#i’m kidding it really isn’t that serious

[shiningjustforreid]

stains

glimpses through fem!reader and Spencer’s relationship, through four instances of spills.

word count: 3.5k ish

a/n: i love the idea that for some of us, our personalities are made up all the things we like about the people we know and see. the idea that we’re all little bits and pieces of the things we love, and our experiences. this sort of explores that. (also this was mildly self indulgent because much like reader i’m a klutz!) <3

warnings/tags: 18+ for implied intimacy and canon typical violence for cm, pet names up the wazoo, reader is lowkey clumsy, Derek Morgan being himself, reader gets injured but she’s fine, who’s Maeve?, anxious love confession, Spencer adores reader so so much, S1 and S6 (ish) Spencer, Spencer in and post prison, love letters, marriage, kids, and briefly mentioned pregnancy, girl dad!Spencer Reid my beloved

- ✩ -

coffee - the first stain

To be honest, at first, he’s appalled.

The mug you set down on his desk isn’t his, so God knows whose mouth was on it last. You - somewhat carelessly - plopped it down on the file he’s working on, grinning that thousand watt smile he’s secretly become fond of. You’re wearing a sweater he noticed that brings out your eyes - a berry colored wool garment that he wishes you’d wear more.

“Hey! Morgan said you were exhausted. Thought I’d make you coffee.”

You pick it up, and set it down again, for emphasis, and a few drops make their way down the side and onto his case file, surely creating a cinnamon toned half circle that Hotch will not love. You don’t notice, watching his face.

“I made it with a bunch of sugar. Just how you like it, right?”

Suddenly, he realizes he’s been staring up at you, and then his mouth is moving faster than his brain.

“Yeah, I uh, I am pretty tired, now that you say it. Didn’t sleep well, long night, you know?”

You nod, sipping your own coffee, fingers wrapped around the ceramic.

“I get that. Goes with the job, right?”

“Oh, absolutely, yeah, I- wait, Morgan said that? Did he— what else did he tell you?”

You grin, coffee mug to lips again.

Stop staring, Reid.

“Nothing, really. Just said you needed a boost. Thought I’d provide.”

Titling your head a tad, you look down, a mild panic crossing your face when you see you’ve stained his file.

“Oh my God - Reid, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

He’s quick to shake his head, hands coming up to reassure, his eyes wide.

“No no no, it’s okay, truly, I-I made a mistake on that one anyways. I’ll need to have a new copy printed, honest.”

Frowning, you look him over, searching for a tell, something to let you know whether he’s lying or not.

“Are you sure? I can do it, I’m not that behind on mine, I could—“

Before he thinks - you’d assume, with all his brains, he would - his hand grabs your arm, that gorgeous sweater under his finger tips, his eyes locked with yours. He says your name, once, his tone more serious than he’d like.

“It’s okay. Thanks for the coffee.”

You blink, and then a slow grin takes over your face.

“You’re welcome. Let me know if you need more.”

For a moment, neither of you move, the heat of his hand burning through the wool on your arm, until he lets go like you’re the one scorching his skin, like he’s just realized that he’s touching you. You laugh a little, awkwardly, and he grins with the same level of unpracticed nerves, and you head back to your desk.

He picks up the mug, and sips slowly, closing his eyes for a moment - it does have a mountain of sweetness, the saccharine liquid coating his mouth but soothing his senses. When he sets it down again, it’s on a part of his workspace not occupied by case work. Just as predicted, the file that once housed the beverage now bears a semi circle of dried java. His pointer finger traces the stain, clockwise and then counter, for a moment, before he glances up in horror to see Morgan, of all people, signature smirk in place.

“‘Thanks for the coffee’. I don’t what’s sweeter, that coffee you just got or-“

“Shut up.”

He mumbles, face flushed, small smile on his face despite the teasing. He traces the coffee stain one last time before he hastily tucks the soiled paper away in a drawer.

blood - the second stain

“What do you mean you aren’t getting a response from her on comms?”

He’s so scared, he can’t even stop to think just how breathless and afraid he sounds, as he turns to Hotch, who fixes him with a look that clearly says, Calm down, Reid.

“It could just be non-functional, or got knocked off, or caught.”

Hotch says calmly, almost maddeningly so. Spencer swallows back the protests, the arguments that swell up in his throat like bile.

They’d created, and given the profile, and once Penelope had narrowed down the couple possible properties their potential unsub owned, you, Morgan, and Prentiss had headed into an abandoned storage facility, silent and careful.

Perhaps not careful enough.

The voice in his head reminds him, almost sadly, and he grits his teeth inside tightly drawn and chapped lips. Shaky hands smooth over his slacks, again and again, as his eyes stay fixed on Hotch.

“Ask-ask Morgan again. If she’ll respond.”

He’s given a frown, dark brows pulling together in a very typical Hotch-like manner.

“Is there a specific reason you’re asking about her, Reid?”

Is there? God, he doesn’t know. You bring him coffee nearly every morning, but perhaps that’s just kindness. Then there’s the chocolate sprinkled donuts that start his work day from time to time - maybe you just enjoy pastry treats, and think of him, when you buy one. Oh, and heaven forbid he forget the way you’ll come by his desk, and ask for clarification on a piece of paperwork or a procedure - that you probably could’ve asked Hotch or Prentiss about. You listen, active listening too, eye contact, body still - when his explanations turn into rambles about statistics about this type of criminal, your eyes watching his face, your own voice quiet.

Is he deluding himself? Seeing phantom romance where there’s maybe merely nothing but platonic affection? Blinking, once, he shakes his head in response to his Unit Chief’s question.

“No Hotch. I’m just worried, she-well, she hasn’t responded, and Morgan has, and Prentiss has, and I—“

Speak of the devil, Morgan’s voice comes through, demanding and tense.

“I need a medic. Prentiss and I secured the unsub, but, not before—“

Oh God. Not before that bastard got to you with a baseball bat, to the back of the head, you unaware before your face met the concrete below. Spencer’s not even asking for permission, snatching the keys to an SUV off the desk nearby and flooring the gas pedal.

You can’t die. Not before I—

Driving there is like hell - his lungs burn like there’s smoke and ash polluting them, and fear feels like too tame a word to describe the overwhelming panic that seizes his heart the more he drives.

I’m a fool, he thinks wildly, as his knuckles grip the steering wheel like a vice. A damn fool if I don’t tell her-

He’s barely got the thing in park before he’s scrambling out the driver’s side door, Converse immediately coated from the dusty ground outside the facility.

When he finds Morgan, and you, head lolled to the side, eyes closed, face pale as his must be, he falls to his knees with little regard for his own pain or discomfort. Morgan watches, careful, his voice gentle when he speaks, trying to calm his terrified friend.

“She’s still out, Reid. Just a nasty whack to the back of her head, okay? Easy.”

Trembling thumbs trace and hold your face, like it’s made of paper, as he swallows hard to keep the ache behind his eyes from becoming tear tracks down his face. He spots the gash, trickling crimson down your ashy skin, onto his shaking hand, but doesn’t move from holding your face. A deep contusion, furious and violet-toned, on the back of your head, makes the air leave his chest like he’s been choked.

Beautiful girl, I couldn’t stop this.

He could sob, and he nearly does, until you make some sort of confused noise and force open your eyes. Light rushes through his heart, rekindled warmth as he meets your eyes, and yet, he finds himself almost frozen.

“Spencer? What, I thought-“

“Listen to me.”

He forces himself to speak - he has too. What if he doesn’t get the chance, and all he ever gets to associate you with is caffeine, sprinkles, and a listening ear? No, that won’t do. Not in the slightest.

You meet his eyes, hazy, but listening. Morgan’s brows furrow, as he protests,

“God, man, she just woke up, let her-“

Ignored, as Spencer often finds himself doing when there’s more pressing matters than banter, than propriety.

“You need to know. That I-care about you.”

Blinking, you swallow, and suddenly, the throbbing pain in the back of your skull is slightly dimmed.

“That I can’t let another sunrise or sunset go by where you don’t know that I’d give you the stars if you’d let me. Where I can’t touch you, where I can’t make sure you understand that I’ll protect the light you have inside you until I’m burnt from it. You absolute angel, I-“

He shudders, almost afraid of his own earnest, and says your name like it’s a prayer.

“I love you. Even if you don’t return it, my heart is yours.”

Morgan’s grin is wide, and he shakes his head, almost in amazement. Your own face is flushed, as you hear sirens and medics, your voice crackly and rough from pain, but still, that smile he’s grown to associate with his heart fluttering graces your face.

“My heart is yours, Spencer. Glad you’re finally realizing how absolutely in love I am with you, you goose, even if it took all this.”

He laughs a little, almost deliriously, and smooths his trembling hand over your face.

“Guess the doughnuts weren’t enough, huh?”

You manage, and he shakes his head, quick to push back.

“They were. You’re always enough for me, no matter what you do.”

Could he sound any more smitten?

Procedure says he can’t go in the ambulance with you - there’s no need, you’re just getting stitches and some ice and he can visit you at the hospital, okay? But as he heads back to the - oh dear, still running, he really was in a hurry, wasn’t he? - car, Morgan glances sideways at him, signature smirk in place.

“Pretty boy, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Spencer stares down at his hands in his lap. They’re stained, and a grimace floods his face when he realizes it’s not dirt, but your blood, coating his fingertips. A soft sigh escapes his lips, and he bites back a nastier retort than his friend deserves.

“I guess I did. I can’t believe it took-“

Morgan sighs, stopping Spencer’s inevitable incoming guilt filled rambles.

“Hush. You told her. That’s what matters.”

Glancing down at Spencer’s fidgeting hands in his lap, he presses on the gas.

“Let’s get there, so you can get that off you. I’m shocked you got all dirty, with your germ thing.”

Spencer shrugs, looking out the window.

“For her? I’d-I think I’d do anything. No matter what it stained.”

Soap finds his hands at the hospital, but he finds you soon after, unable to stop the gentle press of his lips to your forehead, or the soft murmurs that follow as he tries to remind himself that much more of your blood didn’t spill.

ink - the third stain

Emily has to physically hold you back in the court room, when they take him out, his eyes fixed on you, and the team, almost hopeless.

“Then your client is a flight risk.”

You’re quite literally fighting her, suddenly terrified in a whole new way for your boyfriend, tears staining your face.

“Bail is denied.”

She’s got both arms wrapped around you, her soft, ‘I know’s, and ‘I’m sorry’s barely heard over your own pleas for her to let you go.

“Defendant will be remanded to federal custody pending trial.”

You hear someone sobbing - angry, fear-filled wailing - and until Emily has you turned around, your face in her shoulder, comes the realization that it’s you.

“He’s-Emily, what are we going to do, he’s not going to be okay, I-I can’t—“

The days that follow are dark. Going to the BAU without Spencer, let alone waking up without him beside you, is enough to send you into a spiral. You try to remind yourself that he’s worse off, that whatever hell he’s experiencing is ten times worse than your quiet fear and loneliness. So, to try to combat the weight that squashes your heart, you write him letters. Daily letters.

Spencer -

We have a case in Florida. Emily says it’ll be quick, but the Florida ones never are. We’d solve it ten times faster with you, you know? Geographical profiles are much harder alone, that’s for sure. The plane ride is quieter without you, and no one’s saying anything - you’d be saying something if you were here. Maybe that’s why we’re quiet. ♡

Every day. You don’t relent. If you can’t mail them in whatever town you get stuck in for work, you mail them in one big envelope when you get back home.

Spencer -

That case was rough. I cried twice - once when I spent over two hours staring at the map at the precinct and couldn’t find anything new, and once when Rossi accidentally snapped at me. He said he was sorry, that he’s ‘on edge’ right now - but aren’t we all? Emily’s working really hard to try to get you home. I wish I could come see you. I hope you’re safe. I love you. ♡

When you learn that he didn’t put you on the list of people who can visit him in that concrete hell, you almost lose what’s left your nerve, breaking down in Emily’s office, shaking. You don’t know whether you’re furious, in despair, or numb to it all.

“Emily, why? Why doesn’t he want me to come see him? If it was me, I’d want to see him every day, I wouldn’t want him to leave!”

She sighs, her face tight. Twisting your hands in your lap, you search her face for answers. Nausea claws at your throat.

“Honestly, my guess is it’s just that. He knows that if you come, he won’t want you to leave. It’ll hurt too much.”

“But Tara, and you, and his mother, and-

Spencer -

I think I understand. Sort of. I feel like there’s this pressure in my chest, and I can’t ever fully breathe. Not since you’ve been away. The weight on my heart never goes away. Missing you more every hour. ♡

Despite the slew of handwritten letters that reach him, you only get one back, after you and the team search his apartment - you keep it in your purse pocket, folded safe, and read it whenever your throat feels tight and your eyes burn. His untidy scrawl is enough to make you feel like a part of him is actually inside this letter - like he’s reading it himself to you, interwoven in the fibers of the paper.

Angel -

I wanted you to know I’m in solitary now - I made sure of it. I know you want me safe, almost more than I do. I love you beyond what I can say, my beautiful girl.

Yours, Spencer.

One night, you’re curled up in Spencer’s apartment, writing him a letter, as is your nightly routine. The ink stains the side of your hand now - an ever-present reminder of the fact that your heart constantly feels ripped out of your body. After addressing the letter to him, your phone buzzes - Emily.

Oh God.

“Hey. We figured out that- oh, you don’t care about all that. He’s coming home.”

She doesn’t need to tell you twice. Paper and ink pen tumble to the floor as you shove your feet in shoes and snatch your jacket off the coat tree. Tension is coiled in your body the entire way there. Ink still stains the side of your hand, a permanent reminder that every time you needed to just tell him something - you had to pick up pen and paper.

Heart in your throat, you push open the door with shaking hand. There he stands, your Spencer. He’s still him, you think, although his face is tight, and sleep clearly hasn’t been something he’s seen much of.

Three months.

You walk in slowly, body trembling. One hand reaches up, runs through the curls that have grown so long.

“Your hair.”

You breathe out, voice barely audible. He nods, his face almost impassive. Tentativel fingers trail down his cheek, make a path to hold his face. He nods, and then, you notice his eyes are misty.

“My angel.” He murmurs, almost in awe, and takes you in his arms with a fervor. Crushed against him, face buried in the cool fabric of his shirt, you bite back a sob, arms threaded around him.

“No. Cry, my darling girl, I’m— I’m tired of doing it alone.”

How could you refuse him? Just hearing his voice, let alone the relief you feel at being touched by him again, is enough to satisfy you for days, you think. For a bit, all that’s heard is uneven breaths, until he speaks, his voice rough and shaky.

“I need to see your face.”

He pulls back, face shining with tears, and you swallow back the lump that just won’t leave your throat.

Calloused hands - less soft than you remember - take yours, and then he frowns.

“Your hand.”

Your right hand is held up, inspected, like the blue on the inner side of it is red instead. You smile, laughing a little, still breathless.

“Ink, baby. Just ink. I was writing you a letter.”

He shakes his head, rubbing at the navy stain with his thumb, as if that will remove it.

“I would’ve kept writing. Never given up. You’d be sick of letters from me.”

“Never, sweet girl. There is no part of me who could ever find himself sick of you.”

After you’ve home, he wastes no time in pressing less than tender kisses to your mouth and jawline and the column of your throat. It’s not until he’s reacquainted himself with your contours and the dip of your hipbones and the soft way you gasp out his name when he does that, that has you next to him, so he can see your face.

He needs to see your face.

Hand in his, still faintly stained from ink, he examines it, and then, softly, hesitantly, he meets your eyes.

“You know ink poisoning is actually rare? Pens we use are designed with non-toxic ink, to decrease any chances of fatal ingestion.”

You never mind his information sharing, but your eyebrows furrow tiredly at his timing.

“Spence, I’m not saying I don’t care, but we just— you just—”

“Please. Let me look at the woman I love and pretend for a few moments that my damn eidetic memory won’t play back the last three months of my life like some wretched tape.”

You let him, as he holds your cobalt-colored hand and your eyes droop, his soft voice telling you that rubbing alcohol will probably get that stain out. It almost feels normal.

Almost.

paint - the final stain

“Spence! Can you get paint water out of carpet with any amount of ease?”

You call your husband, turning back to your mildly sheepish five year old, whose water color adventure on the coffee table has quickly done south.

In walks Spencer, not even noticing the overturned hard plastic cup or purpley-blue spill, eyes going straight to his daughter’s nearly finished picture.

“Beautiful, Penny. Looks incredible.”

He murmurs, bending to be eye level with a beaming Penelope, hand on her arm, before turning to you, mild tension and stress lining your face. His smile is gentle. It’ll wash out.

“Rubbling alcohol, angel.”

You nod, tension easing from your shoulders.

“We’ll go get it - we always clean our messes up, right lovely?”

He asks your daughter, lifting her with practiced care. She giggles, nodding, as they head from the room, letting you take a breath and set up the paints and picture in a new location - the kitchen table, with some newspaper tucked underneath because she’s five, and you of all people know spills happen.

Once she’s set up again - she really is so quiet when she’s engrossed in something - you find yourself curled up with Spencer on the couch, head on his shoulder, watching her paint and sing-song to herself.

“Think she’s lonely?”

Spencer asks, turning to you, his grin wide.

Troublemaker.

“Hmm. I think you just like me pregnant.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“Maybe. Maybe I don’t want Penny to be sad, ever.”

Silence, then, for a bit.

“She’s so much like you.”

Spencer muses, his fingers drawing patterns on the side of your sweater. You smile, fondly.

“You say that because I’m clumsy. She was dancing around with that paintbrush, that cup of paint water stood no chance.”

“No, I say that because she shines like you. No matter what tries to dim her.”

That night, when you peek in your daughter’s door to see Spencer reading her A Little Princess, she’s propped up against him, hazel eyes barely open. Affection swells in your chest as his voice carries on, even though she’s clearly almost in dreamland. In you walk, pressing a kiss first to her forehead, then Spencer’s. He smiles gentle up at you - this is his favorite time of the day - and keeps reading.

“Perhaps there is a language which is not made of words, and everything in the world understands it.”

Once you’re back in the living room, you check on the earlier spill from today. All that’s left is a barely visible blue spot, no bigger than a quarter.

“No one will see it but you.”

Steadying, warm arms wrap around your ribs, and soft lips press against the side of your neck, washing away any insecurity about the state of your carpet.

“Besides, stains aren’t bad, sweet girl. They’re little reminders that things happened, good things, or bad things that brought us together. Memories, attached to splotches, attached to wounds, to paper, to skin. How convenient, to carry our most impactful moments like heaven-sent tattoos.”

[itspileofgoodthings]

.

[cutesyaddy]

from foes to forever

part three

Min Ho Moon x Reader

a/n: this one’s longer so i hope you enjoy 🙈

summary: (Y/N) is shocked to find herself paired with Min Ho for a semester-long project. As (Y/N) starts to see a deeper side to him, their dynamic begins to shift in ways neither anticipated

——————————

The classroom buzzed with quiet conversations and the occasional shuffle of papers. 

Man, I was really regretting not getting that coffee now.

I slid into an empty seat in the back, grateful no one had yet recognized me from last night. 

Madison assured me that “everyone loves a little drama,” but I wasn’t convinced. I just wanted to get through the day unnoticed.

As I unpacked my notebook and pen, a voice startled me. “Well, if it isn’t KISS’s most famous oaf.” 

I froze, the sound of his smug tone unmistakable. Slowly, I looked up, and there he was—Min Ho, smirking down at me with that same irritating confidence.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered under my breath.

He tilted his head, clearly amused. “What’s that? You’re happy to see me?”

“About as happy as I’d be to find gum on my shoe,” I shot back, shifting my bag to the floor. “Why are you here?”

Min Ho smirked, sliding into the empty seat next to mine. “Last I checked, this is my class. Don’t tell me you thought you’d seen the last of me.”

“Wishful thinking,” I muttered, turning my attention to the front of the room.

The professor entered, calling the class to order, and I took a deep breath, determined to focus.

“Welcome, everyone, to Communication Strategies,” the professor began. “To kick things off, we’ll be pairing up for a semester-long project that will count for 40% of your grade.”

I groaned inwardly. Pair projects? The universe really hated me.

The professor’s voice cut through the murmurs in the room. “I’ll be assigning the pairs, so please don’t bother choosing your friends.”

My stomach sank as the professor began reading off names.

“(Y/N) and… Min Ho.”

I nearly choked on air. Of course. Of course.

Min Ho leaned closer, his voice low enough for only me to hear. “Looks like you’re stuck with me, clutz.”

I turned to glare at him, my voice equally quiet. “This isn’t a joke. My grade’s on the line.”

“And you think I’m thrilled about this?” He shot back, his smirk dropping. “Trust me, I’d rather partner with anyone else.”

“Great. Mutual hatred. Should make for a productive semester,” I snapped.

The professor continued pairing up the rest of the class while I stewed in frustration. When he finally dismissed us, Min Ho turned to me, all traces of humor gone.

“Meet me at the library after lunch,” he said curtly.

“What, no snide remark?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not in the mood.” His tone was clipped, and without waiting for a response, he slung his bag over his shoulder and left the room.

I sat there, stunned. I wasn’t sure if I preferred his irritating banter or this sudden, serious version of him. Either way, I wasn’t looking forward to spending more time with Min Ho.

——————

The library was quiet, smelling of old books and fresh coffee. I stood near the entrance, tapping my foot impatiently as I glanced around. Where was he? 

Just as I was about to pull out my phone to check the time, I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps. I turned, and there he was—Min Ho, walking toward me with a purposeful stride, looking almost... normal. 

I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “You’re late.” 

He didn’t even flinch, just tossed his bag onto one of the tables and sat down without a word. “I was busy,” he said, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Busy with what? Being a jerk?” I retorted, taking a seat across from him, still not quite ready to back down from our usual banter. 

He shot me a sideways glance, his lips twitching slightly. “Would you rather I show up on time and annoy you with even more sarcastic comments?” 

I had to admit that actually wasn’t a bad idea. It was the silence that was making me uneasy. But I wasn’t going to let him know that. 

“So, what’s the deal with this project anyway?” I asked, flipping through the study guide we’d been given earlier. “Do we have to, like... actually get along for this to work?” 

Min Ho leaned forward slightly, his expression serious, and for a brief moment, I saw a different side of him. The playful edge was gone, replaced by something almost... determined. “If we want to pass, yeah. So maybe try not to mess things up this time.” 

My gaze narrowed, but before I could fire back, he slid a piece of paper toward me. 

“There’s a topic list. Pick one, and let’s get this over with,” he said, his voice less teasing and more businesslike now. 

I glanced at the list, but my mind was still trying to process the fact that Min Ho was actually... cooperating? No sarcastic remarks? No snide comments? Just... focus? 

I shook my head, snapping myself out of my thoughts. “Fine, let’s do this,” I said, grabbing the paper and scanning it. 

I picked a topic I knew would at least make the project bearable. “How about we do something on ‘Effective Communication in Conflict Resolution’? You know, since we’re both so good at arguing.” 

Min Ho’s lips curled into a smile, just a touch of amusement returning. “Yeah, you definitely have a lot of experience there.” 

I shot him a glare, but deep down, I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips. Maybe this wouldn’t be the worst project after all. 

We spent the next hour sorting through materials, occasionally bickering over small things like which angle to approach the topic from or who was going to do the research. But there was something... different. We were both focused, and every so often, I caught myself looking at him without the usual annoyance. 

It was when we started discussing potential sources for the paper that Min Ho actually made a suggestion I didn’t completely hate. 

“You know,” he said, glancing up from the laptop screen, “there’s a study on conflict communication that uses real-world examples. It’s pretty detailed.” 

“Wait, you actually read that stuff?” I asked, genuinely surprised. 

“Not all of us are out there causing accidents and drama, (Y/N),” he said with a smirk. But there was something in his eyes, a flicker of something deeper than his usual cocky exterior. 

I frowned. “You don’t have to be so... whatever you are. We’re working together, remember?” 

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he just looked at me, his expression unreadable. Then, in a tone I didn’t expect, he said, “Yeah. But I’m trying to make this work. For both of us.” 

I didn’t know what to say to that. Min Ho—trying to make something work? My brain couldn't quite process it. I quickly shook it off, letting the weight of the moment slip away. 

“Fine. We’ll use your study. But if you screw up this project, I’m blaming you.” 

He chuckled, his smirk returning. “Of course. That’s what partners are for, right?” 

I rolled my eyes. “Partners? I’m pretty sure you’re just here to make my life more difficult.” 

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Yeah? Well, so are you. It’s a perfect match.” 

——————

The playful bickering carried us through most of the hour. Surprisingly, we were actually making progress—despite the fact that Min Ho couldn’t resist tossing in a snide comment every now and then.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” I said, jotting down notes as he flipped through a textbook, “but you’re actually not the worst partner I’ve ever had.”

He smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t get too comfortable. I wouldn’t want you thinking I’m soft or something.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling a little. “Trust me, you’ve got nothing to worry about there.”

For a moment, the conversation stalled. 

The comfortable rhythm of banter quieted as we both turned back to the work in front of us.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he spoke again—his tone softer this time.

“You said last night that I don’t apologize,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the page in front of him.

I froze, my pen hovering above my notebook. “Yeah. And?”

He finally looked up, meeting my gaze. There was something in his expression I hadn’t seen before—something quieter, almost vulnerable. 

“At the airport… I didn’t apologize to that girl because I couldn’t.”

I blinked, caught off guard by his sudden seriousness. 

“What do you mean, you couldn’t?”

He hesitated, the confident mask he always wore slipping just a little. 

“It’s complicated. Let’s just say... there are a lot of expectations when it comes to me. Sometimes it’s easier to play the part people expect than to explain why you’re not what they think.”

I stared at him, unsure of how to respond. This wasn’t the Min Ho I was used to—the arrogant, snarky guy who always had a comeback ready. This was someone else entirely.

“Well,” I said after a pause, my voice softer than I expected, “for what it’s worth, you’re not as one-dimensional as I thought you were.”

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk creeping back into place. “Is that your way of saying you like me?”

I groaned, throwing a crumpled piece of paper at him. “Never mind. I take it back.”

But even as he laughed, the memory of that moment lingered in my mind.

For a split second, I had seen the real Min Ho—a glimpse of someone who wasn’t as perfect or untouchable as he pretended to be.

Maybe there was more to him than I thought.

chapter four here 👻

chat should i start a taglist?

[waynes-multiverse]

The Exit Strategy – Part 3

Summary: Russell is ready to hang it all up and retire, open up a brewery, and enjoy the rest of his civilian life. However, there’s one important thing missing before he can take the big plunge. Luckily, he knows just the right person to help him find it.

Pairing: Russell Shaw x Female!Reader

Warnings: 18+, language, some spice & implied smut (incl. a bit of dirty talk), mentions of a terrorist attack, a tiny bit of angst & feels, fluffy fluff

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: Thank you guys so much for your feedback on the last two parts! So happy I get to finally share this little adventure with you and that you all loved it so much 🥹🩵 Welp, let's dive in before I get too fucking sappy... 😝

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Part 3: This Is a Heart-To-Heart

With pursed lips and a clicking tongue, Russell’s eyes skimmed the seemingly endless aisle of breakfast cereals, his pointer finger drifting from box to box before it landed on the Lucky Charms. His lips rose to a satisfied grin, his heart skipping a beat as a memory popped into his mind.

The supermarket’s PA speakers announced the opening of a third cash register during the evening rush as Colter stood idly by, hands in the pockets of his jacket, and blew a raspberry. In his periphery, Russell could see his younger brother check his watch for the fifth time and smiled a little to himself.

“Russ, uhm, hate to break up your very serious choice of breakfast cereal here, but we need to move. We’re gonna be late,” Colter finally dared to remind him. Russell had wondered how long it would take. “Can’t you do your grocery shopping some other time?”

Russell only chuckled at that. “Oh, this isn’t that. I need this for tonight.”

“Uh-huh.” Colter wasn’t entirely convinced. “You do know we’re invited to dinner, right? There’s gonna be food. You don’t need to bring a–,” his eyes narrowed at the item Russell threw into the cart, “–box of Lucky Charms. Wow. Okay…” Colter scratched the nape of his neck. “You know, most people bring a bottle of wine. Flowers… You want me to–”

“Nope, I’m good.” Russell shook his head. “I have a plan, alright?”

“Oh, so now you have a plan?” Colter deadpanned. “Where was that plan when I got beat up in a supermarket alley?”

Russell snorted a laugh and cocked his brow. “Is that why you’re so jumpy since we walked in here? Did she actually give you supermarket PTSD?”

“I’m not jumpy,” Colter defended with a too defensive shrug.

“Well, alright, I’m almost done here,” Russell assured him and pulled out a tiny piece of paper with unreadable scribbles on it – his shopping list. “All I need now are Nacho Cheese Doritos, rocky road ice cream, brownies, and potato chips. Luckily, I already got the beer in the trunk.”

Colter’s frown deepened, but his lips quirked a tiny smile of amusement. “Alright, should I even ask?”

Russell laughed. “Trust me. Those are all the things I need to win her back. I know what I’m doing.”

Colter relented with a sigh. “Alright, gimme the list. I track down the snack aisle.”

“If you find them, I’ll give you a five dollar reward, little brother,” Russell quipped, earning him the middle finger as Colter rounded the corner.

Russell exhaled a sigh of relief once he was alone. All afternoon, he’d wracked his brain if he could or should tell Colter about you – about the fact he had a wife and two kids. Was now the right moment? Or had it already come and gone?

And if Russell was looking for a petty excuse, he could just audaciously claim Colter never asked. Never asked if Russell had someone special in his life. Never asked if he was an uncle yet. So, was it really on Russell to offer information that was never asked of him? Now, that wasn’t really his nature, was it?

Like he said, petty excuses…

Russell knew it was (mostly) on him. He did give way to the illusion he was a lone wolf without any strings anywhere. At the end of all his pondering, however, he came to the conclusion it was best to let you navigate how to proceed. You’d always been his compass.

On a late summer evening, with the sun slowly approaching the horizon and dipping the suburban cul-de-sac in shades of golden orange, you found two men on your doorstep: One who only looked familiar despite knowing him almost your entire adult life, and one who seemed familiar, even though you’d never met him before, but some unmistakable features and mannerisms reminded you of your husband.

Said husband beamed at you from ear to ear, carrying two paper bags worth of groceries in his arms. “Hey, sweetheart.”

The heart in your ribcage pounded faster as your eyes landed on his smile. Nothing and no one ever broke your composure or pulled the rug out from under your feet – but Russell had always managed to do both since day one.

“Well, I guess… come on in, guys,” you said with a small sigh of hesitation and held the door open wider, mentally preparing for an entirely unplanned night – they usually were whenever you spent time with the green-eyed chaos theory.

Never in a million years did you think you’d end up here when you met a young soldier on a sunny day at the American embassy in Iraq and put him through a baptism of enemy gunfire only a few hours later. And to be fair, he’d always been handsome, but the quirky shit didn’t reveal itself till later. If Russell Shaw had been a book, you would’ve definitely misjudged him by his cover.

Russell set the brown bags down on the kitchen island, a small smirk flickering across his plump lips. Internally, you heaved another sigh. Of course the idiot would think about sex – a curse conjured up by your own making. If Russell ever had a bad influence in his life, it would’ve been you.

“So, what did you bring me here?” you entertained his little plan, spying into one of the bags. You already had a pretty strong inkling of what might be inside, your heart swelling that he, A, cared and, B, even went as far as making a thoughtful, swoon-worthy effort.

He used to do these things all the time – till it all eventually stopped.

“Only the best for my girl,” Russell said, chuckling giddily as he hauled a tub of rocky road from a bag as if he was making a bunny appear from a hat. Only in your opinion, it was a way better magic trick.

“Oh no, you are the fucking best!” You squeezed his shoulders, short of jumping fully on him, with a grin from ear to ear. Your cheek muscles even began to hurt. You hadn’t smiled this much in ages. “Look at this! You even got brownies! You’re unbelievable, Shaw. You know I’ve been craving this shit for months. We’re supposed to be an organic family,” you explained with an eye roll, your hands still rummaging eagerly through the bags.

“Yeah, I figured somethin’ like this. Remember when you had to pretend to be vegetarian for that greenwashing gala?”

“God, don’t remind me. The asshole served cauliflower steaks and then turned around and shot a fucking lion,” you scoffed, both of you chuckling at the memory. Russell had been right in the chicken coop – it felt like no time had passed at all.

Not touching him and falling into his strong, warm embrace was hard. Not kissing him was harder. And being in his near vicinity without doing any of these things was unbearable. You weren’t just important to Russell; he was important to you, too. For a long time, he’d been the only person you could trust and confide in. You never lied to each other – that had been a rule.

“Wow, okay, so this is different,” Colter noted, you and Russell both glancing up at the young man across the island. As he was only met with two furrowed brows, he clarified, a finger gesturing to your cross necklace. “Just the-, uh, the whole swearing… I mean, at church you were… you know.”

You laughed when you realized what he meant. God knows your aliases had confused the shit out of Russell in the beginning, too – till he learned to take advantage of your role-playing skills. Then, he had tons of fun with it.

“Yeah, I know. Quite the mind-fuck, isn’t it? I usually only pretend to be someone else for a short job – a day or two, a single event. Deep-covers like this aren’t my favorite either,” you shared and hoped it would signal to Colter that he could relax. If his shoulders became any tenser, you’d worry they might freeze that way.

“Speaking of, where’s your husband?” Russell chimed in with a teasing grin.

For the briefest second, your reply would’ve been, “Which one?” Russell could see it, too – the twinkle in your eyes – but then you stopped short when you noticed his look.

Colter didn’t know you two were married. Oh, Russell…

“Basement. Finishing up our report,” you said in a quieter voice, turning on the faucet of the kitchen sink.

Colter’s brow knitted with an amused smile when Russell turned on the radio as well. “Is that really necessary?”

“Can’t be too careful,” both you and Russell replied, not even noticing you spoke at the same time, too zoned in on your routine.

“Who’s your mark?” Russell then asked, leaning back against the kitchen island in an angle that shielded his presence from the window as you got to work on your fake dishes.

“Congressman Eric Mueller.”

“A congressman? Really?” Colter’s brow raised before his eyes showed a little intrigue. “What’d he do?”

“Selling sensitive national security information to foreign agents,” you answered.

“How’s the pastor involved?” Russell asked, opening a box of Lucky Charms and stuffing a handful of dry cereal into his mouth.

“How do you know he’s involved?”

Russell only chuckled at your blatant diversion. “Oh, c’mon! You’re an open-minded person. I know you don’t hate the man for no reason. So, what’s the reason?”

You sighed in proud defeat – checkmate for Russell. “Mueller is laundering money through the church. Pastor’s taking a cut.”

“And?”

“He’s a pedo,” you finally admitted, dumping a clean plate ungraciously into the soapy water before swinging around to meet Russell’s eyes.

“There it is…” He nodded with a winning smirk that felt wrong, rubbing a hand through his beard. “Thought I caught a bit of a creeper vibe. Figured it was just all the kumbaya Jesus shit.”

“I wish… Every time he touches my arm, I wanna cut his hand off with a fucking spoon.”

“Well, we might get to that later if we find the time,” Russell quipped, flicking a marshmallow into the air before catching it with his mouth. You frowned – your son did the same damn thing in the mornings. “What information is Mueller selling?”

“Security protocols, blueprints…” you replied.

“To what?”

“Mall of America,” was all you said before the kitchen fell silent. Crickets. Well, and the faucet and radio… “Our intel suggests they’re planing an attack in December.”

“Well, merry Christmas,” Russell huffed bitterly. “So, that’s the carrot.”

“Yup, that’s the carrot,” you confirmed.

The lives of innocent children and families going about their Christmas shopping in America’s biggest mall was what the agency used to lure you back into the field – the carrot in front of your nose.

For days, you had debated whether to take the job or not, leave your family, and go back undercover to do things no one else wanted to do. But one look through the door at your peacefully sleeping son and daughter made the decision for you. How could you not go? If you didn’t do this, other parents might not get the same courtesy of seeing their children safe and sound in their beds and kissing them goodnight. So, you left your children for the sake of others.

Russell nodded with understanding, telling you he would’ve done the same thing if he were in your shoes. You knew he would have. Still, a part of you felt incredibly guilty, always hoping that Lewis and Amelia would understand someday when they were older.

“Who is it? Russia? China?” Russell asked.

“Neither. It’s an extremist splinter group. Has ties to both ISIS and Hezbollah, but works mostly out of Iran,” you said.

“How did you infiltrate Mueller? A guy trying to blow up a mall doesn’t strike me as a good Christian,” Russell noted.

“Well, he’s not, but his wife, Clara, is. She’s very involved in the church. Was easy to get in this way. I helped her with a few charity events. She got me a job as a bookkeeper for the church, not knowing I’d actually find a bunch of evidence there. Afterward, she invited me for coffee. Now, we have brunch on Mondays, play bridge on Wednesdays and tennis on Fridays. I’m at her house all the time. God knows I have the place bugged in every room now at this point…”

“Bridge,” Russell snorted in amusement, earning him a scolding glare from you. “Does she know?”

You shook your head. “Nope, doesn’t have a clue what her husband’s up to. Wonder what that feels like…” you muttered the last sentence under your breath, Russell narrowing his eyes at you. “He was in the Navy. Stationed in Pakistan. We think he got approached there. He was probably a sleeper agent till he got elected.”

“How far is he in it?”

“Honestly, can’t say. He might be fully turned or just doing it for the money and glory.”

“Glory?” Colter cocked a brow.

You confirmed his shock with a nod. “The mall’s in his district. After the attack, the plan is to portray him as a hero who vows to avenge his constituents. Puts him on the map as running mate for the next election.”

“Then they’d have someone on the top level,” Russell deduced thoughtfully and then found your eyes. “We can help.”

You felt the creases between your eyebrows deepening.

“Yeah, and I already told you – no, thank you,” you huffed, shaking your head. “I didn’t tell you all this as a sitrep, Russ. I told you, so you know we have everything under control, and you can leave again.”

“We both know I’m not going anywhere,” Russell replied stubbornly, his stern gaze drilling into yours. “I can help.”

Undeniably, Russell, with his expertise and certain skill set, would be a helpful addition. You had never trusted someone more in the field than him. The two of you had been an unstoppable team. After almost twenty years together, you could communicate with just a single look. You knew he always had your back, just as he knew you’d always have his – and in the espionage life, that was probably the greatest asset of all.

However, while your mind all too eagerly agreed with him, your heart protested just as heavily. It was a high-risk, high-stakes operation, and a part of you wanted to protect him and keep him as far away from it as possible. You’d known that feeling almost your whole adult life – since the day you’d met him, you had wanted to protect him. Whenever you ignored him, shot him down, or even left him, you were always doing it for his own good. Protecting him meant sometimes hurting him.

But the persistent motherfucker never listens…

Bringing your husband into this and turning your children into orphans wasn’t your only fear, though. There was still Colter.

“Oh, I know you can. I trained you. Remember?” you retorted with a fiery look.

Russell clicked his tongue. “So, this isn’t about me. It’s about him.”

“Oh, ‘cause I’m not one of you guys?” Colter quirked a brow and assured you with easiness in the shrug of his shoulders, “I can handle it.”

Ignoring him, your focus stayed on Russell – the culprit. “You brought a fucking clueless wildcard into a clandestine operation! No offense, Colter…”

“None taken,” Colter said with pursed lips.

“Bad move, Shaw,” you continued directing your anger at your husband.

“I can vouch for him. He’s good, alright? Trust me. He helped me out with something before. And just recently, he even stumbled onto a DoD black site,” Russell reasoned with a weak chuckle like he was sharing the family newsletter.

Your frown intensified. “Yeah, the word stumbled really fills me with tons of confidence here.” Then, you expelled a deep sigh. “Look, I know you two had a weird fucking childhood, but you, of all people, know it’s not the same thing! He isn’t trained for this.” Your eyes then drifted to the younger Shaw. “No offense, Colter, but if I ever need someone to kill a bunny, I call.”

“Little offense taken,” Colter quipped with a creased brow.

“I assure you he’s good, alright? Great, even,” Russell said, stepping closer to you. Your heart jittered, the movement like dominos that fell a path from your ribs up your spine and down your arms where goosebumps formed in their wake. “Everything he doesn’t know, I’ll teach him on the road. You don’t have to worry about a thing, sweetheart. Shaws are excellent at improvising. Remember the helicopter?”

“I remember screaming and wishing to die quickly for two hours straight.”

Russell pursed his lips, hiding an amused smile.

“You can fly a helicopter?” Colter asked, brow rising in genuine interest. He slightly leaned forward as if to hear better, cherishing those bits and pieces of his brother’s mysterious life. He hoped one day he would’ve collected enough of them till the nonsensical puzzle matched the picture on the box.

“Yup,” Russell grinned boyishly, wagging his eyebrows. “Named her Birdie. She was a beauty.”

“She was a piece of shit. And he couldn’t fly at the time, hence all the screaming on my part,” you clarified.

“She made me take flying lessons after, but honestly, I had a pretty good handle on it the first time round,” Russell bragged, earning him another frown from you. His irresistibly green eyes then bored into yours. “But it worked, didn’t it? We’re both still here, right?”

You exhaled another long sigh. You hated when he was right.

“Just take tonight to think about it, okay?”

“Fine, I’ll think about it,” you softened, feeling a warm palm gently splay across your back – slightly lower than a friend would place it. You knew Russell was lulling you into agreement – you had taught him that damn trick yourself – but you couldn’t deny it felt so, so, so nice.

“C’mon, ice cream’s melting. Let’s get some unhealthy food into you before you chew someone else’s head off,” Russell teased.

“I am kinda hungry,” you admitted in a meek mumble.

“Oh, I know. I can tell.” Russell chuckled behind you and kissed the top of your head, his arms snaking around your waist.

Fuck. It felt too good. Too familiar.

You wanted his hands to wander down, fingers lifting your skirt, brushing along your inner thighs on their way up. You wanted his head buried between your burning legs, fingers bruisingly gripping your hips while his tongue dipped into your heat. You wanted him to step even closer, tear your lace panties down, pry your buttcheeks apart, and take you hard and deep.

God, you hadn’t had sex in forever. Who could think clearly like that?

Swaying out of his embrace, you grabbed one of the paper bags and looked at him suggestively. “Wanna take this downstairs? I have to show you something.”

Russell’s lips twitched with a smile. He knew what it meant – not here.

His gaze then drifted to Colter. “You’re gonna be alright up here for a while?”

“I’m good.” His little brother nodded with a shadow of a smile as if he had only waited for the moment the two of you would excuse yourselves and retreat.

“I’ll send Tom up here. Have him brief you,” you said, both brothers’ eyes then blinking at you.

“Does this mean I’m in?” Colter asked.

“If you want to, you’re in,” you stated and muzzled a sigh.

Colter’s head bobbed for a moment, a hand scratching his throat. “Well, not exactly something you say no to.”

Russell and you shared an amused look and both replied, “We know.”

“Oh, Tom’s also made some lasagna. I’ll tell him to feed you,” you added kindly.

“Thank you.” Colter matched your smile.

“Whoa, not so fast,” Russell threw in, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “Did your cute little hands have any involvement in the making of said meal?”

“No, Tom wouldn’t let me get near it,” you huffed with an annoyed eye roll.

“Smart man,” Russell quipped and then turned to his younger brother. “You should be safe to eat it, then.”

His joke earned him a whack of his chest from you.

“Ow!”

Russell followed you down the creaking wooden steps to the basement. The walls were still raw, the giant room unrenovated. In passing, you switched on the washing machine for an adequate noise level and pulled back the thick, navy curtains to reveal a whole setup with desks and computers.

Russell whistled lowly, green eyes flashing around the room. “Got the whole spy gear down here, huh?”

“Yup.”

Sliding an old artwork to the side, you entered a code into the wall safe. It held mostly sensitive information but also some personal items. You retrieved your private phone before locking it again. You scrolled through your photos until you found what you were looking for, handing it to Russell.

As soon as his eyes landed on a picture of his son on a swing set – with a grin brighter than the sun and one that looked just like a copy of his father’s – Russell inhaled sharply, his grip on the phone tightening.

“He looks like you,” you said softly, leaning your head against his bicep, tangling your arms around his. Then, you swiped to the next picture. “That’s Amelia on her second birthday. She liked blowing out the candles so much, I had to light them seventeen times in a row,” you giggled. But Russell only swallowed thickly, quietly laying the phone down on top of the dryer. You could see the tears well in his eyes again. “Was this too much? I’m sorry.”

Russell shook his head, offering you a sad smile. “No, uhm, it’s too little.”

“Yeah, I get that. Feels like they change every time I turn around. Bet they’re already looking different now,” you said with the same regret-filled sadness in your voice.

“When this is over, you think I could see them?”

The hopefulness shimmering in his green orbs devastated you, adding a few more cracks to your already damaged and bruised heart.

“Of course you can. You can see them as much as you want,” you assured him. “Maybe Amelia first? She’s still little. I mean, it’s just–”

“No, I get it,” he brushed off your concerns with an easy smile, but you could see all the hurt underneath it. “Lewis is older. It’s more complicated. He probably doesn’t even remember me.”

“Russ… Of course he remembers you,” you said. “You’re his dad. He has a picture of you on his nightstand. He talks to you every day.”

Russell snorted a humorless chuckle, the guilt eating him alive from the inside out. “Kinda makes it worse, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t think it does,” you replied, smiling softly. “He missed you. We all did.”

Russell’s lips on yours took you by surprise, reminding you of the first kiss you’d shared – only back then, the roles had been reversed, and he’d been the shocked one.

The kiss was gentle and tentative, nothing hasty or thoughtless about it. He still tasted the same. He still felt the same, even though the beard tickled slightly. His large hands cupped your face – a perfect fit – his thumb sweetly caressing your cheek as he pulled back, hazy pine green eyes searching for yours.

“Sorry,” he said with a rather unapologetic smile and a bob of his Adam’s apple. “Couldn’t hold back any longer.”

“It’s fine,” you mumbled with a half-hearted shrug and tiptoed up to claim his lips again, your arms draping around his neck and pulling him closer.

What started slow and careful became a fever dream when your tongue slipped inside his mouth, his hands wandering down your sides till they reached their rightful place on your lower back. Your mind flooded with every kiss, every touch the two of you had ever shared, your heart close to bursting because it had found its missing piece again.

As he drew back, his nose brushed yours, his fingers lovingly tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear. His eyes then focused on the top of your head. A smile rose on your lips, guessing his intentions.

“Can I?”

You nodded, biting down on your bottom lip. “Go ahead.”

Carefully, he lifted the wig from your head, and a few sorries and giggles later, the fake hair was gone. Removing the hair clips and tie, you gestured with your chin to the desk.

“Can you hand me that blue case?”

Russell grabbed the small case and turned to you with a cheeky smile. “Eye drops, too?”

You nodded, and he came back to you with the requested items. Pulling your eyelids open with your fingers, you took out the colored lenses, placing them back in their case.

Russell held up the eye drops. “Want me to do the honors?”

You giggled and gave him another nod. “Yes, please. You know I hate doing that stuff.” Russell then gently pulled down your eyelid as you tilted your head back. “God, this feels so sexy…”

Russell laughed, the sound reverberating deep in his chest. “You’re always sexy. Doesn’t matter if I’m giving you eye drops or stitching you up.”

“That’s sweet, but shut up. We both know you’re lying. You’ve sewn me back together in some pretty rough states,” you remarked, but your cheeks couldn’t stop from rising higher and higher.

“And vice versa,” Russell said simply, administering the last drop into your right eye.

“Ugh, fucking burns.” You sniffled, blinking your eyes a couple of times till the sting subsided.

Russell’s hands then cupped your cheeks, bringing your focus to him. He smiled at you, bright and warm. “There she is,” he said softly, his voice only a whisper. Your heart tugged in your chest, trying to squeeze itself through your ribs just to be closer to him. “Missed those beautiful eyes.”

“You’re so cheesy,” you teased and pressed your lips on his, slow and sensual – careful. As you glanced up at him, your heart cracked a little more again, your eyes welling up and burning with tears.

“Hey, what is that? Why are you crying?” Russell worriedly checked on you like you were a kid with a fever, his thumb catching a salty teardrop that had escaped.

“It’s the eye drops,” you replied lightheartedly in a last ditch effort to hide the all-consuming guilt in your stomach.

Russell sent you a kind smile, stroking your cheek. “I don’t think it’s the eye drops, sweetheart…”

“I’m so sorry, Russ. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought I was helping you…”

“I know. I know…” he soothed and opened his arms. “C’mere.” As you fell into his embrace, he kissed your crown repeatedly, his arms holding you just as tightly as you held onto him. One palm patted the back of your head, the other rubbing your back in soothing circles. “I know you did, okay? And I know why you left. It did help, you know? To get my own head outta my ass… Just one of those things, I guess. Didn’t know I needed to hit rock bottom first before realizing what I’d lost. I’m only sorry I didn’t get my shit together sooner.”

Swallowing, with an ear on his chest, you listened to his heartbeat for a moment – steady, strong, safe. There wasn’t one single person in this world that could give you what Russell always could – comfort. It was what you wanted the most, what you needed during your worst times, and what you goddamn craved, always.

“You know, when you didn’t come back after a year, I was scared you finally found what you’re looking for, and it wasn’t me,” you admitted quietly, swallowing.

Before Russell, you barely ever shared your true feelings and thoughts with anyone, not even family and friends. Your heart, mind, and soul stayed hidden like your personality, your identity, and everything else that made you you. But Russell had always seen beyond the walls, the masks, and the aliases.

He drew back slightly, the hand that tangled in your hair lifting your head till you met his eyes and their loving crinkles. “Never gonna happen,” he assured you with nothing but honesty in his gaze. “You’re it, baby. You know I’m a one-and-only kinda guy,” he quipped, flashing you his signature grin. “You’re everything I ever wanted, sweetheart. The only family I ever had, really. I should’ve told you that sooner. Maybe you wouldn’t have left then.”

“This is soon enough,” you said and pecked his lips. “Why didn’t you tell Colter about me? Or the fact that he’s an uncle?”

With a sigh, Russell grabbed the brown paper bags, the ice cream in it surely melted by now, and settled down on the raw concrete floor, leaning his back against the rumbling washing machine. “Well, if we’re gonna talk, we might as well do it old school. Sit down. Eat,” he ordered you.

Taking a seat next to him, you grabbed a container of room-temperature rocky road and opened it. “Whoa, that is soup, yep!” you exclaimed with a laugh.

“Eh, it’s better when it’s melted anyway,” Russell remarked.

“So true…”

“Hand me the Doritos.”

“Yup.”

Quietly, you and Russell then created your dish like the two of you were parodies of Gordon Ramsey on the comedy channel, and only after savoring that first bite of rocky road cream soup with Nacho Cheese Dorito sprinkles (the croutons to your meal if you will), did you stray back to topic.

“So?”

“Right, uhm…” Russell scratched the back of his neck.

You snorted in amusement. “You always do this, you know.” He raised his brow, giving you a sideways look. “You change the subject and distract me in that cutesy way of yours.”

“I don’t think I’m cutesy.”

“You were twenty years ago,” you countered with a fond smile and took a crunchy, spicy spoonful of your soup. “I still see you that way sometimes, you know?”

“God, I hope not,” he groaned, chuckling. “That’s just horrifying.”

“You weren’t so bad. Pretty sweet, actually.” You shrugged, the hint of a smile tugging at your lips. Russell had always been the lost little duckling that had imprinted on you.

He smirked, but his cheeks betrayed him by turning sweetly red. “Yeah, that’s how I lured you in.”

“I don’t think you did much luring, big guy…” you retorted. “You had zero game.”

“What?!”

“Oh, c’mon, Russ… This can’t come as a surprise to you,” you said, giggling.

“Fine,” he caved with a roll of his eyes and chuckled lightly. He scratched the scruff on his throat. “Guess I was a little nervous that night. You were really intimidating.”

You snorted a laugh. “I know.”

“‘M glad you made the first move, though.”

“I made all the moves,” you corrected teasingly. Your gaze then fell pensively to your lap, where your fingers nervously fumbled. Your heart jolted once, like the jump start of a car. “So, uhm, you know… were you making any moves on other people?”

“People?”

“Women,” you clarified and pursed your lips. You didn’t look at him. You knew he would probably find your discomfort amusing.

“Ah.” Russell smacked his lips, trying his hardest not to grin. Then he looked at you – brow raised in an almost scolding manner, but his lips curved upwards and gave his act away, dimples barely hidden by the beard. He held that gaze till you finally met his green eyes. “Have you not been listening to me before? I told you – there’s only you, sweetheart.”

Your brows drew into a frown. “Don’t sweetheart me. It’s been three years, Russ.”

“So?” He twitched his broad shoulders. “You know that’s not a problem.”

“Well, that was before…”

Russell snorted loudly. The crinkles around his eyes doubled as he rubbed the tears out of them. “What, you think sleeping with you has suddenly awoken the dragon?”

“You don’t have to make it sound so ridiculous,” you muttered.

Russell licked his lips, nodding. “Well, news flash – you’re the only treasure for this dragon, baby.”

You stifled a gasp. “I said less ridiculous!”

His grin only broadened, but then he apparently decided to let you off the hook. “Look, in the past three years, has there been opportunity and maybe a little flirting? Sure. But nothing ever came of any of it. Twice, I came scarily close to kissing someone, but I bolted. Wanna know why?”

“Yes? I think…” you replied hesitantly, causing that infuriating smile of his to rise again.

“‘Cause all of it felt like cheating on my wife. So, are we done with this now?”

Defiantly, you shrugged him a nod, but your heart pumped warm, fuzzy happiness into your veins before Russell’s next question made them freeze again.

“Bigger question is, did you kiss a few toads? Or, you know, did some quacking?”

Your lips rose till dimples formed and your cheeks started to hurt. “Please let me be there when you give the kids the sex talk…”

“Okay, don’t even try to change the subject now,” he chided playfully. “I just meant out of the two of us…”

He choked on his words when you narrowed your eyes to a small glare.

“Out of the two of us what, Russell? Please finish that sentence.” Your voice rang with challenge.

“Nothing.” Sheepishly, he scratched the nape of his neck again. “I just meant that, you know, you’re the one who has more, uh… experience in that area.” When your glare morphed into daggers, he swallowed thickly and corrected course, clearing his throat. “Which, you know, I’m real happy about because God knows I’ve profited greatly off of it.”

“Are you slut-shaming me right now?”

“Nope, mm-mm. No, ma’am.” Russell’s lips pressed into a thin line. Then he muttered under his breath, “Not like you’ve sent more soldiers off to war than Bush… Ow!”

Russell rubbed the burning spot on his chest where you had punched him.

“That one hurt this time…” he groaned.

“Good.” The daggers in your eyes blunted back to a frown. You let out a sigh. “You’re an idiot. Please move on.”

“Yes, ma’am.” With curled lips, Russell bobbed his head. “So?”

Musingly, you then rolled your eyes to the ceiling, your head falling back as your tongue darted out between your lips. “Alright, let’s see… In the last three years, I’ve slept with one, two…” you muttered and then mouthed till #4, beginning to count on your fingers.

“Oh, stop it! You think you’re real funny, young lady, huh?” Russell huffed.

When you saw his exasperated expression, you bursted into laughter, the sound echoing off the bare concrete walls.

“C’mon, I had to,” you choked out your excuse between belly-crippling laughs and hysterical snorts. “I’m a single mom of two small children. I’m thankful if I get five minutes in the shower alone.”

Russell laughed a little too, but his heart flooded with relief. The thought of you with someone else had gnawed on him for some time, sharp little bites that pricked his soul. He didn’t know what he would’ve done if it were true – well, aside from dissecting amphibians.

“Almost gave me a heart attack, sweetheart,” Russell chuckled. “Can’t do this to me anymore. That was a young man’s game…”

Instead of uttering an apology, you captured his lips, kissing him till his head spun even more. His breathing quickened, his heart clinging to every last bit of oxygen when your tongue slipped past his lips. His hands tugged on your hips only all too eagerly until he had pulled you into his lap. Your legs straddled his muscular thighs, your clothed cunt rubbing against the growing erection in his jeans. Your underwear soaked at the thought of him splitting you open.

“Make me cum,” you sighed into his ear, nibbling on his lobe. “Want you inside of me again.”

“You’re killing me here,” he groaned as you kissed your way down his throat, teeth grazing over his skin. His fingers twitched with an itch to crawl up your thighs, push any obstruction to the side, and plunge right into your surely wet and waiting channel.

“Good,” you smirked, rocking your hips harder against his bulge.

“Sweetheart, I’d love to, but you’re not exactly quiet.” He chuckled against your lips. “We’d have to blast some death metal on the highest volume for the neighbors not to hear. Doubt they ever heard those sounds coming outta this house.”

With a frustrated huff, you relented breathlessly and slid from his warm lap back to the cold, empty space next to him, cursing the bad timing.

“First time I stitched you up was pretty memorable,” Russell noted after a labored minute, a tiny smirk tugging on his lips.

Your cheeks blushed, your chest still heaving with panting excitement, but you matched his mischievous smile with your usual cocky attitude. “Bet it was. I looked hot in that towel.”

“Yeah, you did. Had a pretty massive boner the whole time. Was surprised you never noticed,” Russell said.

You grinned. “Who says I didn’t?”

“Oh, I know you didn’t, or you would’ve jumped me right there in that bathroom,” Russell teased.

Gasping, you slapped his arm. “I did not jump you!”

“You kinda did.” Russell only laughed harder, with that same boyish grin he always carried when he was happy. “All you wanted was to pull my pants down and hop on for a quick fix.”

“Really? Are you done now?” you playfully scolded him. “And excuse me for wrongly assuming a soldier who’d been stuck in the desert for months with a bunch of other dudes might want sex if the opportunity arises.”

Russell’s boisterous smirk only grew wider. “You wanted me. You had it bad.”

The heat in your face was burning, your tongue poking the insides of your cheeks. “Alright, I don’t think you need an ego boost, Shaw.”

“Still think I’m handsome?” he asked you with a nudge of his elbow.

Pursing your lips, you musingly narrowed your eyes at him, assessing him in jest. “I don’t know. You are a little more rugged these days. The beard’s definitely a midlife crisis.”

Amused, Russell quirked an eyebrow. “Midlife crisis?”

“Yeah, what’s next? Buying a ridiculous car and brewing beer in your basement?”

“Actually, I brew it in the trunk of the ridiculous car.”

Your brows drew together. “Shit. Really?”

Russell laughed loudly, throwing his head back. “Yeah, really.” He then a hauled a bottle of unlabeled beer from the bag, handing it to you. “Taste it. It’s good.”

“If it tastes anything like that schnapps you made in that Guatemalan prison, then no thank you,” you retorted, uncapping the bottle and taking a sniff.

“I promise this wasn’t made in a designated pee bucket, alright?” Russell laughed. “Just drink it. Tell me what you think.”

“Alright, here goes nothing,” you mumbled and took a hesitant, quick sip. Then you took another longer one, squishing the liquid around in your mouth. Your brow raised. “Huh. Not bad,” you remarked, watching Russell’s grin widen. “Why do I taste marshmallows?”

Russell then fully beamed at you. “Knew you’d get it. Took me a while to perfect it. Wasn’t easy, you know? The secret is only adding one of those little Lucky Charms marshmallows. First try, I used the whole pack. God, that was gross.”

“That’s actually pretty genius,” you said with an impressed smile.

“Well, if it is, I kinda owe it to you. You were the OG food genius.”

Smiling, you leaned back against the washing machine with a small sigh, your head dropping to his broad shoulder as you snuggled up against him. He opened his arm and pulled you closer as you nursed your sweet-tasting beer. Russell placed another kiss on your temple, calloused fingers gently caressing your skin.

“When did this job get so hard?”

“Wasn’t it always kinda hard?” Russell answered your rhetorical question, mumbling half his answer into your hair.

“Guess so. Didn’t always feel that way, did it?”

“No, we had some pretty good times,” Russell said with a warm smile and pecked your crown once more.

“You think we’re bad people?”

Russell’s absentminded gaze dropped to you then, now fully focused. “What’s bringing this on, hm?”

You only shrugged in his embrace.

“Alright, I’ll play,” Russell said and then hummed. “Well, we’re not the best people…”

“I was hoping for a little more reassurance,” you said with a playful huff.

Russell chuckled softly. “Look, we always did what we thought was right. And we’ve seen real bad… evil. I don’t think we fall into that category, sweetheart.”

You nodded against his chest. “I guess so…”

Part 4: This Is Not an Exit – JANUARY 31

One of the things I loved writing most about this series were the deep conversations between all characters, but especially this one in the basement. Hope you enjoyed this as much as I did before we break some, uhm, news to Colter next week 😉

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[blainehasregrets]

Masterlist of every single Mike and Kurt/Chummel Moment + thoughts and observations

Currently incomplete…will update as I come across any

Season 1

Preggers: Mike is seen during the dance practice for Single Ladies. We can only assume this was the most fun he ever had in his life up until that point and it awakened something inside of him which caused him to join the glee club which forever changed the trajectory of his life.

Vitamin D: Mike attempts to tickle Kurt at the end of It’s My Life/These Are My Confessions II. Or something of that nature. Very cute to me since Kurt had just been standing away from the other boys not interacting.

Throwdown: When Kurt says they do an awful lot of showtunes, Mike smiles in agreement. Kurt sighs when Will tells Mike his pop and locking isn’t what they’re looking for. United in disappointment for Will. Also in Sue’s kids together I think that counts…side note I really love the Kurt and Matt interactions in Hate On Me very very cute.

Wheels: Along with Tina, Artie, and Mercedes, Mike is seen with Kurt before the competition, presumably to support him. Otherwise he could have been sitting with everyone else…

Ballad: They stand next to and point to each during Lean On Me.

Mattress: They stand next to each other for the yearbook picture…sort of…

Hell-O: Despite being initially annoyed by Rachel’s performance of Gives You Hell, he looks impressed by Mike’s dancing and only joins in with everyone else after that.

The Power Of Madonna: They sit next to each other during Express Yourself. They stand next to each other during What It Feels Like For A Girl.

Home: They sit next to each other during the first glee club meeting this episode and Kurt passes some music sheets over to Mike.

Bad Reputation: Kurt sits behind Mike and Matt. I’m counting this.

Theatricality: Mike, along with Artie, is one of the only boys to clap for the girls and Kurt after Bad Romance. Not exactly a Real moment but Harry/“Mike” was also apart of the performance of this song when they did it on tour.

Journey to Regionals: they are…near each other when they’re at Will’s house for the first annual New Directions Regionals Setlist Nominations Party (they never had this party ever again.)

Season 2

Audition: They’re near each other several times during Empire State of Mind. Kurt, along with Mercedes and Tina, high fives Mike while he spins around during What I Did For Love.

Britney/Brittany: Not a Murt moment but Mike did not seem to be into the idea of doing Britney songs…Mike and Tina look over at Kurt when he says Will’s choice in music isn’t easy to relate to as teens... Mike tries not to laugh when Kurt tells Will off…

Grilled Cheesus: Mike pats Kurt’s shoulder after they all find out about Burt. They sit next to each other when Finn talks about finding god.

Duets: Mike, along with Tina and Brittany, helps Kurt with his Le Jazz Hot performance‼️ He’s one of the backup dancers. Kurt is perplexed by Mike’s singing in Sing! Mike smiles during Happy Days are Here Again/Get Happy…invested in Kurt’s happiness…

Rocky Horror Glee Show: They sit next to each other during one of the rehearsals.

Never Been Kissed: Kurt sits next to Mike when Will tells him the join the boys for the girls vs boys competition. Mike looks up when Puck tells Kurt to go bother the other show choirs, and looks at Finn, surprised, when Kurt says fine.

The Substitute: they run around the paino during Forget You. I mean all the boys did but Kurt is right behind Mike…

Furt: Mike, along with Artie, stands up to Karofsky for Kurt‼️ He tells Karofsky they’re serious and this is a warning, slams his locker, and tells him to back off. Mike shakes his head when Kurt announces he’s transferring. So devastated he was speechless.

Special Education: Mike enjoys the performance of Hey Soul Sister yes I’m counting this.

A Very Glee Christmas: Mike wears a scarf while walking in the halls with Tina and Mercedes. I can only assume this is an homage to Kurt and not because it’s winter.

Silly Love Songs: Mike, along with Mercedes, Tina, and Rachel, smile and are proud of Kurt when he introduces the Warblers at Breadstix.

Night of Neglect: Kurt and Blaine stand up to clap for Mike’s performance.

Born This Way: Mike shakes his head disapprovingly when Figgins brings Karofsky to the glee club. Mike cheers for Kurt when he transfers back in. I think that’s his voice saying “we back!” at the end of this scene.

Rumours: Mike whispers in Kurt’s ear during the last song to take away Sam’s guitar.

Prom Queen: Tina tells Mike she feels so bad for Kurt and Mike looks at Kurt forlornly.

Okay that’s all I got from my notes … from now on I’ll be relying on memory and my livetweet thread for moments but I’ll go back to this when I rewatch seasons 3+ 📝

Season 3

I Am Unicorn: Mike says Kurt only has one move and “It’s like this…sashay. And it’s super distracting.”

I Kissed A Girl: Mike votes for Kurt for class president‼️🗳️ I always consider this a pretty big Murt moment since arguably Mike should have been closer to Brittany. He didn’t even hesitate either ♥️

On My Way: Sit next to each other when Will asks what they’re looking forward to in the future.

Dance with Somebody: Mike is incredibly invested in the Klaine drama.

Goodbye: Mike closeup during I Remember. Their dads high five at graduation. Yes. I’m counting this too.

Season 4

Thanksgiving: Mike says he knows Blaine has been texting Kurt, but Kurt won’t text back. While this might seem like a Bike moment, there is Murt there for those with the eyes to see...

Wonder-ful. They hug when Kurt comes back. ‼️ and Kurt is holding on Mike and Mercedes’ arms as they skip into the choir room together omg ♥️ They sit next to each other during I Wish, and Mike tells Kurt the performance will work to increase Jake’s confidence for Nationals (I think?) and then asks where Mercedes is. They talk to Mercedes about her CD’s photoshoot, and share a look at the end of the scene. Kurt smiles when Mike says he knows what Mercedes meant when she’s talking all LA. Kurt tells him not to change the wording when Mike says hell to the yes. When Mike asks Blaine about the vaporub thing with Tina Kurt gets annoyed and yells “this doesn’t matter!!!”. Why are they wearing nearly the exact same outfit during Superstition. They sit together during Higher Ground. It seems they sit together quite a few times this episode but I don’t feel like rewatching it outside of YouTube clips yet to figure out how many times. Lots of hater energy in the air for this one which is devastating for the Murt community given how significant this episode is to the Murt universe but whatever. It’s called playful banter. In general what a win for MikecedesKurt fans…drgaf about Blaine’s involvement here….

Season 5

New Directions: Kurt looks at Mike during Party All The Time. When they’re clapping for Becky at graduation, Mike looks over at Kurt. I’m so sorry this is all I’ve got at the moment.

Thoughts and Observations and Miscellaneous

While never confirmed (though I wouldn’t say it’s such a stretch to say it’s implied?) I do like the idea that Mike and Matt joined glee club specifically because they had so much fun during the Single Ladies dance. (This is where it gets more headcanon-y) Which means Kurt is basically the reason they joined glee club. In Journey to Regionals, Mike says that before glee, he was too scared to dance outside of his room, and so by melding together Mike’s two passions, Kurt was able to help Mike overcome that fear…

I like how much Mike loves the glee club. Not in it for ulterior motives, never leaves or wavers in his support, he was just in it for the love of the game until the very end.

I think there’s something kind of sweet how Mike is one of Kurt’s backup dancers in Le Jazz Hot, despite the fact that he’s also a guy and they make it a point in the episode that singing with Kurt might as well be a death sentence. I mean yes it sort of only exists because the song called for backup dancers and they weren’t going to dwell too long on why it’s okay for guys to dance with Kurt but not sing with him but Regardless…this + Mike standing up for Kurt goes to show he CARES♥️ When Rachel says there are 12 people who love him, Mike confirmed for being one of them for sure…

Speaking of, with Mike joining Le Jazz Hot, clapping for the girls + Kurt during Bad Romance (+ being apart of the song during tour. If you can count that. Which I will.), and being excited to play Frank-N-Furter and only pulling out when his parents said he couldn’t, all these things read to me as if Mike didn’t seem too hung on having such rigid views of masculinity like Finn or the other guys had. I think that’s something Kurt would appreciate idk.

MIKE AND KURT CHUU HEART DO IT!!!!!!!

During Britney/Brittany Mike is decidedly not for Britney week as he pretends to fall asleep at the idea of it. A bit surprising…still as I wrack my brain for members who were closest to Kurt at this time and would join his Facebook campaign, I think it would be Mercedes, Tina, Artie (yes, Artie, they were friends in season 1, though he looked annoyed when Kurt first started talking…he’s hyped for Britney), and Rachel (I believe Kurt accepted her friend request after the events of Hairography). Brittany is possibly the closest to Kurt after that but she clearly was not into the idea of Britney week so I don’t think she would join just because, and I don’t see Quinntana joining either, Santana out of solidarity for Brittany and I just don’t see Quinn or any of the other boys joining, so I’ve decided Tina made Mike join. This is a very stupid paragraph so please disregard what you just read.

Though Mike’s not really given much of a character, a trait of his that stands out to me the most is that he’s MESSY he loves DRAMA and sometimes he’ll even instigate it himself (getting mad at Beiste even though he’s the one who told Tina about the whole thing in NBK, happily joining in the food fight in TPPP, throwing papers aggressively at Finn and Puck in The Substitute, confirming to Sam that the song is called Trouty Mouth in Original Songs, and his general behavior in DWS) and so I think Kurt and him could have fun gossiping perhaps.

They’re both Rachel fanboys ig (Kurt: his entire character. Mike: saying Finchel is the winning guarantee in New York, what he says to Tina in props). They can bond over that.

Just realizing they’re probably called chummel actually…I changed the title but I love the purposeful ugliness of Murt

The fact that this edit exists. Beautiful amazing 10/10. My review:

[comixandco]

my favourite part of season 5 is still the reveal that Gabriel and Tomoe thought Adrien and Kagami made the perfect pair and wanted them to be together because it completely flips their relationship

Kagami and Adrien sneaking around and finding the slightest gaps in their schedule and giving their bodyguards/parents the slip to spend time together and feeling so clever that they’ve gotten away with it their parents don’t suspect a thing

only to smashcut to Gabriel and Tomoe doing an evil pound it because their ship is canon

[ofstoriesandstardust]

.

[gothsuguru]

i’m already outlining some parts of this fic omg like my excitement is through the roof i really wanna do this story justice 😭

[kavehayati]

Maybe I’ve been going about this the wrong way

[joelsgoldrush]

“guilty pleasure” | 8.6k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: After saving Earth-10005 from impending disaster, Wade convinces Logan, the alcoholic and easily irritated mutant, to stick around for a while. He’s convinced that nothing good can come out of this experience, until he meets you: the charming bartender with a soft spot for swearing that matches his own. Suddenly, sticking around doesn’t seem so bad after all.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni - smut 18+ fluff. drinking. dirty talk. slow-burnish. grumpy!logan x sunshine!reader. reader is really kind but cracks a lot of jokes. age gap (25 vs 200 - they’re basically the same age). oral sex (f receiving). fingering. finger sucking. soft dom!logan. wade being the funniest asshole. logan calls reader "kiddo/kid”.

A/N: HI! first of all, i'd like to thank you for all the support you showed me on my recent post. let me just tell you that i’m LOVING writing for logan. but none of this would be possible without YOU, so yeah, i fucking love y’all.

** regarding this story, i was planning on making it even longer, but writing these two has been so much fun, and i didn’t want it to end just like that (i have attachment issues as you may infer from this note). therefore, i’ve made the decision to write a second part to this fic, which will contain fluff and other stuff (you already know the drill). i don’t know when i’ll be posting it, but i’m sure it won’t take me that long.

*** i’m also working on other one shots (purely fluff/domesticity because i want this man to cradle me in his arms). anyway, i don’t know if anyone’s going to read this, but still, all I have to say is THANK YOU FOR READING MY WORKS! i hope you really like this silly story i made up :)

**** english is not my first language so if you come across any mistakes don’t hesitate to tell me :)

special recognition to @zloshy who allowed me to rant about my own fic 😭 the sweetest human ever

The bar is far from packed, but then again, it never truly is.

Studying your regulars has become your favorite hobby. Soon you end up knowing their names, the drinks they like, and what time they come through the door. It’s what happens when standing on your own two feet and refilling glasses lose all their charm. A part of you thinks you also do it to make them feel safe. No matter how much you try to deny it, you truly care about their well-being.

Is this your dream job? Nope. Definitely not. You’re pretty sure that holding some stranger’s hair while they empty their insides wasn’t on your bingo card for this year. But sadly money doesn’t grow on trees, and university isn’t going to pay itself. Plus, this was the only job in which your resume was not immediately rejected. It should also be stressed that the drunks happen to love you. 

Perhaps this isn’t the life you had always imagined for yourself, but you were getting closer to it. You’d often talk to Adam, a retired psychologist in his seventies. He was without a doubt one of the most loyal clients you’d ever encountered. In the past, he’d even given you free advice on some of your failed hookups. You once told him that in less than two years, you’d be just like him when you got your degree in Psychology. To your surprise, he replied: “You’ll be much better than me, doll. I’m a mess, can’t you see it? You don’t wanna be like me,” his voice was hardly above a whisper as he continued. “I should be at my daughter’s birthday right now, but I didn’t get an invitation this year. Believe me, you don’t want to end up like this old man.” 

Like Adam, most of the men who frequented the bar day-to-day saw it as an opportunity to hide within the shadows. In comparison to the other pubs in the area, the one you work at doesn’t receive that much attention from the general public. A dimly lit place where only music from the 80s is allowed. You’re certain that if a health inspector ever came down here, you’d be in serious problems. But hey, you know what they say: do not worry about tomorrow; instead, live in the now.

The atmosphere of the bar shifts dramatically as the main door slams shut with a resounding thud, pulling you abruptly out of your daydreaming. You turn to see who’s arrived, but as soon as your eyes meet his, you’re compelled to look away. Nevertheless, the brief glance you catch of the stranger’s features is enough for you to unlock your phone and send a quick text to your best friend. 

You:

cutie patootie alert

there’s this really handsome guy at the bar

i don’t think i’ve ever seen him before

i think i’m in love with him

my night just got a 100% better

Allison:

age

what does he look like

is he bald?

You:

he looks like he could be in his early fifties??? it’s hard to tell UGH i wish you were here

brown hair, beard, 6’2 if i’m not wrong 

i didn’t stare at him for too long

otherwise that would’ve been very weird

and no he’s not fucking bald

that happened only once and i was not aware of that gentleman’s lack of hair 

Allison:

so you’re dating retired now

get it grandma!

You:

oh fuck you allison 

Allison: 

it’s okay girl we all have our flaws

just make sure it’s nobody’s father

wait it’s not mine right?

You:

nah your dad’s way hotter don’t you worry about it

Allison:

bitch 

Even with the music blasting through the speakers that are attached to the ceiling, you can still hear the low murmur and the whispers. The mysterious stranger seems to have attracted the attention of the other patrons, some of whom have even raised their phones to take photos. Your eyebrows draw together. Why would they do something like this, approaching the man as if he were a celebrity? Since curiosity never fails to kill the cat, you decide to get involved.

“Do I have somethin’ on my face?” you hear him ask the crowd, his raspy voice making your knees wobbly. He sounds enraged. You step on your tiptoes, trying to see what all the fuss is about, albeit it’s pretty hard considering how these men are caging him with their bodies.

The glow of a phone’s flashlight catches your attention, and suddenly, a chair is dragged without much elegance. “Enough of that, y’hear me?”

Enter you now. “Okay, gentlemen, I’m sorry. I’m gonna need you to make some space for me, alright?” you mumble as you gently push them aside. “Thank you, thank you. Y’all can be real sweethearts when you put your minds to it.”

Then you spot him, and it becomes clear why everyone is making such a fuss. 

Gary, your worst client ever, steps forward. His nasty breath clouds your senses as he rests one of his sweaty hands on your shoulder. “Doll, it’s the fucking Wolverine. Don’t ask him for a picture, though. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for that.”

The last thing you needed to see today was a fight (despite your knowledge of who would be the winner). You locate yourself amidst them, shaking your head like a disappointed mother, so as to add a tiny bit of drama to the situation.

“Guys, what you’re doing here is completely inappropriate. I thought I’d taught you better. Imagine if I were to pull this crap on you. You wouldn’t have it.”

Adam presses his lips together, flushing a bit. “She does have a point.” 

“Thank you, peanut. You’re still my favorite,” you flash him an honest smile. Scrutinizing the rest of the men, you continue with your speech. “You can still make up for it and fill my tip jar all the way to the top. Deal?” they all scoff, barking their disagreement. “Oh, you don’t like the sound of that? Then leave him alone, okay? Class dismissed! Back to your places,” you clap your hands repeatedly, signaling them to go away. “Chop chop. All this alcohol won’t be drinking itself.”

Just like that, everything goes back to normal in the blink of an eye. Wolverine sits back down in his chair, leaning closer to the table and resting both elbows on it. He examines you, lifting his chin while his brown eyes take in every inch of you.

“Thank you,” he utters, his eyes still trained on your features. 

“No need to. It’s what I’m here for,” you point to your work clothes, which consist of an antiqued apron and a silly sticker that has your name written on it. “Can I get you anything to drink? It’s also Burger Night. You can get one for half the usual price.”

(No. It’s not fucking Burger Night. You just happen to find yourself deeply attracted to him.)

He doesn’t seem too eager to hear you talk. “Not hungry at the moment. But I could use some whiskey.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, kid. Very sure.” Well, now he does look annoyed.

“Great. I’ll be back in a minute,” you move as if you were in a race, returning to him after a hot minute. Setting his glass down on the table, you fill it with some old whiskey you don’t even know the name of. Still, he omits that detail, gulping down two-fingers of whiskey as if it were water. “I see you’re thirsty.”

“Could you leave the bottle here?” those brown puppy eyes are begging you to do as he says, and although you’d be happy to oblige, rules are rules. 

“Actually, I can’t. The bottle stays on the counter. But you can always join me at the front,” your proposal doesn’t appear to have the desired effect on him. “I won’t talk to you if that’s what you want.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he rubs his neck, drawing a long breath as he stands up. 

You can feel many pairs of eyes searing into your soul. The others ask you for more drinks and you pour them, pricking up your ears when you hear them talking about him.

“What a weirdo. Didn’t you see it on TV? He’s not even from this universe,” Gary explains, looking for accomplices to hate on Wolverine. “Let me tell y’all something: he shouldn’t even be here. He’s fucking dead on this earth.”

Yeah… that you knew.

It had been all over the news for weeks. Some would even swear that he was back from the dead, but that was until the representatives from the TVA spoke their truth. If someone would’ve told you a month ago that multiple universes were a thing, you would’ve laughed in their face.

As if that weren’t already difficult to process, your mind does the job of reminding you that there’s a man with metal claws sitting a few meters away from you. Despite that, you can’t seem to be scared of him. There’s something magnetic about his personality and that don’t-come-near-me-or-there-will-be-consequences expression that he has. Why had you promised not to speak to him? Dammit.

“I can hear your thoughts,” a muscle in his jaw twitches after knocking back another glass of whiskey. He squeezes his eyes shut before tapping the table with two fingers, silently asking for a refill.

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk,” you raise one of your eyebrows, and you behold how the corners of his mouth turn up for an instant. “I can assure you your liver hates you.”

“Alcohol won’t kill me, so don’t be afraid. Keep ‘em coming.”

For nearly twenty minutes, he does nothing but drink. He attempts to light a cigar at some point, and you stop him. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“No special treatment?” he inquires, placing the cigar between his parted lips and tilting his head back. He’s so… dreamy. He has to know it.

“I saved your ass today. The least you can do is not cause me any trouble.”

His eyes widen at your words, blinking owlishly. “You saved my what?”

“Your goddamn ass. You were about to start a fight.”

“Blame the idiots you have for clients,” he says, jerking his thumb toward your direction. “I was just mindin’ my own business. They came for me, not the other way around.”

“Look, Wolvie. I–”

“Wolvie?” giving a bitter laugh, he rams a hand through his hair. “That’s the worst nickname I’ve heard in a long time,” he looks at you through his lashes, getting rid of his leather jacket. “It’s Logan.”

“Wow. Your name is very boybandish.”

You succeed in making him laugh once again. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to observe his face without feeling like you were just about to get caught. He has deep creases and worry lines etched between his eyebrows, a brown beard that perfectly frames his jaw, and a few white hairs scattered in his sideburns. Pearly teeth that go hand in hand with one of the most impeccable smiles you’ve ever seen, and a pair of brown eyes that make you feel weak in the knees. You know for a fact that he’s a lot older than you; his exact age remains a mystery, but his appearance is enough for you to start fantasizing.

Shit, you want him. You should feel sickened by the mere thought of being with him. He was born God knows when, has lived hundreds of years. Still, the idea of tracing his cheekbones with your fingers while lying on his chest doesn’t leave you. This is fucked up. You are fucked up. A fucked up Psychology student. The joke is pretty much self-explanatory.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, you preening slut. Can’t even bother to answer my calls now?”

The tension between you shatters like a glass dropped onto the floor. He doesn’t dare to look in the direction of the owner of that voice, not even as the seat next to him gets taken. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Wade, what the hell are you doin’ here?”

“It hasn’t been exactly easy, raising our kid on my own. I don’t even have money to hire a babysitter, Lo. I spent nine months carrying your child, and for what? You end up going after a bartender,” the masked man turns to you, giving a sly wink. “No offense, baby. You must be a real sweetheart. In fact, do you want my number? The name’s Wade, but you can call me whatever you like.”

“You dumb fuck. Are you flirtin’ with her?”

“No shit, smartass. You’re the future of this country.”

A soft giggle escapes you despite your attempt to hold it back. You take a step back, admiring the two men. “Well, aren’t you two a beautiful couple?”

“You should see our little munchkin. He’s got my eyes and Logan’s hair. His first word was gubernatorial.”

“Would you like to have a drink while you’re here?”

“A beer would be great. Thank you, sugarbear. You’re the cutest,” Wade sinks back into his chair, resting his chin on his palm. He jerks his head in Logan’s direction, bumping his shoulder. “She’s the cutest. Are you two together?”

Logan rubs his forehead, speaking through gritted teeth. “How did you find me?”

“It's the power of love, baby. I had It’s All Coming Back To Me Now on repeat for hours. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Handing Wade a cold beer, your eyes scan Logan’s face. “I didn’t know patience was your strongest suit.”

“Me neither.”

“Enough of that! I can’t stand not being included in a conversation,” Wade throws his hands in the air, and you look at him. “There you are. So, what about you? Are you even allowed to be here? Did bars change their policies?”

You can’t help but snort. “I’m 25.”

Wade looms closer, lowering his voice. “Now that I think about it, you could totally be Logan’s caretaker. He’s been having some issues recently, given his age. Do you… know anything about adult diapers?”

But then Logan’s face contorts, turning crimson. He rises from his seat, grabbing Wade’s arm. “That’s it. We’re leavin’,” his eyes lock on you for a moment. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”

The things you’re willing to do for a man, right? You should be ashamed of yourself.

(But you aren’t.)

His mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Kiddo, are you–”

“Completely sure,” you finish his sentence for him, bowing your head and clasping your arms behind your body. A tight-lipped smile takes over you. “Just don’t tell my boss.”

Wade shifts his gaze back and forth between Logan and you. “I usually don’t mind third-wheeling, but I sort of feel left out.”

“I’m gonna sew your mouth shut, Wade.”

“Oh, come on! I was just making small talk,” the masked man tries to excuse himself while Logan pushes him towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sunshine. I’m free on Thursdays. Hit me up if his whiskey dick fails to impress you! Mine’s way more agile and young!”

As you watch them leave the bar, you remain frozen in your place amidst the clamor of ongoing chatter and clinking glasses.

What the fuck had just happened?

“Patrick’s normally the first one to get wasted during weekends,” you explain to the blonde woman sitting in front of you, and she writes that information down in her notebook. “He can usually handle himself, but at some point, he’ll try to call his ex-wife, and that’s when you know you need to stop serving him.”

She clicks her tongue, the color draining out of her face. “This is… definitely a lot to remember. I think I already forgot half of what you said.”

You shake your head, shoving your hands in your pockets. “You’ll get used to it, believe me. I’ll be with you at all times, so if you have any doubts, just ask me.”

After a whole year of working solo at the bar, you finally get to have a coworker: Gwen, a mother of two teenagers in her forties. You had met her at the grocery store, and in the process of helping her find a specific brand of cookies, you found out that she had recently lost her job. One thing led to another, and now she’s your trainee.

Your savior complex strikes again!

It has been four days since your first encounter with Logan. The thought that he could show up at any moment makes your heart race and your hands sweat. Allison had received countless voice messages where you narrated the entire experience in full detail. 

Touching your arm softly, Gwen’s face lights up. “Another man came in. Is he a regular? I don’t think you told me about him.”

Fuck, it’s him. Manifesting does work wonders. He locks eyes with you and raises a hand in greeting.

“Leave this one to me,” you tell her as your feet take you to where Logan’s sitting, contemplating the way in which his leather jacket hugs his wide frame. “Long time no see.”

“Hey, kid,” he grins. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Nobody has puked yet, so that’s a good thing,” you crinkle your nose, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Whiskey?”

“You know me so well,” a smirk takes place in his lips, and he smiles cockily. “Though this time, I won’t be leavin’ without payin’.”

“We’ll see about that,” you go back to your usual spot behind the counter, looking for a glass. Your cheeks kind of hurt from smiling so hard. Next to you, Gwen studies your reaction to seeing Logan. “Is that your boyfriend?”

You almost drop the whiskey bottle. “God, no. He’s not my boyfriend. Barely know the guy.”

“It’s funny,” she says, raising her eyebrows with a knowing look, as if she knows something you don’t. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you since he arrived.”

“It’s probably because of this,” you reply, lifting the bottle in her direction before pouring a small amount into a glass. Just as you’re about to walk over to him, a girl slides into the sit beside him, her long blonde hair swept up in a ponytail. She’s wearing a stunning red dress and black heels. You wonder if she’s a model, because she certainly looks like one.

Her hand creeps up his arm, fingernails scraping against the worn leather. Although Logan’s expression is hard to read, he doesn’t even flinch.

“You know what? Here’s his drink– You take care of it. I’ll stay here,” you don’t give Gwen a chance to talk back, instead staying behind the bar, engaging in small talk with other clients. 

“Doll, are you okay?” Adam asks you after noticing you struggling to open a beer bottle. He takes it from your hands and opens it with ease. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Adam. I’m fine, never been better. Why you ask?

“You sure?”

“Affirmative.”

“You mixed up our drinks,” he explains in his most psychologist-like voice. “This never happens to you. Michael has my wine, and I’ve got his martini.”

“Fuck! I’m so sorry. I just— I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you chew on your bottom lip, rubbing your temples. “I feel stupid.”

“Oh, please. Don’t say that. You’re far from being stupid,” he sits up straight, reaching for your fingers and giving them an apologetic squeeze. “If you ask me, I think you’ve got your mind on someone else,” he must notice how you visibly get tense because he adds: “Remember: I know when you’re lying. You didn’t charge him the other day, which means that you must really like him,” taking a tentative sip of the martini he didn’t even ordered, Adam shrugs. “I’m a great observer. That’s all.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the blonde girl from before returning to where her friends are chatting. Logan is left alone, and you watch him grab his glass and head towards the counter.

“As I said, your mind’s somewhere else,” Adam sighs, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips. “Go get your man. I’ll survive.”

“Not my man. But thanks, older-and-wiser-version-of-cupid.”

Pretending not to have seen Logan, you continue with your work. He remains silent for some minutes before finally saying: “Hi.”

Hi? It sounds so out of character for him.

“Hey, claws,” you force a smile, still avoiding to meet his gaze. “Do you need anything?”

Logan points to his empty glass, like a toddler asking for more cereal. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

“I thought you were busy over there,” you say, surprisingly managing to sound nonchalant, despite the jealousy bubbling underneath your friendly tone. “Did you get her number?”

“What? No.”

“Why not? She’s cute.”

Yeah, maybe you don’t sound as collected as you think.

Whether Logan notices it or not, he chooses not to mention it. He folds his arms over his chest, fixing his brown eyes on you. “I’m not interested.”

“And what is it that interests you, champ?” your question elicits a low chuckle from him. Just as he opens his mouth to seemingly reply, Gwen appears out of nowhere to ask you about the price of a certain drink. Your gaze shifts between her and Logan, who remains focused on you while sipping his drink.

After that, Gwen leaves. The man in front of you goes poker-faced, pursing his lips, and his abrupt change in demeanor alarms you. “Wade wants to have dinner tomorrow at his apartment– well, our apartment. I live with him now. It’s complicated,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand, and you laugh. “Anyway, he asked me to tell you that you’re invited. I know we don’t know each other that much, but… he said you seem like someone worth havin’ around,” he mumbles awkwardly, eyes downcast. “I think the same as well.”

You could die at peace.

“You’re a lucky fucker because I don’t work on Sundays,” you quip, smiling. “I’d be more than happy to attend your feast.”

“Great. I thought you would turn down the invitation.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“‘Cause you barely know me– us,” he corrects himself rapidly. “Plus, Wade’s annoying as hell when he puts his mind to it. You’ll see.”

“Marital problems?” he actually in response. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Oh, I’ll bring the dessert.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I do want to,” you tilt your head in an effort to hide your longing for him.

“Just want to get under my skin, huh? I can see why Wade likes you,” Logan beams, reaching out to tuck a $100 bill into the pocket of your apron. “The tip’s included.”

“I don’t know how things work in your universe, but you’re giving me way more money than you’re supposed to. I can't accept this.”

“Oh, but you will,” his gravelly voice fucks your system up, and you’re glad he can’t see how you squeeze your legs together behind the bar.

He writes down Wade’s address on a random napkin, holding his breath as he stands up. “I should get goin’. See you tomorrow then.”

Before he walks out the door, you stop him. “Logan? You didn’t answer my other question.”

His back shakes momentarily with laughter. Turning around to face you, his stare leaves you even more confused. “Good night, doll.”

This is becoming a habit: every time he goes away, you feel as though you’ve just run a marathon with no water available. Your mouth is completely dry, your fingers are numb and there’s a knot in your stomach that’s becoming all too familiar.

“Would you mind telling me where you got him?” Gwen’s voice makes you almost jump out of your skin.

“He’s not from around here. I think he’s Canadian.”

You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

Knocking softly on Wade’s door, you step back, the container holding the tiramisu cold to your touch. It’s your first time trying out this recipe, so you’re expecting it to at least not taste like shit.

Wade answers the apartment door, acting surprised when you remain silent. “Well, look what the wind blew in: if it isn’t my husband’s lover. How dare you? We’re still going to couples therapy.”

You show him the container, and he squints at it. “Tiramisu. You want it or not?”

“I hate twenty-somethings,” he says with a defeated sigh, stepping aside to let you into the apartment. 

Leaving your purse on the nearest surface, you scan the living room, wondering where Logan might be. There’s a small mirror beneath the couch, and you check yourself for the hundredth time tonight. “Don’t get too excited. He’s still showering,” Wade’s voice rings in your ears, and you turn to look at him, your eyebrows knitted. “Yeah. I noticed. You’re already drooling over that big piece of metal between his legs.”

“Keep quiet!” you cover his mouth with your palm, noticing the scarred state of his skin up close. “Wade, you fucking dog. Are you licking my hand?”

“Couldn’t help it. You taste like mascarpone cheese and espresso.”

Then Logan emerges from the bathroom, with only a white towel draped around his waist. Droplets of water fall from his wet hair, tracing the muscle of his abs, ending somewhere beneath his happy trail. Your eyes keep flickering between him and his torso until he clears his throat. “I thought you were comin’ later.”

“Me too, but I…,” you trail off, your brain struggling to catch up, “I didn’t know what else to do at my place.”

“It’s fine. Just– let me put on some clothes.”

“Please don’t,” Wade murmurs next to you, but Logan only scoffs. “I was just being honest. Communication is key.”

When Wade and you are alone again, he lets out a harsh breath. “That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. My pants are really tight right now.”

“Thin walls, buddy!” Logan shouts from his bedroom, earning a laugh from you. 

Like A Prayer starts playing. Wade moves his hips to the beat, getting lost in the melody. “Is that your phone?”

“Yeah, but I always take a few seconds to dance to it. Such a banger!” he says, then picks up his phone, accepting the call. “Hey, Ness! What´s up?” Wade covers the speaker before telling you: “It’s Vanessa. My ex-girlfriend. We fuck once a week, sometimes even twice.”

From behind, Logan nudges your arm with his, looking at you. ”Hey, kid.”

“No, I’m not busy at all,” Wade exclaims, grabbing his crotch and thrusting into the air. “I’ll be there in ten, cupcake. See you,” he spreads his arms wide and whistles. “Someone’s getting laid tonight!”

“You made me come all the way here… and now you’re leaving?”

“What? My friend Wolverine wanted to invite you over. I just had to provide the apartment,” in one quick movement, he presses a kiss to your cheek, then does the same to Logan. “Shave yourself, will you?”

“Go fuck yourself, will you?”

“Love you too, honey. Hope you two lovebirds have a good night, because I know I will!”

Wade throws a wink over his shoulder before heading out, the apartment going dead silent. Logan and you stand frozen, staring at each other, although he quickly drops his gaze, unable to maintain eye contact. A giggle threatens to escape you: he wanted to see you. Could he possibly enjoy your company as much as you enjoy his?

Logan watches the spot where Wave had just been. The absence of his chaotic energy makes the room feel strangely empty now. He coughs lightly, the sound awkwardly loud in the quiet room.

“So... I, uh, bought pizza,” he says, his voice a little too casual, as if trying to cover up his nervousness. Averting his eyes, he focuses on the pizza boxes on the table.

You catch the hesitation in his tone, your curiosity piqued by his discomfort. Tilting your head, a teasing smile forms on your lips. “Pizza, huh? You sure know how to impress a girl.”

Logan chuckles, the sound strained, as he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I figured it was a safe choice. Didn’t want to ruin it, y’know?”

You move closer to the table, the warmth from the pizza boxes radiating against your hands as you open one of them. The rich smell of melted cheese and pepperoni fills the air, a comforting scent that makes your stomach growl softly. “Thank you. I’m a big fan of pizza.”

He sits in the chair across from you, taking a bite of his slice. You watch him quietly, your own thoughts churning. The truth of his origins had been a shock at first, but now, it just made you want to know more about the man. What was his life like in the other universe? Did he miss it? Was he happier here, or was he longing to return?

“Logan…,” you begin, your tone gentle but probing, “Can I ask you something?”

He glances up at you, eyes widening. There’s something in your eyes –an understanding, maybe– that makes him feel like you could see right through him. 

“Sure,” he replies, trying to sound more at ease than he really feels. “Ask away.”

You hesitate for a moment, not wanting to push too hard. “I was wondering... would it be okay if I asked you some questions? About, you know, your life. Where you're from.”

The bite of pizza suddenly feels heavy in his mouth. He hadn’t talked much about his world, not even with Wade. Partly because it was too painful, and partly because he wasn’t sure how to explain how things turned out for him. He nods slowly, setting his slice down. “Yeah, it's okay. I’ll answer what I can.”

“I just... I want to understand you better.”

“Well, first and foremost, I’m no hero. You should know that by now.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Kid, I’m the worst Logan. A complete failure. Of all the variants out there, Wade just had to pick the one despised by every living soul on his earth,” Logan looks away, his voice low and heavy. You’re wondering if doing this was a good idea. “I need a drink.”

He gets up and you follow him into the kitchen. He rummages through the fridge, in search of a cold beer. Meanwhile, you attempt to find the right words. “I don’t think–”

With a sharp flick of his wrist, three metal claws sprout from between his knuckles. A gasp catches in your throat as he uses his claws to pierce the beer can, drinking from the punctured holes. Once he’s done, he goes back to staring at you. Your gaze, on the other hand, is still glued to the now-empty beer can. “What?” he asks, exhaling slowly.

“That was completely unnecessary,” you mutter, and he lets out a bitter chuckle, tossing the can into the trash. “But, back to what you said before– I don’t think you’re the worst Logan.”

“You didn’t know me back then, darlin’. I fucked it up,” he leans against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Like the Logan from this universe, I once belonged to the X-Men too. I remember that Scott used to beg me to wear my suit. So did Jean, Storm, Beast– All of them,” his gaze grows more distant, and you can tell that memories are flooding his mind. “Wanted me to be part of the team, but I wouldn’t do it. Told them they looked fucking ridiculous.”

The pizza’s long forgotten. You take the risk and get a bit closer to him, your eyes never leaving his. 

Logan’s silence stretches for a moment before he speaks again. “One day, while I was off on my own, the humans came. They went mutant hunting.”

Your heart clenches at the pain in his voice. He still remembers everything as if it had happened yesterday. “I can guess the rest. You don’t have to–”

But he cuts you off. “No, let me say it. I need to say it,” he takes a deep breath, lowering his head. “By the time I stumbled home, shit-faced from the bar, it was too late. They were dead. They called after me and I walked away.”

Reaching out, your hand gently brushes against his. He doesn’t pull away, but instead searches for your eyes. “My suit's all I've got to remind me of who they were. What I did. I found them and they were… dead. I started killing, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I turned the whole world against the X-Men.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, knowing there’s nothing you can do to change how he feels. “You’re not a bad person, Logan,” he shakes his head, mumbling something you can’t quite catch. “I mean it. What happened back then doesn’t define you. You took the blame for their deaths upon yourself. I can tell you loved them deeply, and I’ll never fully understand the pain you feel. I wish I could. I wish I could take it away, make you forget somehow, but I can’t. That’s not how life works. But you got your second chance: you saved this world. My world,” gently cupping his face in your hands, you allow your fingers to caress his cheeks. He leans into your touch, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “You’re my hero. I’m your biggest fan– after Wade, obviously, which is a lot to say.”

He grins, letting out a laugh. “Easy there, bub.”

“Should I give you some space?”

That’s the last thing he wants from you right now. You already know that as he looks you up and down, placing his hands on the small of your back, his thumbs drawing small circles on your skin. There’s no turning back– The warmth between you feels almost like a fever dream. “For a long time, all I wanted was to disappear. I couldn’t stand waking up every morning, knowing that another day awaited me.”

“And what happened?” your breath mingles with his, his closeness becoming nearly intoxicating. “What changed?”

“I met a pretty girl at a pub, that’s what happened,” he murmurs, his dilated pupils flicking up to meet your gaze. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Do all your kisses come with a warning?”

“God, do you ever shut up?”

You don’t have time to respond because he kisses you there and then. His stubble scrapes your skin as your mouths meet again and again, needy hands that hold you as if you were prone to breaking. Logan licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours and swallowing every one of your whimpers.

“So this is what it takes to shut you up, huh?” he murmurs against your lips. You can feel him smiling, and it makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Keep talking and you won’t get a single bite of my tiramisu,” you tease him, kissing him again, the taste of beer numbing your senses. “I really like kissing you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, but now that you’ve mentioned that tiramisu…”

“Am I that easily replaced?”

“No. You’re just a pain in the ass.”

Jokes aside, you’re as happy as a clam.

Since that night you and Logan kissed, you’ve been living your best life. Like a freaking schoolgirl with a crush. Some things never seem to change.

He hasn’t been to the bar in three days. Yes, you’re counting them. No, you haven’t lost your mind. You want to see him, but there’s something about making the first move that gives you the chills. What would his reaction be if you showed outside of apartment?

It’s been a long time since you’ve been with anybody. On top of that, all the guys you’ve dated were your age. Being with someone that older than you certainly wasn’t no your plans. You’d be lying if you said that the mere idea of being with him in that way didn’t excite you.

Oh boy, you miss him. You miss his scruffy voice, his gorgeous hair. And you two aren’t even official yet. To be honest, you don’t even know what he wants from you. Is he even the type to be in a relationship?

“Nighty night, gentlemen,” you say to Gary and his friends as you find yourself in front of them, smoothing your apron. Gwen had called in sick tonight, so it’s just you at the bar babysitting a bunch of grown-men.

“What’s up, doll? You’ve forgotten about us. We miss you coming in here to chat,” Gary’s eating his burger at the same time he speaks, something you find repulsive, but you’ve seen worse. “Y’know, I’d love to take you out someday. I have a place you’d like.”

The other men laugh and punch him in the back, just boosting his ego. Pathetic. 

“I’ll let you know when I’m free,” you reply with the most polite smile you can offer, intending to go on. “What are you having tonight?”

“You always pull that shit, baby. I don’t think you’re so busy that you can’t accept a date.”

You hate the way he’s looking at you, as if you were wrong for not being interested. As if you didn’t know any better.

“You’re reading minds now? Shocking, Gary.”

“Oh, doll. That attitude of yours shows you’ve never been with a real man like me, that’s all,” he leans back in his chair, resting one of his arms on the table and the other one near his crotch, manspreading. “It’s alright. I like you bratty.”

“I’ll be back when you finally have something to order,” you attempt to turn around but he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. Your eyes lock, and he seems to enjoy this: being in control. Like a predator hunting his prey. “Come on, Gary. I don’t want to have to kick you out.”

“It’s not that you don't like me, right? You’ve already got your mouth full.”

“Careful.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re not fucking that useless mutant. I see you like ‘em older. Pretty little things like you drive me wild.”

You laugh in his face, showing him your teeth. “It was never about your age, Gary. You’re right: I do like them older. I’m just not into bald, vertically-challenged pricks.”

His entourage of idiots goes silent after that. He looks up at you, eyes burning with hatred. His grip on your wrist tightens, probably leaving a mark. “Fucking bitch.”

“Get your hands off her.”

Logan’s voice forces the two of you to look in his direction. It seems that he’s just arrived at the pub, his jacket still on. 

“You joining us? We’re just getting started here, big boy.”

“Did you not hear me?” Logan lunges forward, his nose almost touching Gary’s. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Easy there, cowboy. I’m just having a chat with your girl. She’s one of the good ones, I’ll give you that,” arching a sly brow, his forehead puckers. “You don’t like sharing? We can even take turns.”

Logan clenches his jaw, lips set in a grim line. “Say one more word, and I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’ll give you a full sentence instead: can you even get it up?” 

The tension in the air is thick, every second stretching out as Logan's anger simmers dangerously close to the surface. Gary’s smug grin only makes it worse, pushing him to the edge. Before you can react, Logan’s fist swings forward, connecting with Gary’s jaw with a sickening crack. Gary staggers back, realising your wrist. Blood seeps from his nose, his white shirt becoming stained with it. “You fucker! You broke my nose!”

“We’re just getting started here, big boy,” Logan mocks him, repeating his previous words.

“Stop!” you shout, moving quickly to grab his arm, trying to pull him back. But he’s beyond hearing, his rage blinding him to everything else. He shakes you off, and with a fierce growl, drives another punch into Gary’s stomach. The latter doubles over, gasping for air, the wind knocked out of him. He then falls to the floor, curling into a ball. People start to gather around you, and soon your beloved bar becomes a box ring.

“That’s enough, Logan! He’s barely conscious,” you murmur under your breath, stepping between them, hands up in a desperate attempt to create some space. Logan pauses, chest heaving, fists still clenched, as he finally looks at you. The wildness in his eyes starts to fade, replaced by a dawning realization of what he’s done.

“He deserved it,” he nods vigorously to himself, as if trying to explain his point. “He was hurting you.”

“If you keep that up, you’re going to kill him. My bar is not a fucking cemetery,” your voice trembles a little bit, expecting to talk some sense into him. “I won’t let you do this.”

The room is quiet now, the only sound being Logan’s heavy breathing as he stands there, still tense, still processing. You turn to Gary’s friends, cold fury in your eyes. “Get him out of here,” you watch as they haul him up, practically dragging him to the door. The other clients continue to stare at Logan, their mouths hanging open. “Everybody out, right now! Go home. We’re closing earlier tonight.”

Adam is the last person to leave, slamming the door behind him. You rush to the counter, searching for a mop to clean the fresh blood off the floor. Still agitated, the images of Logan hitting Gary flash in your mind. He approaches you from behind, his fingers circling your forearm. “Bub–”

“Don’t. Now is not the time.”

“I was protecting you.”

“I told you to stop, and you didn’t. You just shook me off,” you snap, glancing at his knuckles which are not even bruised. Slamming your eyes shut, you get to your feet and wash your hands in the sink, the remaining water becoming reddish for a moment.

Logan moves closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. He wraps his arms lazily around your middle section. ”I’m sorry.”

You turn in his arms, your back flushed against the sink and your nose in the air. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“But– Jesus, Logan. You could’ve come sooner. I thought you regretted what happened the other day,” you say and the muscles in his face twitch, his body stiffening at your words. “Thought you no longer wanted me.”

“No, bub. I– I still want you. I want all of you, trust me,” he murmurs, and you allow him to press his body against yours, the scent of the cigar he must have smoked recently enveloping your senses. “I just… don’t know how to do this. I have a habit of ruining things, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to be with you without hurting you.”

“Pushing me away also hurts,” your eyes flick up to meet his gaze again, and he whispers under his breath. “I can’t read your mind. You need to tell me what’s going on in that ancient skull of yours.”

His face falters, flashing you a mischievous look. His hand creeps under the fabric of your shirt, fingernails scrapping against your spine. “I’m sorry, princess. I truly am.”

“You can’t just say ‘sorry’ with that voice and expect me to–”

You’re cut off by his lips crashing down onto yours. You melt into the kiss, unable to deny what your body has been craving for the past days. 

“I thought your kisses came with a warning,” you say, detaching your mouth from his, a smile spreading uncontrollably in your face as you see his toothy grin.

“Shut up and kiss me, will you?”

In a clash of tongues and teeth, your mouths meet once again. Tugging the hair at his nape, you feel him growl against your lips. His strong hands trace every curve of your body, kneading the flesh of your hips and undoing the knot at the back of your apron. You’re becoming one with the sink, but in a moment like this, you couldn’t care less. Logan’s hard on nudges your lower stomach, and he ruts against you like an animal.

“You said you wanted to know what’s on my mind, right?” his teeth nibble on the skin of your neck, syrupy voice going straight to your core. “Well, I’d love nothing more than to touch you right now.”

“Right here? On the counter?”

“Yeah, on the fucking counter,” he grabs you by your thighs, hosting you up and placing your body on top of the cold bar. He nudges your knees apart, his bulge meeting your clothed cunt deliciously. “Will you let me, baby? Can I make you come in here?”

“Please. I’m glad we have such a low budget. Camera installment is t–too expensive these days.”

“Do you always talk this much?” he slowly unbuttons your pants, and you help him to remove them.

“Yes. Next question,” your breath hitches in your throat as you feel the pad of his thumb circling your clit through your panties. Your eyelids drop, your head lolling back. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Logan hums, mesmerized with the way your hips roll into his hand, your whimpers sounding like music to his ears. “You have any idea how I felt when I saw him touching you? Wanted to rip his hands off you,” his eyes drift to your chest, how it rises and falls with impatience. “But it’s me who gets to have you like this. He can fantasize about you all he wants: I’m the only one who touches you, ain’t I right?” you sigh with content as his fingers graze your slit, aimlessly bucking your hips. He doesn’t go any further, and you tug at the collar of his flannel, needing more of his callousand hands on you. “Nuh-uh. You want something, you gotta use your words. Got it?”

“I w–want your fingers inside me,” you don’t even recognize your own voice at this point. The few guys you had slept with had never been very talkative during sex. But Logan isn’t like them. This is just the beginning and you’re already starting to realize that he has a dirty mouth, that expectant look on his face as he waits to see your reaction to his words. “Please, Logan. I want you so bad.”

“Oh, I know, bub. There’s something about me I don’t think you know,” he inserts one of his fingers in your cunt, your slick coating the palm of his hand. “These claws I have… they didn’t come on their own. Let’s just say my sense of smell is… pretty good,” Logan can almost see the gears turning in your head as you try to think coherently. He moves his middle finger in and out of you, stretching your walls. “And you… have been wet ever since the first time you saw me. Always nice to everybody, making sure they feel at ease,” you feel like you’re being stretched even further, another one of his fingers sinking into your warm pussy. “But you’re so needy, too. How long has it been since someone touched you like this?”

“Too long, f–fuck. Too long,” you’re squirming, a totally whiny mess. He retratcs his wet fingers and instead goes back to flicking your clit, this time with much less delicacy. His left hand squeezes your tits, and you hate the fact that you’re still wearing clothes. “Shit, Logan. I need you to fuck me. Please. Need your cock.”

His face comes to rest at your neck, and you feel lingering kisses and bites that keep you grounded to earth. “Not here. I need a bed to fuck you properly. You’re only getting my fingers now,” he positions them inches away from your entrance, testing your patience. “Tell me who owns this pussy.”

“L-logan–”

“Tell me and I’ll make you come,” his husky voice is making you dizzy, tears shimmering in your eyes. “Come on. Know you want it as much as I do.”

You succumb to the tentation, like divinity turned to sin. He kisses you roughly, and you struggle to find the correct words. “It’s you, Logan. You own my pussy. It’s f-fucking yours.”

With that, he goes back to nudging that spot that makes you see starts, that filthy squelching sound getting mixed up with your moans. The knot in your belly keeps growing tighter the more he pumps his fingers in and out of you. 

“I said you were only getting my fingers for now, but fuck… I need to gest a taste of this sweet cunt.”

He’s on his knees in an instant, urging your legs apart to make room for his body. Your thighs tighten around his face as he licks a hot stripe up your folds, tracing a heated path on your cunt, not wishing to waste a single second. Pleasure builds quickly, your breath hitching as your hands find their way into his hair, pulling him closer when your body begins to tremble. 

“I’m close,” you pant, breathing hard, grinding your hips against his face. “I’m so close.”

“That’s it. Come in my mouth like the good girl you are.”

Who had given him a damn script for this?

The release is explosive. Like the peak of a roller coaster: you go up up up, ascending higher. You think you almost see Jesus, but at some point, you also have to crash down with force. Your shoulders slump, your entire body cramping up; yet he doesn’t let you go that easily, his fingers still working, scissoring within you while you ride out the final waves of your high, drawing out every last moment of ecstasy.

Once you finally manage to open your eyes, there he is, staring down at you. He taps your lower lip with his fingers, and then mutters: “Open.”

And you do, because you’re just as messed up as he is. Your mouth parts, and he slides his fingers between your lips, dragging them smoothly across your tongue. His knuckles brush the back of your throat, and you gag around the intrusion, tasting yourself. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, clearly satisfied with the way you’ve cleaned them off.

“I think we should really pay a visit to your apartment,” he suggests, groaning in defeat, and you feel his bulge poking your hip. He must be painfully hard. “I meant what I said earlier. I need a bed if we’re going to fuck. My back’s hurting.”

You raise an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth curving into a smirk. “Why not go to yours?”

“Wade’s in there. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.”

You can’t help but laugh, pausing a moment to collect your thoughts, heat rising to your cheeks. “So we’re going rodeo?”

Aiming to silence up, Logan kisses you, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Only if you can handle it.”

part 2: “GIVE ME THE FIRST TASTE”

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

[pomegranatesarchive]

stupid appendix | oscar piastri

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

summary; oscar piastri biggest fan (his girlfriend) goes crazy when he wins his first grand prix, and she isn’t there to see it.

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, and 761,305 others!

yourusername: it’s race week again, except i’m praying oscar doesn’t win because i’m getting my appendix taken out and if he wins, and im not there, i will go fucking ballistic. 

view comments below!

oscarpiastri: wow, thanks for all the support! 🥰

yourusername: i love you with my whole heart octopus, but if you win and im not there? i will never forgive you.

oscarpiastri: and what am i supposed to do if i start leading?

yourusername: stop, and let everyone pass you!

oscarpiastri: so i won’t be doing that! lovely conversation 👊

yourusername: YOU NEVER LOVED ME

user1: why’d she just call oscar octopus?

yourusername; that’s his name?

user1: no..his name is oscar?

yourusername; he was born octopus jack piastri, but got bullied a lot, so he changed his name to oscar when he was 16 😓

user1: really?

yourusername: yeah, and i would know!

user1: ig…LOL who names their kid octopus?

yourusername: RIGHT??

oscarpiastri: STOP TELLING PEOPLE I CHANGED MY NAME. MY NAME WAS NOT OCTOPUS.

user1: oh…well now i’m embarrassed

user2: don’t be, she’s done this to at least 30 fans now

maxverstappen1: don’t worry, i’ll make sure he doesn’t win 😏

yourusername: thank you max! you’re my only REAL friend <3

landonorris: excuse me?

yourusername; tell me lando, would you throw oscar into the grandstands to prevent him from winning this race?

landonorris: no?

yourusername: FAKE

landonorris: okay, you know what, it’s not MY fault that you decided to take your appendix out THAT DAY.

yourusername: I DIDNT DECIDE IT. IT WAS FORCED UPON ME.

landonorris: RESCHEDULE THE SURGERY FOR THE NEXT DAY! 

yourusername: wait.

oscarpiastri: NO. you will be having that surgery on sunday. and you will not being rescheduling.

yourusername: I HATE YOU OCTOPUS

oscarpiastri: you can hate me all you want, you’re still getting that surgery.

user3: on one hand i want oscar to win, on the other i dont think yn will recover if she isn’t there to witness it

charles_leclerc: i would try to stop him from winning but i don’t think i have a fast enough car for that

yourusername: it’s okay charles! i’m sure ferrari will bounce back in no time :)

charles_lelcerc: really?

yourusername; no…

charles_leclerc: nice talk! :(

user4: when you want to comfort your friend but you can’t lie for shit

user5: normally i pray that oscar will win a race, but today, ill do the opposite, just for you yn 💕

yourusername: thank you!!

user6: she is dead serious. she honestly doesn’t want oscar to win.

yourusername: i’ve never been so serious in my LIFE.

user7: no i get it, imagine going to every single on of your bfs races and the ONE time you don’t go he wins???

user8: i’d start to believe i’m back luck

carlossainz55: imagine having to get your appendix out 🤣🫵

yourusername: right? that’s so embarrassing 🤣

user9: you two are the LAST people too be talking

user10: oscar piastri does NOT win the hungary gp 🕯️ oscar piastri does NOT win the hungary gp 🕯️oscar piastri does NOT win the hungary gp 🕯️oscar piastri does NOT win the hungary 🕯️

user11: AMEN

user12: LOUDER

user13: preach!

oscarpiastri: @/yourusername, you see what you’ve done?

yourusername: beautiful work guys! oscar piastri does NOT win the hungary gp 🕯️

oscarpiastri: 😐

— race day!

— post race interview!

. . .

liked by mclaren, lewishamilton, landonorris, and 719,014 others!

oscarpiastri: first grand prix win. incredible 🧡

view comments below!

carlossainz55: congrats oscar 👍

estebanocon: great job mate, first of many 👏

user14: oh i’m crying

user15: omg i am too, the tears just won’t stop

user16: first it was him winning, then it was him apologizing for winning, and now it’s yn not being there for him 💔

landonorris: congrats bro!

user17: OH OSCAR PIASTRI, OH OSCAR PIASTRI, OH OSCAR PIASTRI

user18: waiting for yn to wake up and raise hell

user19: she’s going to wake up from anesthesia and this is going to be the first thing she sees 

yourusername: what was the one thing i asked you not to do?

oscarpiastri: baby you just woke up, stop making your mom write for you, and rest

yourusername: ONE THING OSCAR. I ASKED FOR ONE THING.

oscarpiastri: stop making your mom write for you, she probably feels very uncomfortable right now

yourusername: i do - the mom

yorusername: STOP CHANGING THE SUBJECT OSCAR JACK PIASTRI. YOU ARE SOOO NOT INVITES TO MY OSCAR FIRST WIN PARTY

user20: i know that anesthesia is hitting real hard 

user21: i want to go to oscar’s first win party

yourusername: @/maxverstappen1 AND YOU. I TOLD YOU NOT TO LET HIM WIN

maxverstappen1: i’m sorry yn. i have failed you.

yourusername: …its okay max, you’ll get him next time

maxverstappen1: thank you yn ❤️

oscarpiastri: WHOS SIDE ARE YOU ON??

yourusername: NOT YOURS.

yourusername: stupid appendix.

carlossainz55: me and my homies all hate our appendix’s

user22: you don’t have one?

carlossainz55: 😐

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, 691,047 others!

yourusername: absolutely gutted to have not been there for his first win, nonetheless OCTOPUS JACK PIASTRI IS A FUCKING RACE WINNER

view comments below!

oscarpiastri: you will see me win in person love, i know it 🧡

yourusername: i love you octopus

oscarpiastri: i love you more

user22: he’s not fighting the octopus?? softie

user23: maybe she’s dying and wants her too be happy in her last moments… OMG YN ARE YOU DYING???

yourusername: NO??? i’m perfectly fine, the surgery went perfect!

user23: oh, then yeah he’s a softie

user24: worst maiden win ever

user25: SPEAK ON IT

user26: it would’ve been so much better if yn was there :(

charles_leclerc: glad your surgery went well yn!!

yourusername: thank you charles 👊 congrats on p4, your getting up there!!

charles_leclerc; thankfully! i could not handle any other bad week in the car 😞

user27: none of us could charles. none of us could.

maxverstappen1: can i congratulate oscar now?

yourusername: i guess 😒

maxverstappen1: YAY OSCAR ��🥳

user28: why is he acting like he wasn’t one of the first to congratulate him in person?

maxverstappen1: SHHHH YN DOESNT KNOW THAT

user29: “her health comes first.” oscar jack piastri you SOFTIE

user28: i desperately need a video of yn waking up from surgery and finding out oscar won.

oscarpiastri: i have one, there was lots of cussing, snot, and tears

yourusername; SHUT UP OCTOPUS YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOURE TALKING ABOUT

user29: SHE HAS BEEN THERE FOR ALL HIS BIG WINS, AND THE ONE TIME—THE ONE TIME HE WINS IN FORUMLA FUCKING ONE. SHE ISNT THERE. GOD I CANT TAKE TJIS

yourusername: see, you get it 😞

. . .

notes; my post on oscar’s win!!! super super super proud of him <33

[adelheidvonschicksal]

Frowny Face

Summary: Nobara and Itadori try to figure out the similarities between Megumi and his son. They manage to find that the infamous Zen'in frowny face is a dominant trait.

Tags: Megumi x F!Reader, Humor, Fluff, SFW, 1200 wc

Notes: I had this drafted for weeks. After seeing the epilogue and the grandkids, wish I had posted sooner, I felt there wasn't a more appropriate time for this. Happy belated-birthday 'gumi.

“No, no, look again, he definitely has his eyes,” Itadori points out.

Nobara lowers her face towards the baby currently blinking at the two of them from the comfort of his plush crib. Megumi stands off to the side, arms loosely crossed over his chest and an increasingly spreading scowl as his two friends, if he could call them that right now, poke and prod at his kid.

Nobara was the first one to point out how much his child was growing and starting to resemble his parents before noticing that his new emerging features leaned heavily to your side of the family, leading to this search to pick out their similarities.

“I’m not seeing it,” Nobara disagrees, failing to find the hint of dark blue that Itadori swears he can see in the baby’s right pupil. To her, all she can see is black all the way through both eyes, like the majority of the Zen’in clan geezers from those centuries old family books she helped Maki trash; unfortunately, this didn't include Megumi so they couldn't even count it. With a hand on her hip, she turns to Megumi. “Sheesh, he doesn’t resemble you at all. The misses really said copy and paste, huh?”  

Megumi huffs, about three seconds away from shooing them into the kitchen where you’re making dinner. That’s until Itadori pipes up, “Sure he does.” And for a second, Megumi thinks they’ll finally drop this silly discussion. “He has the same grumpy face his dad does.”

Megumi sighs. He should’ve known better.

“Now that you mention it,” Kugisaki can barely contain her laughter as she reaches into the crib and gently pinches a chubby cheek. Your son makes no expression at her playful squeeze or poke to his belly. His tiny legs kick the same way any other baby would when tickled, but the flat line on his face refuses to budge. “This is the least smiley baby I’ve ever seen,” she concludes while Itadori nods in agreement as he goes in to tickle the baby’s foot – just to make sure.

Megumi knows the two idiots don’t mean any harm by it, being the person to receive the brunt end of their jokes and observations over his life, the kind that can only be made out of innocent obliviousness and overconfidence, but he can’t help but feel more defensive when it’s his kid.

“Do you two have nothing better to do than to shame a baby?” he gripes. “It’s late, go home.”

“Oh, lighten up, we were only teasing. He’s adorable,” Nobara dismisses as she notes how much bigger her future-partner-in-crime has become over the past few months. Looking back on it, she can’t recall any time she’s heard him laugh or much of anything. Sure, she’s seen him get fussy while babysitting, but she’s rarely heard him cry. “But you have to admit he isn’t very expressive…for a baby,” she mentions with a hint of concern, concern that isn’t needed from Megumi’s point of view.

“Maybe you two just aren’t funny,” he says, watching the way Itadori attempts to get his son to laugh by making silly faces; it results in little more than a fist full of pink hair getting tugged.

“I’m being serious. I mean…” she tilts her head, trying to word it delicately. “Does he smile at all?”

Megumi nods. “He smiles.”

“Does he?” Itadori presses, craning his neck as he struggles to free his hair.

“He does,” Megumi repeats, his eyes softening at the memory of that innocent and joyful giggle he first heard like an unimaginable dream come true. “It’s just when you’re not around.”

Nobara rubs at the back of her neck apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t mean any offense by it. He’s a good baby,” she compliments before moving to help free Itadori’s hair from his iron-like grip. “And strong too,” she adds, looks at him, and clicks her tongue when she once again fails to find the bit of blue Itadori mentioned earlier, but it provides an opportunity to cut through the awkwardness they unwittingly created. She fakes a sigh. “Unlike your genes. I don’t think they even had a battle plan.”

“Very funny,” he puffs out between their chuckles then he hears another voice coming from the direction of the kitchen.

“That’s not true,” you say as you pad into the room with a milk bottle in hand, the grin on your face trembling as you try not to laugh with them. “They have a lot in common.” You begin to list off on your fingers. “They both like the same fruit and animals, he really likes books when you read to him, and do you think his hair maintains itself?”

Nobara breathes out an "oh" at your explanation. “So, he gets mom's good looks to balance out dad's aloof personality? Makes sense."

Your resistance breaks as you let out a giggle, ignoring the pout on your husband’s face. “Are you guys staying for dinner?”

“No, we should really get going,” Nobara states with a small yawn. “Mission reports won’t write themselves.”

You nod, handing Megumi the bottle of milk as you walk the others to the door and wave them off.

“Have a good night,” Itadori calls out while Nobara makes you promise to phone her tomorrow and to come hang out if you’re free.

Locking the door, you walk back in and head towards the crib.

“You really shouldn’t entertain them when they get like that," Megumi reminds you.

“You know they only do it to mess with you. It’s how they show they like you.”

“You mean they’re idiots.”

“Yet you open the door right up every time they come over.”

Megumi gives you a doubtful look. “Not by choice. It’d be like trying to stop a rampaging bull from barging in,” Megumi states, and you let out an amused huff. 

No matter how much he complains and comments that they haven't changed one bit after leaving school, he enjoys them. You remember how excited he seemed when Itadori called to ask if it was okay to pop in since they were nearby. Well, excited in that he immediately started to straighten out the house even though he had already cleaned earlier that morning. It's cute little quirks that often gives him away and the ones that make you like him even more.

“If it makes you feel better, I think you have a great personality and good looks,” you compliment with a brush of your hand over his hair. You look down at your son, who still seem unmoved by all the events of the evening. It makes you laugh because Nobara and Itadori were right. Your son does have Megumi’s ever-dull facial expression. 

“And both my boys have the cutest frowny faces,” you say, holding up your son to your face to nuzzle his nose. As you pull him away, your eyes brighten at the wide smile that flashes on his face followed by a warm giggle. “Hello to you too,” you coo and cuddle him again, causing another fit of giggles to fill the room, and the sound resonates in his chest and makes him forget any problems that arose on the way to getting to this point in his life.

“You forgot to tell them one thing,” Megumi says, coming forward to kiss your temple. As he told the others, his son does smile, and Megumi does too. “They both smile when they see mommy.”

[pucksandpower]

Shouldn’t Have Done That

Mafia boss!Max Verstappen x Leclerc!Reader

Summary: trying to get one of the most dangerous men in the world to put a hit out on the love of his own life probably isn’t the brightest idea (or in which, for someone with a PhD, your professor is shockingly stupid)

Warnings: 18+ content, sexual harassment, imbalanced power dynamics, graphic violence, and descriptions of bodily harm

The door to your apartment swings open, and the chatter from the hallway stops. Four of your classmates shuffle inside, their footsteps faltering as they take in the sight before them. They’re silent for a moment too long.

“Wait,” Katie says, her eyes wide as she looks up at the vaulted ceiling and back down to the gleaming hardwood floors. “Is this your place?”

You shrug, tossing your keys into the bowl by the door. “Yeah.”

“You live here?” Carla echoes, her voice tinged with disbelief.

“I mean,” you chuckle lightly, “obviously.”

The apartment, with its high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Mediterranean, feels miles away from the cramped student housing they’re all used to. It's not just the space. The sleek furniture, the abstract art pieces on the walls, the elegant touches — none of it exactly screams student budget. They’re trying not to stare, but they’re doing a bad job of hiding it.

“I thought we were coming over to, like … study,” Peter finally says, breaking the silence, a nervous chuckle following.

You give him a playful nudge with your elbow. “We are.”

“But here?” Katie crosses her arms, glancing at you with a raised eyebrow. “Come on, what’s the deal? This place has to cost a fortune.”

There’s a beat, then a couple of them laugh, but it’s a little strained. They’re not joking. They’re genuinely trying to piece it together. You could brush it off, let them make their own assumptions, but something about their wide-eyed curiosity feels harmless.

“My brother,” you say, almost casually. “He’s … well, he’s doing okay. He helps me out.”

They’re all staring, but it’s Carla who finally speaks up. “What does your brother do?”

You hesitate for just a second before answering. “Honestly, I’m not entirely sure.”

Katie’s eyes narrow. “You’re not sure?”

“I mean, I know it’s something with negotiations. Like, high-level stuff. It’s complicated.” You wave it off like it’s no big deal, like it doesn’t really matter. Because it doesn’t, right? You’ve never been the type to get too involved in his work. You just trust that he knows what he’s doing.

Carla tilts her head, curious but not pushing further. Peter, on the other hand, leans against the kitchen island, his lips curving into a smirk. “Something with negotiations? So, what? Is he, like, a spy or something?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No, nothing like that.”

“Are you sure?” Peter presses, his tone teasing but with just enough edge that he’s probably half-serious.

“Not everything is out of a Bond movie, Peter,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“But the view!” Katie says, pulling everyone’s attention back to the massive windows overlooking the water. “I can’t believe you get to wake up to this every day.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Carla adds. “I’d never get any work done.”

“I manage,” you say, grinning. The truth is, it’s still surreal to you too. This place is everything you didn’t know you wanted, and sometimes you catch yourself staring out those windows, trying to remind yourself that it’s real.

“Man, I bet you never want to leave,” Katie says, still wandering around like she’s in a museum.

“Not when she has everything she needs right here,” Peter quips. “Look at this kitchen. You could probably host a Michelin chef here.”

You open the fridge, grabbing a bottle of sparkling water. “I wouldn’t know. I mostly use it for reheating leftovers.”

“You’re telling me this place has a kitchen like this, and you’re eating takeout?” Carla gasps dramatically, as if this is the most offensive thing she’s heard all day.

You shrug, uncapping the bottle. “Priorities.”

There’s a pause as everyone takes another lap of the apartment, taking in the minimalist, yet undeniably luxurious decor. The vibe is light, but you can feel the unspoken curiosity still lingering in the air.

“So … how well off are we talking, exactly?” Katie asks, not looking at you directly but instead at the marble countertops.

You shrug again, like it’s not that big of a deal. “Comfortable. Let’s just say he’s good at what he does.”

“I’ll say,” Peter mutters under his breath, and you can’t help but smirk.

For a moment, there’s silence again, but then Carla’s eyes light up like she’s had the best idea in the world. “Wait. Hold on. You know what I need to see?”

You raise an eyebrow, curious but already a little wary of where this is headed. “What?”

“Your closet.”

You blink, caught off guard by the request. “My closet?”

Katie jumps in, clapping her hands together. “Oh my god, yes. I didn’t even think of that. You have to show us.”

“I-” You hesitate, glancing towards the hallway. You hadn’t planned on giving them a tour of your personal space. “It’s not-”

“Come on!” Carla insists, grabbing your arm and pulling you towards the hallway with an eager grin. “We won’t judge. We just want to see.”

“Please?” Katie adds, pouting slightly for emphasis.

You laugh, giving in. “Fine, fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

As you lead them down the hallway, you can feel the anticipation in the air. When you stop in front of the large double doors, their excitement is palpable. You twist the knob, pushing the doors open with a small sigh.

“Okay, here it is.”

The collective gasp that follows is almost comical. You step aside, letting them wander into the massive walk-in closet, which feels more like a high-end boutique than anything else. The walls are lined with shelves and racks overflowing with designer labels. Chanel, Dior, Balmain, Gucci. Every label under the sun is here, all neatly arranged and organized in a way that’s both overwhelming and aesthetically pleasing.

Carla immediately rushes to a rack, her fingers brushing over the fabric of a Givenchy gown. “Are you kidding me?”

“This is unreal,” Katie whispers, her voice filled with awe as she runs her hand over a pair of Louboutin heels. “It’s like a dream.”

Peter whistles low, leaning against the doorframe, trying to play it cool, but even he looks impressed. “I’ve never seen this much designer stuff in one place.”

“I’ve only worn, like, half of it,” you admit sheepishly.

Carla spins around, her mouth hanging open. “Half? You could dress an army in here.”

You laugh, leaning against the doorframe, watching them fawn over the collection like kids in a candy store. It’s surreal, seeing your life through their eyes. To you, it’s just your brother’s way of making sure you’re taken care of, but to them, it’s something out of a movie.

Katie pulls out a vintage Valentino dress, holding it up in front of her. “I would die for this.”

“Please don’t,” you tease. “It’s just clothes.”

“Just clothes?” Carla repeats, incredulous. “This is practically a museum of couture.”

They spend the next several minutes pulling out pieces, laughing and gasping at everything from limited-edition handbags to extravagant gowns, and you can’t help but smile. It’s kind of fun, seeing them so excited, even if you still feel a little weird about the whole thing.

Finally, Carla turns to you, eyes wide. “Okay, you have to let us borrow something for the next event. Like, you have to.”

You shake your head, laughing. “We’ll see.”

But as they continue to gush over your closet, you realize that maybe it’s not such a big deal after all. Maybe sharing a little piece of this life with them doesn’t have to feel strange. Maybe it can just be fun.

***

Class is over before you realize it. Professor Turnier’s lecture on the intricacies of international negotiations had been more droning than usual, and the faint buzz of students gathering their things fills the hall. You shove your notebook into your bag, barely listening to the idle chatter around you. There’s a slight tension in the air that you can’t quite place, a sharpness that feels out of sync with the mundane end to the lecture.

You stand up to leave when you hear the professor’s voice, smooth and calculated.

“Could you stay behind for a moment?”

You freeze, glancing over your shoulder. His words aren’t unusual. He often asks students to hang back to discuss assignments or offer advice on projects. But something about his tone feels different. Off.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and nod, offering a polite, if tight, smile. “Sure.”

The last few students file out of the room, their footsteps echoing in the now-empty lecture hall. You hesitate before walking down toward his desk, feeling his gaze tracking your movements. His office is just off the hall, an enclosed glass-walled space where you can already see stacks of papers cluttering his desk.

“Come in,” he says, gesturing towards the open door, his voice too casual.

You step inside, noting the heavy scent of tobacco clinging to the air, and the way the blinds are partially drawn, casting strange shadows across the room. You stand near the door, feeling a sudden urge to stay as close to an exit as possible.

“Have a seat,” Turnier offers, motioning toward the chair across from his desk.

“I’m okay standing,” you say, trying to keep your tone light, even though your instincts are kicking into overdrive.

The professor doesn’t push it. He leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers together, watching you with a strange smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve been doing quite well in this course,” he starts, his voice calm and slow. “Very well, actually.”

You nod, unsure where this is going. “Thanks. I’ve been putting in a lot of work.”

“I can tell,” he replies. “You’re … very impressive.”

There’s a flicker of something unsettling in his words, and your stomach tightens.

He clears his throat, standing from his chair and walking around the desk to lean casually against the front of it, much closer now. “You know, I’ve been thinking. Someone like you, with your intelligence, your connections, could really go far in this world.”

You glance toward the door, wondering how much longer you’ll have to listen to him before you can politely excuse yourself. “I’m just focusing on the coursework right now. Trying to stay on top of things.”

“Of course,” he says, nodding, but his eyes are still on you. There’s a slowness to his movements, a deliberate lack of urgency that feels like he’s setting up for something. “But you could be doing so much more. I could help you.”

You take a step back instinctively. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

His smile widens, though there’s nothing friendly about it now. “You know exactly what I mean.”

You stare at him, the air in the room thick with a sudden, unmistakable tension. The distance between you feels far too small. He’s watching you with a kind of predatory stillness, like he’s waiting for a reaction, like he wants you to feel trapped.

“I should probably go,” you say, your voice steady but your heart pounding in your chest. “I have another class soon.”

Before you can move, his hand darts out, grabbing your wrist with a firm grip. The shift from casual to threatening is immediate, and panic flares in your chest. “You’re not going anywhere yet.”

You try to pull your hand free, but he tightens his grip, pulling you closer. His other hand moves to your waist, fingers curling possessively as his breath catches in a disgusting, anticipatory way.

“I could do a lot for you,” he murmurs, his face too close to yours now. “You’re smart enough to know that. I could make your career. Or ruin it.”

His hand slides lower, and you freeze, caught in the horror of the moment, disbelief mixing with disgust. But then something in you snaps.

“Get off me,” you say through gritted teeth, your voice trembling but fierce.

He laughs, a low, condescending sound that makes your skin crawl. “You don’t want to make this difficult.”

Your body moves before your mind fully catches up. With all the force you can muster, you slam your knee upward into his groin. His breath catches in his throat as he doubles over, releasing you instantly, his face twisting in pain. He stumbles back, clutching himself, groaning in agony.

You don’t wait for him to recover. You turn toward the door, ready to sprint out of his office and never look back. But just as your hand grips the doorknob, you hear his voice, raw and venomous behind you.

“You’ll regret this.”

You stop, your pulse pounding in your ears, but you don’t turn around.

“I’ll make sure you regret this,” he spits, still hunched over but his voice sharp and filled with fury. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

You swallow hard, every muscle in your body tensing.

“You think your money can protect you?” He sneers, his words like poison. “I have friends — powerful friends. You think you can humiliate me like this and just walk away? You’ll never have a career. I’ll make sure of it.”

You stare at the door in front of you, every instinct screaming at you to leave, but his words hang in the air, twisting into something darker, something more sinister.

“I know people. People who could make your life hell. Mafia connections, sweetheart,” he says with a sickening smirk, though his voice is still ragged from the pain. “You have no idea how easily I could ruin you.”

Your breath catches, your fingers gripping the doorknob so tightly your knuckles turn white. His threat lingers, the weight of it pressing down on you. You’ve heard stories — whispers of people who move in dangerous circles, people who have connections that go far beyond what you’d ever imagined dealing with.

You know he could be bluffing. He probably is. But what if he’s not?

You force yourself to open the door, stepping out into the hallway, your legs trembling. You don’t look back. You can’t. The hallway is empty, the echoes of your footsteps the only sound as you walk, faster and faster, away from his office, away from the suffocating tension of what just happened.

But his voice, that horrible promise, follows you like a shadow.

“I’m going to ruin you.”

You step out of the building, the cool Mediterranean air hitting your face, but it doesn’t calm the storm inside you. You feel the bile rise in your throat as you stop just outside the doors, leaning against the wall and trying to steady your breathing.

Your mind races, replaying everything that just happened. The feel of his hands on you, the way he looked at you, the way he thought he could get away with it. And then his threat — the weight of it hanging over you, heavy and suffocating.

What now?

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, but you don’t look at it. You can’t focus on anything but the gnawing sense of fear and anger churning inside you. For a second, you consider going back. Reporting him. But then you remember the look in his eyes, the cold certainty in his voice when he made that threat.

Mafia connections.

It sounds ridiculous, like something out of a movie. But here, in Monaco, where money and power intermingle in ways that blur the lines between the law and something far darker, it doesn’t feel so far-fetched.

You push yourself away from the wall and start walking, needing to move, needing to get away from the university, from the weight of what just happened. But as you walk, your mind keeps circling back to the same thought.

He’s not going to get away with this.

You refuse to let him.

***

You don’t remember driving to Charles’ apartment. The world outside had blurred into a haze of flashing lights and slick streets, your breath ragged in your chest as you fought to hold back the tears. By the time you park the car, your hands are shaking, white-knuckled on the steering wheel. You sit there for a second, trying to gather yourself, but the weight of what happened presses down, heavy and relentless.

Finally, you stumble out of the car, slamming the door shut, your footsteps hurried as you rush toward the entrance of the building. Your vision swims, the tears threatening to spill over, but you force yourself to keep moving, to get to Charles.

You don’t even knock when you reach his door. You punch in the code he gave you a long time ago and push the door open, not caring about anything but the need to see him, to feel safe for even a second.

Charles is in the living room, standing by the kitchen counter, his head turning the moment you step inside. His face instantly shifts from casual surprise to deep concern when he sees you — your tear-streaked face, your trembling body. He moves toward you without hesitation, his arms reaching out before you can even say a word.

“What happened?” He asks, his voice low and urgent as he pulls you into his chest. His strong arms wrap around you, holding you close, his warmth grounding you in a way you didn’t even know you needed.

You try to speak, but the words are stuck in your throat, tangled with sobs. You collapse into him, your legs giving way as the tears finally break free. His grip tightens as he catches you, lowering you gently onto the couch, cradling you like a child. You bury your face in his chest, gasping for air between sobs.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmurs, rocking you gently, his hand running through your hair in soothing strokes. “You’re safe now. You’re with me. Just breathe, okay?”

You try to follow his instructions, but your breaths come out jagged, choking on the tears. It feels like the whole day is crashing down on you at once, and the more you try to hold it together, the more everything falls apart.

He keeps murmuring reassurances, his hand never leaving your hair, his other arm a firm anchor around your shoulders. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. Just take your time.”

It takes a few minutes before you can even manage to form a coherent sentence. The sobs slow, but your whole body still trembles in his arms. You pull back just enough to look up at him, your face wet, eyes puffy, but the words still feel thick on your tongue.

“Charles …” Your voice breaks, and another hiccup escapes before you can stop it. “It’s … it’s my professor. H-He …”

His face hardens instantly, the warmth in his expression replaced by something darker, colder. “What did he do?”

You swallow, trying to steady your breathing, but the panic rises again as the memory of that office, the way his hands grabbed you, floods back. You squeeze your eyes shut, your words coming out in a rush. “H-He tried to touch me. He wouldn’t let me leave. I-I had to push him off me, and he said … he said he’s going to ruin me, Charles.”

Your voice cracks, and fresh tears spill over as you cling to him, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline.

Charles doesn’t say anything at first, but you feel the tension radiating through his body. His grip on you tightens, and when you finally open your eyes, you see the fury etched into his face, his jaw clenched so hard it looks like it might snap.

“He what?” His voice is low, almost too calm, but there’s a dangerous edge beneath it.

You nod, your words barely a whisper. “He grabbed me, and I pushed him, but he … he said he’s going to fail me now. He said he has mafia connections, and he’s going to ruin my life.”

For a second, Charles just stares at you, his eyes dark with something unnameable. Then, suddenly, he pulls you even closer, wrapping his arms around you so tightly it feels like he’s trying to shield you from the entire world.

“He’s not going to do a goddamn thing,” Charles says, his voice rough but steady. “I won’t let him. I promise you, he won’t get away with this.”

You hiccup, shaking your head against his chest. “But he … he said-”

“I don’t care what he said,” Charles cuts in, his hand moving to cup the back of your head, pressing your face into his shoulder. “He’s not going to touch your career. He’s not going to touch you. I’ll make sure of that.”

Your whole body shakes, the weight of his words sinking in, but the fear doesn’t leave. It clings to you, tight and suffocating, like a shadow you can’t shake. “He said he knows people, Charles. Dangerous people.”

“I know people too,” he says, his voice hard, cold in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. “You’re my sister. He’ll wish he’d never crossed you.”

You pull back slightly, blinking up at him, your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

He lets out a slow breath, his hand brushing a tear from your cheek. “You don’t need to worry about that. Just trust me, okay? I’ll handle it.”

“But-”

“No buts,” he says, his tone brooking no argument. “I’ll take care of everything. You just need to focus on staying safe. I won’t let him come near you again.”

Your lip trembles, and you lean into him, letting yourself be comforted by his certainty, by the strength of his promise. But the words the professor had said — his sneering, his threats — they linger in your mind, gnawing at you.

“What if he really can do it?” You whisper, the fear creeping back in. “What if he ruins me, Charles? What if-”

“He won’t,” Charles says firmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”

You press your face into his chest again, trying to breathe through the panic. He holds you, rocking you gently, his voice a steady anchor in the storm.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he murmurs, his voice softening. “You’re my little sister. No one messes with you and gets away with it. Do you understand?”

You nod against his chest, your tears slowly subsiding as his words wrap around you like a protective shield.

“I’ll make him pay for what he did,” Charles says, his voice dropping lower, more serious. “He’s not going to hurt you again. And he sure as hell isn’t going to ruin your career. I’ll make sure of it.”

For the first time since you walked into his apartment, you feel a small flicker of relief. Charles has always been the one to make things right, the one who takes care of things when you can’t. If anyone can fix this, it’s him.

“But how?” You whisper, looking up at him, your voice fragile.

He meets your gaze, his expression softening just a bit, though the fire still burns in his eyes. “I have my ways.”

The cryptic answer doesn’t do much to soothe you, but there’s something in his voice, in the way he holds you, that makes you trust him. You know he means what he says. He always has.

You let out a shaky breath, leaning into him again, your body exhausted from the rollercoaster of emotions. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Charles says, his voice gentle now. “I’ve got this. You just need to rest. Take a breath. You’ve been through enough.”

His words wash over you, and you feel yourself relaxing slightly, the weight lifting just enough for you to breathe again.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hand still cradling you like you’re something precious. “You don’t need to thank me. You’re family. I’ll always protect you.”

***

Max sits at the head of a long, polished mahogany table, a glass of whiskey resting in front of him. The dim lighting casts sharp shadows across the room, reflecting the power and wealth that permeates everything around him. He’s calm, calculating, the very image of control, his blue eyes scanning the room as his men discuss the details of the night’s business. There’s an unspoken respect, an awareness that every word spoken in his presence is weighted, measured, as if any misstep could have consequences.

Charles is beside him, his right-hand man and oldest friend, the only one who can match Max’s intensity. Charles leans back in his chair, but there’s a tension in his posture tonight — something Max doesn’t miss.

Max notices everything.

It’s been that way since the day he took over the family business, since he became the Max Verstappen, the name that inspires both reverence and fear in equal measure.

His phone buzzes on the table, breaking the momentary silence. He reaches for it, raising an eyebrow when he sees the number. Unknown, but local.

“Hold that thought,” Max says to the room, lifting a finger as he stands up and steps away from the table, phone in hand. He walks toward the tall windows overlooking the city. Monaco spreads out beneath him, glittering under the night sky. With a flick of his thumb, he answers the call.

“Yeah?” His voice is deep, smooth, but edged with impatience. He doesn’t do pleasantries with strangers.

There’s a pause on the other end, and then a voice, hesitant but smug, seeps through. “Mr. Verstappen. I wasn’t sure if you’d answer.”

Max frowns slightly, recognizing that tone — someone who thinks they’ve called in a favor, someone who believes they have power. He hates those kinds of people.

“Who is this?” He asks, cutting to the point.

“This is Alan Turnier. I was told you’re a man who gets things done … discreetly.” There’s an oily confidence to his words, and Max’s frown deepens.

He’s heard the name before. Some professor at the university, an arrogant prick by all accounts. Charles had mentioned him in passing a few times, and now the man is calling him, of all people.

“And what exactly do you want from me, Professor?” Max’s voice is low, his tone dangerously calm. He already doesn’t like where this is going.

“Well,” the professor begins, “I’ve got a problem. A student. A rather difficult one, actually. She’s been causing some … trouble, and I need her to be taken down a peg or two. You know, rough her up a bit, teach her a lesson.”

Max’s grip on the phone tightens, but his face remains impassive. He’s handled scumbags like this before. He’s used to people thinking they can use him to solve their petty problems.

“Who’s the student?” Max asks, keeping his voice steady, though there’s a hard edge beneath it now.

The professor chuckles like he’s sharing a secret. “Her name’s Y/N Leclerc. She’s been a real pain. Thought she could get away with disrespecting me, so I figured I’d call in a favor. Make sure she learns her place.”

Max stops breathing for a moment.

The name hits him like a sledgehammer, slamming into his chest with a force he didn’t expect. His mind races, his body going rigid as every instinct flares up. Charles’ sister. Your name. The girl he’s known for years. The one he’s always been protective of, even if he’s kept his distance. The one who’s always had that soft, unaffected smile that somehow disarmed him, even when nothing else could.

His free hand curls into a fist.

“What did you say?” Max’s voice drops dangerously low, quieter now, but the threat in it is unmistakable.

“I said she needs to be put in her place,” the professor repeats, not realizing the fatal mistake he’s just made. “A little lesson in respect. Maybe scare her a bit — she’s been thinking she’s untouchable.”

Max’s vision narrows. The world outside the window blurs as a violent rage surges through him. He’s usually calm, calculated, but this? The idea of anyone laying a hand on you? His jaw tightens, his pulse quickening with the force of the anger boiling inside him.

Without another word, Max pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it for a second. He doesn’t think — he acts. His grip tightens, and with a sharp motion, he hurls the phone across the room, sending it crashing against the wall. The sound of it shattering echoes through the room as shards of glass and metal fall to the floor.

“Max?” Charles’ voice cuts through the haze, concerned and alert. He’s already on his feet, moving toward Max. “What the hell was that about?”

Max doesn’t answer immediately. His chest heaves with barely restrained fury, his hands still balled into fists at his sides. He breathes deeply, trying to steady himself, but the rage won’t let go. It claws at him, consuming him.

“Max.” Charles is in front of him now, eyes searching his face for an answer, his own tension rising. He’s seen Max angry before, but this? This is different. Personal. “Talk to me. What happened?”

Max finally meets his gaze, his voice like gravel as he speaks. “That was Turnier. The professor.”

Charles’ eyes narrow at the mention of the name. “What did he want?”

Max clenches his teeth, trying to control the storm inside him. “He wanted me to rough up a student for him. Said she was causing trouble.”

Charles’ face darkens, his own anger simmering just beneath the surface. “Who?”

Max’s eyes burn with intensity as he holds Charles’ gaze. “Y/N.”

The moment her name leaves his lips, Charles freezes. The color drains from his face, and his jaw tightens. “What?”

Max doesn’t repeat himself. He doesn’t need to. The weight of what the professor asked for hangs heavy between them, the unspoken understanding thickening the air.

“He didn’t know she’s your sister,” Max says, his voice low but lethal. “Didn’t know she’s my family.”

Charles exhales sharply, his fists clenched. “What did you say to him?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Max growls, his voice hardening. “I hung up. Smashed the phone.”

There’s a long pause as the two of them stand there, the weight of the situation settling in. Charles looks like he’s ready to explode, his hands twitching as if he wants to hit something, anything, to release the rage coursing through him.

Max, however, remains deadly calm on the outside, even though the fury inside him is almost unbearable. His mind races with possibilities, with thoughts of what he’s going to do next. He has power, more than Turnier could ever imagine, and he’s going to use every ounce of it to make sure that man never comes near you again.

“We’ll handle this,” Max says finally, his voice cold, determined. “He’s going to regret even thinking about touching her.”

Charles nods, but his eyes are still filled with a kind of wild, protective fury. “I want to be there when you do.”

Max meets his gaze, and for the first time since the call, a grim smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You will be.”

For a moment, they stand in silence, the only sound the faint hum of the city below. Then Max turns back toward the table, his movements deliberate as he grabs the decanter of whiskey and pours himself another glass, the liquid sloshing into the crystal tumbler.

“Call Nico,” Max says to Charles, his tone businesslike but laced with an edge of menace. “We’re going to need a cleanup crew. And tell him to bring the big car.”

Charles doesn’t hesitate, already pulling out his phone, his expression steely. Max takes a long sip of the whiskey, the burn of it doing nothing to dull the fire inside him. He knows what needs to be done, and he knows exactly how to make Turnier pay.

The professor had no idea who he was messing with.

Max sets the glass down with a sharp click, his mind already working through the logistics, the steps he’ll take to destroy the man who dared to threaten you. Because this isn’t just about revenge. It’s about protecting what’s his. And as far as Max is concerned, you’ve always been part of that.

“I’ll take care of it,” Max says, more to himself than to anyone else, his voice low and final.

And he will.

No one touches you. Not ever.

***

Max moves through the dimly lit warehouse with the kind of purpose that turns heads and commands silence. Every step is deliberate, every movement calculated. His men line the walls, standing in the shadows like sentinels, but none of them speak. Not when Max is like this. Not when the air is thick with the unspoken threat that something bad is about to happen.

Charles walks beside him, his face set in hard lines, his shoulders tight with barely restrained fury. The kind of fury only family could ignite. The kind that burns hotter and longer than anything else.

At the center of the room, tied to a steel chair, is Professor Turnier.

He’s already bruised, his face swollen from the initial “conversation” Max’s men had with him. But this? This is different. Max and Charles didn’t come here to chat. They came to finish this.

Turnier’s eyes dart nervously between the two men as they approach. His arrogance, his smug self-assurance — it’s gone now, replaced by something desperate and fearful.

“Please … I didn’t know!” Turnier’s voice trembles as he speaks, his words tumbling out too quickly, as if speed could save him. “I didn’t know she was your sister. If I’d known-”

Charles steps forward before Max can, grabbing Turnier by the front of his shirt and yanking him forward, close enough that the professor’s breath hitches in fear. “You think that matters?” Charles hisses, his voice low, lethal. “You think it makes a difference who she is to me?”

Turnier’s lips quiver, his face pale. “I-I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t mean?” Max’s voice cuts in, smooth but ice-cold, his hands sliding into the pockets of his tailored suit as he steps up beside Charles. “You didn’t mean to assault her? Didn’t mean to threaten her future? Didn’t mean to call me, of all people, to finish your dirty work?”

Turnier’s mouth opens, but no words come out. Max watches him with a look of disdain, his lip curling slightly. It’s pathetic, really — this man, who had so much confidence, so much entitlement when he thought he had control, now reduced to a trembling, sniveling mess.

Max tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he studies Turnier. “Do you know what I do to people who ask me to hurt someone I care about?”

Turnier shakes his head frantically, tears already beginning to spill from his eyes. “Please … I didn’t know. I didn’t know who she was. I was wrong, I see that now. Just — just let me go. I’ll leave. I’ll disappear. I won’t come near her ever again. I swear!”

Charles lets out a low, bitter laugh, but there’s no humor in it. He releases his grip on Turnier’s shirt, only to backhand him across the face with such force that the chair tilts. The professor yelps, blood spraying from his split lip as he teeters before slamming back down onto the floor.

“You think it’s that easy?” Charles growls, his hands flexing at his sides, itching for more. “You think you can just walk away after what you did?”

Turnier groans, his head lolling to the side. “I-I made a mistake. I can fix it. I can-”

“No.” Max’s voice is sharp, final. “There’s no fixing this.”

He steps closer, crouching down so he’s at eye level with Turnier, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes boring into the professor’s. Turnier tries to look away, but Max grabs his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “You thought you were untouchable, didn’t you? That no one would question you. That you could do whatever you wanted and get away with it.”

Turnier’s breath comes out in shaky gasps, his eyes wild with fear. “Please, I’ll do anything. Just let me go.”

Max shakes his head slowly, as if he’s disappointed. “You don’t understand. This isn’t about what you can do. It’s about what I’m going to do to you.”

Turnier whimpers, his whole body shaking now, the weight of his impending fate finally settling in.

Max stands, his movements graceful, effortless. He turns to Charles, who is vibrating with rage, his fists clenched, every muscle in his body taut like a coiled spring.

“Charles,” Max says calmly, “what do you think we should take first?”

Turnier’s eyes widen in terror as he realizes what’s coming. He jerks in the chair, trying to free himself from the ropes that bind him, but it’s no use. His voice cracks as he screams, “No, please — no! Don’t!”

Charles steps forward, his eyes gleaming with a cold, focused hatred. “The tongue,” he says, his voice low, almost detached. “He won’t need that anymore.”

Max nods, as if that was exactly the right answer. He moves to the side, and one of his men steps forward, placing a gleaming pair of pliers on the table in front of them. Turnier’s screams grow louder, more desperate, but Max simply gestures to one of the guards.

“Gag him,” he orders.

The guard nods, shoving a rag into Turnier’s mouth to stifle his cries. The professor writhes in his chair, his face contorting with panic, but there’s nowhere to go, no one coming to save him.

Max picks up the pliers, turning them over in his hand, his eyes cold and detached as he tests their weight. He looks at Charles. “Do you want the honors, or should I?”

Charles’ lips twist into a grim smile, and he steps forward, taking the pliers from Max without hesitation. “I’ve got it.”

Turnier’s muffled screams are nothing more than background noise now, a pathetic, meaningless sound that neither man pays much attention to. Charles leans down, grabbing Turnier by the jaw and forcing his mouth open, the gag now drenched with the professor’s tears and saliva. He positions the pliers inside the professor’s mouth, gripping his tongue with merciless precision.

Turnier’s eyes roll back in his head, his body jerking violently against the ropes. Charles pauses, glancing over at Max, who watches with a cool, detached expression.

“Do it,” Max says, his voice calm.

And Charles does. The sound of the tongue being ripped from Turnier’s mouth is wet, violent, and final. Blood gushes from the professor’s mouth as he slumps forward, his body sagging in the chair as he groans in pain, the gag doing little to mask the wet, gurgling sounds of his suffering.

Charles tosses the bloodied piece of flesh to the floor, wiping his hands on a handkerchief one of Max’s men offers him. He looks down at the professor, disgust evident in his eyes.

“Not so smug now, are you?” Charles mutters, stepping back as Max approaches again.

Max crouches down, staring at Turnier, who can barely keep his head up. “We’re not done,” Max says softly, his voice chilling in its softness. “You hurt her. You wanted to destroy her life, her future. Now we’re going to make sure you never hurt anyone again.”

He motions to the guard once more. “Strip him.”

The men don’t hesitate. They move quickly, cutting away Turnier’s clothes until he’s bare, his body trembling in the cold air of the warehouse. Max nods to Charles, who steps forward, his eyes dark with satisfaction. He picks up a blade this time — small, sharp, efficient.

Without a word, Charles steps forward and swings the knife with brutal precision. The scream that comes from Turnier’s throat — guttural, primal, filled with the pain of someone who knows they will never be whole again — echoes through the empty warehouse.

Max watches impassively as the professor collapses in on himself, blood pooling beneath the chair, his sobs now nothing more than broken gasps. He kneels again, leaning in close, his face calm, his voice quiet.

“If you ever thought you were untouchable, I hope tonight has taught you otherwise. You will never speak again. You will never harm another woman again. You will spend the rest of your life as a reminder of what happens when you cross someone who’s mine.”

Max stands up, looking at Charles. “Make sure he’s cleaned up. Dump him where someone will find him. Let him explain to the world what happened without his tongue.”

Charles nods, his chest still heaving with anger, but he knows it’s over. Turnier’s life is ruined. He’ll live, but barely. And the fear will stay with him forever.

Max takes one last look at the professor, broken and bleeding, before turning to leave. His voice, cold and resolute, echoes in the warehouse as he walks away.

“No one touches her. Ever.”

***

The next day, you walk into the lecture hall with your usual sense of dread. Every step feels heavier than the last, the weight of what happened with Professor Turnier pressing down on you like a lead blanket. Even though Charles assured you everything was handled, you can’t stop the anxious thrum of nerves coursing through you. What if Turnier follows through with his threat? What if he finds some way to make your life hell without you even knowing it? The thoughts circle in your mind like vultures as you make your way to your seat.

The room is already buzzing with the usual chatter of students. You sit down next to Camille, who shoots you a quick smile before returning to scrolling through her phone.

"Are you okay?” She asks absently, still distracted by whatever is on her screen.

You nod, forcing a tight smile. "Yeah, just tired.”

Camille glances at you, her brow furrowing slightly, but she doesn't press it. "Same. This class is killing me. I swear if I have to sit through another one of Turnier’s mind-numbing lectures, I might actually pass out.”

The mention of his name sends a jolt through you, but you manage to keep your expression neutral. The thought of seeing him, of facing him after what happened, makes your stomach twist. You wonder if he’ll look at you, if he’ll acknowledge anything at all — or if he’ll act like nothing happened. The idea makes your skin crawl.

More students trickle in, filling the room, the noise level rising with laughter and chatter. You find yourself scanning the doorway, bracing yourself for the moment when Turnier walks in with that smug expression, as if he still holds all the power. Your heart hammers in your chest, fingers gripping the edge of your notebook a little too tightly.

But the door swings open, and instead of Turnier, someone else walks in.

There’s an immediate hush that falls over the room, the shift so sudden it feels like the air has been sucked out of the space. The new professor strides in confidently, carrying a few books under one arm and glancing briefly at the rows of students. He looks like he belongs in an entirely different world — a man in his mid-40s, tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and sharp, intelligent eyes. He wears a tailored suit, but his demeanor is far more relaxed than Turnier’s ever was.

He sets his things down on the desk at the front of the room, and for a moment, no one says a word. Everyone seems to be waiting for some kind of explanation, the tension palpable as the professor faces the class.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says, his voice calm, clear, and authoritative. “I’m Professor Mathieu, and I’ll be taking over for the remainder of the semester.”

You feel the shift in the room as everyone processes what he’s just said. Whispers immediately break out among the students, confused murmurs of “What happened to Turnier?” and “Did anyone know about this?” ripple through the lecture hall. Your heart skips a beat, and you sit up straighter, shock momentarily pushing the anxiety aside.

Camille leans in toward you, her voice a hushed whisper. “Did you hear that? What do you think happened to Turnier?”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. “No idea,” you say quietly, hoping the tremor in your voice isn’t noticeable.

At the front of the room, Professor Mathieu doesn’t seem fazed by the murmurings. He taps his hand on the desk lightly, drawing everyone’s attention back to him.

“I understand you all have questions,” he says, his tone not unkind, “but I’ve been asked to inform you that Professor Turnier is no longer available. As far as the specifics of his departure, that’s not something I can discuss. What I can tell you is that I’ll be taking over for the rest of the semester, and I expect we’ll all be able to adjust without any issues.”

You can feel the tension in the room crackle like static. Some students exchange glances, but no one dares ask any more questions. You, on the other hand, are frozen in your seat. No longer available. The words echo in your head like a distant bell, sending a surge of relief and confusion through you.

Camille nudges you, leaning in closer. “Do you think he got fired?” She whispers.

You shrug, keeping your voice low. “Maybe. I mean, it’s weird that we didn’t hear anything about it.”

“Super weird,” she agrees, still watching the new professor with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “I wonder what he did.”

The same question nags at you, but for an entirely different reason. You think of Charles, his words from last night still fresh in your mind: I’ll take care of it. He won’t hurt you ever again. You wonder what exactly he meant by that. Clearly, Turnier isn’t coming back, but what happened to him?

Professor Mathieu opens a folder on the desk and begins to speak, pulling your attention back to the front of the room. “Now, as I said, we’ll be continuing with the curriculum as planned, but I’ll be implementing some changes to the structure of the course. We’ll focus less on rigid theory and more on practical application, which I believe will be more engaging for all of you.”

The shift in focus seems to settle the room slightly. The murmurs die down as he moves into his lecture, his voice smooth and confident. But even as the class starts, you can’t shake the feeling of something monumental having shifted.

You’re barely paying attention as Professor Mathieu drones on about diplomatic history and the complexities of statecraft. Your mind is somewhere else, replaying the events of last night, the relief you felt when Charles held you close and promised to make things right. You glance at the students around you. They have no idea, no inkling of what almost happened. What could have happened.

Suddenly, you feel Camille nudge your arm. You blink and realize you’ve zoned out completely.

“Are you okay?” Camille whispers, her voice laced with concern. “You look … spaced out.”

You offer her a small smile, though you know it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah, just tired, I guess.”

Camille studies you for a second, clearly not convinced, but she drops it. “Well, this is going to be an interesting semester,” she says, her voice light, but there’s an edge to it. “I mean, Turnier just disappearing like that? Something’s gotta be up.”

You glance over at her, trying to play it cool. “Maybe he retired early or something.”

“Yeah, but no one knew? No announcement, nothing? Feels sketchy.”

You don’t respond, just nodding along as you turn your attention back to the new professor, who’s already deep into his lecture. But as the minutes tick by, you can’t help the growing sense of unease in your chest. There’s relief, sure — Turnier’s gone. But the fact that it happened so suddenly, so completely, leaves you with more questions than answers. What did Charles and Max do?

Camille shifts beside you, flipping through her notes and scribbling things down. “At least the new guy seems decent,” she mutters. “Way better than Turnier.”

You nod, though your mind is elsewhere. You can barely focus on the lecture, your thoughts spinning like a whirlpool. Is Turnier really gone for good? Did Charles and Max … do something more than just get him fired? You remember Max’s cold eyes, the way he’d told you once, in passing, that he’d do anything for family. That no one crossed him or those he cared about without consequences.

What kind of consequences?

Your phone buzzes in your lap, pulling you from your thoughts. You glance down discreetly and see a message from Charles.

Everything’s taken care of. You’re safe.

You stare at the words for a long moment, a chill running down your spine. Safe. The word should make you feel better, but somehow, it only deepens the mystery.

You glance around the lecture hall again. Everyone else is oblivious, focused on their notes, their laptops, their whispering conversations about the sudden change in professors. But you know something they don’t. You know that the world you live in is a lot more dangerous than they realize.

***

When you step out of the building, the afternoon sun blinding for a second, you blink to adjust. Students mill around the campus courtyard, some gathered in groups, others rushing to their next class. You fish your car keys out of your bag, already mentally going over what you’ll make for dinner tonight, but as you approach the edge of the steps, you stop dead in your tracks.

Max is there.

Leaning casually against the sleek, charcoal body of his Aston Martin Valkyrie, arms crossed, aviators shielding his eyes. The car is a thing of beauty — sleek lines and aggressive angles, a car that demands attention. And it’s getting it. You can feel the stares from all around. Students have slowed their pace, eyes darting between Max and you. Whispers start spreading through the crowd like wildfire, curious and speculative.

You swallow hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your pulse picks up. It’s not unusual for Max to turn heads, but seeing him here, on campus, waiting for you, feels like something else entirely. He’s never been the type to drop by unannounced — especially not in a setting like this.

You step down from the stairs, feeling like every pair of eyes is following you, but your focus is on Max. His casual confidence is unnerving, but then again, it always has been. There’s something about the way he carries himself, like he’s always in control, that makes it hard to breathe around him sometimes.

“Max?” You call out, a mix of confusion and concern in your voice. “What are you doing here?”

He pushes off the car and takes off his sunglasses, revealing those sharp, blue eyes of his, which are locked entirely on you. He walks toward you with a swagger that’s impossible to miss, as if he owns every inch of space he moves through.

“I’m here to pick you up,” he says smoothly, voice low but with a hint of amusement.

You look over your shoulder, towards the student parking lot. “But I drove here,” you protest, feeling a little ridiculous saying it aloud. You motion vaguely in the direction of your car. “I’m fine. I can-”

Max cuts you off with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll have someone pick it up and drive it back to your place. You’re coming with me.”

You hesitate, feeling the weight of the dozens of gazes on you. Max doesn’t seem to care about the attention at all, which isn’t surprising. He’s used to it. But the thought of climbing into his car, with what feels like half the campus watching, sends a jolt of nervous energy through you.

“Max, I-” you start, but he opens the passenger door with a casual, almost commanding gesture.

“Get in,” he says, his tone leaving little room for argument.

You glance around, noticing some of your classmates openly gawking at the scene. You feel a flush creep up your neck, but there’s no way out of this without causing even more of a spectacle. With a sigh, you lower your head slightly and step forward, sliding into the seat of the Valkyrie. The leather is cool against your skin, the interior smelling of something clean and faintly masculine. Max shuts the door behind you and walks around to the driver’s side, slipping in with fluid grace.

As soon as the door closes, the low hum of the engine fills the air, and Max glances over at you. “Seatbelt,” he says quietly, waiting until you click it in place before pulling away from the curb.

You can’t bring yourself to look out the window as the car glides through campus. You know everyone’s watching. You can almost feel the collective curiosity, the questions that will follow this moment — why is Max picking you up? What’s your relationship? The ride is smooth, the low rumble of the engine making it feel like you’re floating. Max doesn’t speak, and neither do you, but the silence is charged with something unsaid, heavy in the space between you.

It’s not until you’re out of campus, away from the prying eyes, that you risk a glance at him. His jaw is set, eyes focused on the road ahead, his hands relaxed on the wheel. There’s something about the way he drives — calm, controlled, like he’s in command of everything around him.

You chew on your bottom lip, unsure of how to ask the question that’s been gnawing at you since this morning. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you break the silence, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Did you … did you and Charles have anything to do with Turnier being replaced?”

Max doesn’t answer right away. His fingers flex on the steering wheel, his gaze still straight ahead, but there’s a flicker of something dark in his eyes, something cold and calculating. For a moment, you think he might brush off the question, but then he exhales through his nose, a short, humorless sound.

“We took care of it,” he says, his voice firm, unflinching. There’s a note of pride in it, too, a quiet sort of satisfaction.

You feel a shiver run down your spine. “What … what did you do?” You ask, even though you’re not sure you want to know the answer.

Max glances at you, his gaze steady, unyielding. “Turnier won’t be taking advantage of anyone else. Ever again.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication. You stare at him, trying to process what he’s just said. There’s something final in his tone, something that makes your chest tighten with a mixture of relief and dread.

You swallow hard, turning your gaze back to the road. The tension in the car is palpable now, thick and unspoken. You know better than to push for more details. Max and Charles operate in a world where consequences are swift and absolute. You don’t need to ask what they did to Turnier. The important thing is that he’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore.

But the weight of that realization — of what Max and Charles might have done — sits heavily in your stomach. You glance at Max again, trying to find something in his expression that might offer more reassurance, but his face is unreadable.

“So that’s it?” You ask, your voice small. “It’s over?”

Max nods, a slight tilt of his head. “It’s over.”

You should feel relieved. You should feel grateful. But there’s something unsettling about how easily they made Turnier disappear. About how calmly Max talks about it, like it’s just another business transaction.

The car continues to glide down the road, and for a while, neither of you speaks. You’re lost in your thoughts, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt. The reality of it all is sinking in now — Turnier’s gone. He’s not coming back. But at what cost?

You steal another glance at Max, wondering how much he’s willing to do for you. For Charles. For family.

“Thank you,” you say softly, the words barely audible.

Max doesn’t respond immediately. He keeps his eyes on the road, his expression unreadable. But then, after a moment, he nods once, almost imperceptibly.

“Anything for you,” he says, his voice low and quiet. But there’s a weight to his words, a promise that hangs between you like a silent vow.

You don’t know how to respond, so you just sit there, the sound of the engine filling the silence. Part of you wants to ask more questions, to understand what exactly Max did. But the other part of you — the part that knows how dangerous his world is — tells you to leave it alone.

So you do. You sit back in your seat, watching the city blur by outside the window, and try to focus on the fact that, for now, you’re safe.

***

Max pulls the Valkyrie into the underground garage of his building, and the moment you step out, the cool air hits your skin, grounding you again. The weight of the day, of everything that’s happened, still presses on your chest. You follow Max through the private elevator, feeling the tension rise the higher you go. When the elevator doors slide open, revealing Max’s penthouse, the warm glow of the lights and the familiar scent of home greet you.

Charles is waiting.

He stands by the window, a drink in hand, but the moment he sees you and Max step in, his expression softens. He strides over, his eyes searching your face, concern etched in every line of his posture.

"How’re you holding up?” Charles asks gently, wrapping you in a brief but firm hug.

You exhale into his embrace, grateful for the comfort. "I’m … better,” you admit, your voice steadier than you expect. But the presence of both men, these two constants in your life, makes everything feel a little less overwhelming.

Charles glances between you and Max as he steps back, something flickering in his eyes. “Good. You’re in safe hands.” The way he says it, like there’s something more behind the words, makes your heart skip a beat.

Max doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, tall and imposing, his gaze fixed on you. You feel the weight of it, the intensity, and it’s making you too aware of everything — the closeness of him, the way his arm brushes against yours as you move toward the dining table, the way your pulse quickens every time he looks at you.

The table is already set — simple but elegant. You all sit, and Charles takes the head of the table, a casual smirk tugging at his lips as Max takes the seat opposite you. The food is rich and fragrant, the kind of meal that should make your mouth water, but you’re finding it hard to focus on anything other than the electricity buzzing in the air between you and Max.

The dinner conversation starts out light. Charles talks about work, a new deal he’s working on, and you try to engage, but your mind keeps drifting back to Max. His presence is impossible to ignore, especially when you feel his eyes on you. Every time you steal a glance at him, he’s already looking at you, like he’s been watching you the whole time.

And he has been watching you.

It’s not subtle, the way Max’s eyes linger on you, the way his gaze softens whenever you speak, like he’s memorizing every word. You try not to read too much into it — this is just Max being Max, right? He’s always been protective, always looked out for you. But tonight … there’s something else in the way he looks at you, something deeper, more intense.

You take a bite of your food, trying to focus on anything other than the heat creeping up your neck. But every time you dare to look back at Max, you catch his gaze, and your heart stutters in your chest. There’s a softness in his eyes, something that makes your breath hitch, and you have to look away before it overwhelms you.

Charles, ever the observer, doesn’t miss a thing. He watches the silent exchange between the two of you for a good part of the meal, his eyes flicking between you and Max like he’s piecing together a puzzle. His lips quirk up in a knowing smile, but he doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

It’s halfway through the meal when the silence stretches a little too long, the weight of the unspoken tension thick in the air. You keep your eyes on your plate, your hand trembling slightly as you reach for your water glass. Max hasn’t said a word in what feels like forever, but his gaze — God, you can feel it like a physical touch.

And then, just when the tension feels unbearable, Charles leans back in his chair, placing his utensils down with an exaggerated clatter, and clears his throat dramatically.

"Alright,” he says, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "This has been fun and all, but I’ve had enough of watching you two make heart eyes at each other across the table.”

Your fork freezes midway to your mouth. You glance up, eyes wide, and catch Max’s expression — a mix of surprise and amusement flickering across his face.

Charles grins, entirely too pleased with himself. "Seriously,” he continues, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "I mean, it’s cute, don’t get me wrong. But how long are you two gonna keep pretending there’s nothing going on here?”

Your face burns, and you open your mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. You don’t even know what you’d say if you could. Deny it? Laugh it off? You’re not even sure what this is, let alone how to explain it.

Max doesn’t flinch. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, and raises an eyebrow at Charles. "Heart eyes?” He repeats, his tone casual but with a hint of a challenge.

Charles smirks, not backing down. "You heard me. I’ve been sitting here watching you two eye each other like you’re the only people in the room. I swear, it’s exhausting.” He looks at you then, his eyes softening slightly. "And for the record, there’s no one in this world I’d trust more with my sister than you, Max.”

Your heart skips a beat. The weight of Charles’ words sinks in, heavy and full of meaning. Max doesn’t react immediately, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something that makes your breath catch.

Charles leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his grin widening. "So, why don’t you two put us all out of our misery and just kiss already?”

The room goes still. You can’t breathe. You glance at Max, your heart racing, and for a split second, you think maybe he’ll laugh it off, that this is just Charles being Charles, stirring the pot for his own amusement.

But Max doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t hesitate. His eyes lock onto yours, intense and unwavering, and before you can even process what’s happening, he stands up, his chair scraping against the floor as he moves.

The next thing you know, Max is in front of you, and without a word, without a second of doubt, he reaches across the table, his hands sliding under your arms. He pulls you out of your seat with such ease, like you weigh nothing, and before you can even register it, you’re being tugged across the table toward him.

Your breath hitches, and your hands instinctively find his shoulders as he pulls you closer. His grip is firm but gentle, and his face is just inches from yours now, his eyes dark with something you’ve never quite seen before.

And then, with a slight tilt of his head, Max closes the distance.

His lips press against yours, warm and soft, and the world around you melts away. Everything goes quiet, every sound, every thought, drowned out by the feel of his mouth on yours. It’s a slow, deliberate kiss, like he’s savoring every second, and your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can feel it through your chest.

You can feel his hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, and you melt into him, your fingers tangling in his shirt as you kiss him back. The taste of him, the warmth of his skin — it’s all consuming, overwhelming in the best possible way.

Charles lets out a low whistle from across the room, but you barely register it. All you can think about is Max, the way he’s holding you, the way his lips move against yours like he’s wanted this for a long time.

“Well,” Charles says, breaking the moment with a grin, “about damn time.”

Max’s breath lingers warm against your lips, and for a moment, the world feels suspended — just you and him, the faint hum of the city outside, the quiet flicker of candlelight on the table. His hands tighten slightly on your waist, pulling you even closer, and the electricity between you ignites into something undeniable.

You kiss him again, harder this time, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his hand slides up your back. Your fingers tangle in his hair, and there’s an intensity in the way he’s holding you, as though he’s been waiting for this moment for years. It’s a slow burn at first, but then something shifts, the heat between you building until you feel like you might explode if you’re not closer, if you can’t feel more of him.

Max responds in kind, his grip on you firm, and his lips more insistent. You forget where you are, lost in the sensation of him — the taste of his mouth, the feel of his body pressed against yours. It’s like nothing else exists, nothing else matters.

But then, from across the table, Charles clears his throat loudly.

You pull back slightly, breathless, and Max’s eyes flash with frustration, as if he’s annoyed at being interrupted. You glance over at Charles, who’s sitting with his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in amusement, but his expression is serious.

“Alright, alright,” Charles says, his voice calm but firm, like he’s trying to keep the situation from spiraling. “That’s enough for now.”

Max shoots him a look, clearly not on the same page, but Charles just shakes his head.

“Nope, not happening,” Charles continues, pointing between the two of you. “Nothing — and I mean nothing — gets any further without a ring.”

A heavy silence falls over the room. You blink, trying to process what Charles just said. You and Max are both frozen, still tangled together, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. You expect Max to say something — to push back, to laugh it off — but instead, he lets go of your waist and steps back, his jaw tight.

Without a word, Max turns on his heel and walks out of the dining room.

You’re left standing there, stunned, your heart racing for a whole new reason. “What … just happened?” You murmur, looking at Charles for some kind of explanation.

Charles looks just as confused as you feel, his eyes following Max as he leaves the room. “I don’t know,” he admits, his brow furrowed. “I didn’t think he’d-”

Before he can finish his sentence, Max strides back into the room, something small and familiar in his hand. Your eyes widen when you realize it’s a jewelry box. The dark velvet catches the low light, and it’s clear from the way Max holds it that this isn’t a last-minute idea.

He stops in front of you, his expression steady, but there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes — something raw and vulnerable. He meets your gaze, and his voice is low, serious when he speaks.

"Good thing,” Max says, flipping open the box with a flick of his thumb, revealing a dazzling diamond nestled in the center, "I’ve had this since the first time I saw you. Years ago.”

Your heart stops. Literally, you can feel it stutter in your chest as the words sink in.

“What?” The word escapes your lips in a whisper, your gaze darting from the ring to Max’s face, trying to understand if this is real, if you’re not imagining the whole thing.

Max holds your gaze, his eyes unwavering. “I knew,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I knew from the first moment I met you, there was no one else. You were it for me.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you can’t think. You can’t speak. The room feels smaller, quieter, like the entire world has narrowed down to just this — the man standing in front of you, the ring in his hand, the weight of what he’s saying.

Charles, who had been watching the whole scene with a mixture of amusement and curiosity, now leans back in his chair, crossing his arms with a satisfied smirk. “Well, that escalated quickly.”

Max doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’ve been waiting,” he admits, his voice soft but certain. “Waiting for the right time. But Charles is right. There’s no point in pretending anymore.”

Your chest tightens. You’ve always known there was something between you and Max, something unspoken, something simmering beneath the surface. But you never expected this — never expected him to have felt it for so long, to have been carrying this weight of certainty with him all this time.

The ring sparkles in the dim light, beautiful and overwhelming, and your mind races, trying to catch up with your heart.

“You’ve had that … since we met?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max nods once, his gaze unwavering. “Since the day Charles introduced us,” he says, his voice low, gravelly. “I knew then. And I’ve kept it, waiting for you to feel the same. I didn’t want to rush you, didn’t want to push you into something you weren’t ready for.”

There’s a pause, the silence between you both filled with a thousand unsaid things.

Charles clears his throat, the amusement in his voice more pronounced now. “So, are we going to do this properly, or what? You’ve got the ring. She’s standing right there.”

You shoot Charles a look, but you can’t help the small, nervous laugh that escapes your lips. “You’re really ruining the moment, you know that?”

Charles shrugs. “Just trying to help.”

Max smirks, and for a brief second, you see the playful edge return to his expression. But then his eyes are back on you, serious, and the weight of what’s happening comes crashing down again.

He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his presence filling up the space around you. “I’ve loved you for a long time,” Max murmurs, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “And I’ll keep loving you for the rest of my life. If you’ll have me.”

You blink back the sudden wave of emotion that threatens to spill over. You never imagined that this moment — this moment — would feel so natural, so right.

“I don’t-” you start, your voice catching, but then you take a deep breath and try again. “I don’t know what to say.”

Max’s smile softens, and he takes your hand, pressing the small jewelry box into your palm. “Say yes,” he whispers.

Your heart pounds in your chest, and for a moment, you just stand there, staring up at him, trying to process the whirlwind of emotions racing through you. But then you look into his eyes — those dark, steady eyes that have always been there for you, always protective, always his — and the answer is clear.

“Yes,” you whisper, barely able to get the word out past the lump in your throat. “Yes, Max.”

Max’s face breaks into a smile, something soft and relieved, and before you can say another word, he’s pulling you into his arms, kissing you with a fervor that leaves you breathless all over again.

Charles lets out a low whistle from the other side of the table, his voice laced with humor. “Well, it’s about damn time.”

Max doesn’t pull away this time. He just kisses you deeper, one hand cupping your face, the other pressing the ring box into your hand like it’s the most precious thing in the world. And to him, you know it is.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, he grins. “Guess you’re stuck with me now.”

You laugh, your heart soaring, and whisper back, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

***

Max pulls the car up to the curb in front of the university, his sleek Valkyrie drawing curious stares from students lingering outside the building. You’re still adjusting to the events of the night before — the suddenness of it all, the weight of the engagement ring now resting on your finger. It feels unreal, like you’re caught in some strange but thrilling dream.

He gets out of the car first, walking around to open the door for you. His hand extends toward you, a protective gesture, and you take it without hesitation. The moment you’re standing, Max pulls you into his arms and kisses you, slow and deliberate, as if he’s making sure the entire campus knows that you’re his.

There’s a pause when he pulls away, his hand still resting on your lower back. “You sure you don’t want me to stick around? Make sure no one bothers you?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

Max gives you one last look, his brow furrowed slightly with concern, but then he steps back and nods. “Alright. Call me if you need anything.”

With that, you turn toward the building, the weight of his gaze on your back as you walk away. Your heart is still racing from the kiss, and you know you’re about to walk into a storm of questions — your friends haven’t even had time to process everything that happened yesterday.

Sure enough, the second you’re inside the courtyard, you hear voices calling your name. You look up to see a group of your classmates, their eyes wide, jaws practically on the floor. They surround you like a pack of excited reporters, eager to get the scoop.

“Who was that?” Katie asks, her eyes still fixed on the spot where Max’s car had been. “And please don’t tell me that’s the same guy who picked you up yesterday. Because holy shit, girl.”

Peter, arms crossed, steps closer, squinting at you with a mix of amusement and suspicion. “Is that why you’ve been acting weird lately? You’re seeing someone?”

You can’t help but smile, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. “Uh, yeah,” you say, holding up your left hand to show the ring. “That’s Max … my fiancé.”

The group collectively gasps, the air around you suddenly filled with a flurry of shocked exclamations.

“Fiancé?” Carla nearly shrieks, grabbing your hand to inspect the ring up close. “Excuse me? Fiancé? How the hell did we not know about this?”

Katie, clearly still processing, stares at you with wide eyes. “You mean to tell us you’ve been engaged this whole time and didn’t even mention it?”

You laugh nervously, knowing what’s coming. “No, no, it’s not like that. It’s … it just happened. Yesterday.”

The shocked silence that follows your words is almost comical. They all exchange glances, trying to make sense of what you’ve just said.

“Yesterday?” Peter echoes, looking at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You mean you got engaged yesterday?”

You nod, feeling the pressure of their disbelief. “Yeah. Yesterday.”

“And you’ve been seeing this Max guy for how long exactly?” Carla, her arms crossed, eyes skeptical.

You hesitate, knowing the answer is going to send them into another round of questioning. “Uh … officially? One day.”

The shock hits them all at once. They’re staring at you like you’ve just announced that you’re moving to Mars. The disbelief is palpable, and you can practically hear their minds racing.

“One day?” Katie finally blurts out, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You got engaged after one day of being together? Are you serious right now?”

Carla, clearly concerned, steps forward and lowers her voice, like she’s trying to be gentle. “Y/N, I love you, but … are you sure about this? One day? That’s … I mean, that’s crazy.”

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of their judgment, but you stand your ground. “Look,” you say firmly, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “I know it sounds insane. But we’ve known each other for years. Max is Charles’ best friend. We’ve been in each other’s lives for so long, and … we’ve loved each other for a long time. We just didn’t make it official until now.”

Your friends exchange glances again, clearly unsure of how to react. They’re still in shock, still processing, but you can tell they’re trying to understand.

“Okay, but …” Peter starts, struggling to find the right words. “How did you go from ‘just friends’ to engaged overnight?”

You laugh, the memory of last night flooding back, and you shrug. “It wasn’t exactly overnight. It’s been building for a while. We’ve both known how we felt, but neither of us acted on it. And then … well, things happened, and we just decided to stop pretending.”

There’s a long pause as your friends take that in, their faces softening a little. You can see the concern in their eyes, but also a flicker of understanding.

“So … you’ve loved him for years,” Katie finally says, slowly nodding. “And he’s loved you for years. But you just made it official now?”

You nod, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. “Exactly. It might seem fast, but we’ve known this was coming for a long time. We just didn’t realize it until now.”

Your friends are quiet for a moment, and then Carla sighs, throwing her hands up in the air. “Okay, fine. I still think it’s crazy, but … if you’re happy, then I’m happy for you.”

Peter chimes in, smiling a little. “I mean, the ring is gorgeous. And that car? Damn.”

There’s a ripple of laughter through the group, and you feel a sense of relief wash over you. They’re not completely on board yet, but they’re starting to come around.

“So, when’s the wedding?” Katie teases, nudging you playfully. “If you’re moving this fast, I’m assuming it’s next week?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “We haven’t even talked about that yet. It’s still sinking in for both of us.”

Carla grins. “Well, I guess we’ll have to start dress shopping soon. It’s probably going to be some extravagant, over-the-top wedding.”

You can’t help but smile at the thought, your heart fluttering. “I don’t know about that. But … yeah, maybe.”

They laugh again, and you can feel the tension easing. The questions aren’t completely gone, but they’re starting to trust that you know what you’re doing. They’re your friends, after all — they want you to be happy, even if they don’t fully understand how this all happened so fast.

As you start walking toward the lecture hall together, Peter loops his arm through yours. “Alright, tell us everything. How did he propose? And how did we not know you were in love with him this whole time?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s a long story …”

“Well, we’ve got time,” Katie says with a grin. “You can fill us in after class. We need details.”

As you all head inside, you glance down at the ring on your finger, the weight of it feeling more natural with every passing minute. It’s strange how quickly everything has changed, but it also feels like it’s been a long time coming. Like this was always where you were meant to end up — with Max, with the man who’s loved you from the start.

And no matter what anyone else thinks, you know in your heart that this is right. You and Max may have only made things official yesterday, but the love between you has been there all along, quietly waiting for the right moment to bloom.

Now, it’s finally your time.

***

Class lets out early today. You’re grateful for the extra time, but it’s a bit inconvenient — Max isn’t supposed to pick you up for another half hour. Standing outside the lecture hall, you scan the sea of students milling around, watching them scatter toward their cars or the nearby café.

You check your phone. No messages. It’s still too early for Max to be on his way, so you settle on waiting near the steps, trying to enjoy the sun and the slight breeze. You absentmindedly twist the engagement ring around your finger, the cool metal grounding you. The past few days have been a whirlwind, and every time you look at that ring, it still feels surreal. But it also feels like everything is finally falling into place. You belong with Max. You always have.

"Hey.”

The voice cuts through your thoughts. You glance up, blinking in surprise as you see a guy from your class approaching. You recognize him vaguely — one of those people who sits in the back, never really participating in the discussions. You’re pretty sure you’ve never spoken to him before, but now here he is, leaning against the wall near you with a smirk that makes your skin crawl.

“Hi,” you say politely, not wanting to be rude but also not particularly interested in starting a conversation.

He doesn’t take the hint. “I’ve seen you around,” he says, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “You don’t usually hang out here after class. Waiting for someone?”

Your instincts tell you to keep this short. “Yeah, my fiancé. He’s picking me up soon.”

The word fiancé doesn’t seem to deter him. In fact, it seems to spur him on. His eyes flick down to your hand, where the ring gleams in the sunlight, and then back up to your face with a cocky smirk.

“Fiancé, huh?” He steps a little closer, his voice lowering as if trying to be conspiratorial. “That sounds serious. But, I mean, you don’t really seem the settling down type. You sure you wanna tie yourself down so soon?”

You stiffen. “I’m sure,” you reply firmly, shifting your weight and turning your body slightly away from him, hoping he’ll get the message and leave you alone.

But he doesn’t. “Come on, we’ve never really talked, but I’ve seen you around. You’re smart, cool … definitely too interesting to be someone’s fiancée already.” He flashes you what he probably thinks is a charming smile. “What’s the rush?”

You swallow, trying to keep your cool. “There’s no rush. I’m happy. I’m with someone I love, and we’ve been together for a long time.” That’s not entirely true, but it’s not a lie either. It’s not something this guy needs to know, anyway.

Instead of backing off, he leans in closer, a predatory gleam in his eye. “Maybe you don’t know what you’re missing. Just saying, you and I could have some fun.”

You take a step back, feeling your pulse quicken. “I said, I’m in a relationship.”

He shrugs, as if your words are meaningless. “Doesn’t mean we can’t have a good time. What’s the harm in a little flirtation? It’s not like he’d know.”

Your patience snaps. “I’m not interested,” you say more forcefully, taking another step back. “Please leave me alone.”

The guy laughs softly, shaking his head. “Wow, playing hard to get, huh? I get it. You’re probably bored with this fiancé of yours, right? Guys like that, they don’t know how to keep things interesting.”

Before you can respond, you hear the familiar roar of an engine. Relief floods through you as you spot Max’s Valkyrie pulling up to the curb. The second the car comes to a stop, the door swings open, and Max steps out, his eyes immediately locking on you — and the guy standing too close for comfort.

Max takes in the scene in an instant. His entire demeanor changes in the blink of an eye, shifting from calm to deadly. His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he stalks toward the two of you with purpose.

The guy is oblivious at first, too caught up in his own attempt at charm to notice the approaching storm. “Come on, sweetheart,” he’s saying, his hand moving slightly toward your arm. “Just give me a chance.”

That’s when Max arrives.

Before the guy’s hand can even brush your sleeve, Max grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him backward with enough force to make him stumble. The guy lets out a startled yelp, spinning around to face Max, his expression morphing from confusion to fear the moment he realizes who he’s dealing with.

“Hey, man, I was just-” the guy starts, but Max cuts him off with a low, menacing growl.

“She’s not interested,” Max says, his voice deadly calm. His hand is still gripping the guy’s shoulder, but it looks like he could crush him with that one hand alone. “And you’re going to walk away. Now.”

The guy’s eyes dart between you and Max, clearly weighing his options. He starts to stammer, trying to salvage his bravado. “I-I didn’t mean anything by it, man. Just talking …”

Max’s grip tightens, his knuckles turning white. “You think you can talk to her like that? Disrespect her?” He leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper that’s somehow even more terrifying. “You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

The guy’s bravado crumbles completely. His face pales, and he raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright! I’ll go. Jesus …”

Max releases him with a shove, sending the guy stumbling backward. He doesn’t wait around to see what happens next — he turns and practically sprints away, disappearing into the crowd of students.

For a moment, there’s silence. Max watches the guy retreat, his chest heaving with barely restrained fury. Then he turns to you, his expression softening immediately.

“You okay?” His voice is gentle now, a stark contrast to the cold fury he’d just displayed.

You nod, still a little shaken but grateful. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Max steps closer, cupping your face in his hands and scanning your expression for any sign of distress. “If he touched you — if he so much as breathed on you wrong-”

“He didn’t,” you assure him, placing your hands over his. “You got here just in time.”

Max’s eyes flicker with something dark, a protective fire that hasn’t fully extinguished. “Good,” he mutters, pulling you into his arms. He holds you tightly for a moment, as if he needs to reassure himself that you’re safe. “I don’t like anyone looking at you like that.”

You smile softly, wrapping your arms around his waist. “I don’t like it either. But it’s okay now. You’re here.”

Max pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I’m always here. And I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

You nod, leaning into his touch. “I know.”

He kisses you then, right there in front of the university, his lips capturing yours in a slow, possessive kiss that tells everyone watching exactly who you belong to. When he finally pulls away, he presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“I’ll make sure no one ever bothers you again,” Max murmurs, his voice low but fierce.

You smile up at him, your heart swelling with affection. “I don’t doubt that for a second.”

With one last glance around to make sure the guy is well and truly gone, Max leads you to the car. He opens the door for you, and as you slide into the passenger seat, you can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of security. Max is always in control, always one step ahead. And you trust him completely.

As Max pulls away from the curb, his hand finds yours, resting between the two of you. You don’t need to say anything — the silence between you is comfortable, filled with the unspoken promise that no matter what happens, you’ll face it together.

***

After dinner, the soft clatter of cutlery fades into the background as you start clearing the plates. The dim light from the chandelier casts a golden glow over the dining room, making the atmosphere feel intimate, heavy with something unspoken. Max leans back in his chair, watching you with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken.

You stack the plates, trying to focus on the mundane task, but you can feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement. Your breath hitches slightly as you turn toward him, plates in hand, and smile nervously.

"Do you want dessert?” You ask, your voice light, though your heartbeat pounds in your ears.

Max’s gaze darkens, his lips curling into a slow, wicked smile that sends shivers down your spine. “The only dessert I want,” he says, voice low and gravelly, “is right in front of me.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks as his meaning sinks in. You freeze, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is, the way his eyes travel down your body like he’s already undressing you in his mind. Your hands tremble as you put the plates back down on the table, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

He doesn’t move from his seat, but there’s a tension in the air, pulling you toward him as if he’s some magnetic force you can’t resist. “Come here,” he says softly, but it’s not a request. It’s a command.

You hesitate for a second, unsure if you can even make your legs move, but then your feet carry you around the table, closer to him. By the time you’re standing in front of Max, your knees feel weak. His eyes stay locked on yours, full of heat and possession.

When you’re within reach, Max takes your hand, pulling you gently toward him. You end up standing between his legs, feeling the heat of his body seep through his clothes, and all at once, your breath catches. His hand slides up the back of your thigh, slow and deliberate, sending a thrill of anticipation shooting through you.

Max’s other hand rests on your waist, tugging you closer until you’re pressed against him. “You know,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your stomach through your dress, “I’ve been patient with you. So, so patient.”

Your hands find his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt to steady yourself. “Max …”

He looks up at you, his eyes half-lidded but full of that same intensity. "Tell me something,” he says, his tone suddenly shifting, darker, more dangerous. “Has anyone else ever touched you?”

You blink, taken aback by the question. You feel your face heat up again, your pulse racing as his words sink in. “What?” You stammer, barely able to string two words together under the weight of his gaze.

Max’s hand tightens slightly on your thigh, his thumb tracing small circles that send jolts of electricity through you. “I asked,” he says softly but firmly, “if another man has ever touched you.”

The meaning of his question slams into you, and your throat goes dry. Your heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of your chest. You try to find your voice, but it comes out barely above a whisper. “No … no one.”

A satisfied smile spreads across Max’s face as he tugs you even closer, his hands sliding up your waist. His voice is a low, rumbling growl. “Good. Because if they had, I would’ve tracked down every single one of them.” He pauses, eyes gleaming with dark intent. “And made sure they didn’t have hands to touch anyone with again.”

Your breath catches at the promise in his voice, a possessive edge that sends a delicious shiver down your spine. You know Max means every word. There’s no doubt in your mind that if anyone had dared to cross that line, he would’ve hunted them down, one by one. His protection is absolute, as is his desire.

You shake your head, barely able to focus on anything but the way his hands feel on your skin, the way his words wrap around you like a cocoon. “No one’s ever touched me like that,” you whisper again, more firmly this time. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Max’s eyes darken further, his grip tightening on your hips. He pulls you down until you’re sitting on his lap, straddling him, your dress bunching up around your thighs. His hands settle on your waist, holding you in place. “That’s right,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your neck. “Because you’re mine.”

The words send a thrill straight through you, and you can feel the heat pooling low in your belly. Your body reacts to his touch, to the way his hands move with deliberate slowness, like he’s savoring every second. His lips trail up your throat, pressing kisses that make your head spin.

You close your eyes, your breathing ragged as you let yourself sink into the moment, into him. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans softly in response, his grip on you tightening.

“Max …” you whisper, barely able to form coherent thoughts with the way he’s touching you, the way he’s making you feel.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing with desire and something deeper — something that makes your heart pound harder in your chest. “You’re mine,” he says again, his voice low and commanding. “And no one else will ever touch you. No one else will ever have you.”

You nod, breathless, and he smirks, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.

Before you can react, Max leans in and captures your mouth in a searing kiss, his hands roaming over your body as if he can’t get enough. The kiss is heated, intense, filled with all the pent-up emotion that’s been building between the two of you since that first moment you laid eyes on each other.

His hands slide down your back, pulling you impossibly closer as his mouth moves against yours with urgency. Every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire, and you can’t help but respond to him, your hands gripping his shirt tightly as if you’re afraid to let go.

The world outside fades away. There’s only Max — his touch, his kiss, his possessiveness, and the way he makes you feel like you’re the center of his universe.

He pulls back, breathless but grinning like he’s won a prize, “No one will ever doubt that again.”

Max’s lips hover over yours, his breath warm and steady, igniting something deep within. He shifts you slightly in his lap, adjusting his hold, and then, with deliberate slowness, his mouth trails down, leaving a scorching path along your jawline and down your neck. His movements are unhurried, savoring every inch of skin like he has all the time in the world.

You can feel your pulse pounding under his lips as he kisses lower, the anticipation building with every second. Max pauses, his mouth just inches from the neckline of your dress, his hands firm on your waist. His eyes flick up to meet yours, a dark, hungry glint in them.

“Mine,” he murmurs softly, the single word vibrating against your skin. Then, without warning, his teeth graze lightly over the delicate fabric of your dress, right where your hardened nipple is pressing through. The sensation is startling, electric — enough to make you gasp and arch involuntarily.

A low, approving sound rumbles from Max’s chest as he lightly takes the hardened bud between his teeth, through the fabric, teasing and testing. His gaze stays locked on yours, watching every reaction, every twitch of your body. He’s not just touching you — he’s learning you, reading you, knowing exactly what makes you shiver and tremble beneath his hands.

You bite your lip, a soft moan slipping out despite your best efforts to hold it back. Your fingers clutch the back of his neck, tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. Max hums in satisfaction, his tongue flicking out briefly to wet the fabric, making it cling to your skin. The sensation is maddening, a mix of pain and pleasure that leaves you breathless.

“Tell me,” he murmurs against you, his voice rough and low, “how long have you wanted this?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, his mouth closing over your covered nipple once more, applying just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. “Tell me how long you’ve been dreaming of me doing this to you, touching you like this.”

You swallow hard, trying to think past the haze of desire clouding your thoughts. “Max, I-” Words are impossible when he’s touching you like this, when his lips are doing things to your body that make your thoughts scatter in every direction.

He growls softly, releasing your nipple with a final, gentle tug of his teeth that makes your whole body jolt. “Answer me,” he demands, his hands slipping under your dress, pushing it higher until the cool air of the room brushes against your bare thighs. “How long?”

The urgency in his voice, the possessiveness — it’s overwhelming. Your breathing comes in shallow pants as you try to form a coherent thought, try to answer him. “Since … since the first day we met,” you finally manage to whisper, your voice trembling with need.

Max’s hands pause on your thighs, his grip tightening. His eyes blaze with something fierce, something primal. “The first day?” He repeats, his voice a low, dangerous whisper, as if he’s savoring the admission. “You mean to tell me you’ve wanted me like this-” his hands slide up, pushing the hem of your dress higher, exposing more of your skin “-for years?”

You nod, helpless under his gaze, under his touch. “Yes … always …”

A dark, satisfied smile curls his lips. “And I’ve waited,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his fingers tracing the curve of your inner thigh, “all this time. Waiting for the right moment to make you mine. To claim you.” He leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “No more waiting.”

You shiver at the intensity of his words, the promise in them. There’s no hesitation, no uncertainty — only the overwhelming certainty that he’s going to take you, claim you, in every way he’s ever dreamed.

Max’s hand slides higher, skimming the edge of your underwear. His touch is featherlight, teasing, and you can’t help the way your hips tilt toward him, seeking more. He lets out a low chuckle, his fingers dancing along the lace edge but never quite dipping beneath it.

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “So perfect.” His thumb presses down lightly, just enough to make you gasp. “All mine.”

You bite your lip, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. “Max, please-”

He pulls back, just enough to look at you, his expression serious, almost reverent. “No one else gets to touch you like this,” he says, his voice firm and steady, as if making a vow. “No one else ever will.”

You nod, your breath coming in shallow gasps. “No one else, Max. Only you.”

His eyes darken further, and then he’s moving, shifting your position on his lap until you’re leaning back against the table, his body hovering over yours. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s fierce, almost punishing, as if he’s pouring all the years of pent-up desire and frustration into that one kiss.

His hands move with a single-minded determination, sliding your dress up and over your hips, exposing the thin scrap of lace beneath. Max pauses, his eyes drinking in the sight of you, laid out before him like some offering, and something feral flashes in his gaze.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, his hand sliding up your thigh, fingers brushing against the lace. “All mine.”

You whimper softly, your body arching toward his touch, and he growls softly in response, his fingers pressing more firmly against you.

“And no one else has ever touched here,” he says softly, almost like a question, his fingers teasing along the edge of your underwear.

You shake your head frantically, your eyes locked on his. “No, Max. Only you.”

The satisfaction in his expression is almost palpable, his chest heaving with barely restrained control. “Good,” he murmurs, his hand slipping under the lace, fingers finding your slick heat. He groans softly, his head dropping to your shoulder. “So wet for me. Just for me.”

You moan softly, your hands tangling in his hair as his fingers slide deeper, finding that sensitive spot that makes your whole body shudder. He watches you, his eyes never leaving your face, as if memorizing every reaction, every gasp, every moan.

Max stills, and he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. His chest heaves with every labored breath, and his pupils are blown wide with desire. But underneath all that raw hunger, there’s something deeper, something softer. A question. A pause.

“Are you sure?” He whispers, his voice rough and low, almost strained. His fingers brush lightly over your cheek, a gentle contrast to the way his body is pressed against yours. “Tell me now if you want me to stop.”

You meet his gaze, seeing the war within him — the need to take what’s his battling against the desire to protect you, to make sure this is what you want too. The vulnerability in his eyes, the way his thumb caresses your cheek, makes your heart ache in the best possible way.

“I want this,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the trembling of your body. “I want you.”

Something shifts in his gaze — any lingering uncertainty melts away, replaced by pure, unadulterated determination. He swallows hard, his jaw clenching. “I need you to understand,” he says softly, his voice almost guttural, “that once I have you — once I’m inside you — there’s no going back. You’re mine, and I’m never letting you go.”

Your breath catches, your heart beating wildly at the weight of his words. “I know,” you murmur, your hands sliding down his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath. “I want to be yours, Max. Forever.”

That’s all it takes.

Max’s mouth crashes against yours, the kiss bruising and desperate, as if he’s trying to pour every ounce of his need, his love, into it. His hands move quickly, tugging the lace of your underwear down your legs and tossing it aside. Then, he’s standing, pulling you up with him.

With a single motion, he sweeps the table clear, dishes and glasses clattering to the floor, forgotten. He lifts you effortlessly, setting you down on the table, your legs spread wide around him. The cool surface of the wood contrasts sharply with the heat of your skin, sending a shiver up your spine.

“Look at me,” Max commands, his voice low and husky. His hands cup your face, holding you still as his eyes bore into yours. “I need to see your eyes when I make you mine.”

Your breath hitches as he steps between your legs, his hand sliding down to grasp his length. He’s hard and heavy in his palm, the sight of him — so big, so ready — making your heart race even faster. He strokes himself slowly, his gaze never leaving yours, and your body clenches with anticipation.

“Max,” you breathe, your hands reaching out to clutch his shoulders. “Please …”

He lets out a low growl, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady. The broad head of his cock brushes against your entrance, and you can’t help the way your body arches toward him, seeking more.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice a strained whisper. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You shake your head, your nails digging into his skin. “You won’t. I want-”

The words die on your lips as he begins to push inside, the stretch of him almost unbearable. Your breath catches, and Max’s grip tightens, his jaw clenched so hard it looks like it might crack.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder. He’s barely inside, just the tip, but it feels like too much and not enough all at once. “Tell me if I’m hurting you, liefje.”

You bite your lip, shaking your head. “No … no, it’s — it’s so good. Keep going, Max, please-”

He exhales sharply, his breath hot against your neck, and then he’s pushing in further, inch by inch, until he’s seated deep inside you. The fullness is overwhelming, the sensation of him stretching you, filling you, sending sparks of pleasure and pain shooting through your body.

You can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but cling to him as he stills, giving you time to adjust. His hands are trembling against your skin, and you realize with a start that he’s holding himself back, fighting to keep control.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, his voice tight with strain. “So fucking perfect. And you’re mine, do you understand? No one else will ever have you like this.”

You nod frantically, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Yes, Max. I’m yours — only yours.”

His eyes blaze with something dark and fierce, and then he’s moving, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward again, burying himself deep inside you. The movement is slow, measured, but you can feel the barely restrained power behind it, the way his body is trembling with the effort to go slow.

“Fuck, schatje,” he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re so tight, squeezing me like that. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

You gasp softly, your hands clutching at his shoulders, your body trembling with every thrust. “Max … please … I-”

He growls softly, his pace quickening, his grip on your hips tightening. “What do you need?” He murmurs, his voice a low, rough whisper. “Tell me what you need.”

“More,” you breathe, your body arching into his, seeking more of the pleasure only he can give you. “I need … more …”

Max’s breath catches, and then he’s moving faster, his hips driving into you with a force that sends shockwaves of pleasure through your entire body. The table creaks beneath you, but you barely register it, too lost in the feeling of him inside you, filling you completely.

“Is this what you wanted?” He growls, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. “To have me fuck you like this, to take you hard and deep?”

You can’t form words, can only moan and nod, your body trembling with every thrust. Max’s hands slide up your back, holding you closer, his pace relentless.

“God, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice thick with pleasure. “So fucking good. I want to keep you like this forever, keep you under me twenty-four-seven. Fuck, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let you go.”

His words send a fresh wave of pleasure crashing over you, your body tightening around him. “Max-”

He’s panting now, his movements becoming erratic, his control slipping. “I hope you know,” he murmurs, his voice rough and desperate, “that I’m never letting you go now. You’re mine — forever.”

You can’t do anything but cling to him as he takes you, his body driving into yours with a force that leaves you breathless. The pleasure builds and builds, coiling tighter and tighter until —

“Max!” You cry out, your body convulsing around him as the orgasm rips through you, shattering you into a thousand pieces.

Max groans, his hips slamming into yours one final time before he stills, his body shuddering with his release. His head drops to your shoulder, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the harsh panting of your breaths, the steady thud of your racing hearts. Max’s hands are still trembling as they slide up to cup your face, his lips brushing softly against yours.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice rough and raw. “I love you so much, schatje.”

You smile softly, your hands tangling in his hair. “I love you too, Max. Forever.”

And as he kisses you, slow and tender, you know that forever with Max is exactly what you want.

[hsnlv]

jake! is the type to…

pairing: boyfriend!jake x fem!reader

warnings/others: fluff!!, there’s also smut so scroll if uncomfortable!!

a/n: hi, im back (not really lol) but ive been really busy with college lately so i dont really have time to update :( but i hope you’ll enjoy this💗 reblogs and comments are highly appreciated🎀 here’s my masterlist!

jake! is the type to lie to you for no reason at all because he always craves for your attention and he loves being babied :(

“baby, i swear it hurts!” his pout deepens as you roll your eyes for the umpteenth time now, his fingers playing with his bottom lip.

ridiculous, really. he told you that he fell down the floor and his lips hit the floor or something and he needs a kiss from you.

“jake, you’re fine,” you deadpan, crossing your arms.

“i’m not fine!” he whines dramatically, leaning closer. “my lip is throbbing, throbbing, and you don’t even care…”

his exaggerated sulking makes you stifle a laugh, but you shake your head. “you’re unbelievable.”

“you don’t love me,” he mumbles under his breath, flopping back on the couch with a dramatic sigh. “my lip is falling off, and you won’t even give me one tiny kiss to save me.”

your resolve falters at his pitiful expression, his big, pleading eyes locked on yours. with a sigh, you lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to his bottom lip.

“better now?” you ask softly.

he grins instantly, his arms sneaking around your waist. “so much better. but… maybe one more?”

jake! is the type to always appreciate the little gifts you make though they are stupid sometimes. his mama raised him too well!

“here,” you say, holding out a small keychain you made. It’s uneven, the beads don’t quite match, and the tiny heart you drew on it is smudged—but you couldn’t help yourself.

jake takes it with a gasp, his eyes lighting up as if you’d just handed him the most precious treasure in the world. “you made this for me?”

“yeah, but it’s kind of ugly, isn’t it?” you mumble, suddenly shy.

“are you kidding?” he exclaims, turning it over in his hands like it’s priceless. “this is perfect. look at the little heart! and you picked my favorite color for the beads! baby, this is amazing.”

you laugh, watching as he immediately clips it onto his bag. “you don’t have to use it, you know.”

“of course I’m using it!” he says, beaming. “every time I see it, I’ll think of you. it’s my new good luck charm.”

he leans over to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “you’re the best, you know that?”

jake! is the type to get jealous over the smallest things too because he’s a big baby who wants your attention for him and himself only!!! :(

“you were laughing a lot back there,” jake mutters, slumping onto the couch with a pout.

you glance at him, confused. “what are you talking about?”

“with him,” he grumbles, crossing his arms. “you looked so happy. giggling and all…”

“him?” you blink, wracking your brain. “jake, what are you—wait.” your eyes land on layla, his fluffy golden retriever, sprawled happily on the floor after you’d been showering her with belly rubs and baby talk for the past ten minutes. “are you jealous of your dog?”

he flushes instantly but doesn’t back down, his pout deepening. “you were giving her so much attention. i’m right here, and all I got was a ‘hi, babe.’”

“jake…” you laugh, sitting beside him. “are you serious right now?”

“yes! you even said she was the cutest thing ever. what about me?” he huffs, looking every bit like a sulky child.

“you’re ridiculous,” you tease, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “you’ll always be my cutest, okay?”

his frown melts into a satisfied grin, and he pulls you closer. “good. but no more calling Layla ‘cutie.’ that’s my title.”

jake! is the type to always joke around a lot but he knows tooooo well how to comfort you with his words and gestures whenever you’re in doubt of yourself <3

“why do you even put up with me?” you mumble, staring down at your hands as doubt creeps into your chest. “i’m not… i don’t think i’m enough sometimes.”

the room grows quiet for a moment—so quiet you almost wish he’d crack one of his usual jokes to lighten the mood. but instead, jake kneels in front of you, gently taking your hands in his.

“hey,” he says softly, tilting his head to meet your gaze. his eyes hold none of his usual teasing—just warmth and sincerity. “where’s all this coming from, baby?”

you hesitate, shrugging. “i don’t know… i just feel like I’m not doing enough. or being enough.”

his hands tighten around yours, and he shakes his head. “don’t say that. you’re more than enough, okay? you’re everything. you’re smart, you’re kind, and you make every single day better just by being you.”

you sniffle, feeling tears well up, but jake smiles, leaning closer. “besides, if you weren’t perfect, how could you have me wrapped around your finger like this, huh?”

you laugh through the tears, and he grins, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “there’s that smile.” he slowly lays you down on the bed, his hands caressing your waist delicately. “now, how about i remind you of how perfect you are?”

jake! is the type to be the sweetest in bed!! always whispering sweet things to you while he’s fucking you so delicately as if you’re a glass that can break anytime soon.

“you’re perfect,” he whispers, his forehead pressed gently against yours, his breath warm on your skin. his hands move over you like he’s memorizing every curve, every inch, as though you’re something sacred.

“i love you,” he murmurs, his voice soft but heavy with emotion, his lips brushing against yours in fleeting, delicate kisses. his movements are slow, careful, as if you’re made of glass—fragile and precious, something he wants to protect and cherish. but god, does he know how to make you feel so fucking good.

“does it feel good, baby?” he asks, his voice dropping lower, his eyes searching yours while his hips are moving with a steady pace. his cock is moving in and out of your sweet little cunt, making him biting his lips hard to make sure he doesn’t cum too soon from how fucking good you feel around him. “hm? my sweet girl deserves to feel good, yeah? fuck—”

his hands hold you firmly yet tenderly, pulling you closer, keeping you grounded in him. “look at me,” he says softly, his thumb brushing your cheek as he gazes at you like you’re his whole world. “there’s no one else, nothing else—just you. you’re everything to me.”

he hisses at the feeling of your tight walls wrapped around his cock. it feels as if you were made for him and him only. the way he fits so perfectly in you, the way he never gets bored of the feeling of you around him, both cunt and mouth wise. the way your moan sounds so good in his ears that it can seriously be his lullaby to put him to sleep. the way he can practically see heaven whenever he’s fucking you.

“doing so good for me, yeah?” he cooes, brushing the strands of hair that sticks on your forehead. fuck! he swears he can cum only by the sight of you panting and squirming underneath him. the feeling of his tip constantly abusing your sweet spot in the most delicious way ever makes you let out a small whimper alongside with a soft ‘jakey…’, making him groan against your neck as he breathes in your sweet sweet scent.

“atta girl. come for me, baby. you look so fucking pretty like this…” the feeling of his warm release coats your wall, his breathing heavy and hard, his grip on your thighs are firm as he tries to ground himself hard.

with him, it’s more than physical—it’s a connection, a reminder that you are seen, loved, and treasured completely.

“my sweet girl deserves one more, yeah?” he says before he starts to move again, his cock twitching.

jake! is the type to pamper you with small kisses, caresses and praises for aftercare, making sure you will always feel loved— before, during and after your intimate moments together!

“how’re you feeling, baby?” he whispers, his voice tender as his fingers gently comb through your hair. he cradles you close, like you’re the most precious thing in the world, his warmth wrapping around you like a safety net.

before you can even answer, his lips find your forehead, lingering there for a moment before planting a trail of tiny kisses along your temple, your cheeks, your nose, and finally the corner of your mouth. “did so well for me,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice so soft it makes your heart ache. “so good, so pretty, hm?”

he pulls the blanket over both of you, tucking you in snugly while his hands wander your back in the gentlest strokes. “you’re perfect, baby. so perfect,” he says, his tone full of awe as he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. “i don’t think i’ll ever stop being in love with you.”

he grabs a water bottle and holds it up to your lips, grinning when you take a sip. “good girl,” he says softly, pressing another kiss to your hair.

and just when you think he’s done, he starts whispering sweet nothings, his lips brushing against your ear. “thank you for trusting me. thank you for being mine. i’ll never stop taking care of you, okay?”

his kisses and praises don’t stop, his hands constantly finding yours to lace your fingers together, his every word reminding you how loved you are.

© all rights reserved | hsnlv 2025

[sp0o0kylights]

“Dustin isn’t coming.”

“What?” Eddie says, all frantic and jovial movements freezing instantly.

His eyes narrow on Lucas--the bearer of bad news. “Why?” 

“Family emergency.” 

Mike makes a face. “I saw his mom yesterday and she was fine, so is this a…?” 

He makes a gesture that is entirely incomprehensible to anyone who isn’t Sinclair and his terrifying girlfriend.

(At least, Eddie thinks Max is Lucas’s girlfriend this week. It got a little hard to keep up after the third break-up-make-up marathon, and he frankly, stopped bothering to try.

It helped that she barely spoke--The only time notable being when Eddie had mockingly asked Sinclair if he needed a cheerleader when she’d first sat in, upon which she’d asked Eddie if he needed new kneecaps with a look in her eye that said she was serious.)

Wheeler Jr.’s gesture however, made her put her book down.

“You think he’s having migraines again?” She not so much asked as demanded, which had Mike shrugging. 

“Dunno." Lucas says. "Dustin didn’t say.” 

“Gotta be, if he called Dustin.” Mike mutters, Lucas shuffling his papers about as he begins to set up for Hellfire. He was the last in the room, practically late, which Eddie had planned on harassing him for had he not announced Henderson’s absence. 

(Fucking freshmen. They just weren’t terrified of Eddie like they used to be.) 

 “Robin must be sick or something, otherwise he’d call her.”  Lucas finishes as he finally sits down. 

“Didn’t the Marching Band go on some trip?” Mike turns to address the rest of the table, and gets nods from Jeff and Gareth both. 

“Yeah they’re marching in some parade in Indianapolis.” Jeff confirms. 

“So his last resort was Dustin?” Max is getting that tone in her voice, the one that makes everyone at Hellfire very uncomfortable. “Typical.” 

She pushes away from the table, making a show of gathering up her things before rising easily to her feet.

Eddie trades looks with the elder Hellfire members as she makes her exit--the kind that says they’re all going to be talking about this later. 

They knew their freshmen had some weird obsession with the former King, of course, but Mayfield too?

What the hell was up with that guy?

At least Eddie thinks, right before things are once again shot to shit, they can go back to playing the game.

He can make it work this early into things, and if Henderson isn't’ a fan of what he’s about to do to the kid’s character in his absence, well. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be fucking absent then. 

“So what, Max, you're gonna go over there and make it worse?” Mike snorts. 

Fatal mistake.

Eddie almost strangles him for it, if only because it prolongs this entire unnecessary conversation. 

Max performs a military perfect heel turn, coming straight back for Wheeler Jr., which makes him right about fall out of his seat in panic. 

“What was that, Wheeler?” 

“I’m just saying--!” 

“We don’t know Steve’s having migraines.” Lucas reiterates, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Maybe it’s something else.” 

“Does Steve get migraines a lot?” Grant asks, because despite all appearances he’s a terrible gossip and gets sucked in far too easily.

Eddie throws a pencil at him for it. 

“Hel-looo, we have a game!?” He thunders, but unfortunately for him, precious Stevie-Weavies headache now has everyone’s attention. 

“Yeah, though he’s really good at pretending he doesn’t.” Lucas answers with a put upon sigh. 

“There’s a whole pattern--he ignores it until it gets super bad, then he has to call Robin or Dustin to come get him when he inevitably gets stranded at work or the like, grocery store.” 

“Well who else do you think he’d call?” Mike scoffs again. He does a lot of that, when discussing Harrington. “It’s not like his parents are--Ow, Max!” 

“Close your mouth before I close it for you.” She hisses and Mike, shockingly, does just that. 

To Eddie, she says; 

“Your ass isn’t any better, or did you forget I live across from you?” 

Eddie--who had an insult primed and ready--promptly shuts his mouth.

(Fucking! Asshole! Freshmen!) 

“Maybe I should go too.” Lucas says, hedging a look between his girlfriend and his DM. 

“No.” She snaps, pointing a finger at him.

 “If you go, then this idiot,” she flicks her finger to  Mike, “will go and then we really will make it worse. Stay here before your bichon frise has a fit about all his sheep abandoning him.”

Then she’s turning on her heel again, storming out. 

“What the hell’s a bichon frisé?” Gareth asks in the aftermath, frowning. 

“It’s a type of ahhhh--” Jeff clearly thinks better of the explanation, eyes sliding to Eddie.

Who’s scowling.

“I know what a bichon frisé is, Jeff.” He snaps. 

“I don’t.” Grant loudly complains. 

Jeff attempts to both calm Eddie and explain while Mike and Lucas spend far too many minutes looking after Max. 

“Enough!” Eddie howls, temper finally getting the best of him. “Are we playing or do you also need to go sit by the King’s bedside?”  

“Thank you,” Mike says, like he wasn’t a third of the entire problem. “Let’s play!”

They make it about ten entire minutes before getting knocked off track again. 

In fairness, not that Eddie would ever admit it--the second meltdown is his own fault.

xXx

Hellfire is Eddie’s domain. 

It’s one of the few places where he could relax without getting harassed or hounded, and having his freshmen--his!--abandon him for King Fucking Steve had set him off. 

So he’d made a few comments about it.

Maybe introduced an NPC who sounded suspiciously similar to Harrington, only to instantly kill him off. 

Made another couple of nasty comments. 

Who cares? It worked him through his snit rather nicely, and his boys all knew to leave him be.

Except, apparently, for Lucas. 

“Dude, would you lay off?”  The kid finally snaps, pencil slamming down on the table. 

Which is the most backbone-like thing anyone has ever heard Sinclair say, and he gets far more whistles for it than he should.

Eddie pins him in place with a glare. 

“What was that Sinclair?” He snarls, voice as menacing as he can make it.

(It’s pretty terrifying, he’s practiced quite a bit with it.) 

Sinclair flinches, but doesn’t back down. 

“I said lay off. Steve has migraines because of--” He stops, before seeming to come to a decision. “Because of me. He took a hit for me, and I owe him a life debt for it.” 

To Eddie, he says; “You get what those are, right?” 

Mike rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t just for you--”

“That time with Billy was!” Lucas is quick to snarl. “But you know what Mike, you’re right. It wasn’t just for me. He T-boned a car for all of us!” 

Sinclaire is on his feet now, which is the unfortunate moment that Eddie realizes he has once again lost control of the room. 

A situation he firmly blames on Steve Harrington, because he’s petty. 

“Or did you forget that part? That’s you, me, Will, Nancy and Jonathan right there! Nevermind the tunnel. Or the junkyard! 

“We had the junkyard handled--”

Lucas scoffs. 

“We absolutely did not.” 

“I don’t get why you’re all making such a big deal out of this. He’s the fighter. That’s what he does. That’s why we brought him to the tunnel.”

“You recall what happened at Starcourt, right?” Lucas challenges, furious. “You did see him after, right?” 

This, finally, seems to shut Mike up. 

“Shouldn’t you be mad at him for that?” He says after a moment, and the rest of Hellfire has completely put aside all actual gaming to watch this play out with a morbid sort of fascination. 

Eddie allows it, only because he’s trying to breathe the way Wayne taught him to before he loses it entirely and throws both of the idiot kids out of the drama room. 

“He pulled your sister into it.”

“Have you met Erica!? You can’t pull her into shit!” Lucas spits furiously. “That wasn’t D&D, Mike. It was the Upsi--real life.” 

Lucas is quick to correct himself, even in the heat of the moment--as all the kids are, like the entire school hasn’t clocked that they have some weird ass secret they’re terrible at hiding.

“And if we’re playing those games, then who pulled him into the tunnels? Who made him come to the junkyard?”

“Dustin.” Mike says snidely. 

“You don’t get to blame Dustin when Steve was the only person around.” 

“There were people around! They just weren’t people who--weren’t--who couldn’t--”

“Finish that sentence.” Lucas demands 

“Be trusted.” Mike spits out, like it hurts him. 

“Exactly.” 

“El went through way more than Steve ever has! El--”

“El was using her po--doing mage things! And also, she shouldn’t have had to go through all this shit either! We can’t rely on her to save the day every single time, Mike--and look at how hurt she gets!”

“She--”

“She hides it from you, you know. How bad she hurts. Cause she wants to put your feelings first.” 

“I--”

“Will does too.”  Is Lucas’s parting shot. His backpack is in his hands in a blink, papers and character figure shoved wildly into it, before he’s storming out the door in a poor mimicry of Mayfield.

“Harrington T-Boned a car?” Grant says, in the resounding silence. 

“That BMW of his hasn’t had a scratch on it--” Jeff says, with an inquisitive tilt to his head. 

“He didn’t use the Beamer.” Mike interrupts, angry and sulking. “Are we playing or not?”

“I’m gonna say not, given we are down two players.’ Eddie tells him through clenched teeth. 

“I’m going to be so mad if Steve doesn’t have a migraine.” Mike grumbles, as he begins packing up his stuff. 

The rest of Hellfire follow his lead, after one look at Eddie’s face convince the lot of them that it’s best to flee now, before Eddie unleashes all his pent up rage. 

“Not as mad as I’ll be, Wheeler.” Eddie promises darkly.

And it is a promise--because now, he’s going to follow all his stupid (sans Mike, who isn’t in his good graces either but at least stayed) freshmen--and go visit one fallen King.

If Harrington doesn’t have a headache now, he will when Eddie’s done with him.

[sttoru]

·.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. you leave megumi with your husband so you can make them breakfast. you quickly realise that that might have backfired.

wc. around 1.3k

tags. dad!toji x wife!female reader. fluff. reader gets called ‘mama’ by both toji & megumi. half beta read.

“ow, careful there, brat.”

your husband’s deep voice echoes from within the bathroom. you’ve left megumi in his care this morning so you’d be able to make breakfast in peace. toji was all grumpy about it, since he had to wake up early when he had no work, but eventually agreed to your proposal.

you hum your favorite song while frying eggs. the sizzling in the pan did help avert your attention from toji’s grunts of annoyance somewhere in the distance, though only for a couple seconds. your hear your child’s laughter slip between the noises of aggravation. it piques your interest.

“one more time and i’m putting y’r ass in time out,” toji’s deep voice sounds muffled. he sounds rather serious about whatever is bothering him.

you turn the stove off and walk towards the hallway, standing at the doorframe as you look in the direction of the bathroom. you tilt your head and try your best to pick up on snippets of the conversation between your husband and son.

the sound of bottles dropping on the floor is the first thing that allows you to guess that megumi’s acting up. you know how mischievous your little toddler can get, especially at his age. toji isn’t one to gentle parent his kid—he tries to, of course, but sometimes he can’t help but be a bit rough.

“megumi fushiguro.”

you raise your eyebrows as toji uses your child’s full name. he rarely does, only when he’s really upset or about to lose his marbles. you decide to see what was going on for yourself. you walk towards the bathroom, cleaning your hands against the material of your apron. you knock once before pushing the door open.

you stick your head through the little gap, ready to identify the cause of the commotion. the first thing you notice is the chaos on the floor; bottles, tubes, toothbrushes, and all other kinds of products lay cluttered on the bathroom tiles.

your eyes then land on your husband’s broad and scarred back, “hey, honey. did something hap—”

your voice trails off once toji turns around, revealing the jaw dropping scene. nearly his entire face is covered in loads of shaving cream and even his black hair hasn’t escaped the soft foam.

the bathroom counter is completely wet, and the water runs down the edges in small drops. the culprit of this entire scene is sitting right on that same counter, clapping his dirty hands together that were smeared with toji’s shaving cream.

you blink and walk towards the two. you can’t possibly be mad at the sight, finding toji’s situation more funny than worrisome. You try to act serious and clear your throat, “uh, yeah. so what’s happened here?”

your husband rolls his eyes and nods his head at the little boy in front of him, who’s giggling and kicking his legs. toji tries to wipe the shaving cream from his nose, attempting to get it out of his hair as well, “i tried to be a good dad and include him in my morning routine, that’s what.”

the man clicks his tongue as he now realises how dumb of a mistake that was, “gave him the opportunity to put some shaving foam on my jaw ‘n the brat totally blew it. started attackin’ me with the stuff.”

toji grumbles. he wipes away the foam that got on the mirror afterwards. it’s nearly gotten everywhere. he lightly nudges megumi’s forehead with a scoff, “never again, y’hear? the little shit can’t sit still for even one second.”

that explains the stuff on the floor. you know that megumi could grow bored easily if he isn’t the centre of attention. he’d start doing anything to be the focus of his parents. toji probably didn’t pay him much mind, wanting to get his morning routine over with.

“language, honey.” you sigh and look down at megumi who’s still reaching his messy hands up to his dad.

toji huffs and leans back, not giving the little boy a chance to put more shaving cream on his face. he’s learnt his lesson; kids do not understand it when you tell them to ‘only put a little bit’.

megumi whines and threatens to throw a tantrum. you notice that immediately and try to keep his mind off things by picking him up. you turn on the faucet and try to wash his little hands, “c’mon. give mama your hands.”

the little boy shakes his head furiously, squirming in your embrace in attempt to get away. you sigh and grab his little wrists gently. you lower him to the sink, trying your best to wash away the shaving cream as the first step of solving this grande mess.

“no, mama!” megumi is stubborn as he voices his complains. toji watches from a distance whilst he struggles to clean the overload of shaving cream from his face.

you make the mistake of letting go of your child’s wrists to grab a washcloth. megumi takes his chance and pats his messy hands against your face, leaving you no space to process what he’s doing.

your mind takes a second before you realise what’s happening, “hey! quit it, ‘gumi.”

you try to grab ahold of megumi’s tiny hands again, but they move too fast for you. plus, he’s pretty skilled at avoiding yours. you can feel the foam slowly cover your entire face; from your jaw and cheeks, to your nose and forehead.

it was inevitable at this point.

“toji, do something,” you grunt and struggle to contain the energetic toddler in your arms. you take a peek at your husband and find him grinning at the predicament you’ve gotten yourself in.

toji simply shrugs and enjoys the fact that you’re experiencing exactly what he had experienced just moments ago. seeing you struggle to contain your disobedient child only proves that his parenting skills are not the problem in this situation, your toddler is.

“ye did that to y’rself, mama.” toji hums in amusement. he leans against the wall, the blue towel now loosely hanging off head after he’s given up on getting the foam out of his hair, “now y’know what i’m talkin’ about. he’s a lil’ monster.”

megumi squeals in victory after he’s gotten both his parents covered in shaving cream. you want to say something to your child, but you’re at a loss for words. even now, you cannot bring yourself to be mad at him. he’s just a kid who’s having fun with his parents.

“i made mama pretty! hehe.” megumi grins and encourages you to look in the mirror. he points at your reflection and awaits the words of confirmation. his blue eyes look up at you, nearly sparkling with joy, admiring how pretty he’s made you look with that white foam all over your face.

toji joins in on the fun. he comes to stand behind you, looking at you through the mirror. he snickers, already forgotten about his irritations that occurred in the first place. he nods in approval at megumi’s words, “gotta agree, son. y’r mama looks much prettier like this.”

your husband’s teasing comment adds fuel to the fire. though again, you cannot bring yourself to be upset at the situation.

you look at the reflection in the dirty mirror. you all may appear disheveled due to the foamy mess on your bodies—and yet even at that moment—the only thing you actually manage to see is a happy family of three.