades, replaced by something easier, something familiar. We slip back into late-night drives, shooting around at the old park, sitting on the porch and talking about nothing and everything. It’s not like we’re pretending nothing happened that night before we left for college—it’s just that neither of us have pushed to bring it up. Not yet.

But then, one night, we finally do.

It’s late, way later than either of us should still be awake, but that’s always been our thing. We’re sitting on the hood of my car, parked at the edge of a quiet road just outside of town, where the stars feel a little closer. The air is warm but crisp, and there’s nothing but the sound of crickets and the occasional car passing in the distance.

Paige leans back on her hands, looking up at the sky, her face half-lit by the soft glow of the streetlight behind us. “I knew we were gonna end up here,” she says, her voice light but a little too careful, like she’s testing the waters.

I glance at her. “Here as in…?”

“As in finally talking about it.” She tilts her head toward me, and I see the flicker of something in her expression—hesitation, maybe. Or something deeper.

I exhale, running a hand through my hair. 

“Yeah.” A beat of silence stretches between us, and then I finally say it. “That night. We never talked about it.”

Paige nods slowly, and for the first time in a while, she looks a little unsure of herself. That’s rare for her. “I didn’t know if you wanted to.”

I let out a dry chuckle. “I didn’t know if you wanted to.”

She shifts so she’s facing me more. “I mean… it wasn’t nothing, right?”

There it is. The thing we’ve been dancing around. The thing that’s been sitting between us since that last summer.

I shake my head. “No. It wasn’t nothing.”

She holds my gaze for a second, then looks down, fidgeting with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I think I was scared,” she admits, her voice softer now. “We were both leaving, everything was changing, and I didn’t want to lose you. So I thought maybe if I didn’t say anything… it wouldn’t make things harder.”

I swallow, processing her words. “Yeah,” I say, my voice quieter now too. “I get that. I guess I did the same thing. I just—I didn’t want to mess anything up with you. And then time just… got away from us.”

Paige exhales, like she’s been holding that in for longer than she realized. “I missed you, Knox.” She says it so simply, but it hits deeper than anything else tonight.

I don’t hesitate. “I missed you too.”

We sit there for a while, just letting the words settle between us. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like we’re on the same page again. Maybe we still have things to figure out, maybe we’re not quite there yet. But tonight, under the stars, sitting side by side like we always have is enough for now.

-

The thing about Paige and me is that we’re almost. Almost back to where we were before we left. Almost talking about that night completely. Almost admitting what we both know is there. But we never quite cross the line.

 It’s frustrating, the way we hover in this space between something and nothing. We talk about it, about us, but always in circles, never fully saying what needs to be said. Some nights, it feels like we’re on the edge of something real, like one of us will finally just say it, just let it all fall out into the open. But then the moment passes, and we go back to pretending we don’t know exactly what’s happening between us.

Tonight is one of those nights.

We’re at her house, curled up on the couch after a long day, the TV playing some movie neither of us are really watching. Our families had another get-together, and at this point, I’m convinced they all see what we refuse to say. The teasing glances, the way they always find a way to leave us alone in a room together—it’s like they’re just waiting for us to figure it out.

Paige shifts next to me, pulling her knees up and resting her chin on them. “Knox,” she says quietly, and there’s something in her voice that makes my chest tighten.

“Yeah?”

She hesitates, like she’s choosing her words carefully. “Do you ever think about how different things would’ve been if we had just… talked that night?”

I sigh, leaning my head back against the couch. “Yeah. More than I probably should.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, but I feel her looking at me. When I turn my head, her expression is unreadable, like she’s caught somewhere between frustration and something softer. “So why are we still doing this?” she finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

I don’t know how to answer that. Because the truth is, I don’t want to be doing this. I don’t want to keep pretending we’re not caught in this push and pull, this thing that never really went away. But at the same time, there’s this fear sitting heavy in my chest—the fear that if we actually let this happen, if we try and it doesn’t work, I’ll lose her completely.

And I think she feels the same way.

I swallow hard. “I don’t know.”

Paige exhales, looking away like she’s trying to hide whatever she’s feeling. But I see it. I always see it. “I hate this,” she mutters. “I hate acting like it wasn’t real.”

“Me too.” The words slip out before I can stop them, raw and honest. “But I don’t know how to fix it.”

She looks at me again, and for a second, I think she’s going to say something—something that changes everything. But then she just nods, like she understands, like she’s just as stuck as I am.

We don’t talk for a while after that. The movie plays on, and we sit there in the same silence we’ve been living in since that night. So close, but still not quite there.

Almost.

-

It happens late one night, when the world is quiet and there’s nothing left between us but the truth.

Knox and I have spent the whole summer dancing around it, but the steps are getting messy, the space between us shrinking with every touch that lingers too long, every glance that holds too much. It’s been weeks of almost, of my heart kicking up every time she says my name, of her looking at me like I’m something worth waiting for. I think I’ve always known how I feel. I think I’ve just been waiting for them to catch up.

We’re sitting on my porch, just the two of us, the air thick with summer heat. The cicadas hum in the distance, the soft glow of the porch light making Knox’s features softer, gentler. She looks at me like she wants to say something, like maybe this time she actually will.

“Paige,” my name barely more than a breath. “I don’t want to dance around this anymore.”

I swallow, heart hammering. “Then don’t.”

Knox shifts, leaning forward, her elbows on their knees, hands clasped together like they’re steadying themselves. “I love you,” she says, and just like that, everything else fades.

I feel it in my bones, the way those words settle deep inside me, like they were always meant to be there. “You do?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

She laughs laugh, shaking their head. “Yeah, Paige. I do. I think I always have.”

My throat tightens. “Then why did it take us this long?”

Knox looks at me, really looks at me, and I think I already know the answer. We were scared. We didn’t want to lose each other. We let time and distance and fear get in the way. But not anymore.

“I love you too,” I say, and suddenly, I feel light. Like this was the weight I’d been carrying all summer, all year, and now it’s gone.

Knox lets out a breath, like she’s been waiting just as long to hear it, and then she’s pulling me in, arms wrapping around me in a way that feels like home. I close my eyes, breathe her in, and for the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly how it’s supposed to.

The rest of the summer belongs to us.

Ice cream runs where we steal bites from each other’s cones. Flowers—daisies, lilacs, anything Knox can find, tucked behind my ear, left on my car, sitting on my porch with my name scribbled on a note. Bonfires with our families,her fingers laced through mine under the glow of the flames. Quiet mornings where we don’t need to talk, where just being is enough.

But time doesn’t stop, even when I want it to. The days slip by, and suddenly, the summer isn’t endless anymore.

I sit on Knox’s bed the night before we both leave, staring at my packed bags, my stomach twisting. “It’s gonna be hard,” I admit, because I don’t believe in lying to them—not about this.

Knox is lying next to me, her hand reaching for mine. “Yeah. But we can handle it.”

I look at her searching for any hesitation, but there’s none. Just certainty. Just us.

UConn and UNC. A thousand miles between us. But I think about every moment that led us here, every almost we finally turned into something real, and I know—we’re ready.

“I’ll call you every night,” Knox says, squeezing my fingers.

I smile. “You better.”

Knox grins. “And we’ll visit. And send each other stupid gifts. And make it work, because that’s what we do.”

I exhale, letting myself believe it. Letting myself trust in this, in us. “Yeah,” I whisper, leaning my forehead against hers. “We’ll make it work.”

Because we always do.

Long distance isn’t easy, but we make it work.

There are late-night calls, stolen moments between classes, texts that never feel like enough but have to be. I’m is busy with basketball, and knox drowning in schoolwork, but we find time. We always find time.

And when we can, we come home. Hopkins is still ours—the place where it all started, where we don’t have to worry about schedules and miles between us. On breaks, we fall right back into step, like no time has passed at all. And every time I have to leave, every time I watch Know board a plane back to South Carolina while I head North to Connecticut , it gets a little harder. But we promised each other we’d do this, and I’ve never been one to break a promise to. We make it work.

But tonight, I want her here.

It’s a big game. The kind where the crowd is packed, the cameras are everywhere, and the pressure is heavier than usual. I try to shake it off, keep my mind where it needs to be, but something’s missing.

Me: Wish you were here. Knox: I know, baby. I wish I was too. Me: It’s okay, I get it. You’re busy. Knox: I’ll be watching, though. You know that. Me: I know.

And I do. I know she’ll be watching, probably yelling at her laptop screen like she’s courtside. But it’s not the same.

Still, I push it aside and get my head in the game. Warmups, focus, deep breaths. But when we step onto the court, I do what I always do.

I scan the crowd.

It’s stupid, really. I know she’s not here. I know she can’t be. But still, I look.

And then—

I see her.

For a second, I think I’m imagining it. But no—she’s right there, standing near the front, hoodie slightly pulled up but not enough to hide that honey brown hair, those big brown eyes locked onto me.

I freeze, my stomach flipping, my breath catching.

She’s here.

I feel my chest tighten, something overwhelming rushing through me. I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or run straight into the stands. All I can do is stare at her like an idiot while everything else—the noise, the crowd, the game—fades into the background.

Knox grins, standing up and cupping her hands around her mouth.

“Go get ‘em, Bueckers!”

I shake my head, biting back the biggest smile, because of course she showed up.

Because that’s who Knox is.

I turn back to the court, heart racing, body buzzing with something steady, something right.

And just like that, I know I’m about to put on a show.

Because she’s here.

Because she showed up.

Because she always will.

-

I almost don’t believe it at first.

When Knox first told me she was thinking about changing her major, I could tell she was nervous. Not because she wasn’t sure—Knox doesn’t do unsure—but because she knew what it meant. A new start. A big shift. And maybe, just maybe, a chance for us to finally close the distance between us.

I remember the night she told me.

I was lying in bed after practice, barely keeping my eyes open, when my phone buzzed.

Knox: Can I call you? Me: You never have to ask that.

When I answered, she didn’t waste any time. “So… what if I transferred to UConn?”

I sat up so fast I nearly knocked my phone off the bed. “Wait. Are you serious?”

She laughed, but I could hear the nerves underneath it. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. My new major makes more sense at UConn, and—” she hesitated, just for a second, then added, “And it’d mean being with you.”

That was all it took.

Now, months later, she’s here.

No more goodbyes at the airport. No more time zones or FaceTime calls cutting out when I need to see her most.

Now, I wake up knowing she’s close. Now, I get to come home from practice and find her already waiting for me, curled up on my couch with her textbooks in her lap. Now, I get to pull her into my arms whenever I want, no longer having to count the days until I can.

And life? Life is good.

It’s walking across campus together, hands brushing, no rush to say goodbye. It’s her waiting for me outside the gym after a long practice, pretending like she just happened to be there when we both know she was checking the time every five minutes. It’s late-night study sessions that turn into tangled limbs and whispered conversations under the blankets.

It’s us, without the distance, without the longing. Just us.

I watch her now, sitting across from me at our favorite coffee shop, her nose scrunched as she tries to understand whatever notes are in front of her. She mumbles something under her breath, chewing on the end of her pen like she always does when she’s thinking too hard.

I smile. “You good over there?”

She glances up, eyes warm, mouth curving into a grin. “Better than good.”

And I know exactly what she means.

Because everything is falling into place.

Because she’s here.

Because we made it.

[patchworkcuddlebug]

Strung Along

[This story contains body modification, identity overriding and implied erasure, and elements of non-con, including coercion and gaslighting.]

"Good morning, sleepyhead~"

You open heavy, groggy eyes to see her enter her bedroom with a single cup of freshly-made coffee. She holds it out to you, expecting you to take it. "You've been out for a while. I figured you'd need a little pick-me-up."

You take her offering, and thank her.

...speaking feels strange. It's as if there's something caught in your throat, something that makes it just a little bit harder. You can breathe just fine, there's nothing literally there, but you can still feel that difficulty when you speak.

As you sit up, taking a sip before setting your drink aside, she takes her place opposite to you. She drapes herself over the bedsheets, giving you a hungry and impatient look. "Everything okay? You seem a little surprised. I wasn't that bad, was I?" She laughs to herself.

You tell her she was lovely. You feel that strange wrongness again. Did you say something you weren't supposed to? If so, she doesn't seem upset. If you were to guess, she's more excited than she was last night.

"Oh, of course, how could I forget." Her words are seeped in a sickly teasing tone as she begins to crawl forward. "It's silly to expect you to be comfortable right now. I need to make you sing for me, don't I~?"

Her arms wrap around you, her face achingly close to yours. Her lips are close enough that you can feel her smile. She trails her hands down your back — and you feel it.

It's a ring. It hangs off of your body, dangling freely from a single point of contact on your mid-back.

You ask her what it is. She grins.

The pulling makes you recoil, your back arching in shock from the sensation. It's like warm, tender hands massage their way into your nerves, the sharpness of their nails just barely scraping deep inside your very ability to feel. You cover your mouth after you accidentally moan. There's a strange, visceral satisfaction as something is yanked out of you, something filling you being released and exposed.

"Why do you have a pullstring, little doll?"

She lets go. And the string starts to retract.

At first you only twitch. Then, a barely-restrained shaky exhale. There's a pressure building up as something you don't recognize whirs inside you, spinning your pullstring around a spool. It's getting tighter, pulled tighter, woven so tight. Let it out.

You want to speak. You need to respond to her. You feel the need to unclench your face and let yourself talk, strengthening by the second. It builds itself bigger, wider, demanding attention inside of you as you feel the pressure build and build until-

"It's what lets this one speak, Miss!" Your eyes widen in terror. You try to bring a hand to your mouth, making it stop, but it finds itself resting mincingly at your chest. "This one is a good doll, and good dolls only speak when they're made to!"

Only now, as the ring of the pullstring finally rests against your back, can you cover your mouth. The words flowed out so naturally, like you wanted it more than anything, and you could barely contain the fire of excitement lit within you.

"Oh, baby, I had no idea you felt this way!" She sighs dreamily, interrupting your explanations of how you really feel. "You should have known not to keep secrets from me, silly. You've wanted this for a while, haven't you, you poor little thing?"

You feel her finger slip through the ring, and give just enough pressure to cause resistance without pulling it out of you again. She gives you a moment of freedom, just a moment to ask her to wait as you grovel at her predatory stare.

It stretches, unwinding you. All you can do is gasp, ready to speak for your witch. You try to hold it back, like a cough, but it simply raises higher in your throat until there's nowhere to hold it except for your words. "Oh, this one's wanted to be a doll for so long, Miss! Just a pretty little thing, something to be played with and treasured, something to be used!"

No, no, you'd never want something so humiliating, so bizarre and... vulnerable. Sure, maybe you've explored feelings of being cared for or... played with, but nothing this extreme, nothing this involved!

"Hmm? Why do you look so scared, little doll?" Miss lords over you, feeling so much taller and so much more powerful than she ever did before. She holds herself with such grace, every movement meant to make you feel like she's rightfully in charge. Like you never stood a chance.

"There's nothing to be afraid of." She coos, like your hesitation is the most adorable thing in the world. She's right, there's nothing to be afraid of. "Sometimes, when people are lost and confused, they magically start to change into exactly what they want to be."

No, please, that's not possible. How could you just... change like this? You've always been a good doll. She's lying, she has to be, you know she has to be responsible, but you don't know why Miss would ever lie to you.

You're a person. You don't want to be a doll. It feels good, it feels so right to give in, but there's too much you'd lose. You need to be independent, you need to be yourself, you can't just throw everything away to be a good little dolly for Miss.

You ask her what she's doing to you. What's happening to your thoughts. Why it feels so wrong to speak without the string.

"What I've done?" She asks, putting enough audacious emphasis on herself to make you shudder. You feel so silly. She lessens her voice, giving it a soft and saccharine quality. Like you're cute for not understanding something so simple. "Sweetie, I have no idea what you could be talking about. Witches can't do something as bold as changing free will. If you want this, then it's all your fault~"

She trails another finger across your back. Her nails sting against your skin. It feels so good when she touches you. "Here... why don't I prove it."

Her fingers find your ring. She plays with it, toys with it, turning it over in her hands without giving it the pressure you want. But it feels so right when Miss plays with you. You never want this to end, but you want to feel her pull you out and make you sing for her.

"Do you want me to make you nothing but my good little dolly?"

Wait, no, please, please Miss, please!

Yes, release! Thank you! Oh golly, it feels so good to be your doll!

"Please get rid of my people thoughts, Miss! This one wants to feel like this all the time!" Behind the doll's wide eyes and yearning smile, a pang of terror resounds through your mind. You're helpless, panicking, with the quickened breath and shaking hands giving you away as the doll's string becomes inert.

You try to stop her, to reason with her. You explain that a doll's string makes it talk. You tell her that it makes you act like a good doll. You're scared, good dolls shouldn't be scared of their Miss. Despite your desperate please, you still feel her hand gently glow as it soothingly caresses your cheek.

"There's nothing to be scared of. You want this, remember?" Her smile, her beautiful dominant smile, makes you shudder as you start to relax. Of course, Miss is right, it feels so good to be a doll. This one needs to be a good doll for Miss.

The glow becomes just a bit brighter. The doll slips further, closer and closer, deeper down for Her. I don't want to be a doll, but dolls don't get to chose. Miss does. Besides, it's too late now, isn't it? This one is already you.

Wait, not yet, you don't want to be a doll, you-

The doll smiles, docile and obedient.

It looks to the witch, its Miss, its owner and its caretaker. It does nothing, silently and politely waiting for Her to finish basking in her creation. Her doll.

"Oh, don't you just look perfect?" She cups the doll's cheek in Her hands, cooing in adoration. "A perfect, pretty little dolly for me. Are you ready for your first order, you precious little thing? I promise, you'll love it."

The doll is still, patient, empty, as Miss reaches around it for another tug of its chord. If it could still think, it would be drowning in eager anticipation, feeling chills through its body as pulses of pleasure flow out of every inch of string.

It doesn't think. It responds as it's been made to.

"Yes Miss, please! This one will love it, it knows it will! Thank you so much for telling it how to feel, Miss."

She smiles, gracing it with the beauty of Her radiant joy, as She speaks the words that give the doll's existence purpose.

"Good doll."

[wandaspup]

his loss

– pairing | wanda x kid/daughter reader

– synopsis | you're wandas kid/daughter from a previous relationship. today you can't help but wonder why you weren't enough for your father to stay. mama wanda comes to the rescue.

– warnings | depression, self harm (nothing too graphic), blood, hateful thoughts, fluff

– word count | 855

– you're not alone. if you ever need to talk, my dm's and asks are open. you're more than enough.

You know those days where you feel really good, life is great and you’re on top of the world and then suddenly it hits you that it was too good to be true and everything falls apart? This is how you’re feeling these past few weeks. Depression consumes your entire being, it hits when you least expect it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You have been clean for 11 months. You had ups and downs but you stayed strong for the sake of your mom. She’s your best friend and your everything. She found out you were hurting yourself when you were only 13. She was devastated but after a lot of talk, you both decided it was best for you to go to therapy, and you have been going ever since.

Tonight your mom was out doing grocery shopping, meaning you were alone in the house just waiting for her to come back. You looked at the calendar and noticed that today, a few years back, you had seen your father for the last time. You were little, you could barely remember him at all, but deep inside you missed him, you longed for a connection with him. It hurt when you saw other kids growing up with their dads around, you wished you were in their place. Not that you didn’t love your mom, it’s the complete opposite; you just couldn’t understand why you still felt this way towards him after so many years.

You were starting to feel a little anxious, thinking why he left you. Did he ever want you? Weren’t you good enough for him? Were you a mistake? Every bad thought that could possibly exist was running through your head. You needed a relief. You knew your mom would get mad but that’s the least of your worries right now.

You went to the bathroom and started looking for the little hidden place where you keep your blade. You didn’t care about the pain or the mess you were doing; you just wanted relief. The physical pain couldn’t even compare to the mental turmoil you experience every day.

It was like time stopped. You heard a knock on your door, pulling you out of your trance and making you panic. You didn’t have the energy to even try and clean everything up, you just stayed on the floor, waiting for your mom to find you in that state. “I’m in the bathroom, mama!” You yelled, hoping she would hear it, you didn’t want to delay the inevitable.

Wanda enters the bathroom and her smile fades, you can see the tears in her eyes making you feel worse than you already are. “I-I’m sorry mama. I t-tried, I really did.” You started sobbing and Wanda didn’t hesitate to run to your aid. “Shh, I know baby. I know, it’s okay.” She whispers while pulling you into her lap, cradling you like a baby. She was talking but you were too focused on the way she was brushing your hair and the way she was rubbing your back in a soothing manner to even pay attention to the words coming out of her mouth.

“Y-You’re not mad?” You asked, you were sure she was. “Of course not, my love. You are so strong. I know you tried and that’s all that matters. Healing isn’t linear and that’s okay. We all have our days and I know how today affects you, I should have been more attentive. I’m sorry that I was gone for too long.” She kisses the top of your head and squeezes you lovingly.

“You can always count on me, okay? I want you to know that you have a friend in me. I’m your mother and your best friend for life.” She cups your face and rubs your cheeks softly. “I’m so proud of you, baby. Relapsing is part of the process of recovery, and you will have these kinds of days, but the important thing is that you understand that you’re not alone, alright? You’re the best person I have ever known my entire life. I know that you miss him, but he doesn’t deserve you at all. It’s his loss, not yours.”

You smile amidst tears, you genuinely couldn’t have asked for a better mother. She knows you inside and out and she really is your best friend. “T-Thank you mama. You really are the best mother in the world.” Wanda couldn’t help but smile as well, scrunching her nose and rubbing it on yours. “You are my everything, my sweet girl. Now, how about I help you clean yourself up, change into pj’s and maybe order some pizza to watch a movie?” You nod, just wanting to be near your mother.

“No need to thank me, sweetheart. I will always do my best to protect you and make sure that you’re safe and okay. I’m so proud of being your mom, you have no idea. We are together in this, alright? Always and forever.” She says while lifting her pinky finger up, smiling.

You smile back and link your finger with hers, mumbling. “Always and forever, mom.”