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jaefluenza · 1 day ago

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fractured (I Waited) part. 1

rich heirs!jeong jaehyun x reader (original character)

angst, slowburn, everything that makes you weep

13.300 words (one hell of a ride, huh?)

summary: an unexpected night of wine, laughter, and a kiss in the back of a taxi ignites a forbidden connection. behind closed doors, they begin a secret romance—each longing to escape the burden of legacy and fate. but love, in their world, is a dangerous game.

Tonight was supposed to be just another endless gala—tailored tuxedos, overcooked speeches, too much wine and far too little sincerity.

But as Jaehyun sat two tables away from his father, half-listening to a logistics minister speak about trade reform, his attention wavered. Something tugged at his focus like a thread slowly unraveling the night’s dull tapestry.

Her.

She wasn’t flashy. She wasn’t even smiling. Head slightly lowered, her eyes flicked to her plate occasionally like she was counting rice grains for comfort. Not once did she engage with the over-loud laughter or the shallow flattery that bounced across her table.

Two seconds. Then five. Ten. Jaehyun’s gaze lingered.

“Who’s that?” he leaned slightly toward his father’s secretary, barely masking his curiosity.

The secretary followed his line of sight. “Ah. That’s Miss (Y/n) Kim. Engaged to Mr. Callum Wright.”

Callum?

Jaehyun’s brows twitched.

Callum Wright. Of all people. His old dormmate from Cambridge—the one with the sharp suits and dull humor, the trust fund baby who thought misogyny was charisma. Jaehyun could still remember the way Callum used to joke about women like they were punchlines.

He shifted in his seat, suddenly colder.

And yet there she was—Callum’s fiancée—so clearly disinterested in everything around her. Not out of arrogance, no. There was something else. A quiet restraint. Like she was pretending to belong.

He watched her again. This time more carefully. Her left hand rested on her lap, absent of jewelry. Her fork moved, but she barely ate. When Callum leaned over to whisper something, she flinched—barely, but Jaehyun caught it. A subtle pull back of her shoulders. As if her body knew something she was too polite to say.

Jaehyun exhaled.

His father nudged him. “What’s got you looking like that?”

Jaehyun blinked and looked away. “Nothing. Just an old friend,” he replied. But it wasn’t Callum he meant. It was her.

Callum’s voice rose above the clink of cutlery.

“And she thinks Nietzsche was a romantic. Can you believe that?” he laughed, loud and sharp, practically elbowing the man next to him. “I told her, darling, no man who says ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ has ever dated you.”

The table erupted in awkward laughter, a few stifled, a few loud enough to mask discomfort.

Except hers.

She lifted her wine glass, lips pressing into the gentlest smile—a performance, and a good one. She let the joke pass without a single twitch in her posture. Then, placing the glass down, she stood.

“Excuse me,” she said softly, so calmly it almost sliced through the tension like silk. She didn’t wait for Callum’s response. She just walked.

Jaehyun sat back, eyes narrowing slightly. He wasn’t sure what bothered him more—Callum’s insufferable condescension or the way she handled it with such poised silence, like she’d been trained to endure embarrassment her whole life.

He rose a few minutes later, murmuring something about a phone call to his father. No one noticed—except maybe his father’s secretary, who gave him a look. But said nothing.

He spotted her on the far side of the marble hall, just past the long curtains that draped over the glass doors.

The balcony was dimly lit, open to the warm summer air. And there she was.

She stood there alone, arms crossed, her pale dress catching the moonlight. She lit a cigarette with steady fingers, exhaled slowly, and closed her eyes for a moment—as if she needed this breath more than anything else.

“You know that’s going to kill you,” Jaehyun said, stepping out onto the balcony.

She didn’t flinch.

“Maybe,” she said. “But at least it doesn’t talk.”

A beat. Then she turned her head, meeting his eyes for the first time that night. “You’re… Jeong Jaehyun, right? Chairman Jeong’s son.”

He nodded slowly. “And you’re Callum Wright’s fiancée.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh and took another drag.

“Unfortunately.”

He leaned against the railing beside her, watching the city lights stretch like a sea of gold beneath them. “I didn’t expect to see him tonight. Or you. Though I guess that was the point.”

Her shoulders dropped, a small sign of weariness.

“You knew him in Cambridge?”

“Unfortunately,” Jaehyun echoed, smirking. “He still thinks degrading women is a form of humor, I see.”

She didn’t reply. “I used to think I could fix that,” she murmured.

Silence settled between them. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… honest.

He glanced at her. “You deserve better than to be the butt of someone’s punchline.”

She turned slightly, really looking at him now.

And Jaehyun… felt it. That quiet in her eyes. That storm behind the calm. This wasn’t going to be another predictable gala after all.

She took another slow drag, the glow of the cigarette briefly lighting the fine bones of her face. When she exhaled, it wasn’t just smoke—it was something deeper. Tiredness. Disappointment wrapped in elegance.

“Nice to meet you, Jeong,” she said, tone clipped but not impolite. Her eyes didn’t soften. “But I don’t need pity.”

Jaehyun let out a breath, half a chuckle. “That’s good,” he replied, unfazed. “Because I’m not offering any.”

She turned her head slightly, an eyebrow raised.

He continued, calm and measured, “I’ve just seen enough women shrink in rooms like these. Laugh along. Stay seated. You didn’t. That’s rare.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then glanced back out at the skyline. Her voice was quieter this time.

“Leaving a table doesn’t mean I win anything, Jeong.”

“No,” he said. “But it means you still know when to walk away.”

That got a real smile. Barely there, but unmistakable.

The wind tugged lightly at her hair. She tucked a strand behind her ear, the cigarette now forgotten between her fingers.

“Do you always follow strangers out of rooms?” she asked, almost teasing.

“Only when they look like they’re pretending not to break.”

She stared at him.

And something shifted. Not trust. Not yet. But a small dent in the wall she’d so carefully built.

“I wasn’t pretending,” she finally said. “I’m just good at breaking quietly.”

Another silence passed between them. This one different. Warmer. Quieter. Like a secret the stars were letting them borrow.

Then Jaehyun said, “Still. For what it’s worth, Nietzsche was a romantic.”

That drew a soft laugh from her lips. Genuine this time. It surprised even her.

She glanced at him sideways. “You might be the first person in this building tonight with actual thoughts.”

He shrugged lightly. “Comes with reading books instead of company reports.”

She stubbed her cigarette against the marble ledge, letting it die in silence.

When she looked at him again, the wind caught her hair just enough to make her seem a little freer.

“Goodnight, Jeong Jaehyun.”

He watched her go—head high, back straight.

And for the first time all evening, Jaehyun wasn’t just thinking about deals or names or family expectations.

He was thinking about her.

A woman with smoke in her lungs and quiet storms in her eyes.

The valet entrance was dimly lit—just enough for the gleam of polished cars and scuffed heels to glint under amber lamps. Most guests had long left the gala, but Callum and (Y/n) stood near the curb, mid-argument. Again.

"I said I’ll get a car myself, Callum," She snapped, stepping back from his reach.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he hissed, voice laced with booze and bruised ego. “Always making a scene. No wonder people—”

“I’m not making a scene. I’m trying to leave before you embarrass me further.”

Callum’s jaw clenched. He stepped closer, voice dropping to something darker. “You think you’re some kind of saint? You think just because you can quote philosophy, you’re better than me?”

When she didn’t respond, his hand twitched. Raised. Not high, but just enough to say I could.

That’s when the voice came.

“Hey, Wright! Fancy seeing you here.”

Callum froze.

Her eyes flicked past his shoulder—and softened.

Jaehyun was leaning casually against a parked black car behind them, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. But his posture was deceptive. His tone wasn’t friendly.

Callum turned, schooling his face into a grin. “Jeong. Still lurking around the fringes of galas, I see?”

Jaehyun’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Hard to lurk when you’re the heir to the building the gala was held in.”

That shut Callum up, if only for a second.

Jaehyun slowly walked over, his gaze never leaving (Y/n)—checking her, scanning for tremors, for hurt. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes lingered on him a beat too long. Enough for him to see it. The flicker of fear she'd just buried.

“I didn’t know you were into vintage temper tantrums,” Jaehyun said, his voice laced with cold amusement. “They don’t really suit you.”

Callum chuckled tightly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s a relationship. We argue. You wouldn’t understand.”

Jaehyun stopped in front of them.

“Oh, I understand arguing,” he said. “I just draw the line at fear.”

The weight of his words dropped heavy.

Callum looked at his fiancée then, clearly unnerved. “What, you running to your new savior now?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Jaehyun turned to her gently. “Would you like a ride home, Miss Kim?”

She hesitated. But only for a moment. “Yes.”

Callum stepped forward, “(Y/n)—”

Jaehyun turned slightly, his voice like ice now. “Try raising your hand again. See what happens.”

The silence cracked like thunder.

She stepped around Callum, chin lifted, heels clicking as she moved beside Jaehyun without a glance back. When she got in the car and the door shut, Jaehyun didn’t follow right away.

He stared at Callum one last time, jaw tight. “Your jokes were always trash. But this? This is a new low.”

And with that, he walked to the driver’s side, slid in, and drove her away. The city passed by in streaks of light.

Inside the car, silence reigned. Then, softly, she said, “You didn’t have to.”

Jaehyun kept his eyes on the road. “I wanted to.”

And for the first time in a long, long while… She believed someone meant it.

The car rolled to a gentle stop in front of a quiet, tucked-away building downtown—a place that didn’t scream luxury, but whispered exclusivity. No velvet ropes, no flashy signs. Just a narrow brass plaque on the door that read VIOLET HOUR.

She glanced out the window, unsure. “This isn’t my apartment.”

Jaehyun looked over at her. His expression unreadable, but calm. “It’s not.”

A pause. Then—

“Would you have a sip of wine with me? Just one. I have a place. Quiet. No Callum. No noise.”

(Y/n) blinked.

He wasn’t pushing. Just… offering.

She considered him for a moment. And then, maybe because the night already broke all the rules, maybe because she was tired of going home to silence—or worse, him—she nodded.

Inside, the bar was dimly lit, tucked behind velvet curtains and shelves lined with old books. The air smelled like aged oak and violet gin. A jazz trio played softly in the corner. And at the very back was a table reserved under “J. Jeong”—of course it was.

“I come here when I don’t want to be anyone,” Jaehyun said as he held her chair out. “No heirs. No cameras. Just good music and older wine.”

She settled in, eyeing the space like she wasn’t sure how real it was. “Do you bring women here often?”

He smiled faintly. “No. Just myself. And the occasional ghost of a good decision.”

She smirked. “That’s poetic.”

“I try,” he said, lifting a hand to the bartender. “Red or white?”

“Red,” she replied, then quickly added, “Dry.”

He nodded in approval. “Good choice.”

A few minutes later, two glasses of aged Bordeaux were placed between them.

They clinked glasses softly.

“To surviving galas,” he offered.

(Y/n) tilted her head. “To escaping them.”

They sipped.

And for the first time that night, she wasn’t guarding her every word.

“So,” she asked, swirling her wine gently, “what were you doing watching me at dinner?”

Jaehyun leaned back, glass in hand, eyes steady on hers.

“You looked like someone who needed someone to see her,” he said simply.

Her fingers stilled on the stem of the glass.

“You always talk like that?”

He smiled, slow and unhurried. “Only when I mean it.”

She looked down, then looked back at him—more curious now than guarded.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the warmth of a stranger who didn’t feel like one.

But she found herself asking, “And what do you see now?”

Jaehyun met her gaze, long and deep.

“A woman who deserves more than what she’s settling for.”

The jazz hummed. The wine warmed her fingertips. And (Y/n), for the first time in years, forgot what settling even felt like.

The wine crept into their veins like warm ink—slow and smooth, softening edges, blurring hesitations.

By the time they stumbled out of Violet Hour, the city had thinned. Midnight wind curled gently around them as they stood on the curb, his coat draped over her shoulders.

“You can’t possibly walk in those heels,” Jaehyun said, grinning, as she tripped slightly over a crack in the pavement.

“I’m floating,” She defended herself, squinting dramatically at the sidewalk. “There’s a difference.”

He laughed, then raised his hand to hail a taxi. A yellow cab pulled up like fate answering a dare.

They slid into the backseat, her body leaning toward his, knees brushing.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

She opened her mouth, but Jaehyun beat her to it. “Just drive for a bit. We’ll give the address later.”

The driver shrugged and pulled off.

Inside the cab, the lights of the city flickered through the window, gold spilling across her face. She turned to him, tipsy and untamed, her laughter still caught on her lips.

“You really ordered wine like you were naming your firstborn,” she teased, poking his arm lightly. “You said ‘2009 Saint-Émilion’ like it was a love confession.”

“That was a love confession,” Jaehyun said with mock seriousness. “To fermented greatness.”

She giggled, leaning her head back against the seat. “God, you’re so different from how I imagined you’d be.”

He looked at her, curious. “And how did you imagine me?”

“I don’t know. Cold. Bored. Born in a boardroom.”

Jaehyun smiled, quiet for a beat. “You bring out something lighter.”

She turned her head, eyes meeting his in the dark.

Neither of them was laughing now.

The taxi rolled over a smooth patch of road, quiet.

His hand was close. She didn’t move away.

And then it happened. A pause—one beat too long, one look too deep. Then, with a breath barely shared, Jaehyun leaned in.

Their lips met in a slow, quiet kiss that tasted like red wine and curiosity, like something they weren’t supposed to touch but couldn’t help reaching for. It was gentle at first, unsure. Then deeper, as if the space between them had always been meant to disappear.

Her fingers lightly curled around the lapel of his coat, holding on just enough to not feel like she was falling.

When they pulled apart, the only sound was their breath mingling, and the hum of tires on asphalt. Jaehyun rested his forehead against hers.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

She blinked up at him, dazed. “Are you?”

He grinned, slightly flushed. “Not even a little.”

She smiled.

“Good.”

Outside, the city kept spinning. But in the backseat of that taxi, it finally felt like something had stopped—just long enough for something unexpected to begin.

The taxi slowed in front of a quiet, upscale apartment building tucked behind rows of sleeping trees. The streetlight cast a soft amber glow over the sidewalk as Jaehyun looked out the window, then back at her.

“This is me,” (Y/n) whispered, voice low, like she didn’t want to admit it.

Their laughter from moments ago still lingered faintly in the air—fading like the warmth of the wine on their cheeks. The kiss hovered between them, a line neither of them had expected to cross, yet neither regretted.

Jaehyun leaned forward, signaling the driver to stop.

She hesitated. Her hand hovered at the door handle, but she turned to face him one last time. The buzz of the night still hummed in her skin, but her eyes were soberer now—too clear, too aware.

“You’re not coming up,” she said, more like a statement than a question.

Jaehyun shook his head slowly. “No. You’ve had enough noise for one night.”

She smiled softly at that. The kind of smile that held something unspoken. Gratitude. Tension. Maybe even disappointment. Or relief.

“Thank you for the ride,” she said.

“For the wine?” he asked, a playful tilt to his head.

“And that,” she said, eyes flicking briefly to his lips.

A silence settled. Not awkward. Just… filled with the weight of everything they didn’t say.

Then she opened the door and stepped out, the night breeze tousling her hair gently as she pulled his coat tighter around her.

Before closing the door, she leaned down.

“Goodnight, Jeong.”

He gave her a half-smile, hand resting against the seat where her warmth still lingered.

“Goodnight, Miss Kim.”

The door shut with a soft click.

She didn’t look back as she walked toward the lobby. Didn’t need to.

And Jaehyun… sat still for a moment before tapping the driver’s shoulder.

“Take me home.”

As the taxi pulled away from the curb and swallowed him back into the city night, Jaehyun leaned his head against the window, lips brushing into a quiet smile.

Whatever that was—it had just begun.

(Y/n) stirred awake to golden light spilling through her curtains, cutting soft lines across the bedsheets. She blinked slowly, the ceiling unfamiliar for a moment before reality returned like a slow tide.

Last night.

The wine. The bar. His voice. That kiss in the back of the taxi.

Her hand moved to her lips almost instinctively—half in disbelief, half to feel if it had really happened.

She groaned, turning to bury her face into the pillow.

“What were you thinking,” she whispered to herself.

It wasn’t like her. She didn’t kiss strangers. She didn’t linger in bars past midnight. And she definitely didn’t fall for warm eyes and subtle wit over a bottle of Saint-Émilion.

But then again, he wasn’t a stranger, was he?

Not anymore. And maybe that was the problem.

Across town, Jaehyun stood by the window of his penthouse, freshly showered, shirt half-buttoned, coffee cooling untouched in his hand.

The skyline spread before him, glass and light and quiet Sunday haze—but his mind wasn’t on business, or the brunch his mother scheduled with some ambassador’s daughter.

His mind was back there—in that cab, in that kiss, in the soft way she’d said goodnight without looking back.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen.

He hadn’t planned any of it.

But her laughter—unfiltered, slightly wine-blurred—had felt like a thread tugging loose something inside him. And that kiss…

It was supposed to be harmless. But the way her fingers had curled around his coat? That had ruined him.

His phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

He opened it.

Unknown: Did you leave your coat on purpose, Jeong? Or was it your way of claiming a second nightcap?

He stared at the screen for a moment—then smiled.

Wide. Quiet. Defeated.

And typed back.

Jaehyun: Depends. Did you hold onto it for warmth… or for me?

Send.

He walked back to his coffee, finally taking a sip, as across town, she laughed softly into her phone. And neither of them could quite believe how much they were already in it.

The memory came back to her like a scent—subtle, warm, and out of nowhere.

She had just rested her head against the cold window in the back of the taxi, the wine making her thoughts soft and slow. Somewhere between the fading glow of the city lights and the hush between their shared laughter, she’d hugged herself against the creeping chill.

Then she felt it.

A shift beside her. The rustle of wool. And suddenly, Jaehyun’s coat was draped over her shoulders.

She turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his in the cab’s dim light. He didn’t say anything—didn’t offer some suave line, didn’t wait for praise. Just… reached over, adjusted the lapel gently, and leaned back.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world to take care of her.

She remembered how big it felt on her. How warm. How he smelled like cedar wood and something clean. How her fingers had curled into the collar without thinking—holding it like a fragile secret she wasn’t ready to let go of.

And when the taxi stopped in front of her apartment, he didn’t ask for it back.

He just watched her step out wearing it, like it belonged to her more than it ever did to him.

She sat up in bed now, that same coat hanging over her vanity chair like it had been waiting to be noticed.

Her eyes lingered on it for a long time. He hadn’t said a word about it when they said goodnight. Hadn’t asked. Hadn’t hinted.

Which only made her wonder more—

Had he meant to leave it? Or had he known she would?

And somehow… that made it harder to breathe.

The sound of the front door slamming made (Y/n) jolt upright in bed.

She didn’t even have time to reach for the coat before—

“(Y/n)!” Callum’s voice tore through the apartment, heavy with rage.

Her bedroom door burst open without warning.

There he stood—jaw clenched, eyes wild, still in yesterday’s dress shirt with the collar undone and buttons half-missing, as if he hadn’t slept.

Her heart jumped to her throat, but she forced her voice steady.

“You can’t just barge in—”

“You left me,” he spat, stepping closer. “You walked out like a selfish little brat in the middle of everything!”

“I walked out before you raised your hand again,” she snapped, standing up, not bothering to hide the anger in her voice. “I warned you, Callum.”

He ignored her, his eyes flicking around the room until they landed—on the coat.

Jaehyun’s coat.

Hanging delicately over her vanity, still smelling like last night. Still whispering everything unspoken between her and another man.

Callum’s expression darkened instantly.

“What the hell is that?” he growled, pointing.

(Y/n) stepped between him and the coat. “It’s not yours. And don’t you dare—”

“You left with him.” He laughed, bitter and broken. “Jesus, (Y/n). I knew it. I knew there was something off. You flirted with him all night like a bored housewife looking for trouble.”

She didn’t flinch. Not this time.

“He noticed me. That’s all it took to feel like I was worth something last night.”

His nostrils flared. “So what? You sleep with him now, is that it? You going to run off and be Mrs. Heir of the Year?”

Her voice turned icy. “Nothing happened. Not that it’s any of your business anymore.”

Callum took a threatening step forward. “Oh, it’s still my business until this ring comes off.”

She didn’t move. “Then take it.”

She slid the ring from her finger and placed it flat on the table.

Silence hung in the air like smoke. Thick. Unbearable.

He stared at it—then at her. And for the first time, he looked small.

Weak. Exposed.

“You’ll regret this,” he muttered, voice lower now. But it wasn’t a threat—it was desperation. “He won’t want someone like you in the end. They never do.”

She stared at him. Her voice was soft, but ironclad.

“Then I’ll take that chance.”

He lingered for a second longer, eyes hard.

And then he turned and left—door slamming shut behind him like a final punctuation mark on something she should’ve ended long ago.

She stood there, alone. Shaken. Quiet. Then slowly, she walked to the vanity chair and pulled Jaehyun’s coat into her arms. And for the first time in months, she didn’t feel cold.

The Jeong household was always quiet in the morning—elegant, controlled, like everything else in their carefully curated rich people world.

But today, it was different.

Jaehyun walked down the grand staircase with a slight bounce in his step, sleeves rolled up casually, hair still a little tousled from sleep. He was humming—humming—a melody under his breath as he scrolled through his phone, a half-smile lingering on his lips like he was replaying a private joke in his head.

His mother, seated in the sunlit dining room with her tea and the business section of the paper folded neatly beside her, didn’t even look up at first.

Until he poured orange juice instead of black coffee.

Until he greeted the maid with an actual “Good morning,” instead of his usual distracted nod.

Until he sat down and—smiled—without any prompting.

That’s when Mrs. Jeong slowly lowered her newspaper.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re… chirpy.”

Jaehyun looked up from his phone. “Hm?”

“Smiling. Humming. Drinking orange juice like you’ve never tasted bitterness in your life.” She set her teacup down. “That only happens when you're hiding something.”

He chuckled. “Maybe I’m just in a good mood.”

“You haven’t been in a ‘good mood’ since your Harvard acceptance letter.”

“Cambridge.”

“Exactly.” She squinted at him. “Who is she?”

Jaehyun froze—just for a beat—but then took a sip of his juice, like he wasn’t at all caught off guard.

“There’s no ‘she.’”

His mother leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand.

“You’re humming, Jaehyun. At eight in the morning. That’s either love or psychosis, and frankly, I know your father's genes. So—who is she?”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the grin that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It’s not what you think.”

“So there is someone.”

He gave in with a breathy laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s just say… she’s not someone you’d expect.”

Mrs. Jeong raised a perfectly arched brow. “Oh dear. Not a politician’s daughter, then.”

“No.”

“Not an heiress?”

He shook his head.

“Not someone who’ll say yes to our usual background checks?”

His grin widened. “Definitely not.”

Mrs. Jeong sat back, eyes thoughtful now. “Well, well. How refreshing.”

Jaehyun locked his phone and pocketed it, standing up and kissing her cheek.

“I’ll be out for a bit.”

“Tell her I said good morning,” his mother said casually.

He paused, amused. “I never said I’d see her.”

“You didn’t have to,” she replied, sipping her tea again. “You’re wearing that smile, darling. The kind your father only ever wears when he’s closing billion-dollar deals… or when he sees me in diamonds.”

Jaehyun laughed and walked off, already pulling out his phone.

And the first thing he did? Text her.

Jaehyun: You still have my coat. I was thinking of trading it back… for breakfast.Or lunch. Or just another excuse to see you.

9:43 AM – Busy Heart of Seoul

Somewhere between the relentless buzz of traffic and the lull of weekend cafés, a table waited tucked under a striped awning in a little corner of Samcheong-dong—casual, pretty, nothing like the high-rise towers they both came from.

(Y/n) arrived first, Jaehyun’s coat folded neatly over her arm. Sunglasses perched on her nose, hair pulled back in a soft twist. She wore a white shirt half-tucked into light jeans—effortlessly simple. Her fingers tapped her phone like she wasn’t checking the time every other second.

Until—

“Miss Kim.” His voice.

She looked up.

There he was, slipping through the tables with that lazy sort of grace. Crisp linen shirt, a hand casually in his pocket, the other carrying two coffees he must’ve picked up on the way.

“I wasn’t sure if you drink americanos or flat whites,” he said, setting both cups down. “So I brought both. Judge me later.”

She tried to hide her smile. “A little early for charm, don’t you think?”

“It’s brunch,” he replied, sliding into the chair across from her. “The hour of unapologetic charm and poor decisions.”

She chuckled, finally relaxing. He glanced at the coat draped over her chair.

“So you did hold onto it for me.”

She arched a brow. “You left it on me. I assumed it came with conditions.”

“Only one,” he said, picking up his cup. “You’d have to see me again.”

A pause. The way her lips parted slightly, like she hadn’t expected him to say it out loud.

“Well,” she said softly. “Here I am.”

The waitress came by, and they ordered—eggs for him, ricotta toast for her, and something sweet to share, after too much smiling and “just pick one then.”

The city moved around them in a blur of footsteps and horns and chatter. But inside their little bubble, the pace slowed. Conversation flowed like they'd done this before. Like it was familiar. Easy. Strange.

He asked about her work—she barely answered. She asked about his family—he hesitated, then told her stories that weren’t in any news article.

Halfway through the meal, she looked up at him, fingers curled around her coffee cup.

“You’re not what I expected.”

“Let me guess,” he said, brushing croissant crumbs from his sleeve, “cold, controlled, probably soulless?”

“I was going to say... rehearsed.”

He smiled. “And now?”

“Still a little rehearsed,” she said. “But you improvise better than I thought.”

He laughed.

They lingered. Long after their plates were cleared, long after the staff began wiping down other tables. Neither moved. Like the moment might vanish if either stood.

Finally, he leaned forward.

“So… can I see you again?”

She tilted her head, lips curling into something dangerous and amused.

“You already are.”

Jaehyun grinned, heart thudding louder than he'd like to admit.

The city roared around them. And still—

She was the only sound he could hear.

The mood shifted days later—quickly, sharply. Like a sudden drop in temperature before a storm.

(Y/n) had just come home from a quiet lunch with Jaehyun, her cheeks still warm from the way he’d tucked her hair behind her ear like he meant it. Her phone buzzed before she could even kick off her shoes.

Dad: We need to talk.Now.

She didn’t like texts like that.

That night, the Kim residence was colder than usual—despite the summer air hanging heavy outside the windows. The family gathered in the formal sitting room, where serious conversations had always happened. Not in bedrooms. Not over meals. Here. Among portraits and imported silence.

(Y/n) stood facing her father, her mother seated quietly on the velvet sofa, eyes darting from her husband’s clenched fists to her daughter’s defiant stance.

He barely looked up. “What did you do to Callum Wright?”

The air thinned.

She blinked. “I left him.”

“You humiliated him.”

“I left quietly. It’s not my fault if he—”

“Well, he’s making it your fault,” Mr. Kim said sharply, tossing a document onto the table. “Wright Holdings pulled out of the Busan logistics joint project. Said our team suddenly 'lacks professional integrity.’ He’s hinting at legal friction. He’s stalling payments to the suppliers to cause noise. Petty, intentional, and very, very public.”

Her stomach dropped.

She stepped forward, reading the email. Sure enough—Callum’s name, laced with vague threats dressed in polished corporate language.

“He’s trying to blackmail you,” she muttered. “He’s using your company to punish me.”

Mr. Kim leaned back, breathing hard through his nose.

“I warned you about him. I tolerated the engagement for business. And now it’s costing me everything I built.”

Her jaw tightened. “Then let me fix it.”

Her father scoffed bitterly. “How? By going back to him? Or running to your secret boyfriend and asking for favors?”

The words stung.

Mr. Kim set his glass down with a sharp clink.

“I know about Jeong Jaehyun.”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t move. “How?”

He scoffed. “The world watches chaebol heirs like hawks, (Y/n). You think I wouldn’t hear about you leaving a gala with him? Or that he sent you flowers at your office the next day?”

Her face flushed—rage, not shame. “So you’ve been spying on me.”

“I’ve been protecting my company!” he snapped. “Our name. Our reputation. And you—running around Seoul like a little girl caught in a daydream with the son of our competitor—”

“He’s not—”

“He’s exactly that!” her father thundered. “And worse, his existence gives Callum every excuse he needs to destroy what we��ve built. The Wrights are petty. Powerful. And now they’re furious.”

Mrs. Kim finally spoke. Softly. “Your father already met with Callum’s side. They’re willing to resume the contract… but under one condition.”

(Y/n) turned slowly.

“No.”

Mr. Kim didn’t blink. “Yes.”

“I said no.”

“You will go through with the arrangement. The engagement stands. The wedding will be private, swift, and diplomatic.”

“You can’t force me into a marriage to save your ego and call it business.”

Her father stood, his voice low now. Dangerous.

“You don’t understand what this family risks. This company is our life. Your brothers’ futures. Your mother’s security. Do you think Jaehyun will marry you and take on our debts if this falls apart?”

She stared at him.

Something in her chest cracked. Quietly. Like frost underfoot.

And when she spoke, her voice was even.

“So you’d sell me to a man who’s raised his hand to me just to keep your empire alive?”

Her mother looked down. Her father’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

She stepped back.

Tears threatened, but none fell. She wouldn’t give them that.

“I’m not a business deal, Appa.”

And she turned to leave.

But just before she reached the door, his voice called after her.

“If you walk out now… you are no longer a Kim in my house.”

She paused only a second.

Then kept walking.

And for the first time in her life, the name (Y/n) Kim sounded nothing like home.

The silence came suddenly. No warning. No soft fade-out. Just a wall.

One night, Jaehyun sent her a picture of a café that looked like the one they joked about opening someday—half-serious, half-silly, full of plans that weren’t quite real yet.

No reply.

The next morning, he texted again.

Jaehyun: Lunch? I found a place that makes ricotta toast better than ours. Impossible, I know.

Still nothing.

By evening, he called. It rang four times. Then voicemail.

The next day? Delivered. But not read. He tried again.

Jaehyun:Did something happen?Are you okay?

Nothing.

Three days passed.

Four.

His messages turned shorter. Less playful. More desperate.

Jaehyun: (Y/n).Just tell me you’re okay. Please.

Silence.

He scrolled through their old texts. Her voice lived there still—light, teasing, real. “You’re not as rehearsed as I thought.” “Then I’ll take that chance.”

What changed?

What happened?

She wouldn’t just vanish. Not her.

Unless someone made her.

Unless someone forced her to.

His eyes darkened.

His mother had warned him. “You’re smiling. That only means two things—love or trouble.”

Now both had arrived. And Jaehyun, for all his charm, power, and calm, had never felt so helpless.

But he knew one thing for sure. If she wouldn’t come to him—

He’d go to her.

The charity luxury bazaar was held in a grand hotel ballroom in Gangnam—walls draped in cream silk, golden chandeliers glinting over tables adorned with limited-edition designer items, curated perfumes, and exclusive art. Seoul’s elite milled about with practiced elegance, champagne flutes in hand, auction paddles tucked under their arms.

Jaehyun was barely paying attention.

He hadn’t planned to be here. He rarely attended bazaars like this unless dragged by his mother or forced by shareholders.

But the moment he walked through the entrance, he felt her.

Not heard. Not seen.

Felt.

Then he saw her.

Across the room, at a table for silent jewelry bids, stood (Y/n).

Hair tied in a simple black ribbon. Long navy dress hugging her frame. Her movements elegant, restrained. Her face—neutral. Cool. Almost unreadable. Almost.

But he knew her too well.

She was pretending.

And she hadn’t noticed him yet.

His chest tightened.

He made his way toward her slowly, carefully, threading through the crowd until they were just a few steps apart. Her back was to him, her attention on a vintage sapphire choker. She tilted her head slightly—graceful, composed.

And then—

“Didn’t think I’d find you beside something that steals the spotlight.”

She froze.

Her hand faltered ever so slightly above the bid card.

She turned, slowly, forcing her face into something neutral—polished, poised.

“Jaehyun,” she said. Like it didn’t ache to say it. “Didn’t expect you here.”

“I could say the same.”

“Your family’s hosting the wine booth. Of course you’re here.”

He stared at her. Searching. Studying.

“You stopped replying.”

Her eyes flicked away. “I’ve been busy.”

“That’s not a reason. That’s a strategy.”

She drew in a breath, jaw tightening.

“(Y/n),” he said, softer now, “why?”

People brushed past them in silk and scent, but their corner of the room suddenly felt carved out of time.

She turned back to the display, avoiding his eyes. “Because I can’t afford to see you.”

“Is someone stopping you?”

Silence.

“(Y/n). Is it your father? Is it—”

“Yes.” Her voice broke through like glass.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Talk to me. I can help. You know I can—”

She turned to him now, eyes glossy, face trembling despite her best efforts.

“You think I want this? That I chose silence over you?”

“Then why?”

“Because if I kept talking to you, Jaehyun…” her voice cracked, “I wouldn’t stop. I would’ve run to you, begged you to take me away, thrown away every plan, every duty—everything my family built.”

“And that’s wrong?”

“In their world, yes.” She swallowed. “In their world, I’m a bargaining chip. And you’re the competition.”

He looked at her—truly looked—and saw the war behind her eyes.

“You’re not theirs to trade.”

“No,” she said quietly. “But they’re still my family.”

He didn’t reach for her hand. Not here. Not now. But his voice dropped to something only she could hear.

“I’ll fight for you. You know that, don’t you?”

She blinked away tears. “I’m afraid… I’ll let you.”

A silence.

Then, through the hum of luxury and politeness, a woman called her name—Mrs. Wright, a lady from a British import firm, gesturing politely from across the room.

(Y/n) turned to Jaehyun one last time.

“I have to go.”

Later, at 6 p.m., all his texts were finally marked as read—followed by a few short, tightly packed reply bubbles.

(Y/n): There’s a coffee shop in Sinsadong. Sunday. 3 PM. I don’t know what I’ll choose yet. But I want to see you… before I forget how.

Sunday – 2:56 PM – Sinsadong

The little café sat at the corner of a quiet street, bathed in soft July light. It wasn’t grand or exclusive—just a narrow space with floor-to-ceiling windows, a row of books by the counter, and coffee that smelled like memory.

Jaehyun arrived early.

Of course he did.

He’d been sitting at the corner booth for twenty minutes, one hand nursing an untouched espresso, the other tapping lightly against the wood grain of the table. His watch ticked. Every time the door chimed, he looked up.

But it wasn’t her.

Not yet.

He reread her note for the third time, now slightly crumpled in his pocket. “I want to see you… before I forget how.”

It killed him.

The fact that she even thought she’d need to forget.

Then— The bell above the door rang.

She stepped in.

Hair tucked neatly behind her ears, long cream coat unbuttoned over a soft navy dress. No jewelry this time. Just her. Real. Tired. Beautiful.

Their eyes met instantly. And the world quieted.

She walked toward him slowly, like every step was its own decision.

He stood up.

She didn’t speak until she sat down across from him.

“I almost didn’t come,” she said softly, setting her hands on the table. “I got out of the car twice.”

Jaehyun smiled faintly. “I came an hour early. Thought about leaving every ten minutes.”

They both laughed. Gently. Carefully. Like they’d forgotten how.

“I feel like I owe you a thousand explanations,” she whispered.

“You don’t owe me anything, (Y/n).”

“I do,” she said, firmer this time. “I left you in the dark. On purpose. And that’s not who I am. Not with you.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, “So why did you come?”

She hesitated.

Then said, “Because I still want you to fight for me.”

Her voice shook.

“I told you I was afraid I’d let you. But the truth is… I already have. Every time I don’t answer you, it hurts. Every time I pretend I don’t know you, it feels like I’m betraying something real. Something ours.”

Jaehyun’s jaw clenched as he fought the urge to reach across the table and pull her in. But he let her speak.

“My family’s already preparing for the engagement announcement. My father told me to smile when it happens, and to act like nothing’s wrong. But I’m not made for this, Jaehyun. I wasn’t built to belong to someone I don’t love.”

He looked at her then, eyes dark with something steady.

“I won’t let them take you.”

Her throat tightened. “They already are.”

“No,” he said, voice firm now. “They’re bluffing with fear. You said yes to meeting me. That means there’s still a choice.”

She swallowed hard. “So what do I do?”

Jaehyun leaned forward, lowering his voice.

“We do this carefully. Quietly. My lawyers—our family lawyers—they can review your father’s contract with the Wrights. We look for pressure points. You don’t have to go back into that house alone. I won’t let you.”

She looked at him like she hadn’t heard the word we in years.

“But if this goes public,” she whispered, “they’ll destroy you too.”

“I’ve faced worse,” he replied calmly. “Boardrooms are just battlefields with better tailoring.”

She almost smiled.

Almost.

He reached across the table then—gently—and placed his hand over hers.

Warm. Steady. Like home.

“No more running, (Y/n)”

She nodded, barely, eyes glimmering.

“Okay.”

And in that quiet corner café, while the world spun outside and fate clawed at the edges of their peace, they chose something terrifying—

Each other.

They started low-key, hidden, careful, quiet—but every stolen moment felt louder than anything in their public lives.

She kept her head down. At galas, she walked beside Callum with the right smile. In photos, she wore the ring her father wanted the world to see. To the world, she was the composed fiancée of the British heir, the dutiful daughter of a family driven by legacy.

But after the flashbulbs dimmed and the applause faded, she slipped into back doors, late-night taxis, and elevator shafts that opened straight into Jaehyun’s penthouse—her true refuge.

They didn’t talk about the danger.

They just… were.

9:42 PM, Jaehyun’s apartment

(Y/n) padded barefoot into the kitchen in his oversized shirt, hair slightly damp from the shower. Jaehyun leaned on the counter, sleeves rolled up, plating takeout dumplings like they were fine cuisine.

She stole a slice of pickled radish. He gave her a look. She gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Your idea of dinner is always three hours late,” she said.

“My idea of love is always worth waiting for,” he replied.

She snorted. “You rehearsed that, didn’t you?”

“A little.” He smiled, handing her chopsticks.

Sometimes they slow danced in the living room without music. Sometimes she cried silently into his shoulder after a press conference with Callum. Sometimes they sat on his balcony in silence, watching the city below, knowing that no one really saw them.

2:11 AM, her locked dressing room after a fashion charity event

She leaned against the vanity, scrolling through Jaehyun’s text.

Jaehyun: Room 804. Key in the drawer. I’m waiting. Don’t sleep angry tonight.

(You): Can’t. I’m in a cage.

Jaehyun: Then I’ll stay awake in mine too.

She smiled. It was sad. But real.

During the day, she played along. She attended brunches with Callum and politely pretended not to flinch when his hand touched hers. Her father praised her publicly for being “mature, patient, and poised.”

But every weekend, every off-script moment, was his.

Jaehyun and (Y/n) moved through the shadows of Seoul like they were building something sacred in secret. Dinner in disguised cafés. Hikes at dawn. Phone calls with the screen dimmed low.

She told him once, while wrapped in his sheets, “You’re the only place I don’t have to act.”

He kissed her shoulder and whispered, “Then stay here a little longer.”

But they both knew time was a luxury they didn’t control.

The world was ticking. Callum was watching. And her father was planning.

But in the stolen in-between, they were real.

And free.

Tuesday, 11:17 PM, Callum’s gala at a luxury hotel ballroom

She stood beside Callum, surrounded by CEOs and diplomats, smiling when prompted. Her wrist was looped loosely in his arm, and from a distance, they looked like the perfect couple.

But Callum leaned in and muttered, “Try not to look so bored, darling. They’re here to see a future Mrs. Wright, not a deflated prop.”

She swallowed her glare. Instead, she excused herself for some “fresh air.”

Upstairs, two floors above the party, in the executive suite he’d secretly booked just for her, Jaehyun waited.

She walked in without knocking.

He looked up from the couch, his tie loose, hands resting on his lap. He said nothing. Just watched her walk across the room, pull the pins from her hair, and finally—breathe.

Then she leaned her forehead to his chest and whispered, “Tell me I’m not crazy.”

Jaehyun’s arms wrapped around her. “You’re not crazy.” “You’re not trapped.” “You’re here. With me.”

They didn’t kiss right away. Just stood there, hearts syncing in a room they didn’t belong to.

Until her lips found his—quiet, needy, desperate—the kind that only happens when you know you have to leave again soon.

Friday, 1:09 AM, Jaehyun’s car, parked on a hilltop overlooking the Han River

“I wish we could just… disappear,” She murmured, curled under his coat in the passenger seat. “Start somewhere new. Change our names. Open a bookstore in some village where no one cares about heirs and daughters and deals.”

He chuckled gently, brushing his thumb along her knuckles. “I’d be a terrible bookseller.”

“You’d charm the old ladies,” she smiled. “Sell out the poetry shelf every week.”

“And you?”

“I’d bake muffins and ignore gossip.”

Jaehyun looked over at her.

“I’d go anywhere with you,” he said.

She blinked fast.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Talking like this isn’t going to kill me when it ends.”

He didn’t answer.

Just pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers one by one, like each one could hold onto time.

Sundays, when they pretended to be real

They had rituals. Small, quiet, hidden rituals.

She left a lipstick mark on his teacup on purpose. He made her playlists that only played offline. They shared a Google calendar labeled “Board Meeting” but filled with fake brunch reservations only they knew.

Jaehyun: “Board meeting rescheduled. My office. Bring your face.”

(You): “Your office doesn’t have a bed.”

Jaehyun: “It does now.”

Sometimes they met in bookstores. Or laundromats. Sometimes in the back row of a quiet cinema, wearing masks and hats like fugitives.

They didn’t post. Didn’t take selfies. Didn’t speak of “someday.”

But every time they met…

…it felt like home.

But reality kept knocking. Louder every week. Callum grew suspicious. Possessive. Harsher. Mr. Kim started mentioning a wedding timeline.

And (Y/n)—She grew quieter at public events. More distant at home. More alive when she was with Jaehyun.

And he could feel it. She was unraveling in both worlds. One that demanded obedience. And one where she was finally herself.

And he knew—Their bubble couldn’t stay hidden forever.

But until it popped…They would steal every second like it was gold.

It began with a call from her father’s assistant. Short. Chilling.

“Mr. Kim would like you home for dinner. No excuses.”

That night, the dining room felt tighter than usual. No candles, no wine, just the weight of what was coming.

She sat straight as ever, silent between spoonfuls of guk. Her mother avoided her gaze. Her father? Calm. Too calm. Then he set his spoon down and spoke.

“The Wrights have agreed to an earlier timeline. Callum’s side wants the wedding this autumn. Before the fiscal quarter ends.”

Her chopsticks paused mid-air.

“…this autumn?”

“As in three months.”

She stared at him. “That wasn’t the plan.”

Her father nodded slowly. “It wasn’t. But it’s what they want now. And we—don’t say no to the Wrights right now.”

She turned to her mother. “You knew?”

Her mother’s lips were pressed into a thin line. “We’re trying to protect what’s left of our legacy.”

“This isn’t a legacy. It’s a prison sentence.”

Mr. Kim narrowed his eyes. “Don’t make this emotional. It’s business. You’re not being sold—you’re being secured. The press already favors this match. Callum has influence. Resources. If we lose him—”

“Then let me go.” Her voice cracked. “Let me out of this.”

Her father stood, slow and cold.

“I gave you time. I let you disappear with your little secret boyfriend behind closed doors, hoping it was just your rebellion passing through.”

She went still. Ice ran down her spine.

He knew.

Mr. Kim stepped closer.

“I had you followed, (Y/n). I’ve seen the late-night visits. The café meetings. The messages. Jaehyun Jeong is not the solution. He’s our competitor’s son. And worse, he’s sentimental. That’s dangerous.”

“Callum raised his hand to me,” she said quietly.

“And he apologized. And hasn’t done it again, has he?” her father snapped. “You think marriage is about love? It’s about alignment. Strategy. Power. This is how the world works, (Y/n).”

She stood up, shaking. “Then I want no part of your world.”

But he just looked at her with sharp, cruel disappointment.

“You don’t have a choice anymore. You’ve been indulged too long.”

That night, Callum sent a message.

Callum: Heard the good news? Autumn in Seoul. Better get your dress ready. I’ll be a good husband. Just don’t make me work for your smile, darling. You’re not that charming.

She didn’t reply.

She just sat on her balcony, in the dark, holding her phone.

Typing.

Deleting.

Typing again.

Finally, she sent one message to Jaehyun.

(You): I think the clock’s ticking faster now. I don’t know what to do. But I’m scared.

And within minutes, it lit up.

Jaehyun: Then let’s burn the clock. Just say when. I’ll be there. We end this.

Two weeks before the wedding

The rain was soft that afternoon—just a whisper against the windows of Jaehyun’s penthouse. (Y/n) had spent the whole morning curled on his couch in one of his hoodies, sipping honey tea, head heavy with the decision she’d already made: She was going to fight for them. Burn every plan her father made. Cancel the wedding. Choose love over legacy.

For once, she would run toward something, not away.

Jaehyun was in the shower, and she was looking for his charger. That was all. Just a charger.

But his work laptop was open. Folders scattered on the desk. Charts. Names. Documents. Something about an internal family restructuring… and there—one tab still open.

Curious, she glanced at it. Her eyes landed on the headline:

Strategic Acquisition Plan: Phase II — Domestic Market Consolidation

She scrolled.

And saw it.

Target: Kim Industries Subnote: “Undercapitalized. High debt-to-income. Current vulnerability post-Wright pullout. Predicted collapse with correct media pressure and phased divestment of suppliers.”

She blinked. What…?

She scrolled further. Jaehyun’s own name signed at the bottom of the executive recommendation. Dated just two weeks ago.

“Aggressive moves within next quarter. Full buyout possible within 6–9 months. Objective: Market sweep and erasure of former rival influence.”

She went completely still.

Her breath stopped.

Something inside her—a thin, shaking thread of hope—snapped.

Was this just… business?

Was she just a pawn in his war? Like Callum said?

Her fingers hovered over the trackpad.

There were notes. Attachments. Cold, clinical language. Graphs showing her father’s company crumbling like an inconvenient pillar in the path of Jeong Empire expansion.

Her father’s voice rang in her memory—

“Jaehyun Jeong is not the solution. He’s sentimental. That’s dangerous.”

Was he?

She stepped back from the desk like it had burned her.

(Y/n) stared out the window. The rain hadn’t stopped. But something in her had.

And from the bathroom, Jaehyun called out—

“Baby, did you find it?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her body was still there. But her trust had already left. So, she left without a sound.

No slammed doors. No angry words. Only the quiet shuffle of her feet on marble floors, and the whisper of a hoodie slipping off her shoulders, folded gently on the couch where she had once felt safe.

She didn’t take her bag. Just her phone. Just her breath. Barely held in. Barely hers anymore. Her fingers trembled as she pressed the elevator button. Not from rage—But from grief. Not the kind that screams. The kind that drowns silently.

She didn’t look back. Didn’t wait for him to notice the air she’d left behind. Didn’t care if he saw the tears in her eyes as she walked out into the rain. The world blurred—Not from the downpour, But from the ache behind her lashes.

Her love, the escape, the heartbeat she’d clung to in secret— It had plans. It had bullet points and projections. It had targets.

And her father’s name wasn’t just on that list. It was the list.

Everything she had fought to protect, he had quietly plotted to dismantle. And whether it was calculated coincidence or merciless timing—to her, it felt like betrayal.

So she kept walking. And walking.

One hand clutching her coat to her chest, The other wiping at the tears that finally won.

Not because she stopped loving him.

But because she still did.

The rain didn’t let up. It soaked her sleeves. Her shoes. Her spirit. (Y/n) didn’t know where she was walking—only that she had to walk. Had to keep moving before the pain fully caught her. Before the memories caught up.

Of Jaehyun brushing his thumb over her cheek when she was too tired to speak. Of him whispering "Stay here a little longer." Of that café in Sinsadong, where they’d made a world no one else could touch.

It was all unraveling now. Not because he didn’t love her—she knew he did. But because love wasn’t clean. And Jaehyun wasn’t just the boy who kissed her forehead in quiet. He was also the son of a business empire. He was raised to conquer. Even if it meant stepping over the world she came from.

Back in the room, Jaehyun noticed immediately. The silence.The stillness. The way the air shifted the second he stepped out of the shower.

“(Y/n)?” he called, towel drying his hair, voice casual at first.

No answer.

He walked into the living room, still damp, expecting her to be curled up where he left her.

Empty.

No coat. No scarf. No shoes by the door.

Just the hoodie she had worn. Neatly folded. Like a final act of grace.

His eyes narrowed. His heart dropped.

He scanned the room—his desk. His folders.

Then it hit him.

Oh God.

He lunged toward his laptop.

And there it was. The open tab. The war plan.

Her father’s name. The cold-blooded summary.

Everything exposed. Everything wrong.

His chest tightened. Not with guilt—he’d kept his family’s interests close. Always. But with fear. Because he had never wanted to hurt her. And yet…

He ran.

Meanwhile, she sat in a quiet train station.

Her wet coat draped over her lap. Her hair stuck to her cheeks. Her phone, heavy in her palm, lit up again.

Jaehyun: (Y/n), please. Talk to me.I didn’t mean for you to find it like that.It’s not what it looks like. Let me explain. Let me—

She turned the screen off.

Her body shook, but she held it in. Tears, rage, grief—every emotion bottled so tight it felt like her ribs might snap.

Because he wasn’t just Jaehyun. He was Jeong Jaehyun. The heir. The strategist. The man who made plans.

And she—she was never just a girl in his arms. She had always been part of the board. Even if he didn’t mean to, He’d made her a chess piece in a war she never agreed to play.

Jaehyun stood in the parking garage, car keys shaking in his hand. Rain soaking his shirt. His heart pounding. He didn't care about the acquisition. Not anymore. Not if it meant losing her.

And he whispered into the dark,

"I was going to choose you over everything…" "Why didn’t you let me explain?"

But she was already gone. And all he had left was her silence.

The days that followed felt like a waking funeral.

(Y/n) went silent.

No more secret meetings. No more messages. No glances across crowded rooms or lipstick stains on borrowed teacups.

She became a porcelain version of herself—poised, perfect, untouchable. (Y/n) Kim, the bride-to-be. The symbol of alliance between empires.

But up close, the cracks were obvious.

Her eyes were dull. Empty in the mornings. Red and swollen in the evenings when she thought no one was watching. Her makeup team started arriving earlier, whispering softly among themselves. Her mother grew more distant. Her father grew more controlling.

Callum, however, was thriving.

Smug, satisfied, victorious.

The tighter the ring fit on her finger, the looser his leash became. And still, she said nothing. Did nothing. Only followed the schedule: fitting, press interviews, venue inspections, a pre-wedding magazine cover shoot where she smiled like a ghost.

And meanwhile—

Jaehyun was losing his mind.

At first, he texted. Called. Waited outside her apartment. Sent notes through mutual friends.

Nothing.

Then his numbers were blocked.

His assistant was informed—politely, officially—that Mr. Jeong was no longer permitted near any Kim family event, nor would any of his representatives be welcome at the ceremony.

Even his private security clearance to her neighborhood was revoked.

Every door slammed shut.

He called her stylist. Her florist. Her driver.

No one answered.

He showed up at her bridal boutique in person. But her mother stepped out instead, perfectly poised, and met him at the door.

“You need to stop this,” she said coolly.

“I need to see her.”

“You’ve seen enough.”

“She’s not well.”

“She will be,” her mother replied. “After the wedding, when this storm passes.”

“You’re marrying her off like she’s a headline,” Jaehyun hissed. “You’re killing her.”

Mrs. Kim’s eyes flickered, and for just a second—just a second—the mask cracked. A mother flickered through.

But then she straightened.

“And you’re breaking her in a different way. She loved you. You turned her world upside down. And now she has to live with the pieces.”

Then she turned and walked back inside.

And Jaehyun—powerful, brilliant Jaehyun—stood outside, soaked in the cold of early fall, fists clenched and helpless.

Inside, (Y/n) stared out the bridal suite window, unaware of the scene below.

Or maybe not unaware. Just too numb to react.

Because love wasn't safe anymore. And betrayal had left its fingerprints on the only place she'd ever felt free.

Four days before the wedding.

(Y/n) stood on the raised platform in her final gown fitting—dressed in white satin and silence. Seamstresses circled her, pinning and smoothing, chirping about veils and sleeve lengths like she was a doll, not a person.

She barely heard them.

All she saw was the mirror in front of her. And the stranger staring back.

Eyes tired. Skin pale. The lace at her collarbone looked like a chain.

Her mother entered a few minutes later, complimenting the fit, reminding her to smile for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow.

“I’ll try,” she murmured.

“Don’t try,” her mother replied without missing a beat. “Do.”

Meanwhile, Jaehyun sat in his father’s office.

Behind him, Seoul glittered. In front of him, Chairman Jeong—calm, sharp, exact.

“I thought I raised a strategist,” his father said coldly, “not a poet.”

“I never planned for her to be part of it,” Jaehyun said through clenched teeth. “You put your emotions where your mind should’ve been,” the chairman snapped. “We don’t lose deals over women.”

“I’m not losing her like this.”

“She left you, Jaehyun. She's not coming back.”

Silence.

Then, “I’m going to that wedding.”

His father raised a brow. “To crash it?”

“To remind her of who she was before she became a weapon.”

Chairman Jeong exhaled, leaned back in his chair. “You walk into that ceremony, and you start a war.”

Jaehyun stood.

“Then I hope they’re ready.”

Wedding Eve.

The ballroom was filled with chandeliers, imported roses, and tension so thick it tasted metallic.

She stood on the balcony of her suite, overlooking the rehearsal dinner as Callum entertained guests below. She clutched the railing, chest tight. A sea of people was cheering for something she was no longer part of.

She heard a knock.

A soft knock. Three taps. Familiar.

Her heart nearly stopped. She turned. But it was only a staff member, delivering her wedding shoes. White. Elegant. Cold.

And when the door shut again, she let herself finally break. Tears rolled silently. Down her cheeks, down her dress.

She whispered to no one, “I miss him.” Not just Jaehyun. Herself.

The version of her that had dreams, coffee dates, wind in her hair and poetry in her heart. The version that rebelled.

She missed that girl.

And she didn’t know if she’d ever see her again.

But across the city—in the stillness of his apartment—Jaehyun packed one suit.

Not for business. For battle.

Because in less than 24 hours, she’d be walking toward a man who never deserved her. And if no one else would stop it—

He would.

Five hours before the wedding. 3:02 AM.

The suite was silent. The flowers were fresh. The veil was steamed. The dress hung like a verdict.

But (Y/n) couldn’t sleep. She sat on the edge of the bed in her robe, bare feet on the carpet, heart thudding so loud it echoed in her ears. Every tick of the wall clock was a countdown. Every blink, a whisper of, "This is it. This is it. This is it."

And then— Knock. Knock. Knock.

Soft. Urgent. Impossible.

Her head jerked up.

No one should be knocking now. Not her mother. Not her planner. Not anyone. She moved toward the door slowly, quietly. Pressed her eye to the peephole.

Her breath caught.

Jaehyun.

Dressed in black. Rain in his hair. Wild eyes. He held up a key card like some poor thief in a suit. (Y/n) hesitated. Then opened the door—just a crack.

“What are you doing here?”

He exhaled, like seeing her physically hurt. “I couldn’t let the sun rise without trying. Without telling you everything.”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “How did you even get in?”

“I stole a card,” he said. “Bribed the valet. Lied to your security. I don’t care.”

She opened the door just a little more, one hand gripping the handle like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“Jaehyun…”

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said immediately. “That file—that plan—I didn’t make it to destroy you. I didn’t even know your father’s company was still on it. It was old—approved by my board before us.”

Her eyes glistened, but her face stayed stone.

“I was going to remove it. I swear to you. The minute I knew you were in my life, I started undoing everything. But I was slow. I was careful. And I lost you before I could finish.”

“You could’ve told me.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

She shook her head, eyes burning. “Don’t you dare say that.”

Jaehyun’s throat tightened. Then—he sank.

Right there, in the hallway of her bridal suite, on the marbled floor…

He dropped to his knees.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m asking you to remember who we were. What we had. What we still have if you want it.”

She stared down at him. The man who had taught her freedom. The man who broke her without trying.

And yet, she still felt her heart throb at the sight of him. On his knees. Begging like a sinner at the altar.

“I would burn everything for you,” he said. “I already have. I pulled the deal. My father threatened to cut me off. I said fine. The plan is dead. I don’t care about the company. I only care about you.”

Silence.

She dropped her gaze, lips trembling.

“You think love can fix everything, Jaehyun,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “But it makes the fight worth it.”

Tears finally fell.

And she hated that she still loved him this much.

“I’m getting married in five hours,” she said, almost choking on it.

“Then run with me in four.” His eyes never left hers. “I’ll wait. Even if it means watching you walk down that aisle. I’ll wait until the last second for you to choose us.”

And then he stood up. Stepped back. Pressed her hand softly before walking away. “Just open the door,” he said, “if you still remember who you are without them.”

And then—he was gone. Leaving her alone. With a choice.

A clock. And a heart still beating for him.

4 hours later. One hour before the wedding. 11:00 AM.

The bridal waiting room was bright—too bright.

Gold trimmings, soft floral wallpaper, and large mirrors reflected her a thousand times over. A princess in a white hanbok-draped wedding gown. Hair flawless. Skin porcelain. Smile… absent.

She sat stiffly on the cream velvet bench, bouquet limp in her hands. Her shoulders were heavy with everything.

People kept coming in. Extended relatives, shareholders, family friends. Each one with a phone. A smile.

She nodded. Numb. Distant. Like a doll in a case.

They sat beside her. Took pictures. Laughed. Left.

One after another.

Her mother poked in occasionally, adjusting the lace. “Pull yourself together, people are watching.” Her father paced the hallway with pride. “Finally, our family is aligning with real power.”

But she didn’t hear them.

Not really.

Her hands trembled slightly in her lap. Her heart beat fast—but not for him. Not for Callum. Not for the gold. Not for the flash. Not for this illusion.

She kept checking the door. Every few seconds. Half-hoping it would open again. Half-dreading it might.

Then— The door did creak slightly. Just a bridesmaid.

“Ten minutes, Miss Kim,” she said. “Make sure your veil’s ready.”

Ten minutes. She couldn’t breathe.

Outside the hall, music was being tuned. Chairs filled with silk and diamonds. Callum was probably checking his hair, smug and confident, certain he had won.

She looked at herself in the mirror. So many people had fought to make her look like a bride. But no one had asked if she felt like one.

And that— That’s when her gaze dropped to the drawer beneath the vanity.

The one the hotel had labeled “emergency supplies.”

She opened it with shaking hands.

Inside: safety pins. Perfume. Band-aids. A pen.

And a hotel notepad.

She blinked.

Then—slowly—picked up the pen. And began to write. Not long. Not perfect. Just real.

"I'm sorry. I can't marry someone I don’t love. I’m done being traded. I’m choosing me."

She folded it. Stood. Her knees nearly gave out from the rush of adrenaline. But her heart—was finally hers again.

She took one last look in the mirror. Pulled off the veil. Dropped it onto the floor. And walked toward the back exit. Not as a runaway bride. But as a woman finally waking up.

11:17 AM.

The string quartet outside played something elegant. Light chatter filled the grand wedding hall. Rows of guests sat waiting, sipping champagne, unaware that the bride had vanished like breath on glass.

Inside, Callum stood at the altar. Hands folded. Jaw tight. He was smirking just a little—not for love. For victory.

He leaned toward the wedding planner, already annoyed. “Where the hell is she?”

Back in the bridal room, a bridesmaid opened the door only to find the bench empty. The veil abandoned. The bouquet slightly wilted. The notepad, sealed with trembling pen, sitting like a bomb.

A scream followed.

Staff panicked. Calls were made. Her mother cried out, “Check the restroom! Check the stairwell!” Her father demanded the exits be sealed.

But it was too late.

11:34 AM. Seoul back streets.

She, the bride, ran.

Wedding dress bunched in her arms, lace dragging against concrete. Sneakers—borrowed from a stylist—scuffed and soaked. Her lungs burned. Her chest felt cracked open. Her heart beat like thunder.

But she was free.

And she had one place to go.

Meanwhile, Jaehyun sat in his parked car across the Han River.

He hadn't gone home. Hadn't changed clothes. Hadn’t moved since he left her door 4 hours ago.

He stared at the clock. 11:39 AM.

Five minutes past ceremony time. He whispered into the silence, “Come on, (Y/n)…”

His phone buzzed. Unknown number. He froze, then picked it up.

“Where are you?” Her voice. Breathless. Real.

He blinked fast, disoriented. “(Y/n)—? Are you—?”

“I’m in a cab,” she panted. “I—I ran. I left. I don’t know what I just did but I left.”

Silence on his end. Then, “You’re insane,” he breathed.

“I know.”

“Where are you going?”

“To you.”

He didn’t even respond. He just turned the ignition and drove.

And then—there she was.

Wedding dress half destroyed. Makeup smudged. Heart in her eyes.

They stared at each other.

And he walked to her slowly, step by step, like she might vanish if he moved too fast.

When they were just inches apart, she whispered, “You waited.”

Jaehyun smiled—heartbreaking and full. “You came.”

Then her hands reached for his collar, and his arms wrapped around her waist, and they crashed into a kiss.

Not a fairytale. Not a scene.

A collision of two broken, desperate hearts that chose each other anyway.

People on the street slowed to stare. But neither of them cared. Not anymore. They had lost everything—Power. Approval. Control. And they had found each other. She leaned her forehead against his.

“I don’t have a plan,” she said softly.

“Good,” Jaehyun whispered. “Because I burned mine for you.”

And under Seoul’s noon sun, with the chaos they left behind, they smiled for the first time—not in secret. But for real.

They left the café after an hour, Jaehyun giving his jacket to cover her gown as they slipped into a rented car with tinted windows. He drove without saying where, one hand always on the wheel, the other reaching for hers every now and then, like he needed to feel she was still there.

He took her up a hill, away from the city, toward a small modern house tucked between trees and sky.

A house with no name.

No photos.

Just peace.

“Whose is this?” she asked softly, stepping into the quiet.

“Ours,” he said. “I bought it last year. Never told anyone. I didn’t know why then. I think I do now.”

She turned toward him. “Jaehyun…”

“I can’t give you a throne,” he said. “I can’t promise you won’t lose more before you heal. But I can promise this—freedom. No press. No company. No war. Just you, me, and time.”

Silence.

Then she exhaled, took a few steps forward, and wrapped her arms around his middle. “I think I’d like to stay here a while.”

He kissed the top of her head.

“You can stay forever.”

And with it, peace.

No headlines, no invitations, no staged photoshoots. Just quiet mornings in thick sweaters and mismatched socks, with her sipping warm tea beside frosted windows, her cheek resting against Jaehyun’s shoulder as he scrolled through a book of Korean poetry he once bought and never opened—until now.

And while her father refused to speak publicly, sources whispered that Kim Industries was bleeding slowly—left fragile after the broken alliance with the Wrights. Callum had returned to London, bruised pride and all, leaking bitterness in high society circles.

Meanwhile, Jaehyun was officially removed from several boards under his father’s control. He’d stepped down willingly, leaving behind a legacy not worth holding onto without her.

Endings. Beautiful ones.

After months of living off-the-grid, Jaehyun sat at their small kitchen table one afternoon—sunlight streaming in, laptop open beside a half-eaten bowl of doenjang jjigae—and finally let himself dream again.

Not for a boardroom. Not for his father. Not for the Jung family name.

But for himself.

And for the future he was building with her.

He called it "Funnel 1912."

A clean, modern business funnel system tailored for small businesses and independent creatives. A platform that focused on authenticity, minimalism, and scalable brand storytelling.

She had laughed when he told her the name. “That sounds like a warship.”

He grinned. “It’s the date my great-grandfather opened his first noodle cart. A legacy—but mine now.”

She helped him design the UI. Clean layouts, intuitive tools, no corporate fluff.

Funnel 1912 offered smart e-commerce integration, real-time analytics, and built-in brand voice templates. It wasn’t just another startup— It was a rebellion dressed in white space and code.

It quietly launched in beta across local business networks. Artists. Café owners. Small brands tired of being swallowed by giant platforms.

And slowly— It took off.

Not because of hype. But because it worked.

It became the tool for dreamers who didn’t want to sell their souls to grow.

Jaehyun worked on it from a small study in the back of their house—surrounded by sketches, code drafts, books, and post-it notes from her that read things like:

“Don’t forget to stretch.”“The soy milk expired three days ago pls don’t die.”“You’re brilliant.”

He wasn’t a rich heir anymore. He was something more dangerous. A man who had lost everything the world thought he needed—and found everything he actually wanted.

Summer crept in quietly.

Thick, slow evenings hummed with cicadas and the scent of her favorite sandalwood candle. Their small home—half wood, half glass—was wrapped in stillness, like the world had paused just for them.

That night, the lights were dim. The windows were open. The curtains swayed with the warm wind. And inside, there was only them.

She had just stepped out of the shower, damp hair falling over her shoulders, one of Jaehyun’s old white button-ups barely hanging on her frame. She padded barefoot into the living room where he sat on the floor, working late again—laptop open, notes scattered, glasses low on his nose.

She leaned down, wordlessly, and kissed the top of his head. He looked up slowly, eyes softening the moment they met hers.

“You smell like rain,” he murmured, brushing her thigh lightly with his fingers.

She hummed. “You smell like overworked genius.”

He chuckled, closing the laptop with one hand, the other resting on her hip. “I can’t think straight when you wear that.”

“It’s your shirt.”

“It’s my weakness.”

She straddled him without a word. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward. It was familiar. Sacred. Safe. The kind of silence that had been earned.

Jaehyun let his hands trail up her thighs, slow, reverent. He kissed her collarbone like he was reading a poem there— Soft, slow, patient. Like time didn’t matter.

“You left a wedding for me,” he whispered against her skin.

She smiled, tugging his glasses off. “I left a life for me. You just happened to be the best part of what came next.”

And then—they let everything else fall away.

The past. The politics. The pain.

Because in that room, with only the sound of the wind and their breathing, they remembered what love looked like—when no one was watching.

His hands on her waist. Her breath hitching as he kissed lower. The way she whispered his name like a promise. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild. It was slow. Certain.

Like two people choosing each other again.

And again.

Until the only thing left was warmth, tangled limbs, and Jaehyun brushing damp hair from her forehead with his thumb, whispering,

“Still the best decision I’ve ever made.”

And her, half-asleep against his chest, whispered back,

“Still the safest place I’ve ever landed.”

They finally registered their marriage and had an officiant conduct a simple ceremony, surrounded by close friends in an intimate celebration.

“Now we’re real,” she whispered.

He kissed her temple.

“We were always real. We just finally have a piece of paper that says the world’s caught up.”

And that night, under the glow of fairy lights and the hush of crickets, two people who had once been born into chaos finally chose something simple; each other, forever, no drama. Just yes.

A memory he holds onto dearly, just before Jaehyun wakes up.

The walls were too white. The air too quiet. No clocks ticked here—time didn’t pass in this place. It just sat.

Jaehyun hadn’t spoken in eight days.

Before that, he’d screamed. The night they dragged him off the street in Gangnam barefoot, shaking, begging strangers to "check the mirror—she’s still writing."

He fought the staff. Tried to run. Collapsed outside the old hotel, whispering her name into the pavement until his voice bled out.

Now—he sat in silence. Motionless in a padded room, thin sweater clinging to his bones, bandages wrapped around both hands (he’d clawed through glass trying to find her reflection in a mirror that wasn’t there).

The doctors called it a psychotic break. But to him, it wasn’t that.

It was grief refusing to be buried. It was the echo of a promise broken by time.

What had happened?

10.15 a.m. The day of the wedding.

It was raining.

Not the cinematic kind— Not dramatic thunder or mournful drizzle— But quiet, grey rain. Soft enough to muffle footsteps. Heavy enough to drown secrets.

The ballroom was set. Rows of cream orchids curved like broken halos. Gold-rimmed name cards. A menu hand-pressed in French.

And in the center, an altar no one would ever reach.

The staff had been whispering for a week.

The bride hadn’t been seen. No rehearsal. No hair trials. No laughter.

Just locked doors. Strict instructions. Silence.

They had assumed it was nerves. Or tradition. Or power.

Until someone knocked on the bridal suite that morning—and no one answered.

It was the youngest staff girl who opened it. Barely nineteen. Too young to understand death. Old enough to feel it before she even saw it.

The room was still. No music. No scent. No bride.

And then—she looked up.

The white veil swayed first. A fragile echo, twisting gently from the ceiling lamp—tangled in a torn cord, no longer meant for light.

The dress was untouched. But the girl inside it—gone. Her bare feet hung inches above the marble floor. A single heel tipped sideways under the vanity.

She stumbled backward, hitting the edge of the vanity, shattering a bottle of perfume.

“Help!” she choked out, throat raw. “Someone—she—she's—”

(to be continued.)

#nct scenarios #nct angst #nct imagines #nct 127 #nct au #jaehyun scenarios #jaehyun angst #jeong jaehyun #jung jaehyun #jaehyun smut #jaehyun fluff #jaehyun imagines #jaehyun x reader #jaehyun nct

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lvl109 · 9 hours ago

Text

raison d'être.

a caleb xia summer fic. rule one: no unnecessary touching.

summary.ᐟ university au. all the lis are friends. no evol au. featuring some npcs (ex: tara, yvonne, etc.) fake dating at a beach house to get over an ex that isn't even yours? much more likely than you think. don't forget your sunscreen and sandals.

tee says.ᐟ and they were roommates... oh my god, they were roommates.

content ahead: non!mc reader, loser caleb shenanigans, yvonne as the inner voice of reason, and the realization that this summer might just be the most insane thing you've gotten yourself into. much to sylus' well known delight. wc: 3.3k.

day one of the holidays and you’re already off to a terrible start.

you sleep through all your alarms, waking up solely to the blaring sound of your phone ringing and a few notifications from your beloved other half reminding you to pack accordingly. you groan and turn over in your sheets, batting at your phone uselessly before managing to grab it and press it to your ear.

“hello…?”

“i’m outside,” a cheerful voice answers, and you pull your phone away from your ear to glare at the screen offendedly. no one should be this happy at…

you squint your phone more closely and huff. nine in the morning.

“who is this,” you mumble, turning around to bury your face in your pillow. “and why are you so happy so early in the morning. are you even human.”

“that’s no way to greet your loving boyfriend so early in the morning. do you want me to cry?”

you flop over in your sheets and send a deadpan glare to your poor ceiling.

“we have rules, caleb.” you frown when he laughs and eventually kick your blanket off to patter around and get ready. “stick to them.”

“just teasing,” he hums and you roll your eyes. “did sylus text you at ass in the morning, too? i swear he doesn’t sleep yet always looks like he snatches a full eight hours. don’t know how he does it.”

“never mind how he does it, why are you outside my apartment so early?” you peek through your curtains like a disgruntled housewife and squint against the sunlight. true to his word, he’s leaning against his car with his phone to his ear. “i was gonna carpool with sy.”

“but we’re dating now, remember? wouldn’t it be weird if we arrived separately?”

you frown and move from the window. you hate to admit it, but he’s right.

“also… sylus knows about the situation,” caleb adds with a disturbing amount of calmness, and you trip over air on your way to the bathroom. it makes you cuss up a furious storm, and you can faintly hair his surprise as you pick your phone up from where it fell.

“you what?!”

“i caved! he’s so… you know that thing he does when he knows you’re hiding something and squeezes it out of you? it’s so scary,” he whines, and you can see the pout on his lips without seeing him. you storm into the bathroom to brush your teeth and glare at your reflection in the mirror. “please don’t be mad… i’ll take the blame for everything if it goes south—”

you spit out toothpaste and frown. “this entire thing was your idea to begin with!”

how could you face your best friend now? you can practically see the shit-eating grin on his face, the gears in his head spinning meticulously, and it’s all you can do to not bang your head on the countertop.

“i bought breakfast in hopes of winning you over,” caleb continues sheepishly, making you squint at your phone incredulously. “it’s your favorite, too…”

you frown once again, grumbling to yourself petulantly. “bet that idiot told you just so you could bribe me out of bed even faster.”

“what? no, i remembered your order from that time we all went cafe hopping.” a short pause. “is that creepy?”

you purse your lips in thought. “yes. you're a creep. hang up, i’m gonna shower.”

“can i come with?”

you hang up before he backtracks and embarrasses himself any further. within the next few hours, you've changed, lugged your suitcases out front, and set out on the road towards impending doom.

the drive to the beach shaves ten years off your lifespan.

breakfast was great, though. he truly had remembered your order down to the amount of milk and sugar in your coffee, and you hum appreciatively as you take a sip. out of the corner of your eye, you see him smile at your response, to which you’re quick to remind him to keep his eyes on the damn road.

four hours and three terrible karaoke sessions from your driver later, and the beach house finally comes into view. you can’t stop the look of awe on your face.

it’s right near the water, beautiful white and baby blue paint reflecting the easy sunlight. it looks straight out of a house hunting magazine, and if you squint, you notice a few others exactly like it and a couple shops further down the shoreline. it’s a property brothers’ dream, you can’t help but think, momentarily forgetting your wiles as you take in the view.

“our lovebirds have arrived!”

your smile drops and you sigh. short lived and curt. typical of your best friend, of course.

he’s quick to make his way over your side as caleb puts the car in park, rushing over to your side with the giant grin you knew he’d be sporting. it’s almost sinister in real life, knowing he could be plotting anything for your evident demise, and you scowl as he throws an arm around your shoulders in greeting.

“sweetheart,” he says easily, and you groan and rest your head on his shoulder. “good for you to make it safely. how was the trip? tara and vonnie?”

“they're coming later.” you think of tara’s excited babbling and yvonne’s list of pre planned beach-related activities at the mention of your two friends—until you see the smug smile on his own lips.

“just out with it already,” you grumble, pinching his side when you hear him laugh. “i know he already told you. don’t make this harder than it already is.”

the both you glance back at caleb, who busies himself with unloading the trunk. you can hear the cogs turning in sylus’ head, thoughtful tapping against your skin giving him away, and you cross your arms to wait for his verdict in silence.

“i’m just curious as to how he managed to convince you,” he finally says, and you deadpan glare at the ground in response. “i thought you hated him?”

“i don’t even know him that well to hate him,” you counter through a hushed hiss, glancing back at the car in case he heard anything. “but he was going to grovel on his knees and probably would never leave me alone if i said no, so—”

“so you’re into begging,” sylus raises a brow, and promptly cackles as he steps back to avoid your slap. “kidding! just kidding. mostly. but i’m just saying this now, none of this works out in your favor.”

“i know,” you grumble, sighing when the trunk slams close and you hear footsteps approaching from being you. “that’s why we have a contract.”

in an attempt to regain some control, you'd drafted the weakest contract you'd ever seen with barely any time to spare. just thinking about it makes you want to bury your head six feet into the sand. caleb had looked at you like you were crazy when you'd brought it up, violet hues narrowing in confusion at why he'd need to sign a piece of paper to date someone, and you'd just glared at him until he'd grumbled his assent and sloppily signed the bottom of the paper.

fake date, you'd reminded him testily. ground rules needed to be set if you were going to spend your summer attached to the hip of someone who didn't know how to move on.

sylus raises his brows so high you swear they nearly reach his hairline. “so they do teach you things in that place after all,” he says incredulously, now earning him a smack to his shoulder. “a contract. that's so cute. i'm placing a bet that it'll be broken within the first month.”

“your faith in me is much appreciated,” you utter dryly. sylus snickers and squeezes your shoulder affectionately.

you'd missed this. missed him, even if it meant being clowned relentlessly. his presence is a familiar sense of grounding even on shifting sand. at least if this blew up in your face, he had a funny story to tell of his ridiculous best friend to his grandchildren. you let yourself burrow into his arms and breathe in the salty air. you wouldn't let caleb ruin your vacation. you were here to enjoy yourself.

a voice clears his throat behind the two of you and you resist the urge to complain. “hope i’m not interrupting anything, but these bags won't carry themselves.”

the two of you look back to caleb staring already, his brows slightly furrowed with a suitcase in both hands. sylus just grins easily, directing you to the front door with a final squeeze to your shoulder before going over to help him. before you leave the two of them, your grip tightens around your shoulder bag as she's all yours, no one's taking her from you in the unmistakable cadence of mirth is the last thing you hear before you stalk off, the sound of sylus laughing wafting out behind you.

the interior is almost enough to make you forget your troubles. it's more hotel than beach house on the inside with its mix of coastal decor and open beam structure, white and blue accents littering couches that looked soft to the touch. white linens part for floor to ceiling windows that filter everything in a warm glow, opening the vast living and dining space to a peek of the ocean just in view. out of the corner of your eye, you spot a grand staircase leading up towards what you assume were the bedrooms.

your breath leaves you in an awed rush as excitement fills you up once again, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. when you blink back into focus, the sound of voices pull you further into the house.

the kitchen space is just as warmly decorated, but your attention is drawn to its current inhabitants sitting at the island. one of them notices your presence mid conversation, a smile tugging at her lips as she lights up and waves you over.

“hi!” her smile is warm as she gets up to greet you, brown eyes shining over clear frames. she's tall when she hops off the high chair, her sandals quiet against the tiled floor as she offers her hand to shake. “you must be the mysterious best friend.”

you blink nervously and shake her hand, the sound of her bracelets clinking under your embarrassed laugh. “yes. that's me, i guess—sorry we haven't met, university and all—”

“uni’s a massive bitch, don't apologize on its behalf.” she waves off any apologies, guiding you further into the kitchen. “we just got here a few minutes ago and sy said that his surprise guest was here, so i figured if it had to be anyone—it had to be you.”

her smile is sweet, genuinely interested as she looks you over. “wait, introductions. super sorry.” she points to herself, “theo. theodosia if you're my mother, teddy if we're cool, but any other variation of my name is alright. tee is the current one i've grown fond of. short and sweet.” theo inclines her head with a even sweeter smile, “and that's zayne. not short, but definitely the sweetest.”

their faces are familiar. you recall them from the rare times sylus would post on instagram in photos that were too cute to have been taken just by himself. you recognize her smile and the quiet fondness zayne held for the both of them, fully on display as theo does the introductions for them. you'd truly vomit if you didn't already think they were cute.

“he talks about you a lot,” zayne offers up his own conversation. wire frames settle on the bridge of his nose as well, pushed up before he continues to speak. “amongst other things. it's good to finally meet you in person.”

you nod with a weaker smile. “all good things, i hope. it's good to finally meet you both.” adding wryly, “thank you for ensuring he doesn't die alone. now he'll stop meddling with my love life.”

theo cackles, utterly delighted at your dry humor, and zayne does his best to tamp down a laugh of his own. it makes you let out a breath, though. they don't know. you don't know whether to laugh or cry about sylus keeping your dilemma a secret. probably in prolonging your suffering. maybe it'd make for good bedside laughter.

the front door bangs open with a loud shout, clamoring and bickering immediately breaking the good atmosphere. you jump in surprise, head whipping towards the commotion. sylus’ laughter is loud, ducking past caleb struggling between keeping the door open, pushing your suitcases through the foyer, and probably strangling the life out of your best friend.

“stop it—i swear to god—hold the door open, you asshole!”

“that's no way to treat your beloved host now, is it?” sylus looks up to find the three of you mingling in the kitchen and brightens significantly, promptly abandoning the suitcases entirely to flit over much to caleb’s immediate dismay.

“introductions were made? great, wonderful.” he leans over for a kiss, to which is happily delivered from both partners. “i hope no embarrassing stories were shared.”

theo brightens almost immediately, turning to face you. “remind me to tell you how he asked me to be his girlfriend. remind me.” she ignores sylus’ instant complaints and just smiles innocently. “it was so cute. he was so nervous.”

this is what you'd come here for. your smile is genuine now in the face of gaining dirt on your usually collected friend, opening your mouth to begin to pry for more information when the sound of a tired groan emits from the living room.

the four of you pause to look at caleb sprawled on the floor, a heap of sweat and exhaustion surrounded by your suitcases. being the closest to him, you force down your disgruntlement and walk towards him with sylus’ gaze boring holes into the back of your head, crouching down and poking his cheek.

“hey.” you clear your throat. no response. “caleb. get off the floor.”

he lays motionless on the ground save for the rise and fall of his chest. his eyes are closed, lashes settling on his cheeks, and you swear you see the faintest splash of freckles across his skin. if you were a weaker person, you'd call it cute. but you're not.

mustering up your courage and letting your dignity pool on the ground at your feet, you let your brows furrow in what you hope is a convincing show of concern. your thumb brushes against his cheek with uncharacteristic softness.

“caleb?” your voice is gentle. caring. his eyelids flutter a bit, his lips just barely keeping a smile at bay. murderous rage flares up inside of you but you keep it classy. one of you has to. “baby, get off the floor. you're blocking the door.”

caleb’s eyes blink open immediately. sylus’ chokes on a poorly hidden laugh. and as if your luck couldn't get any worse, two more figures stand at the open entry.

“aw, cute! why didn't you say anything about getting a boyfriend?”

more than anything, you wish for the ground to swallow you whole.

it's a full house now. with caleb moved (pushed, more like it) out of the way, three additional cars in the driveway bring tara and yvonne, rafayel—another face you recognize from social media, with xavier and emcee being the last to trickle in through the doors. greetings and hugs are exchanged as old friends are introduced to new ones, chatter flitting above your heads.

yvonne stares at you the entire time, her expression a clear sign that she wants to talk. your smile wavers slightly. there was little in this world you feared like the wrath of a medical student.

offering something of a parting smile to caleb, who you'd been in conversation with alongside rafayel, you grab tara from where she'd been examining the decor and lead them both into what you hope is a secluded area far away from the living and dining area. the faint smell of laundry detergent and linen spray hits your nose as you pry a random door open. without thinking twice, you usher them both in and shut the door, leaning against its surface with a sigh.

tara blinks slowly. yvonne continues to stare. so you crumble.

“i can explain—”

“you're dating caleb?” yvonne sputters out over your weak attempt, her eyes widening in disbelief. “caleb? the same caleb who you couldn't even sit next to without immediately moving? the same caleb you swore had it out for you? that caleb?”

at the same time you open your mouth to explain again, tara’s expression grows comically horrified. “you're dating cal—mph?!”

you press your hand against her mouth as her exclamation gets a bit too loud for your liking, wincing at the volume. “...yes. i… i am. but it's new, alright? it hasn't been for long.”

yvonne narrows her eyes. “you said you couldn't fathom how someone could ever want to date someone like him. you called him weird and creepy.”

tara nods. “heavy on the creepy part. plus, like, isn't he in love with his best friend? how in the world did he land you?”

you resist the urge to bang your head against a hard surface for what seems like the nth time. “sylus wanted us to get to know each other,” you lie weakly. “and we just… started talking. and then he asked me to be his girlfriend, and…”

i almost killed him. “i said yes,” you finish lamely. “nothing special happened. we're just figuring things out. that's all.”

“wow.” tara’s expression is torn between looking impressed and a bit confused. “well. you know what they say about boys and beaches!”

your heart lurches. “what do they say—”

“you called him baby in the foyer earlier.” yvonne’s nose wrinkles slightly. “blink twice if you're being held hostage.”

you nearly burst into tears. she had no idea. “i'm not being held hostage,” you grumble petulantly. “i was mostly talking out of my ass. he's not that.. bad once you get to know him.”

that was an hour ago. now, after watching caleb haul your suitcases up to your designated room, you close the door behind you and whirl around to face him, spitting out completely contrary words before he can even speak.

“i'm going to kill you and then throw your body parts into the ocean. that is not a threat, that is a iminent promise.”

caleb doesn't even blink. much to your steadily increasing disbelief, he smiles, settling his hands on his hips. “do you think it worked?”

you want to smack him so bad. because the stunt he'd pulled an hour ago worked better than you thought it did. meeting the girl who had been the object of his (previous? past? you didn't even know anymore) desire had been one of the most nerve wracking experiences of your entire life. at least she was sweet and seemed genuinely happy for the two of you. it was her boyfriend that kind of made you uncomfortable, but you had chalked it up to him not really being a people person.

“fuck you,” you seethe in response, snatching your carryon from off the floor to turn on your heel and storm into the bathroom. “i'm using all the hot water.”

“don't be cruel, c’mon, i'm sorryyy—”

he grabs your wrist before you slam the door in his face, his expression softening into one of true concern. “i didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. i just saw their car and… just acted. no more stunts after this. scout’s honor.”

you look down at where his larger hand nearly engulfs your entire hand. caleb looks down as well before inhaling sharply and letting out an awkward laugh. “right. rule number one. sorry.”

no unnecessary touching. you roll your eyes, turning your back to him. “i don't care what you do. if you're going to embarrass me, i'd just like a warning. my friends are here, too.”

you slam the door shut before he can say anything else.

previous: teaser 𑁍 up next: rule two 𑁍 full masterlist

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ilovolderman · 2 months ago

Text

Dinner Interrogation

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Sam hosts a dinner to uncover the truth about you and Bucky’s relationship.

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, lasagna, lie detector abuse

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

Sam Wilson was finished pretending.

Tonight, he was pulling out all the stops: Dinner. But not just dinner. A full-on sting operation with lasagna and lightly weaponized appetizers.

This wasn’t just a meal. This was war. Operation: Love Actually (But They're Lying).

"Casual, not suspicious" was the theme. He wore a turtleneck for authority. And the guest list? Handpicked for psychological pressure:

You (suspect #1)

Bucky (suspect #2)

Sam (the host, investigator, and emotional wreck)

Natasha (because she lives for drama)

Tony Stark (for tech backup and snark)

Steve Rogers (for “dad energy” and moral guilt leverage)

And Peter Parker, who thought he was just invited for lasagna and board games.

The living room was dimly lit. The table was set. The lasagna was pre-ordered. And in the center of it all, hidden beneath an innocuous decorative centerpiece? A portable StarkTech lie detection device.

Sam checked it one more time. Still green. Still calibrated. Still ready to catch romantic criminals.

You arrived first. Oversized hoodie. Sleepy smile. Suspiciously content.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "That hoodie is two inches too long in the sleeves. EXHIBIT J."

Bucky arrived a few minutes later. Entered through the kitchen like this was a sitcom. Casual. Too casual.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Staggered entry,” he whispered to himself. “Classic deflection tactic.”

Steve gave Sam a look. “This is a friendly dinner, right?”

Sam didn't blink. “Oh, it’s friendly… to the truth.”

Dinner began.

You sat across from each other. Just far enough to look innocent. Close enough to smile at each other when no one was looking. Too choreographed. Too coordinated.

The lasagna was passed around like a peace offering. Peter asked three times if it had walnuts. (It didn’t. He still didn’t trust it.)

Then Sam stood.

“Game time,” he said with a smile that had war crimes energy. “We’re doing a little truth circle. Like spin-the-bottle but without the bottle. Or the fun. Or the spinning.”

Tony groaned. “Oh great, here comes summer camp counselor Sam.”

Steve frowned. “Is this really necessary?”

Natasha was already pouring herself wine. “Shhh. This is better than HBO.”

Beneath the table, the lie detector pulsed.

Sam began.

“Alright. Easy question. Bucky—ever been in love?”

Bucky gave a slow shrug. “Once or twice.”

Green.

“Recently?” Sam pressed.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Define recently.”

“Within the last six months.”

Bucky just smirked. “Hard to say. Time’s a social construct.”

Still green.

Peter blinked. “This feels intense for lasagna night.”

Tony sipped his drink. “You have no idea.”

Sam clenched his jaw. “Right. Fine. You,” he pointed at you. “Same question.”

You looked positively angelic. “What, if I’ve been in love?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely.”

Green.

“Recently?”

You tilted your head. “In a cosmic sense?”

“IN THE LAST SIX MONTHS.”

You smiled. “Possibly.”

Green.

“Can i go next?” Peter asked

Sam ignored him. “Okay. Next question. Ever kissed someone who lives in this building?”

You and Bucky shared a brief glance.

Then, in perfect sync: “No comment.”

Green.

Sam nearly flipped the table. “WHY IS ‘NO COMMENT’ STILL GREEN?!”

Natasha actually laughed into her wine glass. “It’s calibrated to detect lies,” she said, sipping wine. “Not cheeky evasion.”

“Then they are hiding something!” Sam barked, pointing at you “That proves it!”

Bucky leaned back, arms crossed. “Proves we’re smart. Not guilty.”

You bit your lip to hide a smile.

Sam rounded the table. He pointed to your hoodie. “That is HIS hoodie.”

You raised your brows. “Is it?”

Bucky shrugged. “All hoodies look the same.”

Natasha muttered, “Lies. That’s his ‘Wednesday hoodie.’ I’ve seen him fold it.”

Sam snapped his fingers. “HA! COLLATERAL CONFIRMATION.”

You smiled serenely. “Or maybe we just do laundry on the same day.”

Peter whispered to Steve, “This is better than that time Vision tried to cook.”

Sam glared. “Alright. Final question. And I want both of you to answer. Clearly. Slowly. With eye contact.”

He paused for effect.

“Are. You. Dating.”

You both paused.

Then turned to each other.

Then to Sam.

And in the exact same deadpan voice: “No.”

Green.

Sam stared at the device. Then at you. Then at the ceiling. Then back at the device.

“I’ve been betrayed by science.”

Bucky leaned forward. “You okay, man?”

“No!” Sam snapped. “I’m living in a romantic Truman Show and none of you are helping!”

Tony patted his back. “Want some wine?”

“I want answers!”

From under the table, the lie detector shorted out with a sad little pop. Probably from emotional overload.

Peter leaned over to Natasha. “Do you think I could fake-date someone for this kind of dramatic energy?”

Natasha didn’t even look up. “You’d crack in three hours.”

You stood and stretched. “Well, this was enlightening. Thanks for dinner, Sam.”

Sam stood, pointing dramatically. “This isn’t over! You hear me? You can lie to the machine. But you can’t lie to me forever!”

Bucky stood too. “Wanna bet?”

You both started walking toward the door.

Sam pointed wildly. “They’re leaving at the same time!”

Peter: “So?”

Sam: “They didn’t come together!”

Natasha: “Neither did your sanity.”

The door closed behind you.

Sam collapsed into his chair.

Five steps out the door. You both broke. Laughter exploded between you like a popped balloon.

Bucky slung his arm over your shoulders as you leaned into him, giggling helplessly.

“That—” you wheezed, “—was actually cruel.”

He grinned, crooked and smug. “He’s going to short-circuit in his sleep.”

You gave him a sideways look. “The lie detector literally did.”

“Friday probably auto-filed it under 'emotional casualties.’”

You both collapsed into laughter again, and after a moment, he held out his hand with that familiar spark in his eyes.

“C’mon. Lets go to our spot.”

He led you up onto the building’s roof. The door creaked open and the city met you with open arms — the soft hum of traffic below, the wind gentle in your hair, and a sky stretched out like a quiet secret. The rooftop was empty, peaceful. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to you and no one else.

Bucky pulled off his hoodie and draped it over your shoulders without a word. You didn’t even protest, just slid your arms into the sleeves and hugged it close.

It smelled like him. Warm. Safe. You sat down against the low wall at the edge, legs stretched in front of you, and he sat beside you, one arm around your shoulders like it had every right to be there.

Silence settled between you again. but the good kind. The kind that felt earned. Easy.

“I’m perfect,” you said after a while, answering the question he hadn’t yet asked.

Bucky turned his head toward you, a little surprised.

“I just… I don’t love pretending around them,” you admitted, looking out at the skyline. “I mean, I know we’re not lying. Not really. But… it kind of feels like we are. Like we’re sneaking out after curfew.”

He was quiet for a second. Then: “We don’t have to pretend forever.”

“I know.” You leaned your head on his shoulder. “But it’s also kind of fun.”

“Very fun,” he agreed. “Especially when you get that smug look.”

You blinked up at him. “What smug look?”

He grinned. “That one. The one that says ‘we made out in the stairwell and Sam has no idea.’”

You groaned, laughing into his shoulder. “We are going to be the reason he needs therapy.”

“Worth it.”

Bucky leaned down and kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then finally your lips—soft and lingering, like you had all the time in the world. His hand cupped your cheek as your fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt. When he pulled back, you stayed close.

“Think they’ll ever figure it out?” you whispered.

He looked at you like you were his whole world. “I kind of hope not.”

You laughed softly and leaned against him, your hand finding his, your fingers slipping into the spaces like they belonged there. Above you, stars peeked through the clouds, and below, the city buzzed on like it didn’t know your little secret.

From far below, through a cracked window, Sam’s voice echoed faintly into the night:

“FRIDAY, CROSS-REFERENCE EVERY PHOTO OF THEM FROM THE PAST YEAR. I WANT BLINK RATES. I WANT STANCE ANALYSIS. I WANT SHADOWS CHECKED FOR HAND-HOLDING.”

You leaned your head against Bucky’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “We’re safe.”

Back inside, Sam stood triumphantly at the whiteboard he had forcibly dragged into the living room, the wheels squeaking on the hardwood floor as if the entire house was questioning his sanity.

Natasha leaned lazily against the wall, wine glass in hand, her expression somewhere between bemused and concerned.

Peter and Steve were seated at the dining table, playing Scrabble — although Peter had already exhausted every single letter in his limited vocabulary to spell out variations of “Stucky.” (He was still trying to get “Stucky” onto the board despite Steve pretended not to know what it meant.)

Meanwhile, Tony, as usual, was on the couch, projecting photos into the air with what could only be described as a mix of disappointment and genuine curiosity. He flipped through a series of images with the skill of someone who had spent years perfecting the art of snooping.

"Okay," Tony said, clicking through the photos on his holographic display like a man on a mission. "Three feet apart in May. 1.7 feet apart in July. September? Clearly sharing one churro. No context. But I’m sure that was more than a snack.”

Sam scowled at the screen, scribbling furiously on the whiteboard like he was composing the next great espionage novel. “Okay, okay,” he muttered to himself, pulling down a string of yarn across various photos of you and Bucky, as if it was going to somehow solve the mystery. "I need a new plan. A better plan.”

Tony glanced over at him, the kind of look only someone who knew Sam for way too long could pull off. “What’s your next move? Secretly record their Netflix history and analyze their most-watched shows for clues?”

Sam paused for a moment, considering it. Then he snapped his fingers. “...Actually, that could work.”

Natasha slowly lowered her glass, an expression of disbelief dawning on her face. “Sam. You’re kidding, right?”

Sam stood back, “Get ready,” he said ominously. “This will work. I will finally know the truth.”

Natasha looked at the others with a half-smile, then back at Sam. “You’ve officially lost it.”

Tony nodded sagely, popping a piece of popcorn in his mouth. “I feel like we should all start taking bets on whether Sam will completely implode by the end of this.”

Sam, grinning maniacally, “Let’s just see who cracks first.”

next part

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verstappenverse · 2 months ago

Text

You Belong With Me

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max never believed in soulmates until he met you. The only problem? You’re already dating Lando. Somewhere along the way, between late-night calls, inside jokes, and everything in between, you and Max became best friends. He tells himself it’s enough. That the friendship is worth the ache. But as your connection deepens, Max starts to wonder if maybe, just maybe, you feel it too.

Author's Note: Buckle up for 8.6k of pining and angst.💔

8.6k words / Part 2 / Masterlist

He notices you before he knows your name.

It’s a week before the start of the season and he’s already annoyed, the press commitments are piling up, the weather’s unpredictable, and his entire apartment smells faintly like engine oil because someone thought it was a good idea to drop off a suit bag soaked in the stuff.

He doesn’t want to be at the party. He shows up out of obligation, because Red Bull asked and because saying no would mean a series of passive-aggressive texts and PR headaches he doesn't have the bandwidth for right now. It’s the usual kind of thing, sleek rooftop venue, too many influencers, too few genuine smiles. He’s already decided he’s going to stay for exactly one drink, nod at the right people, dodge any cameras, and ghost before someone tries to rope him into a TikTok.

But then he sees you.

Not across the room in some cinematic, slow-motion way. No, you’re closer than that. Just a few steps away, standing on the balcony with one arm resting along the railing, backlit by soft golden light, laughing at something someone said, your hand wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. Your dress catches the breeze, and your hair’s a little messy in the most effortless kind of way. You look like summer feels, warm, untouchable, a little wild around the edges.

And Max stops walking.

Just… stops.

He doesn’t believe in that moment-freezing cliché. He’s not the poetic type. Never has been. But for a second the noise of the party dims, the chatter and music and clinking glasses fading into a kind of distant blur. It's not love at first sight, he doesn’t believe in that either but it is something. A shift. A pull in his chest that feels annoyingly real.

He finds himself staring before he even realises he’s doing it.

Not in a creepy way, at least he hopes not, but with the kind of confusion you get when you see something familiar in a stranger. He doesn’t know you. Hasn’t seen you before, but for some reason he wants to.

Really wants to.

Not because you're beautiful, though you are. It’s something else. He watches you lean in closer to your friend to whisper something, and your smile twists into something conspiratorial. Max swallows, blinking like he’s trying to reset himself.

He doesn’t approach you. Not yet, but for the first time that evening, he forgets about the press, the weather, the oil-stained suit. For the first time in a while he wants to stay.

Because you’re here. And somehow, that changes everything.

He finds himself back near the balcony ten minutes later and it’s definitely not accidental.

He’ll pretend it is if anyone asks. Pretend he just needed a breath of air, or a quieter place to check his messages, but the truth is his feet carried him here on their own. Something about you pulled him in like gravity.

You’re alone now, scrolling through your phone, glass nearly empty. He hesitates just a second, a rare pause for someone so decisive, then clears his throat gently.

“Didn’t think anyone actually came out here for the quiet.” he says, his voice smooth but a little dry, like he’s halfway between a joke and a real observation.

Your head turns at the sound of his voice. You meet his eyes, no flinch, no flicker of recognition, or maybe you do recognise him and you just don’t care.

“Just needed some air,” you reply, gesturing slightly toward the party behind you. “Those rooms start to hum after ten minutes. Felt like my brain was short-circuiting.”

He huffs a laugh and steps closer, just enough to lean on the railing beside you. He keeps his body language easy, casual. Like he’s not trying. Like he’s not thinking about this too much.

“Max,” he offers.

You glance over at him, amused. “Yeah, I know.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, more to himself than anything. “Right. Guess that was dumb.”

“I’m just messing with you,” you say, and God your smile is even better up close. “Nice to meet you Max.”

He watches you sip from your glass, eyes flicking over your features, your mouth, your fingers, the way you keep playing with your bracelet like you don’t even realise you’re doing it. You don’t seem like you’re trying to impress anyone and it’s driving him crazy in the best way.

“You here with someone?” he asks casually.

You nod, but you don’t elaborate.

There’s a beat of silence. You turn to him slightly, your eyes curious. “So... is this your thing? Lurking on balconies, trying to charm strangers?”

“Only the ones who look like they want to leave,” he shoots back, without missing a beat.

You laugh not a fake little chuckle, but a real one. It knocks something loose in his chest.

The rest of the night moves quickly after that.

You end up on a couch somewhere near the bar talking. You both bond over how awkward these events are, how no one ever really knows what to do with their hands during posed photos, how champagne always tastes better in theory than in reality. You both end up swapping stories about the worst flights you’ve taken. Your favourite drivers growing up (and no, he’s not offended he isn’t on your list).

He clutches his chest in mock betrayal. “I’m wounded.”

“You’ll survive,” you say, and you say it with that same sly smile that’s already starting to etch it’s way into his brain.

You like the same takeout spots in Monaco. You both hate olives. Neither of you remembers the last time you properly unpacked a suitcase

He hadn’t expected to laugh this much, you’re funny, sharp, witty, with that kind of dry sarcasm that’s hard to find. You tease him, and he gives it right back. Somehow the conversation twists to childhood stories, to family stuff, the weird in-between space of growing up too fast and never quite knowing if you got it right.

Then you lean in.

Not dramatically. Not flirtatiously. Just close enough to show him something on your phone a photo of your family dog, something stupid you promise will make him laugh. And it does. But he’s barely paying attention, because now he can smell you, that warm, sweet scent with a little bite underneath. He doesn’t know much about perfume, but it smells like you, and now he’s going to think about it every time he catches it again.

He doesn’t want the night to end. He doesn’t want to go back to the party. Or the press schedule. Or the hotel room that smells like engine oil. He just wants to stay in this sliver of time with you, where everything feels quiet and golden and just a little bit dangerous.

The reveal comes too late.

You’re saying goodbye. He doesn’t want to let you go yet, isn’t ready. Hasn’t even gotten your number. He’s halfway through trying to think of a not-too-obvious way to ask when someone steps in behind you, fitting into the space like they’ve always belonged there, an arm slips around your waist.

Max blinks.

Lando.

“Babe, ready to head out?”

The word babe hits harder than it should, loud and casual and completely unexpected. Max goes very still. The world doesn’t stop, but it blurs a little.

You smile up at Lando like you’ve done it a hundred times before, and Max forces something like a polite expression onto his face.

You glance back at him, there’s something like guilt in your expression, like maybe you’ve just remembered the conversation you had. “Sorry,” you say, almost wincing. “I should’ve mentioned. I bet it seems weird now that I didn’t…”

No, he thinks. You didn’t.

“Right,” Max says, forcing a nod. “Yeah. No worries.”

Lando, oblivious to the tension, gives him a quick grin. “Didn’t know you guys had met.”

Max shrugs, keeping his voice neutral. “Yeah, just talked a bit on the balcony.” He pauses then adds, “How’d you two meet?”

Lando nods like that makes sense. “Over the break actually. My sister introduced us.”

Max glances at you then, just for a second, and catches the way your gaze flicks down, like you can’t quite look at him. Or maybe he’s imagining it. Hell, he hopes he’s imagining it.

“She’s great right?” Lando adds, nudging you playfully. “Honestly, don’t know how I pulled it off.”

You roll your eyes, murmuring something under your breath that Max doesn’t catch, but your fingers curl lightly around Lando’s jacket. It’s a small gesture. Familiar. Comfortable.

And suddenly Max feels like an idiot for reading into anything earlier. For thinking you’d smiled at him differently. Like it meant something.

But it felt like something.

Lando slides his hand from your waist to your back, casually possessive in a way that makes something tighten in his chest. “Anyway, we’re gonna head out before anyone get’s a chance to tell her any embarrassing stories. You good mate?”

“Yeah,” he replies, almost too fast. “All good.”

He smiles. It feels like glass in his mouth

You don’t notice. Or maybe you do, but there’s nothing you can say that wouldn’t make it worse. Lando says something Max doesn’t catch and then the two of you turn to go, weaving through the crowd like it’s just another night.

He tells himself it’s fine. Just a good conversation. One night. A pretty girl with a quick laugh and a sharp tongue who happens to be taken. Happens to be dating Lando of all people.

It’s not like it was going anywhere anyway.

So he lets it go, or at least, he tries to.

Pushes it down. Brushes it off. Chalks it up to timing, to circumstance, to a moment that wasn’t meant to stretch past a balcony and a glass of wine.

But forgetting you is harder than it should be, because before he can catch his breath, before the memory even has a chance to fade you’re just there.

Everywhere.

Race weekends. Hospitality lounges. Dinners. Media days, even the random downtime between sessions. Always by Lando’s side, but not just as a silent plus-one. You’re involved. Engaged. Bright. Everyone around you lights up when you laugh, and Max starts to notice that he’s seeking it out.

Not on purpose. At least, that’s what he tells himself, but he catches himself doing it, scanning the motorhome crowd, the paddock, the grid. He starts recognising your laugh before he sees you. Starts hearing your voice in the blur of post-session chaos. Starts catching your eyes sometimes across the garages. Just a flicker.

That same wind-in-your-hair kind of energy that first caught him is still there, and it’s impossible to ignore. And then he hates himself a little for it.

Because it shouldn't matter.

Because you’re with someone.

Because that someone is Lando.

And because the more Max tries to shove you out of his head, the more space you seem to take up.

It gets worse after Bahrain.

He’s just won, lights to flag, clean and clinical, the kind of performance that should leave him floating and for a while it does. The podium, the champagne, the roar of the anthem humming in his chest. The adrenaline, the sweat still drying on his skin, the weight of the trophy in his hands. But now walking through the corridors the high is already starting to fade, dulled around the edges like something’s missing.

He’s still got a towel slung around his neck, his race suit unzipped to the waist, fireproofs sticking to his skin. His heart is only just slowing down. He expects silence, maybe a few staff, instead he walks into the private lounge and sees you.

You’re perched at one of the small round tables, legs crossed effortlessly, sipping from a bright-red can of something fizzy. Your sunglasses are pushed up into your hair and you’re still wearing your paddock lanyard, twirling it around your fingers in absentminded loops. Lando is beside you, hands moving fast as he talks a mile a minute and your laughing softly under your breath.

Max stops for half a second in the doorway before forcing himself to keep walking.

You glance up when you hear him, and your entire face lights up. “Congrats.”

Two syllables. One smile. That’s all it takes.

His pulse spikes harder than it did on Lap 42.

He nods, playing it cool. “Thanks.”

Lando claps him on the back. “Man’s a machine right?”

Max shrugs, offering a quick grin. “It’s a team effort.”

“Still,” you say, standing now, brushing a strand of hair from your face, it’s a simple movement, nothing special and for some reason he wants to memorise it. “You make it look easy. It’s pretty incredible.”

He meets your eyes and for a second all the noise around him disappears like it’s come to do when you're around.

“Thanks,” he says again, quieter now.

Your eyes linger on him for a beat longer than necessary before Lando throws an arm around your shoulder. You lean into his side, casual, unthinking like it’s second nature. Max swallows the bitterness that rises in the back of his throat.

He tells himself to walk away. Go shower. Get food. Do anything other than stand here watching you like he’s forgotten how to move, but instead he stays planted, towel still around his neck, pretending it’s all fine.

Pretending he doesn’t already know this season is going to be a whole lot harder than expected, and not for any reason he could have ever seen coming.

You keep ending up alone together. Not by plan, never that, but by chance, the universe tugging invisible strings.

Like in Miami when Lando disappears during a media block, caught up in a last-minute interview, and somehow Max ends up next to you under an umbrella shade, both of you half-melting in the afternoon heat, hiding from the sun.

You talk, about nothing at first, harmless stuff. What you’d cook for your last meal. Which drivers have the worst music taste. How neither of you really understand the appeal of those dystopian Netflix dating shows, but you both keep watching them anyway.

It’s easy. The kind of conversation that doesn’t feel like it’s building to anything, but still feels like something. You don’t ask him about the race or the standings or how the car feels in Sector 2. You ask him what scares him more, flying or falling. You ask him what he was like at fifteen. If he still remembers the first thing he ever wanted to be.

The topics shift easily drifting from deep to dumb in seconds like you’ve both forgotten this is supposed to be a quick conversation.

“What’s your last meal? And don’t say pasta, because I will absolutely judge you.”

He raises a brow. “You’re judging me already.”

“I’m preemptively judging you,” you clarify, eyes dancing.

He plays along. “Fine. My mum’s tomato soup.”

You gasp and coo. “That’s too wholesome. I was expecting something rich and unhinged like a raw steak with gold leaf on it.”

He smirks. “Guess I’m boring.”

“You’re not boring, Max-a-million,” you say, and it slips out like it’s been said a hundred times before.

He groans, but it’s soft. Familiar. “No. Nope. We’re not doing that.”

“Too late,” you grin.

“Falling,” he says, without thinking. Then, “But not physically. Not like… off a building or something.”

You tilt your head, curious. “Emotionally?”

He shrugs, eyes fixed on a spot in the distance. “Yeah. That kind.”

You nod, like you understand more than you should. “Same.”

“What were you like at fifteen?”

He makes a face. “Annoying. Too serious. Too fast.”

You smile. “Still fast.”

He huffs a breath. “Still serious.”

You lean your head back against the chair. “Did you always want this? Like… this this? F1?”

He glances at you, and your expression is so open, so easy, it knocks something loose in his chest.

“No,” he admits. “I wanted to be a fighter pilot when I was little.”

Your mouth quirks. “You think you can pull off aviators?”

He laughs so hard he forgets where he is. He forgets about the track, the cameras, the points, the pressure.

Somewhere in the middle of a story you’re telling something about a terrible hostel and a street performer with a kazoo. He just listens. Watches your eyes light up.

You’re not just funny. You’re brilliant. Quick-witted. Curious. Passionate in a way that sneaks up on him.

He can feel himself falling. Inch by inch.

And he knows he’s utterly, completely fucked when you call him Max-a-million again while swatting a mosquito off your leg.

He rolls his eyes like he’s offended. “Please stop saying that.”

You grin. “Can’t. Trademarked.”

It’s a very stupid nickname, some dumb inside joke you now have and he rolls his eyes, pretends to hate it, but secretly? He wants to hear you say it again. Wants it stitched into his life like it’s always belonged there.

Wants you.

But he doesn’t know what to do with that, because you’re his friend now. Lando’s girlfriend. Off-limits in the clearest, cruelest way.

So he just keeps sitting there, letting himself fall, while pretending he’s not already at the bottom.

As the season rolls on, it sneaks up on him in pieces.

You’re just there more often now. Not in any deliberate way, but like gravity keeps pulling you into the same spaces. Hospitality lounges, press paddocks, bar balconies. Somehow, he always ends up next to you.

Every time you see each other it’s like you pick up where you left off a rhythm that neither of you ever have to work at. Like you’ve known each other longer than you actually have.

He notices everything.

The way you hand him a piece of gum before FP1, no words, just a slight smirk as he takes it from your palm. The way you laugh with your whole body, unfiltered and open, and how you always lean into him when you do. The way you say his name not with awe, not with flirtation, but with this low warmth that no one else ever quite uses. “Max,” you say, softer, rounder, and every time he hears it, something in his chest tightens.

And the handshake. That dumb little handshake you made up after Imola three taps, a pinky twist, and a snap. He tried to protest it at first. Called it stupid. But now he’s the one who holds his hand out for it when you part ways in the paddock. He never forgets.

It’s your thing. Yours and his.

A friendship. That’s all it is. That’s all he keeps telling himself it is.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t touch. Doesn’t cross lines.

But he thinks about you more than he should. Too often. In the quiet in-between moments after qualifying, before flights, when he’s lying in a hotel room alone with nothing but static playing on the TV. He thinks about the way your eyes find his in a crowd. The way your voice sounds when you're tired. The stupid nickname you gave him and how no one else is allowed to use it now.

It makes him feel guilty. Even though he hasn’t done a thing.

Because you’re with Lando.

Good guy. Friendly. Easy to like. Max has known him long enough to know he always means well, even when he’s immature. He treats you well enough. Laughs with you. Shows you off. You seem happy. Most of the time.

But Max sees it, or maybe he’s imaging it, he’s not sure. The way you sometimes scan a room even when Lando’s right beside you. The way your smile falters when you think no one’s looking. The way your eyes drift past Lando, past the noise and land on him, and for one stupid, selfish second, Max lets himself wonder if maybe you’re searching for him.

If maybe you feel it too.

Lando’s away, off somewhere sunny and overexposed for sponsor dinners and promo shoots, his name attached to three different press stops in forty-eight hours. Max isn’t sure which city he's even in. Maybe Barcelona. Maybe Milan.

Max is at home, alone in Monaco, the apartment quiet except for the hum of the sim rig cooling down. He’s sprawled out on his couch, feet on the coffee table, half-watching Twitch with the volume low.

It starts with a text.

Late. Casual. Random.

You ever actually beat that stupid time trial record?

Max reads the message twice before smirking, thumb already tapping out a reply. He knows exactly what you’re talking about a conversation from a few week ago, back in the hospitality lounge in Japan, where you were complaining (loudly) about how the F1 game had it out for you.

He teased you mercilessly for it. Told you the game was easy. You’d rolled your eyes and promised to prove him wrong.

Nope. Still a tragedy. Wanna coach me through it? Or just sit there and judge?

Both. Obviously.

That’s all it takes.

You join his Discord call a few minutes later. No build-up. No big deal. Just one conversation flowing into another the same way it always does with you.

That night, you play for five hours.

The conversation flows like it always does quick, easy, effortless. You talk trash, accuse each other of cheating, devolve into dumb inside jokes that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else.

You dramatically narrate your own crashes like a race engineer on the verge of a breakdown. He tells you your racing line is criminal. Time melts away. The room around him blurs. He doesn’t even realise how late it’s gotten until the first threads of dawn start filtering through his apartment windows in Monaco.

You yawn and stretch somewhere on the other end of the line. “Well, congrats. You’ve officially ruined sleep for me.”

“That was the plan,” Max replies without missing a beat.

“I feel like we just set a world record,” you say. “For how long two people can talk shit while driving in circles.”

Max lets out a soft laugh, tired, but genuine. “I think that’s called Formula One.”

From there, it becomes a pattern. Not official. Not scheduled. Just something that happens when the time is right.

Post-race Mondays. Rainy midweeks. It’s all easy, effortless, one of you sends a link, the other joins without question. You game, you talk, you lose track of time. Every time, it’s hours. Every time, it feels like five minutes.

You tease him when he loses. Call him dramatic when he blames lag. Mimic his Dutch accent when he’s trying to explain strategy, and somehow, in between the laughing and the bickering and the long silences that aren’t awkward at all you say something that hits too close. That thing about how he hides stress behind sarcasm

Something shifts in his chest. He’s not sure what.

Just that you know him already.

Too well.

The friendship cements itself in those hours. In the in-between.

He starts sending you dumb pictures of his cat sleeping in weird positions stretched out like royalty across his sim chair, paw over its face like it’s had enough of Monaco life. You text each other blurry selfies from the track and half-eaten sandwiches you regret buying. You send him screenshots of your notes app full of nonsense, half-finished grocery lists, your favourite F1 radio quotes, he doesn’t know why he cares, but he reads them all.

You FaceTime from airport terminals and hotel rooms, makeup half-on, hair in a bun, wearing mismatched socks and ranting about a guy who coughed too loud during your workout. You’re real with him. Unfiltered. Messy. Honest in a way most people aren't allowed to be around Max.

You tease him relentlessly about his toddler-style strop whenever he gets worked up mid-game, the way he throws his headset off like it personally betrayed him, the muttered swearing in Dutch, the overly dramatic sighs that echos through the mic.

“You genuinely pout,” you tell him one night, biting back a laugh. “Like actual full-lip, crossed-arms sulking.”

“I do not pout,” he mutters, but he’s already laughing.

He retaliates by poking fun at your Spotify playlists. “There are seven different versions of the same sad acoustic song,” he says. “Do you just hit shuffle and cry?”

There’s a beat of quiet before you both start laughing the kind that builds slowly, peaks, and then rolls into silence again, warm and worn-in.

There’s a day where you speak only in impressions so bad they make you wheeze-laugh into your pillow.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

It’s friendship. Simple. Safe.

But Max feels it, the shift. The pull.

This quiet, slow-burning want that sneaks up on him in quieter moments. The kind of ache that grows without asking for permission.

And then there are the harder days.

You call him when things feel heavy.

When your family’s being difficult. When your job is running you into the ground. When you’re sitting in a hotel hallway barefoot because you just need a minute. You don’t ask for advice. You just talk, and he listens steady, grounded, patient in ways he doesn’t always know how to be for himself.

And when Lando forgets a date not cruelly, just distractedly, a date buried under sponsor events and post-race press, you call Max. You don’t cry. Not at first.

You just sit on the line, voice small, and say, “It’s not even about the date. It’s the fact that I had to remind him.”

He doesn’t judge. Doesn’t rush. Just listens. Holds the silence. Lets you unravel, piece by piece, without trying to fix it. He tells you it’s okay to feel like you deserved more, because you do. He wants to tell you that if it were him, if it were ever him he’d never forget something that mattered to you.

He doesn’t offer the words he wants to, the ones caught behind his teeth. Instead he tells you it’s okay to feel hurt. That it’s not needy to want to be remembered.

He stays on the line long after you’ve stopped crying. Long after the silence settles.

He wants to be the person you can rely on. The one you reach for in the dark, because he’s your friend and he needs to be your friend. Even if it wrecks him a little more every day.

Even if every moment he’s the one you lean on, he’s reminded that he’ll never be the one you lean into.

Your friendship keeps growing. It builds in layers, steady, natural, like something that was always supposed to be there.

The more time you spend together, the more Max notices. Not just the way you make him laugh or the way your jokes land exactly the same way his brain works, but the little things. The quiet compatibilities. The instincts. How you always gravitate to the same seats, how you both hate long dinners, how your movie taste overlaps just enough to fight about it.

You get each other in a way he doesn’t get most people. But none of it changes the one thing he keeps trying not to think about.

You’re still with Lando.

You still sit in his garage, wearing one of his oversized hoodies like it’s second skin. You still wait for him after races, still kiss him behind the pits after any finish no matter what place, like you're proud… like you love him.

And Max just watches.

Always from the sidelines. Always quiet.

Pretending like it doesn’t make his chest feel too tight. Like it doesn’t twist something sharp in his gut. Like he doesn’t want to rip the seams of the universe apart just to be where Lando is.

Because he knows in that deep, frustrated, unshakeable way that he would do it differently.

He wouldn’t forget your coffee order. Wouldn’t cancel dinner because his ego was bruised. Wouldn’t scroll through his phone while you talked about your day, only half-listening, nodding at the wrong parts.

He’d see you.

All of it. The sharp, sarcastic comebacks, the stubbornness, the softness you try to hide when you're tired.

And he’d love it. He already does. But he doesn’t say any of this. He can’t.

So he drives. Focuses. Wins.

Because that’s the one thing he can control. The one part of his life that doesn’t feel completely out of reach.

And still, you’re there.

In his life. Constant conversations woven into the rhythm of his days before he even realises it.

Stupid inside jokes born from race weekends, post-session chaos, and shared hatred for overpriced hotel drinks. Quick updates, check-ins, little things like:

“Guess what I just heard in the hotel lobby? Lift jazz version of your crying-in-the-club song.”

“You looked exhausted earlier drink actual water today, not just energy drinks.”

“Have you eaten today? I have some sushi with your name on it.”

“You blinked seventeen times in that interview. Were you trying to Morse code me?”

“I always know it’s been a long day when your texts stop using punctuation.”

Then it becomes more.

Random questions that spiral. Conversations at 3 a.m. when neither of you can sleep.

Discussions about whether cereal counts as soup, or who you think would survive longer in a zombie apocalypse.

“You’d be dead in the first twenty-four hours,” he says, completely serious.

“Wow. Harsh.”

“You’d trip over a suitcase and get eaten.”

“Bold talk for someone who can’t even do his own laundry.”

“Laundry is not a survival skill.”

You send voice notes sometimes. Half-asleep ones, where your voice is soft and slower, a little hoarse from the day.

Max listens to them more than once.

His phone lights up with your name more than anyone else’s now. And he lets it. Wants it.

Texting doesn’t feel like cheating. Not really.

Even when he knows that it’s the part of his day he looks forward to most.

It starts to feel like a rhythm.

He wakes up thinking about you more often than he means to.

He trains with your voice in his ears, half-listening to a podcast you swore was brilliant, even though he swears he hates podcasts. He lets you explain some ridiculous true crime theory or read him an article in your worst newscaster voice.

He races. He wins. And if you’re not there at the track, not waiting in the garage or watching from the pit wall, he calls you after.

Not for celebration. Just because it feels wrong not to. Like gravity. Like breath.

You’re in the hospitality lobby one weekend, seated on a velvet chair, legs crossed, phone in hand, the lanyard around your neck swinging gently as you talk animatedly to someone on a voice note.

Max spots you instantly, and without thinking, without asking, he drops into the seat beside you.

No greeting. No fanfare. Just that easy kind of silence that only exists between people who don’t have to try.

He leans slightly over your shoulder, peeking at whatever video you’ve pulled up, and listens while you vent. He doesn’t catch all of it. Just the rhythm of your voice, the way it curls and softens when you realise he’s there.

Your foot ends up nudged against his thigh.

You don’t move it.

Neither does he.

It’s nothing. Really.

And it’s everything.

There are moments.

God, there are so many moments.

You watching his post-race interviews and mouthing along with him like you’ve anticipated what’s he going to say next. He catches you doing it once through the reflection of a motorhome window lips syncing in time with his words, eyes narrowed as if willing the reporters to get to the point. He smiles to himself and doesn’t say a word.

There’s the flight from Spa to Zandvoort. You’re all seated in his jet Lando across from you. You’re beside Max, curled up beneath a blanket, and somewhere over Belgium, your head tips gently against his shoulder.

Barely a touch. Barely a weight. Like you didn’t mean to. Like it just happened.

He doesn’t move.

Neither does Lando.

He just glances up once, registers it, and looks away again. And Max sits there, heart pounding, terrified to breathe too deeply in case you wake up and move.

He knows things about you now that no one else seems to remember.

Your favourite lip balm the one that smells like strawberry and always disappears from your bag.

The way you bite your thumbnail when you’re overthinking.

Which songs you skip halfway through, even though you swear they’re your favourites. How your mood shifts when the weather changes. How you always hum under your breath when you’re working on something.

He knows you.

All of you.

Better than anyone he thinks.

And that’s what makes it worse.

Because there’s nothing wrong with what’s happening.

You’re allowed to have friends outside of Lando. You’re allowed to laugh with Max. To sit beside him. To know his drink order and tell him when his hair’s a mess. Lando likes that you get along. He doesn’t question how close you and Max have become. Why would he?

It’s just friendship.

That’s what you keep telling yourselves.

Neither of you ever expected to find someone who fit you so well. Who laughed at the same things, who understood the same family pressures, who found the same stupid YouTube videos funny at 2 a.m.

The three of you hang out together all the time. It’s easy. It’s normal. It’s safe.

And Max, Max tells himself it’s just bad timing. That in another life, in another version of the world, maybe he would’ve met you first. Maybe things would’ve been different.

But that’s not the life they’re living.

You’re happy with Lando.

And Max?

He has to learn to be happy with your friendship.

To be your almost.

There’s a moment that nearly breaks him.

Barcelona.

You’re in his driver room between sessions. You’d followed him in after media, talking without really thinking, plopping down on the small sofa like you belonged there.

He’s at the edge of the treatment table, scrolling through race data on his tablet, only half-focused, because your voice is in the background and it’s oddly comforting.

You’re rambling. The heat’s gotten to you, you're talking in lazy circles, eyelids drooping, your limbs heavy with fatigue.

Then your words trail off mid-sentence, drifting into silence.

And just as your breathing starts to even out, just before you fully tip into sleep, you mumble so quietly he almost misses it.

“I like being around you. You feel safe.”

Max freezes.

Every muscle in his body locks.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares at the floor like it might hold the answer to whatever this is, this thing that keeps happening between you when neither of you are brave enough to name it.

All he can think as his chest tightens and his hands curl against the edge of the table, like that one sentence didn’t just knock the air from his lungs, is how badly he wishes you meant that the way he does. Because to him, safe means home.

People start to notice.

It’s subtle side glances, raised eyebrows, the occasional lingering smirk from someone in the paddock who’s paid just enough attention.

Then it’s Fernando.

After a press conference in Silverstone while Max is sipping water and half-scrolling through his phone, Fernando nudges him with his elbow, eyes gleaming with something that isn’t quite judgment, just amusement.

“That girl of Lando’s,” he says, keeping his voice low but pointed, “the one always hanging around? She’s got you wrapped around her finger huh?”

Max doesn’t look up.

Doesn’t answer.

He just shrugs, the kind of shrug that’s supposed to mean whatever but feels more like don’t ask me that.

But even as he brushes it off, he can feel it on him. Like a bruise that someone’s pressed too hard. A soreness he forgot was there until someone pointed it out.

Because the truth is, he doesn’t even know what to call you.

You’re not his. Not just a friend either, not anymore, not with the way you fill the space around him even when you’re not there.

You’ve become the middle of everything.

The person he’s always half-replying to in his head during interviews, pretending to listen while mentally saving stories to tell you later.

The laugh he waits for. The one he leans toward instinctively when he hears it across the paddock.

The name he types and deletes in his notes app when something good, or stupid, or beautiful happens and he wants no, needs to tell you first.

You’re the part of his day he never wants to end.

He catches himself staring at his phone more than he should.

Waiting for the ping. That green bubble. That small, digital flicker of your attention the one that makes his pulse trip even though he tells himself to stay calm.

Sometimes it’s something simple:

You see this meme?

Other times, it's heavier. Quieter.

I missed talking to you today.

And that one stays with him.

Long after he’s read it. Long after he’s put the phone down. It echoes like a bell rung too close to his chest.

Because what the hell is he supposed to say back?

I miss you like an ache in my chest?

I miss you like a secret?

I miss you like a man in love with someone he can’t have?

Instead, he types something safe.

I’m always here.

And hopes you can read between the lines. Hopes you hear what he’s not saying.

Because he’s loving you in silence. In stillness. In the space between every message, every look, every moment that feels like more than it should.

He’s back home during another break in the season. The sun’s setting and the windows are open, the sea a distant hush below, but none of it helps. The city lights flicker across his apartment walls and his brain won’t stop spinning.

Not about the car. Not about tire degradation or lap delta or next year’s contract.

Just you.

You, like a song stuck on loop in the back of his mind. You, filling every inch of the quiet.

His phone buzzes just after ten. A photo.

Your dog, wearing sunglasses and a crooked little smirk. The caption just says:

He gets his attitude from me.

He replies without hesitation.

Snaps a quick selfie one of the rare ones. No expression, just that deadpan, disinterested look you once claimed made him look like he was pondering the end of the world.

Two minutes later, your response lands.

That’s your sexy face, huh?

His chest tightens.

Not in that fleeting, ego-boosted way most compliments land, this one hits lower. Deeper. Where he keeps the things he never says out loud.

His fingers move before his brain catches up.

You think I’m sexy?

Sent.

The second it delivers, his stomach twists.

Too much. Too obvious. Too fast.

He locks his phone and tosses it on the couch, stands up too quickly, starts pacing, heart pounding, blood hot, regret already blooming in the back of his throat.

You leave it on read.

For two hours.

He checks the time. Then again. Then again. He thinks about calling one of his friends just to scream into the void. Thinks about throwing his phone into the sea.

He doesn’t.

But he wants to.

It’s almost midnight when his screen finally lights up again.

One line.

Don’t do that.

That’s all you say.

No emoji. No follow-up. No explanation.

Max stares at the words like they might rearrange themselves if he waits long enough.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. He types something deletes it. Types again. Backspaces. The silence stretches around him, and suddenly, the apartment feels too big. The lights too dim. The air too still.

Don’t do that.

He knows what you meant. He knows where the line is and how close he just got to crossing it.

But something about your words doesn’t feel like rejection. It feels like a warning.

Like you feel it too.

Like you’re scared of it, just as much as he is.

He sits back down slowly, phone in hand, thumb still frozen over the screen. His heart thuds painfully behind his ribs. He doesn’t reply. Not yet.

But he doesn’t turn the phone off either.

Because for the first time, in all this silence, he wonders…

Maybe I’m not alone in this.

And that thought alone is enough to undo him.

Max doesn’t love going out during the season.

He hates the noise. The cameras. The press of people pretending not to stare, the unspoken pressure to smile, but tonight is different, because you’ll be there, that’s all it takes.

One look at your name on the guest list attached to Lando’s, of course and suddenly the noise doesn’t seem so bad. Suddenly, the chaos feels worth it if it means seeing you again. Laughing with you. Even if it’s only for a moment.

Even if it hurts.

Because Max will take whatever pieces of you he can get.

Even the ones that aren’t his to keep.

It’s a sponsor party, not wild, not chaotic. Just sleek. Polished. Expensive lighting and cold champagne.

He spends longer getting ready than he wants to admit. Wears the cologne you once said smelled good. Buttons up the deep navy shirt you teased him about months ago the one you said made his shoulders look strong. He catches himself adjusting his watch in the mirror. Then rolls his eyes at his own reflection.

He tells himself not to expect anything. Buries it beneath the surface where all the other unsaid things live.

But still, something in his chest is restless.

Maybe tonight.

Maybe you’ll look at him the way he looks at you, like you already know the ending and you’re afraid of it.

You walk in twenty minutes late, effortlessly stunning in a black dress that hugs you in all the right places, and Max forgets whatever he was just talking about.

Time doesn’t stop. But it stutters.

You spot him across the room and smile not politely, not vaguely, but with that spark you always give him. Like you’re glad he’s here. Like you’re looking for him, not just seeing him.

You make your way over with a glass of something pale and sparkling in your hand. Your earrings catch the light. Your heels click like punctuation on the marble floor.

“No Lando?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

You glance over, “He’s running late.”

Max shrugs, keeping his voice light. “Guess I got lucky.”

You don’t leave his side after that.

You drift with him through the room not clinging, but constant. Your hand brushes his arm when you lean in to speak. You laugh more easily tonight. Your shoulders are looser. You're drinking more than usual not messy, just a little free.

At one point, you tilt your head and look him up and down, eyes flicking to the open collar of his shirt.

“You clean up nice,” you say, voice dipped in something warm.

Max lifts his drink, smirking. “Not too bad yourself.”

It’s just you and him, suspended in the kind of unspoken tension that’s almost worse than anything you could say out loud.

You reach for his drink, take a sip without asking, then hand it back. Your fingers graze his barely there, but it’s enough to set something inside him alight.

They linger.

And Max, God help him, lets himself believe. Just for a second.

Maybe this is finally the start of something.

But then you disappear.

For half an hour, maybe more. Long enough for the champagne to go warm in his hand. Long enough for the hope to start dissolving at the edges.

He mingles. Nods along with sponsors. Forces a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. Keeps scanning the room.

Then he sees you.

Your back is to him.

And Lando’s arms are wrapped around you.

You're standing just off the dance floor, the picture of easy affection. His mouth is at your ear and you’re laughing, head tilted, one hand curling around the edge of his jacket. It’s intimate in a way Max has no right to look at. Like you belong there. Like whatever flickered earlier was just a trick of the light.

Max freezes. Not the quiet ache he’s gotten used to. Not the slow burn of unspoken feelings. No, this is worse.

Because for one stupid, vulnerable moment, he really thought maybe.

And now?

Now he’s choking on it.

You pull back from Lando just slightly, smiling as you rest your hand on his chest. You don’t see Max across the room, but he sees everything.

And he turns away before you can.

Before you catch the way his jaw clenches so tight it hurts. Before you notice how his hand trembles as he downs the rest of his drink in one swallow, needing to dull the sharpness clawing at his ribs.

Wishing, not for something dramatic, not for a grand gesture, just for a door to close and a world where he doesn’t have to watch the person he loves choose someone else.

Later someone on his team finds him outside up on the rooftop balcony, the music’s faint up here. The noise muffled.

Max sits on the ledge, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the skyline like it might offer some kind of answer.

“What’s that face for?” They asks, voice cautious but not unkind.

He shrugs, eyes never leaving the horizon. “I don’t know. Thought I almost had something tonight.”

He doesn’t say it was you.

Doesn’t say that your laugh is still bouncing around in his skull like an echo he can’t get rid of. Doesn’t say that he saw the way you looked at him before Lando showed up.

He just stays quiet. Lets the night air settle over him. Lets the ache sit in his chest like a stone. And wonders, not for the first time, how it’s possible to be surrounded by people and still feel completely alone.

He knows the truth now. He’s utterly, irrevocably, silently in love with you.

And it’s never going to matter. Not in the way he wants it to.

It comes to a head in Monza.

The sky is impossibly blue, the air heavy with sun and sound, the track a blur of heat haze and anticipation. And you… you're radiant.

Max notices it the second he sees you.

Light dress. Sun-kissed skin. Hair down and wild like an afterthought, sunglasses perched on your head like you forgot they were there. You look like summer distilled into a person, it reminds him of the first time he saw you.

And you’re his for the day not in any official, spoken way, but in the quiet, unspoken rhythm you’ve built between you. Lando’s doing PR, media rounds that keep him off-site, and somehow, like it always seems to happen, you end up with Max.

You spend most of the afternoon in the Red Bull garage.

You’re at his side during debriefs, leaning in close as he reviews sectors. You scroll through telemetry with an almost comically serious look on your face, brow furrowed in focus, asking questions that most people wouldn’t even think to ask. The kind that make Max grin. Because you get it.

You care.

And for the first time in weeks, something cracks open in his chest, something reckless and stupid and full of hope.

She wants to be here, he thinks.

She wants to be with me.

You’re both laughing over something stupid during lunch when Alex walks past, then slows. Double-takes.

He throws a look between the two of you, not cruel, just amused, and loud enough to cut through the bubble you’ve been living in.

“Didn’t realise you were on Red Bull’s payroll now,” he says to you with a raised brow, voice too casual to be casual.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He shrugs, smirking. “I mean, you spend more time in their garage than McLaren’s. Pretty sure Lando’s starting to look around like he lost his girlfriend.”

Max freezes.

It hits like cold water. A slap. A warning.

You laugh, light, quick, deflective. “Okay, wow. Bit dramatic.”

But Max sees it. The flicker in your expression. The way your eyes dart away. That brief, faltering pause where you’re not quite sure what to do.

Alex walks off, leaving behind the silence.

The kind that buzzes.

Like something just cracked wide open.

Because until now, no one had said anything. Not even Lando. Not about the way you and Max orbit each other like gravity. Not about the way you light up when Max is near. Not about the way he looks at you like he’s trying to memorise the moment before it’s gone.

But now it’s been said. Out loud. Witnessed.

And Max feels it.

The beginning of the end.

You’re quieter the rest of the weekend.

Shorter texts. Delayed replies. No FaceTime, not even a “can’t talk, I’m tired.” Just silence.

The next morning, you’re not there before FP3. You don’t show up after quali. You don’t come by the garage all weekend.

It’s like being cut off from oxygen.

Max tells himself not to overthink it.

But when the second race weekend goes by and your messages keep coming in cold and clipped, he feels it in his bones.

You’ve pulled away.

He doesn’t need a conversation to know it. He can feel the distance like a phantom pain.

When you finally call, it’s early. Static-filled. Rushed.

“Hey,” you say, breath catching in your throat. “Sorry… Yeah… Just trying to be more present. With Lando. I think I’ve been too wrapped up in other things.”

Other things.

You don’t name it. But he knows. He knows.

Max doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares at the floor, gripping his phone like it’s anchoring him to something that’s already slipping away.

You clear your throat. “You understand right?”

He lies.

“Yeah. Of course.”

You hang up after promising to “catch up soon.”

And Max is left alone, phone still warm in his hand, screen dark.

This is right. This is what should’ve happened months ago. It’s the mature thing. The loyal thing. You’re choosing your relationship. You’re choosing him.

But it feels like losing a limb. Like he has to relearn how to walk, talk, breathe without the constant pulse of you in his life.

The silence stretches. Days. Weeks.

You still text sometimes. Safe things. Surface things. Memes. Some media gossip.

But it’s different. There’s space between every message now. Hesitation in every word. You don’t send voice notes, you don’t call when you can’t sleep, and Max for all his stubbornness, for all his fight, doesn’t push.

He just waits.

And waits.

Weeks later. Singapore. Hot. Noisy. Tense.

And Max is tired of pretending he’s fine. That night, Max opens your chat.

Types:

I miss you.

Deletes it.

Types again:

I wish things were different.

Deletes that too.

Stares at the blinking cursor until it fades, and closes the app without sending anything at all.

Just lies back in the dark, phone forgotten on his chest, eyes on the ceiling. Until long past midnight, just as he thinks he's finally stopped waiting

His phone lights up. Like you knew somehow that tonight was the night he needed it most. The ache he thought he was hiding so well, mirrored right back at him.

One message.

Three words.

Are you awake?

1K notes · View notes

leclerc-hs · 3 months ago

Text

the prince of monaco - cl16

pairing: prince! charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which a sad prince and a common girl cross paths or charles and you find yourself in a forbidden romance warnings: ANGST, smut, language!!! idk what else I'm missing. ANGST ANGST ANGST. not proofread. word count: 5.6k authors note: SURPRISEEEEEE! FIRST CHARLES FIC OF THE YEAR FINALLY. i hope you guys like it & i know you might haaate my guts after but it had to be done LOL. let me know what you think!! love hearing from y’all ALWAYS. xoxo

The palace was too quiet at night. Not peaceful. Hollow.

The kind of silence that rang in your ears and made your own breath sound like betrayal.

Marble floors stretched endlessly beneath Charles’s bare feet, cold and gleaming under the antique chandeliers. He wandered them like a ghost…aimless, invisible, half-dead in a golden cage. A prince draped in silk robes and golden obligations, walking the halls of a kingdom he no longer wanted.

Every corridor smelled like lemon polish and old money. Every portrait he passed stared down with painted eyes. Kings and queens carved from duty, immortalized in oil and expectation.

But Charles wasn’t thinking of them.

His mind was across the city, far from the manicured courtyards and diplomatic smiles. He was with you.

In that cramped little room above Le Vieux Lion, where the wallpaper peeled and the sheets smelled like your perfume.

Where the sea didn’t sparkle for tourists, it slapped the dock with rage. Where the nights weren’t silent, they breathed. They lived.

Where he remembered what it felt like to be wanted, not needed.

He hadn’t seen you in a week. Not since the news.

His father, Sovereign Prince of Monaco, had announced the engagement over dinner, voice as calm as a guillotine dropping.

An alliance. A family legacy. A strategic merger in the form of a wedding.

His mother didn’t blink, just reached for her wine. His sister, seated to his left, squeezed his hand beneath the table…the only rebellion anyone dared to offer.

Charles didn’t say a word.

Not when they showed him the ring.

Not when the date was set.

Not even when the royal tailor measured him for the suit he’d wear to sign away the rest of his life.

He waited. Watched. Swallowed it all.

And then he left.

He didn’t take the servant’s route. Didn’t don a disguise.

He walked straight out the east wing, through the marble archway, silk robe replaced by a hoodie. Soft, frayed, yours.

He pulled it tight around himself like armor and slipped into the black car waiting at the edge of the drive. No driver asked where he was going. The guards didn’t move. They knew better than to ask.

Two Years Earlier

The night air outside was warm and heavy with salt. One of those late summer nights where the heat stuck to your skin like a secret. Inside the bar, the ceiling fan creaked in slow, useless circles, stirring nothing but stale smoke and the lingering bitterness of spilled gin.

You were behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, fingers aching from a double shift. The radio played some old French dude, warbling about heartbreak and cigarettes like he’d invented them. A few regulars lingered, quiet and slumped, clinging to their glasses like lifeboats.

That’s when the door creaked open, and he walked in.

Not stumbled, walked. Like he owned the damn place. Like Monaco wasn’t five miles of tight streets and old money and marble prisons, and he wasn’t one of the poor bastards with a crown stitched into his skin.

He looked wrong in the best way.

Dark jeans, leather jacket that probably cost more than your rent. Hair slightly tousled like he wanted it to look like he hadn’t just stepped out of a car worth six figures. And that face…familiar in the way a storm cloud is familiar. You know it’s going to ruin you before it even arrives.

He had that smile. The kind women warn their friends about. Lazy. Expensive. Designed for headlines.

“Got anything that won’t kill me?” He asked, voice smooth like old bourbon, like he already knew you’d give him what he wanted.

You didn’t even glance up. Just kept wiping down the bar with a rag that had fought too many battles.

“That depends,” you said flatly. “You allergic to alcohol, or just fragile?”

The silence that followed was sharp, then broken by a laugh. Low. Rich. Surprised. Like no one had spoken to him like that in years.

“I like you already,” he said.

“Tragic,” you muttered, finally giving him a look. “I already want you to leave.”

He blinked, caught off guard. And then his grin widened, teeth white against the soft shadow of stubble on his jaw.

“What’s your name?” He asked, eyes flicking down, then back up. Slow, deliberate, like he was cataloguing you.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “What’s yours?”

“Charles,” he said smoothly, like the name should mean something.

You gave him a slow, unimpressed once-over. “Charles. No last name? No title? You forgot the part where you tell me you’re a libra and looking for a real connection.”

He leaned forward on his elbows, mouth tugging into a smirk. “I am a libra, actually.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

“Of course you are.” You turned, grabbing the cleanest glass you could fine, and poured something sharp and unmerciful into it. “Here. Drink. Leave, Or don’t. Just don’t flirt with me like I’m stupid.”

He took the glass, eyes still on you. Sipped. Winced, just slightly, not used to the burn, but didn’t complain.

He liked it.

You could tell.

You were already walking away when he said it, voice low but clear:

“You still didn’t tell me your name.”

You didn’t stop. Just threw a look over your shoulder, that half-smirk you saved for people who thought they were too clever.

“If you come back tomorrow,” you said, “maybe I’ll lie and give you one.”

He stayed until close.

The door opened with a soft groan, that old, familiar hinge that had screamed a hundred comings and goings. But this time, it was different. The air changed. You felt it before you saw him.

The hum of the bar dimmed. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed near the back. But your hands paused, just briefly, over the half-dried wine glass in your fingers.

And then, there he was. In the doorway.

He leaned against the frame like he had all the time in the world—wearing the same leather jacket, but tonight it was zipped halfway down, revealing a black shirt that clung just enough to his chest to make your stomach tighten. His hair was messier, like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. Or maybe he wanted it to look like someone else had.

His eyes found you instantly. No scan of the room. No pretense. Just direct, deliberate contact, like he’d been thinking about you all day and came to see if the memory lived up to the real thing.

It did.

You didn’t look away. Didn’t smile. Just raised a brow and went back to your glass.

He crossed the room slowly, like he knew the weight of every step. Like he was aware that people were watching him but didn’t care. Or maybe he liked it. Maybe he liked knowing he could have anyone in the room. Except the only one he wanted still hadn’t given him her name.

He slid into the same stool as the night before, elbows on the bar, that same infuriating smirk curling at his mouth.

“I came back,” he said. Voice low, warm. Like a promise you shouldn’t believe.

“I noticed,” you replied, not looking at him as you reached for a fresh glass. “Didn’t expect Monaco’s golden boy to slum it two nights in a row.”

He chuckled…and God, the sound was dangerous.

“Slumming it,” he echoed. “That what you think this is?”

You finally looked at him…fully, openly. And it hit you like a slow, burning wave. He was too close. Too handsome. Too confident in a way that wasn’t just money or power. It was something in his eyes—that flicker of hunger, of loneliness, of knowing what he wanted and hating himself for wanting it.

“This isn’t your world,” you said quietly. “You don’t belong here.”

He leaned in a little. Not enough to touch. Just enough that your breath caught.

“No,” he murmured. “But it’s yours.”

Your heart stuttered. You hated the way he said it. Like it was a confession wrapped in silk. Like he didn’t mean to mean it, but he did.

You slid the drink in front of him, fingers brushing his just barely…and even that felt like too much.

“You being here is a bad idea.” You whispered.

His eyes were on your mouth now. His smile was gone. “Then stop me.”

You didn’t stop him.

And he didn’t leave.

He kept coming back.

Not with fanfare. Not like royalty.

But quietly. Always late, always alone.

There were no photographers waiting outside, no clipped palace escorts, no watchful guards trailing behind him. He wore anonymity like armor. Hood pulled low, hands in pockets, head slightly down like he didn’t want the world to recognize him. Or maybe he didn’t care if it did.

He came as Charles. Not as a prince. Not as a future king. Just…Charles.

Worn leather jacket, soft hoodie, shadows beneath his eyes, and the kind of smile that looked like it had forgotten how to be whole. He smelled like night air and something faintly bitter—like espresso left too long in the pot. And every time he looked at you, it would felt like you were being read, not watched. Like he saw every layer you tried to keep hidden behind sarcasm and smoke.

You hated how much you liked it.

At first, he sat at the bar.

Always in the same stool, hands cradling a chipped tumbler of whiskey he nursed more for the comfort than the taste. He didn’t flirt. Not outright. He asked about your night, the music, the bar fights you’d broken up over that week. He smirked at your answers, raised an eyebrow at your insults. Said your name like he was trying to memorize the shape of it in his mouth.

You tried not to care.

Tried not to notice the way he leaned in, just slightly, whenever you spoke.

Tried not to wonder why a man with the world at his feet kept choosing your tiny corner of it.

But he did.

Then, one night, you turned around and he was behind the bar.

Not on the customer’s side, but on yours.

He leaned casually against the shelves like he belonged there, like he hadn’t just crossed the invisible line between your world and his.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You asked, arms crossed, not bothering to hide the irritation, or the pulse suddenly roaring in your ears.

He held up a wine glass and a dish rag with a crooked grin. “Thought I’d lend a hand.”

“You’re holding that like it insulted you.”

“Could be worse,” he said, examining the stem with mock seriousness. “Could be holding my dignity. But I think I left that back at the palace.”

You snorted despite yourself. “You’re useless.”

He leaned in closer, voice lowering just enough to stir something under your ribs. “And yet…you haven’t told me to leave.”

You said nothing. But your silence felt like permission.

He started coming earlier. Staying later.

He’d drift in before your shift ended, slip through the back door like he belonged there. Sometimes he brought pastries, sometimes coffee. Once, inexplicably, a worn book littered with his handwriting on the pages.

“Though you might like this one,” he’d said with a shrug.

He’d sit in your space like it was second nature. Perching on the edge of the counter, watching you work, making soft commentary on your music taste.

“You play the same six songs,” he’d mutter, clicking through your ancient playlist.

“They’re classics.”

“They’re depressing.”

You glanced at him. “So are you.”

He smiled softly. “That’s probably why I keep coming back here.”

He asked you questions no one else dared.

Not the polite kind. Not surface things. He wanted the bones. The quiet hurts. The dreams you hadn’t spoken out loud before. Sometimes you answered. Sometimes you didn’t. But you never once, told him to stop asking.

And in return, he gave you pieces of himself. Unvarnished ones. The kind they didn’t print in the magazines.

“I hate the palace,” he confessed once, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach you. “Every room echoes. You start to wonder if you exist as all, or if you’re just…noise in a marble tomb.”

You didn’t reply. You just glanced at him until he did that thing with his jaw, the clench, like he’d said too much. Like he was scared of how much he wanted you to hear it.

There were moments when it felt like something would snap.

His hand brushing yours when you passed him a glass…not on accident, not anymore. His fingers would linger a fraction too long, just enough to let your pulse stutter, just enough to make you feel it later, alone in the dark.

The way he leaned in when he spoke, low and close, his breath grazing your neck, your jaw, the edge of your mouth like a secret he hadn’t confessed yet.

You stopped hearing his words. You only felt them.

You knew the shape of his mouth now. The way his bottom lip curved when he was trying not to smile. The faint pink of it after a drink. The way it moved when he said your name, like it was something he wanted, no needed, to taste.

And you hated it.

How much you wanted him to.

One night, while you closed up, the lights were low, doors locked, just you and the hum of the city outside...you caught him watching you.

Really watching.

He stood behind the bar, hands in his pockets, posture casual. But his eyes were anything bit. They followed you like he was hungry. Like he was memorizing the way your shoulders moved beneath your shirt, the way your fingers gripped the edge of the counter, the way your lips parted whenever you sighed without realizing it.

He looked at you like he didn’t know how to stop.

You leaned on the bar, trying to keep your voice steady, playful. “You always this much of a romantic?”

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t even blink. Just stared, his gaze flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. It was so fast that you could’ve missed it. But you didn’t.

“No,” he said. His voice rougher than usual. “Just with you.”

Your breath caught. Just for a second.

Your lips parted, something sharp and stupid rising. A comeback, a deflection. But nothing came out.

Your lips moved, then stopped.

And he looked away, jaw tight.

Not because he didn’t want to see what you were about to say. But because he already knew. And he couldn’t bear it.

The bar was quieter than usual. Only the hum of the cooler and the occasional creak of the old wood floor filled the silence. Rain tapped softly against the windows, more mist than storm, casting blurry halos around the streetlamp outside.

You should’ve been locking up. Should’ve told him to go.

But he was sitting at the bar again, legs swinging slowly, drink untouched, eyes on you like he was waiting for something neither of you could name.

And you weren’t moving. Not really.

You were pretending to count the bottles behind the counter, pretending your hands weren’t trembling just slightly, pretending you didn’t feel the way the air between you hadn’t changed.

Thicker now. Heavier. Laced with heat.

“I think about you,” he said suddenly, voice low—like he hadn’t meant to speak but couldn’t hold it back anymore.

Your fingers pause over a single bottle.

“In meetings. In cars. In rooms where I’m supposed to be someone I don’t even recognize anymore.” His voice dipped, softening, unraveling. “I think about this bar. About you.”

You swallowed hard. “Charles—“

"I know,” he cut in. “Don’t say it. Don’t say we shouldn’t.”

He slid off the bar in one fluid movement and stepped around it…slow, deliberate, as if trying to give you every chance to stop him. You didn’t.

Now he was standing in front of you. Too close.

The kind of close where the heat of him was brushing against your skin, where you could smell the rain still clinging to his clothes and the hint of citrus on his breath.

His hand hovered between you. Not touching. Just hanging there in the space that ached for more.

“Just…let me look at you.” He mutters, eyes sad.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe.

His fingers rose slowly, the knuckles of fingers brushed your jaw. Barely. Like even that felt too intimate. Too much.

But it wasn’t enough. God, it wasn’t even close to enough.

His hand turned, fingertips now tracing the line of your cheekbones. Featherlight. The kind of touch that wasn’t claiming, just asking.

He steps closer, close enough that your chests are nearly pressed together with every breath of air.

His thumb slid under your jaw, tilting your face up, and his eyes were fire and ruin and something devastatingly gentle all at once. Like he wanted to memorize you the way people memorize song lyrics. The way they memorize prayers.

His lips part and your heart nearly stops.

Then, he pulls back. Just an inch.

Just enough to break the spell. He stared at you like he hated himself for stopping.

His hand drops to his side like it weighed too much to carry.

Then, just barely, you whisper, “why didn’t you kiss me?”

He sighs, like your words physically pain him.

“Because if I do,” he says, voice wrecked. “I won’t stop.”

It was the first time in weeks you’d let yourself be seen.

You didn’t know if it was the dress; midnight black, backless, clinging to you like it had been painted on, or the third drink warming your veins, but for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t thinking about him.

Or at least, you were trying not to.

The music was low and sexy. Your friends circled you, glittering and laughing, pulling you toward the edge of the dance floor under the pink-gold haze of the club lights. You let them. You let yourself move. Let yourself laugh. Let your head tilt back when that guy James said something cocky but charming into your ear.

His hand found your hip, just light enough to feel like suggestion, not possession. And you let him keep it there.

Because Charles wasn’t here.

Because tonight, you weren’t the girl in the back of the run-down bar, aching for something she couldn’t have.

You were fun. You were untouchable. You were free.

And then, you felt it.

The shift in the room was subtle at first, like a low pressure drop before a storm. You felt it in your spine. In the way the air thickened, charged. In the sudden awareness that someone was looking a you.

You turned. Slowly.

And there he was.

Charles.

Backlit by golden light, framed by the glint of glass and sweat and movement, he looked like something that didn’t belong here. Or maybe something that the room had been waiting for.

Black shirt open at the collar, sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair falling just wrong over his forehead. Jaw tight, mouth set in something between a smirk and a snarl. Like he wanted to smile but didn’t trust himself to do it.

He looked like sin. Like power on the edge of unraveling.

And his eyes. Locked on you.

Not the room.

Not the crowd.

Not even James.

Just you.

And when his gaze dropped. To the hand on your waist, the fingertips sprawled against your waist, to the way James leaned in a little too close. Something dark flickered across his face.

Something in him burned. You saw it. Felt it.

Like a wire snapped behind his ribs and now he couldn’t breathe.

His jaw locked. His chest rose once, slow and sharp, like even breathing had become too dangerous. Like just standing there and not touching you took every ounce of control he had left.

The heat in his stare could’ve burned a hole through you.

James leaned in closer. “You okay?”

You blinked and swallowed. Tried to smile. “Yeah,” you said. “Just—“

Your eyes flicked back to the bar. He was still there. Still watching. Still not moving.

James turned to follow your gaze. “I can’t believe he’s here. That’s so cool”

“Yeah…me either.”

People moved out of his way without realizing they had. They parted instinctively, like water bending around stone. Like the room itself knew who he was.

They didn’t see the crown. They felt the weight of it.

Royalty cloaked in rage and want, striding toward the storm.

Toward you.

The air was hot and heady, choked with perfume and alcohol and the sound of people trying too hard to feel something. The lights pulsed like a heartbeat. It was too fast. Too bright.

He didn’t want to be here. But anywhere was better than the palace.

He spotted her instantly. As if his body already knew where to look before his eyes did. The same way it always did. Like your presence had carved out a space in him long before he even touched you.

You stood near the edge of the crowd, black dress hugging you like a second skin, eyes bright, mouth curved in something that looked like a laugh.

And beside you. Another man.

The hand on your waist, the smug, lazy confidence of someone who didn’t know how precious what he was touching actually was.

The way he leaned in, lips grazing the shell of your ear, like your body was already his to own.

Like your heart didn’t already belong to someone else. Him.

Charles stopped breathing.

The sound around him blurred into static. His hands curled into fists in his pockets, nails biting into his palms.

Something sharp twisted low in the pit of his stomach.

Jealousy wasn’t the word for it.

This was grief. This was rage. This was how dare you.

How dare you let someone touch you where he should’ve touched you.

How dare you pretend you’ve forgotten what it’s like to stand one breath from kissing.

The club was still pushing behind you, the laughter and sweat and lights bleeding through the walls…but here, in this narrow, dim corridor, it was just the two of you.

Too close. Too quiet.

Too dangerous.

He’d pulled you through the curtain without a word, fingers laced with yours like a vice, dragging you past confused glances and stunned silence. You’d followed, furious, breathless, burning.

Now, you were pressed against the wall, your back flush to the cold stone, your heart thundering like it wanted out of your chest.

And he was standing in front of you. Pacing. Seething. Unraveling.

“What the fuck was that?” He hissed, his voice low and sharp enough to draw blood. “Letting him touch you like that…was that supposed to hurt me? Was that the point?”

You scoffed, folding your arms to keep from grabbing him by the collar. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

He stopped pacing. His head turned slowly, jaw locked tight.

“You think I don’t see it?” He growled. “The way you look at me? Like you’re still waiting for something to happen, even though you know it can’t?”

Another step. His body inches from yours.

“You shouldn’t have worn that dress.”

Your voice shook when you said it: “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“I know.”

His hand slams against the wall beside your head, not to scare you, just to steady himself. His face was too close now. The warmth of him coiled into your skin. His eyes search yours, wild and desperate and so goddamn full of want that it hurt.

“You’re not his,” he whispered.

You stalled. “Im not yours, either.”

He leaned in closer, mouth almost brushing yours, his breath warm and ragged.

“Say that again,” he dared.

You couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“I know,” he said, voice breaking.

And then he kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Starving.

His hands cup your face like he’d dreamt of this a hundred times and never thought he’d actually get to feel it. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, yanking him closer, closer—mouths crashing like waves, clashing with every single ounce of frustration and ache.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t even polite.

It was heat and fury and I’ve wanted this for so long tangled in every brush of lips, every muffled groan, every helpless moan he pulled from your throat.

He kissed you like it hurt.

Like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

You don’t remember the walk to your apartment. Just the quiet tension between you. The warmth of his hand brushing yours but never holding it. The hum in your chest that hadn’t stopped since he kissed you.

You unlocked the door with trembling fingers. Left the light off. You didn’t need to see the room. You needed to feel him.

You tugged at his shirt, breath hitching as your fingertips brushed skin. His hands were all over you now, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted them. Your back, your hips, your jaw, gentle and desperate at once.

He knew he shouldn’t be here. Not in your apartment. Not in your bed. Not looking down at you like you were something he’d prayed for and never dared to ask.

But he was. And he couldn’t stop if he tried.

You were under him, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, your breath catching every time his fingers traced skin. And all he could think, over and over, was mine.

You arched into him, and he couldn’t stop the sound that tore from his throat.

Every inch of you was fire and familiarity, like his hands memorized your body before even touching it. Your thighs wrapped around his hips, nails dragged down his back.

He groaned into your skin, forehead pressed to your collarbone.

“Are you sure?”

She nods, breathless. “You’re already here.”

It was more than permission. It was a confession.

And when he sank into you slowly, carefully, the world full on stopped.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed.

It was slow. Intimate. Almost painful in how good it felt, like every thirst was peeling back layers they’d spent building.

Moans swallowed into kisses. Skin against skin. Fingers tangled. Whispers like promises neither of them could keep.

He touched her like she was sacred. She kissed him like she’d never get the chance again.

“You look so good like this,” he murmured, voice thick with awe, like the sight of you beneath him had knocked the breath clean from his chest.

His lips trailed along your jawline, slow open-mouthed kisses dragging fire across your skin. He wasn’t in a rush. He wanted to taste every inch of you. To savor.

You gasped softly when he reached the hollow beneath your ear, and he felt it. The sharp intake of breath, the way your body arched, the flutter of your pulse under his tongue.

His hand slid along your waist, fingers pressing gently into your hip as he anchored himself to you, like he didn’t trust that this moment was real.

He lifted his head just enough to look at you.

Your eyes were heavy, glazed with want, lips parted and trembling.

And he couldn’t help it. He smiled. Not his royal smile. Not the careful, curated one they taught him to wear.

This one was raw. Private.

Just for you.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he whispered, brushing his nose along yours.

Your fingers reached up, sliding into his hair, and you pulled him back down. Kissed him like he was air, like he was yours.

And Charles, normally composed, trained, restrained. Melted.

Right there, into your mouth. Into your body. Into you.

Present Day

You’re pacing now, your bare feet silent on the floor that suddenly feels too cold, too clean, and your hands are shaking. Not violently or visibly, but enough that you can feel your pulse throb between your fingers.

“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice not quite a scream but not quiet.

You turn to face him and he’s just standing there. Standing in the middle of your living room like he doesn’t belong to any part of it, like he’s not the reason everything in your body burns and aches.

“You should’ve looked me in the eye,” you breath is shaking now, “and told me you were going to marry her before I had to read it on a fucking television screen.”

He winces. But he doesn’t argue.

Of course he fucking doesn’t.

He never fights when it counts. He just lets things happen.

“I was going to tell you,” he says quietly. As if saying it softer will make it less cruel.

“Oh,” you laugh now. It’s sharp and ugly. “You were goingto?”

You arms fold across your chest because you need something. Anything. To hold on to.

“When?” You ask. Its a quiet kind of fury, tighter and more precise. “After the ring was on her finger? After the palace sent out save-the-dates? Or were you planning to do it after your wedding night, when you needed someone else to fuck.”

His eyes flash and there’s something wild there now, wounded and defensive, but he doesn’t move.

“You don’t get to do this,” your voice trembles. “You don’t get to kiss me, hold me, say things to me like they meant something, and then just leave.”

His jaw tightens but his hands are clenched at his sides. He won’t interrupt you and it only makes you angrier. Because he’s so calm. So composed.

“You were never a detour,” he says. Finally.

“Then what was I?” You ask, and your voice breaks. “What the fuck was I to you?”

His voice rises now, like he’s been holding it in for hours, for years.

“I didn’t want this!” He shouts. “Do you think I wanted to fall in love with you? To walk into a bar and meet someone who made me question everything I’ve spent my whole life being told I have to be?”

You blink, completely startled by the honesty in his voice. With the way it sounds like he’s choking on his words.

“Then why are you still choosing her?” Your voice softer. “Why are you marrying someone you don’t love?”

He looks at you like he’s bleeding. “Because I don’t have a choice. Because if I don’t marry her, everything I’ve spent my entire life preparing for. The crown, the country, the people. It all falls apart.”

“No,” You say, eyes locked on him. “It doesn’t fall apart. You’re just afraid.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“God,” you laugh. “You’re a fucking coward.”

He’s still just standing there. Looking at you like he’s drowning, like he knows what he’s about to do will haunt him forever. But he’s going to do it anyways.

That’s what love looks like.

A crown. A cage. And the person you would burn for walking away because the fire scares them.

“You don’t get to look at me like that.”

His brows furrow, “Like what?”

“Like I’m the one breaking your heart.”

He flinches. Just barely.

But you see it. You always do.

You walk to the sink, turning away from him, and turn the faucet on just to do something. “I hope she’s worth it.”

Charles swallows hard. “Don’t do that.”

You spin, your hands still dripping with water. “Don’t what? Don’t act like I’m the one being unreasonable while you walk away from the only thing that ever made you feel something?”

“I feel everything with you!” He yells, words bursting from his throat. “Every time I’m with you, I can’t fucking breathe. I can’t think. I can’t fucking sleep. I walk into the palace and I feel your hands on me like they’re branded there. I see your face in every goddamn crowd. I dream about you when I have to lie next to her, and I hate myself for it.”

You blink. Staggered. But he’s not done.

“You think this is easy for me?” His voice breaks now. “You think I don’t want to choose you? That I haven’t stopped and stood in front of almost every mirror rehearsing how I’d say the words I’m done? That I haven’t imagined running, just running, until I could crawl into your bed and never leave?”

“Then do it,” you cry. “Fucking do it!”

He stares at you, breath heaving, soaked in silence.

And then softly he says, too softly. “I'm not brave enough.”

And that’s what finally does it. Your heart breaks in full. Like a dam giving way.

You let out a harsh sob that tastes like surrender. You push past him, hand over your mouth, body shaking as you try to hold yourself together.

But he follows.

“Don’t,” you say. “Please don’t—“

But his hands are already on you. Not to claim, not to kiss. Just to hold. Just to feel you. His arms wrap around your back like he doesn’t know what to do. His face buries into your neck, and you feel it. His breath hitching, his shoulders trembling.

He’s crying.

“I love you,” he says, muffled. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

And you sob harder. Because that’s what makes it worse.

Because he means it. And it’s still not enough.

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc #f1 imagines #f1 x reader #charles leclerc angst #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fic #f1 imagine #f1 x female reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 one shot

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crushpunky · 7 months ago

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drew and actress!reader do the “we listen and we don’t judge” challenge

masterlist | actress!reader masterlist

cute lil suggestion <3

Y/n set her phone up with a smile on her lips, Drew sitting next to her at their kitchen island, his hair messy as he took a sip of coffee. The two of them had finally gotten out of bed after an hour of cuddling in the early morning light of their bedroom, chatting and showing each other videos the other thought they’d like. After making the two of them coffee, y/n decided it would be fun to make a little video of their own.

“Ok, let’s go.” Y/n grinned, pressing record and sitting back on her stool.

“We listen and we don’t judge.” The two of them said, Drew looking at y/n with a quirk of his brow as he anticipated y/n’s answer.

“The real reason I got a black eye last summer was because I ran into the wall when I was on my phone, not because I fell while shooting.” Y/n bit her lip. Drew already knew that, having witnessed the incident, but the two of them had agreed to keep up the lie to spare the embarrassment and teasing from the rest of the cast.

“We listen and we don’t judge.” The two of them said.

“Sometimes I pretend to be asleep just so I can listen to you talk to yourself in the morning.” Drew smirked. Y/n had a habit of talking to herself in preparation for the day, sometimes even singing a bit as she got around. It was a habit Drew found endearing, but he knew if she knew he was awake she would stop… so he pretended to be asleep.

“We listen and we don’t judge.” They said.

“When we first moved in together I was nervous to… poop in our bathroom and would walk to Madelyn’s apartment every time I had to go to the bathroom.” Y/n giggled. Drew’s cheeks flushed, trying his best not to spit out his coffee.

“We listen and we don’t judge.” The two of them said.

“When we first moved in together I was nervous to poop in our bathroom and would walk to Austin’s apartment every time I had to go to the bathroom.” Drew said. Y/n’s jaw dropped, the two of them laughing at their common secret.

“So nobody pooped in our bathroom for the first few months we lived together?” Y/n asked with a giggle.

“I had a crush on you! I didn’t want you to think I was gross.” Drew blushed, swirling his coffee aimlessly. Y/n pouted playfully before pressing a kiss to Drew’s cheek.

“Ok, ok. Back to business.” Y/n said.

“We listen and we don’t judge.” They said.

“I have a folder of edits of you on my Tik Tok I watch when I miss you.” Y/n laughed, covering her face as Drew tried to hold back his giggles.

“We listen and we don’t judge.” The two of them said.

“One time when I was really drunk I accidentally used like all of your really nice shampoo and blamed it on my sister when she was visiting.” Drew smirked, biting his lip. “I had a buzzcut at the time too, so I don’t know what inspired me to do that.”

“I knew it wasn’t her!” Y/n gasped.

“We don’t judge! We don’t judge!” Drew said, raising his hands in surrender.

“Yes, yes, sorry.” Y/n smiled.

“We listen and we don’t judge.” They said.

“The first time you made me Mama Jodi’s casserole I think you messed something up because I got really bad food poisoning, but I didn’t want to tell you because you were so excited.” Y/n said quickly. Drew’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping at her confession.

“We listen and we don’t judge.” They said together.

“I asked my mom for her ring after only four months of us dating.” Drew said, a blush spreading across his cheeks. She had known the ring he had proposed to her with was his mothers, updated by Drew to match y/n’s own taste, and she knew he had been holding onto it for a while, but she didn’t realize just how long.

“Are you serious?” Y/n raised her brows in surprise, her stomach fluttering.

“I knew you were it for me.” Drew said with a simple shrug. Y/n felt her cheeks grow warm as she flung her arms around Drew’s broad shoulders, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“I love you and your big, romantic heart, Starkey.” Y/n grinned up at him, her arms still resting on his shoulders. Drew smiled back at her, his eyes scanning over her face with a smile on his lips.

“I love you… even if you have a folder of saved Tik Toks of me—” Drew giggled.

“We don’t judge!” Y/n laughed.

“We don’t judge.” Drew grinned, pressing a quick kiss to y/n’s nose before ending the video.

#drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x actress!reader #actress!reader

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gremlingottoosilly · 2 years ago

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I met a guy in the Summer (dilf!Konig x fem!Reader)

Your boyfriend is an asshole. Luckily, his hot dad just returned from deployment. CW and Tags: Cheating, dub-con, size kink, daddy kink, age gap(reader in 20s, Konig is early 40s), Konig is a pervert, slightly obsessive Konig, love(and lust) at first sight, fingering, dom!Konig Word count: 3713 AO3

“Just one more game, babe, don’t be a buzzkill. I don’t want to end at a loss.” You didn’t want to be a buzzkill, of course. You simply wanted to be a good girlfriend, have some domestically cozy date, and for your boyfriend to at least try to put an effort into being with you. It wasn’t much to ask for, really. You hoped so, at least. You didn’t want to be an annoying, nagging girlfriend who only ever waits for another reason to yell at him, but your patience started to run thin.

You spend the past three hours either listening to his apathetic rambling about the shows he watched – really, you wanted to invest in stuff he liked, but an abnormally large amount of animes he talked about had 1000-year-old girls who looked like they were 10, wearing inappropriate outfits, and you started to raise the alarm.

You also watched him play – and also listened to his rage quitting and angry voice messages to his team that, honestly, made you slightly anxious. You never liked loud people, people who were so easy to rage about something as silly as some colorful video game with too many characters to look after.

So, like a good girlfriend would – you wanted to be a good girlfriend, he was such a nice guy before you started dating, and you need something to think about besides the tremendous amount of study work you are doing for college – you decided to go and look for snacks. Maybe bring something for him as well.

— I’ll find something to eat, alright?

He didn’t respond at first, so you shook his shoulder. Your boyfriend took off his headphones with annoying look on his face, half-turning to look at you. You gulped, suddenly feeling like a child in front of the principal – not a feeling that you were supposed to feel around your partner, but with him, you somehow constantly felt like you were being judged.

— Nah, stay here. I don’t want my father to see you.

— Ah…your father is at home?

You never heard anyone else being at the house – big house, you must admit, and it’s embarrassing almost how you never thought about his family. He lives with his dad, apparently, and the depth of your relationships can only be judged by the fact you literally didn’t know what his father’s name was.

— Returned from his fucking deployment. He’d ask too many questions about you.

— You didn’t tell him about me?

Ah, now you’re hurt a little bit. You knew it wasn’t anything serious or too committed yet, but you intended to make this work. To try and fix all the problems you can without ending things abruptly.

— He never asked. Not like he cares too much, but…

An apathetic dad, huh.

You started to slowly piece together the puzzle that was your boyfriend’s horrible boyfriend skills. Now, you want to meet the man who conceived him and kick him in the nuts for creating such an unlovable human being who somehow captivated your chronically lonely heart.

— If you don’t want me to come and meet him, I can go home.

He doesn’t answer because his queue is finally coming to another match – you simply nod, knowing everything you need to. You can grab a little snack for yourself, fuck off to your dorm and rethink your life choices while your roommate is getting pounded by some gruss British bloke with an accent that makes your ears bleed.

You have dignity, and right now, it has asked you to get some snacks from the kitchen.

*** Now, the only thing König wanted after returning from deployment was to take as many hot showers as he could, shut his bastard of a son up, and get some delicious food waiting for him in the freezer. He was already home for a few days, but adjusting is always hard when you basically fucking hate living at your own house. Of-fucking-course, his son was watching the house while he was away – and now he can’t even think of a good excuse to set him off to his mother. Too old to do this, and split custody never really worked when not even one part of the relationship wanted to take care of the kid.

König closes the door of the refrigerator – of course, his son took every good thing that he stashed for himself. With a groan, the colonel fights the urge to finally throw him out of the house – a thing he needed to do a few years ago, just when he celebrated his 18th, but some sentimental part of his heart instead promised to help with finding a place close to the college. No good deed goes unpunished.

With a groan, he takes a few steps from the fridge – and then he almost stumbles across an angel.

Scheisse

Now, König never thought of himself as a predator who prefers running after college girls who might as well be his daughters. He never thought of himself as a gut who liked them young – his wife, god forsake her name, was his age when they started dating, and he hardly had any sexual encounters with a person under 25 in the past few years. Well, not like he had any sexual encounters in the past years, but…

The thing is – he never thought he liked girls with wide eyes, pouty faces, and trembling hands who were holding a bag of his cookies that he carefully stashed away from his son.

You are wearing something cute, a nice skirt and an adorable pink cardigan that looks so cozy and warm and soft, and he fights the urge to grab your skirt and simply lift it, You’re dressed up for a cute coffee date, and König has to double check if he isn’t dreaming and no one has decided to play a prank on him and send him a cute callgirl.

— Oh! Sorry. It’s yours, isn’t it?

You give him his cookies back – but not before your fingers fished another salty caramel goodness out of the bag, and you bit it. He looks at your teeth, at your lips, and glimpses of your tongue – god, he is an old, dirty bastard because even his baggy pants aren’t enough to hide his boner. You have no right to look this pretty for a man who hasn’t seen a woman in three months and hasn’t had sex in the past few years.

You lick the crumbs from your fingers – it’s such a deliberate action that he can’t believe he actually sees it, and it’s not even something from porn he used to like.

— Ja. You can have it.

He would give you the code to his bank account if you asked for it.

— Thank you, sir. I’m…well, I assume if Paul didn’t introduce me to you…I’m his girlfriend. Nice to meet you.

You lick your lips and take a step back, pressed against the counter. He looks at the sway of your hips, a bit of crumbs on your shirt, and almost brushes it away with his hands. It would be a good excuse to touch your chest – but he can’t be like this, he has to keep his urges under control, or else his son will never forgive him.

Yeah, like he needs a better reason to throw his useless son from his home.

— Girlfriend? He never spoke about you.

You look sad, and he immediately curses under his breath. For a moment, you look too fragile – too real. He can’t handle this look on a woman, especially as pretty and young as you are. You bat your eyelashes, even involuntarily, and he already prepares to give you the keys to his home just so you’d stop with such miserable expressions. He has a spare bedroom.

He has his bedroom with a bed that would be enough for both of you.

— Ah. Um. We’re…I guess we’re not at this stage yet.

— Knowing him, you’ll never be, Schatz.

You look at him immediately – you’re offended, angry, and sad at the same time. There is a certain stubbornness in your eyes that immediately makes him want to simply scoop you in his arms, lift you, and drag you straight to the altar – and here he thought that his impulses over getting married would be over after his first divorce.

— What do you mean by this, sir?

You look uncertain now, he can see this in your eyes – and really, knowing his asshole of a child, he is almost sure that Paul never once got you off, either physically or emotionally.

Now, König never once considered himself to be a good man. He has killed countless people, overthrown many governments, and made shitty jobs for shitty people way more than saving hostages to help the good guys – and in the romantic field, it’s even worse. Wife, unsatisfied with his controlling tendencies and inability to feel normal love for a human being – and a son who hates him because, in fact, he never once wanted to have a kid.

He looks at you and sees a pretty young thing, still in college or freshly out of, probably without a stable job and normal social standing – a good girl won’t be with his son if she isn’t stupid or extremely desperate for a relationship.

The thing is, König is also extremely desperate for another warm body next to his, to feel a woman beside him, to love and obsess over someone – he looks at your pouty lips and shaky hands, at the way you bite the corner of your glossy mouth, and he almost wants to drop you on this very table and fuck you until you’re crying under him. He can’t do just that, of course. It would probably make you extremely uncomfortable and scared, but…well, quite frankly, his son doesn’t deserve you.

König is.

— I won’t sugarcoat it, Schatz. My son is a Scheiß Arschloch…fucking asshole, that is. I’m surprised he brought home someone as cute as you.

You feel embarrassment collecting in your body. Paul’s dad is a…interesting man.

Tall, broad, very muscular – even his baggy house clothes aren’t really concealing his extremely interesting physique from your eyes. He looks yummy and tasty, and you fight the urge to eye the bulge in his pants because you’re a good girl, you don’t look at your boyfriend’s dad like this.

König has greying ginger hair, locks already curling slightly at the lack of cutting, and you fight the urge to sit on the counter and get your palm in his scalp, massage his head gently, and pull him closer for a kiss. You feel like a dirty, horrible woman – your boyfriend is in his room, probably enjoying his time on your “date” while you’re lusting over his father.

Then again, this date already felt like a disaster. This relationship, too.

— Paul isn’t all that bad, sir.

“He at least has a nice dick,” you wanted to add but stopped yourself. Paul is tall and somewhat strong – if he weren’t sitting at his computer all day, you would call him even muscular. And he has a nice dick, yes, even though he had no idea how to use it. You liked the idea of laying with him, of spraying your jaw trying to fit all of this in your mouth, but his kinks and his sex skills being directly taken from porn…not really your thing.

You look at König and wonder if they are similar in all of the places. He is his father, after all.

König catches your gaze locked on his bulge and smirks.

God, if he knew his son had such a cute girl, he would ask her to come earlier. He is two weeks off deployment and probably won’t take another long contract for a few months because they just upped his retirement payings, and he can afford to slack off a little bit, only visiting the home base for some training and instructions for rookies.

He can afford to retire and never worry about money again – but he needs someone to make his days less boring, right?

You look like a good candidate.

— I’m sure my son was convincing, but I know him better than anyone. He doesn’t deserve you, Schatz.

He is shitty at flirting, it’s not his forte – he can flaunt his money, maybe, show you in his wallet and bank account face first. He can just straight up ask you to be his sugar baby and suck his cock instead of doing your studies, but he can’t flirt and manipulate to save his life. Lying isn’t something he is good for, this is why his wife has left.

— I…not sure we should be having this conversation here.

You’re a good girl, and it’s infuriating. He knows that having someone in his bed shouldn’t be the end goal for his leave, but he wants you, and by the look on your face, you aren’t opposed to the idea. König doesn’t understand if he likes that you’re so reserved about it or if he wants you to be a bit more slutty – but he captures you in the space between the kitchen counter and presses you with his body.

— You want to see the bedroom then?

Pushes you so close his knee gets between your legs – it might look involuntary like he didn’t exactly want for it to be placed here, but you aren’t dumb, you know what he wants from you. Like a good fucking girl, you’re too shy to give it to him right about now. God, sometimes he hates being so nice to people around him.

— Sir, this is very…

He got you caged in his hands, body trapped in his embrace – you jerk your head upwards a little bit, staring at him like a small bird in the hands of a predator. He isn’t a strong man in regard of morals, he doesn’t see anything wrong with fucking his son’s girlfriend – if the girl is up to it. And if she isn’t…well, he better make sure she is.

— What is it, Schatz? Paul won’t hear us in his headphones.

You know just how wrong it is, and you almost want to escape – his dick grinds on your pelvis through his pants, and you’re horrified to see how big it is. Excited too, of course, he is bigger than your boyfriend ever could be, and you don’t want to be a slut, but, oh well, not like you were in a committed and serious relationship anyway.

Paul was seeing your friends more than you ever saw them – it’s probably a sign that you should settle for someone older. You did enjoy Lana Del Rey's songs, after all.

— I don’t want to break his heart.

— He doesn’t have one.

You’re lost when he pushes his lips to kiss you over and over again – a surprisingly good kisser, and you give in because it was the first time in forever a kiss made you feel this good. His lips are sending electricity down your spine, you want to moan just from his knee, pushing on the softness of your cunt through that adorable skirt you liked so much – you feel so small like this, so tiny in his hands, you…

God, you feel like a slut, and you like it.

Soon enough, you answered the kiss, your lips meeting his in a dance that made you feel hot, that made you feel like your boyfriend never could. Never thinking of yourself as someone who can fall so easily into the hands of an older man, now you know that he got you right where he wanted.

You push your hand on his pants, trying to get the control back – but he stops you, a giant hand enveloping your wrist and pushing you back. With a surprise on your face, König just wants to kiss you all over. God, you’re adorable, and he knows that you deserve way more than being fucked on the rough kitchen counter while your so-called boyfriend is too busy dickriding his friends in some useless online game.

— Not now, princess. You deserve better than being fucked on the kitchen counter, ja? It can come later.

“Later” sounds like a promise, and you bite back your moan when he keeps pushing his knee against your cunt, making you throb and clench on nothing. He is such a gentleman, you can’t help but compare him to his son – and his fabulous ability to make you feel dirty after fucking you in the backseat of his car and tossing you to your dorm with your pussy still wet and messy after you didn’t cum.

You sob, not from sadness, but from pleasure mixed with some weird, unnatural for you emotions – you feel weird, strained here like this, but you hug his neck and whisper something in his ear. Something, dangerously sounding just like “daddy, please”

König is blushing, and he looks fucking adorable.

— Daddy, ja? God, you’re dangerous, liebling. Going to get me in trouble with my son later.

He laughs when he kisses you again, his hand slipping in your panties only to find them completely soaked – he knows you deserve a nice pillow and soft sheets under your body, and he pushes you up so you can hug his waist with your legs. You rely on him like a cute pet, and you’re so perfect in his hands he curses himself for not seeing you before.

He is going to ruin you for anyone but him. Put so much cum in you, it will make your tummy bulge – make you his precious sugar baby, pay for your dumb college and make you move to his bedroom instead of some shitty dorm you probably share with four other people.

He can be good for you – but he will ruin you for anyone else, anyone appropriate, every guy your age who clearly doesn’t know how to treat a lady right.

— So wet for me…such a filthy thing, I didn’t know my son dated a whore.

— N…not a whore, please…

He kisses you on your forehead, silently apologizing. You feel his crooked, scarred smile, and you push your face up to kiss him – you want to touch him so badly it makes you feel stupid.

— Sorry, Schatzen. Not a whore, a good girl for her daddy, ja? So nice for me, too fucking young…

— W…we really shouldn’t… — Tshhh, don’t think about it. Thinking will only hurt your pretty dumb head. — I’m not…

— Quiet, little one. Let daddy handle everything.

He kisses you over and over, his fingers playing with your pussy – meaty digits digging in your hole, making you whimper from sudden intrusion. He is big, bigger than anyone else, just two of his fingers are enough to spread you as much as normal cock would, and even though you’re used to taking Paul’s size, you just know that his dad would be much, much bigger. He is going to split you open, and you will love every fucking second.

It feels so wrong, you still aren’t sure if you want him to touch you like this.

It feels so right, he is experienced and eager, pushing every button to make you squirm in his grasp. Your orgasm comes embarrassingly quick – maybe because you haven’t gotten off in ages, only miserable masturbation sessions and poor attempts at faking your orgasm made it feel real. Paul never cared enough to actually get you off – but now…

You aren’t ready for him. You squirm in his grasp when the pressure becomes too much, and he soothes you, two fingers still buried in your soaked cunt. You feel so dirty, so wrong right now – you are cumming on the fingers of your boyfriend’s absent father, and you love every second of it.

Post-orgasm clarity makes you whiny and sobby, and you whimper in his shoulder when he gently lifts you in his hands. God, you’re adorable, and he knows that he just scrambled your brain with that orgasm – it’s good, really, he might just want to keep your pretty head nice and empty for him. Not like you would ever need to think in his presence, the colonel can handle everything in- and out- of bed.

König holds you close, not allowing you to scramble away no matter how embarrassed you are. You are his precious thing, with a pouty face, and he will do everything in his power to make you squirm on his fingers again and again before he makes you his wife for good.

So impulsive, maybe this is why his son is such an asshole – taking the worst traits of his father.

— Don’t cry, Schatzen. You’re okay, it felt good, didn’t it?

— W…we shouldn’t have. Shit. I’m sorry, it was a m…god, I need to tell Paul.

— I’ll tell him.

— No! — I will tell my asshole of a son that you’re my girl now, ja? And then I will take you to the bedroom, so we can fuck.

— I need to return to my dorm.

— And then I will dine you properly, okay? Sorry, Liebling, I know I should court you before all of this…but we can afford to go a bit off board, ja?

He is smiling, so smitten and obsessed over just having you cum on his fingers once – you don’t have the heart to say no. Never did. You’re a good, proper girl, and Paul was never treating you right anyway. You feel dirty, yes, but somehow, it is almost right.

He peppers your face with kisses, like a dog lapping its tongue all over your skin – you’re so concentrated on the warmth of his strong, seasoned body that you don’t even look in the direction of the doorway to the kitchen.

Paul, however, looks straight at you, disheartened and shocked.

— W…what the fuck, dad?! König laughs, kissing you once again – deep, hot, with tongue and loud, sloppy sounds of your mouth pressing into one another. You’re stuck in place, still caged in his arms like a precious little pet you are.

— She’ll make a good step mom, ja?

You don’t even register his hands slowly caressing your fingers as if he already tries to check the ring sizes.

#cod #konig x reader #yandere konig #konig #cod x reader #call of duty #cod x you #yandere cod #konig mw2 #reader insert #yandere x reader

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celiababy · 5 months ago

Note

already in love w ur page! i would love to see dads bestfriend joel from you!!

hi! thank u sm!! and ofc coming right up on a very hot and steamy platter 😛

Not Your Daddy

Pairing: Pre-outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You're back from your first year at college. You've changed and Joel is quick to notice.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT MDNI, age gap (36/19), swearing, p in v, size kink, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (fem!recieving) no Sarah, alcohol

Celia's note: Heres jus a lil something :) (not proofread sorry) also part 3 of ain't right is coming so so soon I promise!!

Joel Miller and your father were good friends.

When you and your dad moved in next door a little over three years ago, they hit it off quickly. Their tendency to take on random jobs for cash is what bonded them. Also sports.

You were shy then, never able to hold eye contact and always avoiding him whenever he was around.

But thankfully, you've grown into a woman. Your first year at college changed you.

Now, you were back for the summer, eager to sleep in your own bed and spend time with your home-town friends.

But honestly, you were most excited to see Joel.

You wanted him to see how much you've grown. See how mature you've become, how confident.

You always had a little crush on him—mostly because he was the kindest out of all your dad's friends.

You also wanted him to be the one to pop your cherry.

You were a virgin, and kinda always fantasized about Joel being the one to take it from you.

Sure, you’ve done some stuff with guys, but never gone all the way. You were saving that for him.

You knew it wouldn't take long until he made an appearance.

Your dad had offered to host a small get-together to celebrate you being back. He would barbecue in the backyard and hold bets for the basketball game.

It was really just an excuse for him to break out the grill and gamble, but you didn't care. Only because you knew Joel would be there.

You even put on your shortest white sundress and blew out your hair for the occasion.

Your body was buzzing with the idea of seeing him again.

You wondered if he had changed at all.

Your mind started spiraling at the thought.

What if he had changed? What if he was dating someone now? What if he was engaged?

You glanced in the mirror at your nearly perfect reflection and suddenly felt so silly. What if this was all for nothing?

You didn't have long to ponder that thought because the doorbell rings.

You peak out your window and see Joel's truck in the driveway.

Your dad answers the door downstairs, the faint murmur of voices distracting your ears.

The anticipation was gnawing at you like a hungry dog.

After collecting your nerves, you slowly descend the stairs to meet them in the kitchen.

The loud cussing gave away their location. "You've lost your damn mind if you think there's a chance in hell the Privateers of all fucking teams are gonna beat—oh, hey darlin'," Your dad greets you, clearing his throat like he wasn't just cussing out Joel.

His back is to you, but when he turns around, your heart fucking ignites.

He's just as handsome as the day you left. He looks momentarily stunned by you, his eyes flickering all over your figure. God—how was it possible for someone to change so much? You looked more than amazing.

He immediately feels ashamed for basically checking you out in front of your dad, his eyes snapping back up to your face.

"Christ kid, they feedin' you up there at A&M?" He teases before stepping in for a hug.

He even smells the same as he did all those months ago, pine and smoke. You feel relieved.

It seems like the only thing thats different about him is a few gray hairs.

"Hey Joel," you greet with a giddy smile, hugging him back and relishing in his warmth. "How are you?"

Joel is very surprised. He almost doesn't recognize you. You're so much more...more.

"M'alright, aside from the fact that your dad's gonna give me a fuckin' aneurysm one of these days."

You laugh and shake your head. "Fighting about the game tonight?"

"Yeah, this fuckin' asshat thinks the longhorns might lose tonight—messin' up the whole fuckin' mojo," Your dad rambles, his voice beginning to raise before the doorbell rings again. "I'll get that, need to get away from this traitor." He snorts before heading to the door and leaving you both alone.

Joel rolls his eyes before landing his gaze back onto you and your cute little sundress. He crosses his arms over his chest and turns to face you with his body.

"You behavin' up there at school?" He asks light-heartedly, though you find it excruciatingly hard not to reply in some suggestive way.

"Mhm," You hum unconvincingly with a charmingly guilty smile, holding back a laugh.

Joel cocks a brow, pretending to look at you judgmentally. "Lyin’ is a sin, y’know." He huffs, a smile creeping on his lips.

“I’ve been good, just a lotta temptations s’all..” You murmur softly, your body naturally drifting closer to Joel by swaying on your feet.

The tension in the room is palpable.

“Oh yeah?” He tilts his head the tiniest bit to the side, his voice dropping what seemed like several octaves.

In fear of your voice cracking when giving a verbal response, you opt for a nod of your head, but then shrug just to tease him.

He glares at you but then scoffs, shaking his head.

"When'd you become such a little shit-stirrer, huh?" He chides, reaching over to ruffle the top of your hair.

You laugh before pushing his hand away, your fingers lingering on his wrist for longer than it needed to.

His skin is warm, he's almost hot to the touch. You're having a very hard time tearing your eyes away from his face.

All the sudden, your father calls you into the other room.

"Get in here! Max and Ruby wanna hear about your classes." Max and Ruby being your neighbors who had undoubtedly stopped by for the party.

You peer up at Joel, your eyes almost begging him to ask you to stay. But instead, he gestures with his head for you to listen to your dad.

"Go on now," He husks out, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

Reluctantly you leave him behind in the kitchen, your body still whirring with the adrenaline high you got from just talking to him.

***

It was nice seeing everyone that stopped by for the party. You hadn't realized how much you missed your people.

But Joel was making it hard to concentrate on conversation when you guys were playing eye-tag the entire night.

He really couldn't help himself. There was just something so magnetic about you now—it was impossible to tear his eyes away.

He watched you talk to some of your high school friends, then get up to fetch something from the kitchen.

He couldn’t stop his gaze from falling to your ass once you turned around, his cock twitching in his pants because of the way your dress taunts him with its length.

He clears his throat.

Fuck was he thinking.

This was you he was ogling for christ sake. His best friends daughter.

These thoughts were not allowed. He needed to shut this down.

But the night goes on anyway, people getting more drunk and rowdy with each passing second.

Especially your father, who was currently in a screaming match with his work buddy about the game. They're all crowded around the small box tv in the kitchen, intently watching the tiny screen.

You're watching them from afar, amused by your father and the absurdity of it all.

"Ah fuck, we're outta ice," your dad groans, lifting up the empty bowl in annoyance. "Alright, one of you sons of bitches needs'ta make an ice run, m'not missing this game."

Joel groans out, dragging his hand down his jaw. "We're obviously gonna win—the team's up 46. Make the damn run yourself." He berates your father, who in turn just shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand at Joel.

"Every time I don't watch the game to completion, we fuckin' lose. M'staying riiiight here."

"Fuckin' superstitious bastard." Joel groans from under his breath, picking up his truck keys from the counter. "You want some more beer while I'm out? Maybe my liver too? God knows you need a new one, goddamn alcoholic."

You're laughing at them in the corner, finding their banter extremely amusing.

Then, you suddenly realize this might be your chance to spend more alone time with Joel.

You lurch forward, quickly blocking his path. "Can I come with?"

He looks down at you, a barely noticeable smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He's just about to reply to you before your drunk father cuts in.

"Ya, go with him, he can't carry the ice by himself or else his back’ll give out."

Joel turns his head to yell at your dad. "Shut your damn mouth," he barks, then turns back around to face you, placing his hand on your lower back. "'Course sweetheart, c'mon."

The drastic change in his voice when he talks to you versus your father makes your heart flutter.

He guides you outside to his truck, only dropping his arm from your back when he opens the passenger door for you.

Hopping inside, you settle yourself into the worn down bench seat. Your eyes follow him as he rounds the front of the vehicle, swinging open the driver side door and cranking the engine.

His old country music starts blaring from the speakers of the car, accompanied by the loud drum of his engine.

He’s quick to whip out of the driveway, steering with one muscular arm on the wheel.

You want to drool at the sight—you know your other lips most certainly are.

"So, you got a boyfriend up there at school?" He asks after clearing his throat.

He wants to subtly test the waters, whether he knows it now or not.

You smile, the thought of dating any guy besides Joel was laughable.

"Nope. They're all kinda gross."

"Gross? Yeah, well, most guys your age are." He mumbles, thinking back to his late teens, early twenties—Yikes.

"What about you? Got a woman yet?" You ask, following his line of questioning.

Joel scoffs, keeping his eyes trained on the road. “Does it look like I got a woman in my life?”

He looks down at himself for a second to get his point across, making you follow his gaze.

His wrinkly navy shirt had paint stains on it, his jeans were so old, they looked one wash away from disintegrating, and his beard needed a trim.

You try to stifle your giggle by turning your head away. “Yeah, guess not.”

Your mind starts wandering off, imagining what being Joel's woman would look like...having dinner together...sharing a bed...showering together...

God you wanted to be his girl so bad.

You hear yourself speaking before you even know what you’re saying. “Maybe I can help you—y'know, find a woman n’all.”

Joel casts you an assessing glance, cocking his eyebrow.

“Oh yeah? N’how would you do that?”

He doesn’t even mean to sound sexy but the way he talks makes you wanna melt.

“Well, for starters, a haircut might do you some good.” You tease, scooting closer to him on the bench seat to fiddle with the overgrown hair by his neck.

The way your body is turned to face him gives Joel a clear view down the front of your dress, the skin of your breasts making his cock twitch.

“What’re you talkin’ about? My hair looks great.” Joel knows he’s lying, but he just wants to see you laugh.

Which you do. “Yea, maybe to a blind chick.”

“Oh, you got jokes, huh?” Joel chides, using his free hand to come up and playfully tug at your hair.

You erupt in giggles, swatting his hand away while simultaneously trying to tug his hair back.

Eventually, you two stop messing with each other, but you reiterate that you're serious.

"I mean it—it’d be super fun giving you a make-over."

Joel pulls into the gas station and shifts his truck into park.

"You've lost your damn mind if you think I'm gonna let you get anywhere near my head with clippers."

You roll your eyes and giggle, following him out of the vehicle.

"C'monnn, it'll be fun!" You squeal, trailing behind him as he walks into the store, the bell chiming as you both enter.

He pretends to ignore you, walking along the isles to the freezer section.

"I'll be super careful," You muse, snagging a bag of skittles from off one of the shelves before he can notice.

“I promise I won’t fuck up your cut.” You joke, laughing at yourself.

“Hey—watch it.” Joel warns when hearing your profanity, snapping back to look at you, only half-joking.

You roll your eyes—it's ironic coming from him who cusses like a sailor. You brush past him as he opens the freezer, letting your back lean against one of the glass doors, facing him.

"You're not my daddy, y'know. Can't tell me what to do." You purr, a shit-eating grin beginning to form on your perfect face.

Joel feels his blood pressure spike.

You're making this impossible for him and you know it.

His body moves for him before he can stop himself.

After he grabs two ice bags, he closes the freezer and subsequently steps closer to you, popping your personal space bubble.

"You're right. M'not your daddy." He husks, looking down at you and your parted lips. Your chests are centimeters away from each other, and you find yourself holding your breath. “Consider yourself lucky.”

The way he’s looking down at you like prey yet speaking so nonchalantly has your brain spinning. There was definitely an underlying threat in his words.

Before you can respond, he’s turned around and walking up to the register, throwing down a 10 dollar bill and telling the cashier to keep the change.

Science can’t explain the drastic acceleration your heart rate just experienced—but you can.

Joel fucking Miller.

He had to be insinuating something, right?

Your face is hot and so is the rest of your body, stumbling to catch up with him as he walks out the store.

He lugs the ice into his trunk like nothing happened, the tension in his muscles catching your eyes.

Yet, he still comes around to the passenger side, opening the door for you.

Now was your chance to get him back.

You lift yourself up in the truck, purposefully climbing into the bench seat in a way that gave Joel a clear view of your ass—as well as your thong that wasn't really covering much.

His hand clamps down so hard on the car handle that it nearly crumbles under his grip.

You hear him clear his throat before the door slams shut next to you, making you jump a bit.

When he passes in the front windshield, he's shaking his head and dragging a hand down his scruffy jaw. You can't help but giggle at his exasperated expression.

His takes longer to get into the car and start things up this time, trying real hard not to meet your instense gaze.

When he refuses to make eye contact, you huff out a breath and rip open your skittles bag.

This catches Joel's attention.

"You pay for that?"

"...sure." You murmur unconvincingly with a shrug, trying not to smile. "Want some?"

He watches as you pop a few in your mouth, holding out the bag for him.

Begrungingly, he grumbles out a 'yeah' and holds out his palm.

***

The party had fizzled out when you guys returned. There were a few stranglers sitting around and chatting, but for the most part, things seemed to be dying down.

So much for the ice.

Your dad and his friends had migrated to the living room and once Joel put the bags away, he joined them.

He sat on the couch with a grunt, his legs immediately settling into the manspreading position.

You tried not to drool but your mouth was definitely salivating. To avoid moaning just at the sight of him, you head upstairs, the old wood boards creaking beneath your feet.

You don't see it, but Joel's got his eyes on you, following you with his gaze till you're out of sight.

He feels guilty thinking about how much he wants to fuck you when he's literally sitting right next to your father, but he can't help himself.

It's a while before you come back down, when you do, theres a razor in one hand, clippers in the other.

"No." Joel instantly says, shaking his head.

"Yes." You squeal, beaming down at him.

"Awh, go on Joel, you been needin' a clean up." Your dad chimes in, smacking his shoulder. His other buddies encourage it until he has no choice than to give in just so everyone would shut up.

"Fine—fine. Y'all gon' get yours, thats for damn sure." Joel grumbles, stomping up the stairs.

You're laughing all the way up, bubbling with excitement.

"Come down and give us the reveal when you're done!" Your dad screams to which you giggle.

You basically shove Joel into your bathroom, pulling in a stool for him to sit on.

"You better know what yer doin'." He grunts, sitting down on the stool and looking at you with weary eyes.

"Anything I do to you would look better than what you have now."

Joel promptly stands back up when hearing your words, trying to walk away, but you grab onto his arm. "I'm kidding, I’m kidding! I promise I'll do a good job."

You press on his shoulders to sit him down again, your throat running dry when you see the way he’s glaring up at you.

He’s not actually angry—just a bit peeved that he doesn’t have enough self control to stop thinking about fucking you against the bathroom sink.

You start working, none the wiser, bringing the electric razor to his jaw.

Your bodies are close, Joel can smell your delicious perfume and it makes him wanna eat you up.

You start to notice how sometimes his eyes will flicker to your chest, before abrupdtly looking away and clearing his throat.

Your boobs did look great in this dress, maybe you should give him a better view...

The devilish thought pops in your brain and you're acting it out before you know it.

You set the razor down and grab the clippers, stepping around to the front of his body. "May I?" You murmur, not even waiting for his answer before straddling his lap.

You sit on his thighs and Joel feels himself straighten like a board.

“Kid—what do you think yer doin’?” He immediately sputters out, his expression stern.

He’s trying so hard not to look down at where your dress had ridden up from straddling him. He can almost see your cunt, for christ sake.

“Nothin’.” You murmur, bringing your shaking hand up to trim the hair on his jaw. You curse at yourself for not even having the wits to keep calm, you just know your flushed fave is giving you away.

“Nothin’, huh?” Joel reiterates, completely unbelieving as his eyes drag down your body slowly.

Then, everything shifts.

There’s something more assertive in Joel’s demeanor that you can’t quite put your finger on, but you know it’s there.

You feel his calloused hand on your thigh, your body erupting in goosebumps when he travels it up dangerously high. Using his other hand, he grips your wrist, pulling it down and away from his face.

“Doesn’t look like nothin’ to me.” His voice is a low murmur.

You’re both locked in eye contact now, hearts beating in sync.

He hears your breath hitch and sees how your eyes are flashing between his gaze and lips. He knows what you’re after—he’s just not sure if he wants to give in yet.

You, on the other hand, are dying of anticipation. He’s not budging, so you’re left to drag your hips up his lap and press down on the bulge in his pants.

"Girl—" He growls out before his hands come up to stop your waist from moving any further. "You don't know what your doin'."

"Do I have to fucking spell it out for you, Joel?" You rush out, dropping the scissors and latching onto his shoulders. You're panting and your face is pink, a needy/irritated expression woven into your features.

He feels your nails digging into his shoulder blades and sees that desperate look in your eyes—he's done for.

"No, I won't make ya do that f'me, sweet heart." He murmurs before abruptly picking you up from under your thighs.

A squeak of surprise leaves your lips at his effortless display of strength. You swallow your nerves after he sets you down on the counter, lodging himself between your legs.

"But I am gon make you say it."

Is he teasing you?

No, his face looks too serious for him to be teasing.

Oh, maybe he just wants clear clarification.

Your heart swells at his consideration.

Sucking in a deep breath, "I want your dick in my vagina." You giggle out, knowing he was probably expecting sexier wording. Joel smirks, crashing his forehead against yours.

"Yeah? S'that what you want?"

You're nodding against him, smiling wide because you just admitted something that you never thought you would.

"N'have you done that before? Y'know, dick in vagina." He copies your candance, but you stop smiling.

Out of all the fucking questions, that was the one that you didn't want to be asked the most.

You had hoped if you came on strong and flirted like you had done it a million times, he would've just assumed you weren't a virgin.

But the bastard always had to be so careful.

You didn't want him to know because you figured it would turn him off—then all you'd become is his best friend’s daughter all over again.

You knew if you lied he would just sniff it out anyway, but you tried nonetheless.

"...Yea. Couple times."

You watch as Joel's face forms into a 'yea right' kind of expression before he sighs out.

"Why'a lyin' to me, kid?"

You groan, throwing your head back and hitting the mirror with the back of your skull.

"Thats why—I don't want you thinking I'm a kid anymore. M'not. I'm grown. I'm grown and I want..your dick in my vagina."

He scoffs, dragging a hand down in jaw in disbelief. "Lyin' ain’t a good way to show me your grown."

He was right. You hated that he was right.

Your face crumbles because you think you just ruined this whole thing. Yet, Joel's hands come up to cup your face, holding them there a moment before they drift down to rest on your neck.

"S'alright, you're alright. M'not mad at'cha." He reassures, making sure you're looking in his eyes before he continues. "M'flattered sweetheart, I really am but-"

"Please don't say some bullshit like you don't think you're the man for this job because trust me when I say this Joel, you're the only guy I've ever wanted to be with."

You gush out, your mouth a leaky faucet. But Joel still looks conflicted.

You figured now would be a good time to bring out the big guns.

"If you won't do it cus I'm a virgin, I'll just have sex with the first guy I see, how about that?"

Joel's eyes darken and his jaw clenches. Now you've just pissed him off. "Don't manipulate me like that." He says sternly, to which you immediately falter in your confidence.

"I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that. I didn't mean it." You shake your head at yourself, biting down on your bottom lip. Joel sighs, leaning back but still keeping himself between your legs.

"Look," you start up again, bringing your hand down to hold his muscular bicep. "I've wanted to do this with you for so long. I really want it to be with you. Even if it's just one time, that's okay. Just need you in some way—Joel."

Your voice tapers off into a whisper because his stare intimidates you.

He exhales through his nose before running a hand through his hair and fixing his back to stand up straighter.

"Alright." He huffs, his face looking like he just surrendered in war.

"Alright?" You repeat, hopes high.

"I'll do it," He removes himself from between your legs and slides his grip down to your thighs. "But not right now."

Your heart drops.

"Why not?" You whine like a kicked puppy.

He brings one hand up to pinch your cheek. "Cus your daddy's down stairs, m'not a fuckin' monster." He grumbles before letting go and starting to walk out, but you grab him.

"Fine, but can we at least.." You hop down off the counter and pull him back, kissing him abruptly.

It starts slowly at first, you're both scoping out the scene, but then you get eager.

A tongue slips into his mouth and he returns the favor, his hands finding themselfs back on your hips.

In no time, he has your back up against the wall while he devours your mouth like a man starved. And just as his hand starts sliding up your dress and he's about to go back on his word, a voice comes from downstairs.

"C'mon down Joel, we wanna see the new cut!"

You groan as Joel slips from you, walking back downstairs while wiping his jaw and adjusting the boner in his pants. *** Now it was a waiting game.

Everyone but your dad's friends had left the party; they were just sitting around, watching TV and drinking beers.

You and Joel can't stop making eye contact from the opposite ends of the room. It was like torture not being able to fuck him immediately.

You're quick to conjure up a plan, though.

"Hey dad," you start, twirling a loose thread from your dress around your finger.

"Ya?"

"Didn't they reopen Chambers, like, two weeks ago?" You ask, trying to keep your voice as inconspicuous as possible.

Chambers was the local bar that your dad and his buddies loved to go to. You were just trying to plant a seed.

"Mm, yea, I reckon they did." He sighs out, eyes glued to the TV.

"S'been awhile since we've been there." One of his friends chime in.

"We should go grab a few drinks—I've missed picking up broads from there.." Another friend says, to which your dad promptly hits his arm because he doesn't like that kind of talk when you're present.

Nevertheless, he casts you a questioning glance. "You gon' be alright if we go?"

You try so hard to mask your instant glee. "Oh yeah, I'll be fine! Y'all go n' have fun."

"Alright punkin," They all stand, gathering up their wallets and keys—everyone except Joel. "You comin'?" Your dad asks him.

You glare at him to make sure he understands what you're trying to do.

Joel inhales through his nose before sighing out with a smile. "M'gonna call it a night, boys."

Thank god.

They all grunt and groan in protest, but eventually everyone filters out of the house.

You stand in the door jam and watch as your dad and his buddies file into the car, Joel standing on the porch to wave them off. Words are exchanged between everyone, mostly cussing, as they make their depature.

You both watch as they leave the culdesac, even waiting until you couldn't hear the car engine in the distance before looking at Joel.

Your breath catches in your throat when he turns around to look at you, folding his arms over his chest.

"Sly work." He murmurs, walking forward and forcing you to walk back into the house.

You're not sure why you're so nervous all the sudden.

Because you were pretending to be bold and experienced before, you had no choice but to mask your nerves. Now, that Joel knows the truth, you feel...vulnerable. But in the best way possible.

He backs you into the house before closing the door behind him, his head hanging to look at the ground.

"I had to get you alone somehow." You murmur with a shrug of your shoulders.

It was the truth.

You hear Joel chuckle and watch as he brings his head up to look at you. He's assessing you.

A beat of silence washes over you both.

"You said you would, Joel." You try to say sternly, although your voice wavers because you're scared he might've changed his mind.

"I know what I said." He steps closer, your torso's centimeters apart.

The eye contact is heavy—it feels like an avail against you. But you love it—love him. You're holding back from jumping his bones right by the front door.

"Good." You practically whisper, slowly taking his large hand in yours. You wait until he interwines your fingers before turning around and guiding him up the stairs.

Every creak under his and your feet sounds deafening in the silence between you both.

His hand is sweating, but so is yours.

When you make it to your bedroom, you walk inside and sit on the edge of your bed, gazing up at him.

"How many women have you slept with?" You hear yourself blurt before you can stop yourself.

His lips tighten into a line before he sits down next to you. Your sides are touching, his hands are resting on his knees.

"A few." He grunts, turning to face you. "Lot of 'em forgettable. But this," he gestures between the two of you. "ain't no comin' back from this, you hear me?"

You nod, your hand slipping over his knee. You're trying to trail it higher up his thigh, but he stops you with his hand.

"Need to make sure you know that before we do this. Don't want you regrettin' it later-"

"I won't." You say curtly, only because you know with complete certaintly that there was no way you'd ever regret this.

Everything is still for a moment, the only sound in the room is the both of your breathing. He's staring at you so hard, just waiting for even a hint of hesitation.

But it never comes.

In one swift movement, Joel's lips are on yours, pushing you back into the mattress and settling on top of you.

It makes you dizzy how effortlessly he's making out with you now.

He slots himself between your thighs and you moan at the feeling.

It's embarrassing how little he had to do in order to get you off.

But it's Joel, for christsake—he could just stand there and you'd probably find a way to orgasm at least twice.

It feels like he's engulfing you entirely; his musuclar arms wrapped around you, tongue down your throat, chests pressed together—pure bliss.

Suddenly and devastatingly, he breaks away for just a moment. "Sit up." He husks, to which you immediately oblige.

He lifts your dress up and off, momentairly stunned by the sight of your bare breasts.

"Christ, you're unreal." He groans before latching his mouth onto one of your nipples, using his hand to grope the other one.

You're a mess of moans, but you manage to speak in between. "Take your clothes off too," you whine, pawing at his shirt.

Joel grumbles, taking his time. He strips his shirt off and your hands are quick to latch onto his belt, fumbling with the leather strap but eventually yanking it out of the loops.

His hands come out to steady yours. "Slow down, no rush." He purrs in his texan drawl, making you shiver.

You groan out in frustration, letting your back fall down against the bed again. "You gonna make me wait all summer?"

"If you keep bein' a brat, then maybe." Joel huffs, yanking you back by the legs so he can pull your thong off. He dangles the stringy piece of fabric by his finger, looking at it assessingly.

"Joel!" You squeal, embarrassed. He effortessly holds you down with one hand against your stomach, not letting you swat it away from him.

"This what you go 'round wearin'?" He teases, grinning sharply.

You shrug, all squrimy, prodding him with your legs. "Would it turn you on if I said I wore them for you?"

You almost don't notice when Joel stuffs your underwear into his back pocket because of how drawn you are to his eyes. He's looking at you like a man starved—you love it.

"You been plottin' on me, is that it?" His voice makes your wet hole clench around nothing. He's teasing, but you also feel like you've just been caught.

You definitely weren't as suave as you thought you were.

"Stop makin' fun of me. " You huff with a flustered face, narrowing your eyes at him.

Joel smirks, finally prying apart your legs and taking a good, long look at your dripping cunt. "Christ almightly..." He groans at the sight of you, his cock straining hard against his jeans. "Pretty lil thing."

Your back arches off the bed when you feel Joel's thumb brush against your folds, tantilizingly slow. "Nice n' wet, atta girl." He muses, spreading your lips apart with his fingers.

You wanted to make a joke about him inspecting you like some doctor, but the words died quickly on your tongue when you felt him stroke your clit.

"Joel," You moan, hips squirming impatiently. "Fuck, I need you,"

"You got me, babygirl," Joel murmurs before lowering his head and devouring your cunt completely.

His tongue laps at you with fever, primarily focusing on your aching clit. The sensation nearly makes you pass out, especially when he pushes a finger inside of your hole.

"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod," You whine, fisting the sheets so hard that your knuckles turn white.

Having someone eat you out and it being actually enjoyable is one thing, but having Joel Miller eat you out and it being amazing, was blowing your mind.

He didn't even take breathers.

Joel was consuming you like he didn't need air. Soon, you feel another finger stretch you open, then another, until Joel has three fingers smoothly pumping in and out of you.

It quickly becomes all too much for your little brain. "Hmph..fuck Joel m'gonna come," You whine, your hips staggering against his mouth.

He doesn't answer you, in fact, Joel just wraps his musclar arms tightly under your thighs, securing you in place. In this position, you were rendered completely immoveable.

He kept you right where he wanted you.

"Waitwait, shit, Joel," His tongue is relentless, drinking you up like he was dying of thirst in the desert. Tears are forming in the lining of your eyes, the stimulation overloading you.

"Fuck!" You cry, coming completely undone beneath him. Your entire body shakes with pleasure as you finish, thighs squeezing the sides of his head.

Joel laps you all the way through it, humming contentedly against your soaked cunt.

When your body goes limp against the bed, thats finally when Joel lifts his lips off you. His entire face down past his nose is drenched in your juices; the sight makes your stomach flutter.

"Holy fucking shit Joel," You whimper, out of breath, chest heaving up and down. "That was amazing."

Joel lands a couple soft warning pats against your cunt, making you flinch and squirm from overstimulation.

"You cuss like a sailor, y'know that?"

"S'hard not to when you're makin' me feel so good." You're mumbling, wiping at the tear streaks on your face with the back of your hand.

"Mm, I know," He hums in that caring tone, crawling on top of you and placing a few chaste kisses on your lips.

It doesn't take long for your libido to rise again, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and eagerly kissing him back.

You bring a hand down to palm at his boner, giggling into the kiss. He groans at the feeling, rutting his hips into your hand. "Fuck me now please," You say breathlessly into his ear, nipping and licking at his neck.

He scoffs at your enthusiasm.

Finally, Joel pulls his pants off, letting his cock spring free and slap against his stomach.

You're enamoured by the sight of it. Long in length, even bigger in girth. You practically start drooling.

"You got a starin' problem too." Joel grumbles, grabbing you by the jaw and tilting your head up so he can kiss you again.

You chuckle into his lips, breaking away for a moment to speak. "I can't help it. It's handsome..you're handsome." You muse, getting a fist around his cock, managing to stroke it a few times before Joel stops you.

You don't have time to think or argue before he turns you over onto your side, situating himself behind you.

He's spooning you, except his left arm is hooked around your chest and his right has your leg lifted up, allowing his cock to slip between your folds.

Once again, he's got you right where he wants you.

"Joel," You bring your hands up to hold onto his forearm, pushing your ass back into him. "Put it in." You all but demand, trying to desperately grind your cunt on him.

He tightens his grasp on your collarbone, pulling you tighter against his chest. "Keep your leg up baby," Joel mutters lowly in your ear, letting go of your leg to guide his cock to your entrance.

His fat tip prods against your willing hole, making you dizzy with need. He runs his fingers along your folds one last time, gathering up your slick and using it to lubricate his cock.

Your heart is beating a million miles per hour. The moment you had been dreaming of for so long was finally here.

Joel, taking your virginity—your prayers were answered.

Slowly, Joel starts inching his way inside, the stretch making you gasp.

It feels fine at first, just a dull ache, but then it hurts—bad.

You squeeze your eyes shut and grit your teeth, trying to push through the pain. However, your body clenches down on the intrusive appendage, causing Joel to groan out.

It feels good for him, but he's been around the block a few times to know what's happening.

"You okay? I need'a stop?" He asks in that raspy voice of his, to which you immediately shake your head.

"Nonono, god no, don't stop. Just—just ram it in." You say foolishly, making Joel scoff.

"No, sweetheart, as much as I want to—bad idea." He brings his hand back down between your legs, rubbing a few slow circles into your clit. "Just relax and open up for me, thaaaats it," He encourages in that tone that lights fires in your core.

The perfect stimulation on the bundle of nerves made you forget all about the pain, letting your hole ease up a bit.

He takes the oppurtunity to keep breaching you deeper, peppering kisses to your neck and back in the process. His fingers stay glued to your clit, and before you know it, he's half way inside.

Your holding onto him so hard that your nails are leaving imprints on his forearm.

But you're so full of him and it's perfect. You can feel every twitch, every notch, every vein; or maybe you're just convincing yourself you can. Either way, mewls and moans are slipping from your lips and feeding Joel's growing ego.

"You feelin' good sweetheart?" He rasps in your ear, thrusting back and forth till he reaches that half way mark. You nod frantically, craning your neck to face him, desperate for a kiss.

He satisfies your wishes, kissing you slowly and passionately, like everything you've ever wanted.

His dick in you, his tongue down your throat, his arms pinning you to him. Fuck.

But you still want more.

In a shocking move, you slam your hips back against him, burying him all the way inside.

Moans fill your little bedroom, both his and yours, and for a moment, a flash of regret hits you like a truck.

He's big, and it fucking hurts.

But once the initial pain subsides, it’s like ecstasy.

"Fuck—girl, what'd ya do that for?" Joel hisses, tensing up because he's trying not to come fast.

"Couldn't wait," you pant, tears spilling out the corners of your eyes. "Please move." You're pleading because being stationary is somehow even more painful. You squirm in Joel's strong grasp, trying to stop the ache between your legs.

He's no match for you.

In a gentle but swift motion, Joel situates himself on top of you, closing your thighs together and putting them on one side of his body—all while still inside of you.

He cages you in with his big strong arms, looking down at your needy expression as he gradually starts rocking his hips into you. You're twisting your torso to remain looking at him, clawing at his biceps with your nails.

"This how you like it?" He huffs out, the sweat evident on his brow. "Deep n' slow?"

You want to respond to him, but it's hard to because every other sound you make is a moan.

He's so deep and never fails to hit the one spot that just makes you melt.

Opting for a non-verbal response, you nod with fever, gyrating your hips to meet his thrusts.

He chuckles, the sound alone makes you wanna come.

His name slips from your lips like a prayer—Joel finds it so cute because when he hits deep, your voice raises in pitch.

But he's no better, he'd been groaning in your ear since the start of it. He really cant help it, your cunt is like a silky, wet vice molded perfectly for his cock.

Joel lifts one of your legs up to his chest, securing his muscular arm around your thigh to keep it there. He continues he's deep thrusts, only this time picking up rhythm. He also brings his other hand down to lazily rub circles in your clit.

Christ.

Your head lolls back and your eyes roll into the back of your head. The stimulation was insanely perfect and all too much at the same time.

Your body wracks with jolts and spasms—your body trying to cope with everything it's feeling. Joel takes notice, a proud and lopsided smile spreading across his face.

"M'gonna cum," You whine, your body writhing against him with each thrust.

Your pussy is clenching down on him with each piston of his hips, Joel is not far behind you.

He rubs your clit in a way that makes you come undone, your back arching up off the bed and your toes curling from pleasure.

At the same time, Joel picks up his pace, only to pull his cock from inside you and pump it a few times before unloading his seed onto your naked torso.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the heavy breathing coming from the both of you. Joel's staring down at your pussy, entraced with the way your hole is constricting around nothing.

Then, he looks at your face. Your eyes are closed, your lips are parted, your chest is heaving up and down. He's admiring you and all your fucked-out glory.

He brings a hand up to your face, wiping off the tear stains with his thumb. "You alright?" He husks out, looking down at you assessingly.

"M'perfect." You coo, slowly opening your eyes and leaning up to kiss him. Joel returns it, loving the way your mouth opens so readily for him.

He'd have to try it out with his dick next time.

"Can we go again?" You murmur into his mouth, your arms wrapping around his shoulders.

Joel scoffs because he thinks you're kidding. You're not. When he realizes this, he shakes his head in disbelief, pushing you down onto the bed by your shoulders.

"Don't worry, we got all summer."

#anon ask #first request yay #dbf!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #tlou fanfiction #the last of us hbo #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel miller #tlou fic #one shot #drabble

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everythingne · 6 months ago

Text

Little Miss Wingwoman - LN4

With baby Verstappen-Piquet on the way, Penelope's nanny needs a place to move into as she becomes an almost full time employee of the family. No better place than Lando's spare bedroom, only a few floors down from her job, right?

warnings/notes: none particularly? this might be like five parts or two parts, im not sure yet :D!

next part

Penelope's plan to get her two favorite people to fall in love begins to fall into place.

See, Penelope was smart. Kelly made sure she was creative and book smart while Max made sure she had the confidence to speak her mind. Penelope got all she wanted, within reason, spoiled just enough, worked for what she had to. Danced, played, sang, baked... she was kid, but she was smart. She could do it all herself if she wasn't a huge momma and daddy's girl. (Bonus-daddy's girl? She hadn't worked out the wording on that one yet.)

But, on the busy days, you visited.

Taking a summer gig to nanny in your last years of school, you didn't expect to be placed within the Verstappen-Piquet household. Two days in, you never wanted to leave, and Penelope--so so young back then, had refused to let you go. Now, a few years later, you traveled around with the family when needed. Most of the time, staying back to look over the apartment and the cats while they went around.

You were more so an extra set of hands for Kelly, someone who could run and get groceries before dinner, run Penelope to and from practices or accompany her to weekends with her father (the Kyvat's adored you as well), or someone who could stay back with Penelope for date nights or take her out for nights in.

After a few years of steady rhythm, everything was shaken up with baby Verstappen-Piquet on the horizon. A lot of changes needing to be made to prepare for the child, especially the further along Kelly was getting--appointments and classes and errands. A set of helping hands, especially when Max had to go off for work, was almost necessary.

But it was impossible to find apartments in Monaco on your budget. And with the spare room you had been using turning to a nursery for the little bugger coming along, you didn't have the luxury of sleeping in your employers home much longer.

And so, the hunt began.

Penelope had heard the news from Max, offhandedly mentioning it to Daniel during a padel game. The Australian didn't have space for you, as much as he'd grown to love your presence. A week later, he'd run into Charles while out getting dinner with P, and asked if he or Alexandra knew anywhere while Penelope pretended to be distracted by Leo. A week after that, Kelly had gone out to lunch with a bunch of her friends in the and discussed it openly.

A month in, Lando visited to watch Penelope while Kelly and Max went off to a doctor's appointment. Usually, you would stop by, but you were off on an early holiday vacation with family. The way Lando joked with Max, the easy smile on his lips, the awkward stumbles and laughter through his words... it was just like you could be.

Then, when Max asks, Lando mentions having a spare room he'd have to clean out. And the way Lando smiles when Penelope makes her way over to give him a hug, promising Max he'll keep her in line while the two of them are gone makes an idea flare in Penelope's head.

Lando needed a roommate, and you needed a place to stay. So, obviously, you were an absolutely perfect pair, right? It wasn't a new idea to her, you and Lando had met a few times over the course of the years you'd watched her. Mainly for short moments at whatever grand prix she'd begged you to come to, and the two of you seemed to get along...

And, she thinks you're both single. So, Penelope enacted stage one of her master wing(wo)man plan: getting you to move in with Lando.

While Penelope was scheming, browsing through YouTube for videos full of cutesy RomCom ideas, Lando was saying goodbye to Max and Kelly--wishing them luck, and then shutting the door behind him. He made quick work of sneaking a popcorn bag out of his backpack, popping it in the microwave while he scrolled through the countless movies on their smart TV--finding the perfect one for Penelope to watch.

The girl was engrossed, headphones shoved over her ears, watching a 'my top ten romantic moments in movies' compilation, but the smell of buttery goodness made her lift her head.

Lando smiles, holding out a bowl for her, "Too busy watching that for some old fashioned Disney?"

Glancing to the screen, Frozen 2 was paused on the opening screen, and Penelope tutted, "This came out in 2019."

"But thats like forever ago. Were you even born yet?" Lando smirks and Penelope takes the bowl from him with a scowl, but obliges to sit next to him on the couch, putting her iPad away for now, as Lando started the movie up.

But as Elsa is working to tame the Nøkk, Penelope lets out a soft sigh. Popcorn gone, and interest ruined. She wants to get back to studying. She has all winter break to make this love story happen, and with Lando and Max possibly going back for testing as early as January 3rd, she needs to act fast.

Lando glances over from where he's been idly answering emails between watching the movie, his own bowl empty. Penelope pouts while watching the movie, and he hums, looking at her.

"You're not even watching the coolest scene," Lando chimed softly, remembering the countless times little Mila would screech at the TV when she was really young. Penelope just huffed again, and he found himself curiously laying his head on his palm, "isn't this your favorite part?"

"No." Penelope deadpans, sighing again and dramatically slides off the couch onto her back and groans. She knows its a bit overkill, but its also Lando. He was a bit dramatic too. Penelope ends up closing her eyes for more drama as Sassy jumps off the couch and sniffs her head before trying to sneak a bite of corn kernels.

Lando reaches out and waves Sassy away, earning him a hiss and a sulk from the bengal as she stalks off to a far corner in the room. He slides the rest of his way out of the chair, hovering by Penelope's side before asking softly,

"What'sa matter, P?"

Penelope blinks open one eye at his approach, muttering, "The horse thing is Yn's favorite part of the movie."

"Yn?" Lando pops down on the floor next to her, pausing the movie on the TV, "is she one of your friends from dance?

"No, Yn is my nanny." Penelope sits up, a mischievous thought entering her mind, "but she doesn't have a place to live, so she's not my nanny now. Because she can't live in Monaco."

"Oh, that's a shame. D'ya miss her?" Lando asks softly and Penelope nods, leaning over to grab her iPad, pulling up a photo of the two of them squished together into the camera. Lando's smile tells Penelope all she needs to know, obviously he's totally in love with her, that's why he's grinning like that.

"That's a cute photo, P." Lando says. Jackpot. Shifting to lay on his stomach, Lando shuts his laptop on the couch and Penelope spends the rest of their three hour time talking non-stop about you to Lando. Practically making you sound like a damn angel rebirthed onto this Earth, shoving photos of you in his face, giggling like a mad man whenever he asks a question.

Penelope makes sure to have him follow your Instagram, grinning like a madwoman when he agrees to do so. When Max and Kelly come back, Lando stays for dinner, where Kelly informs Penelope you'll be visiting for a few days to do some apartment hunting.

Max seems to remember Lando lives alone and asks once more.

"I could clean the room out if she needs it," Lando says a bit more enthusiastically now. Penelope pats herself on the back as he says, "When Yn gets here, she can come over and take a look--just, just--just remind me to clean up. It's a bit messy."

"Wouldn't expect anything less from you, mate." Max grins and Lando sheepishly tries to defend himself while Kelly watches with a small smile, looking over to where Penelope eagerly grins.

A few days later, you fly in to Monaco. When the Verstappen-Piquet family stops by to visit, you greet them with tight hugs. Maneuvering around your big suitcase laying on the floor, you surprise Max and Kelly with a gift of a few baby items as well as some other much needed items for the couple. Namely, a gift card to Penelope's favorite store, which Max prompty hands back to you with the words, "she'd prefer shopping with her older 'sister'" tossed over his shoulder. The two don't stay long, having a flight to catch to the FIA Awards ceremony. So, Penelope stays in your hotel room while Max and Kelly go off, and you give her free reign to do whatever she wishes.

It only takes about ten minutes into you two being alone for Penelope to ask about the apartment search, almost bursting at the seams with a sense of excitement thats rare--even for her.

"Who told you that?" You spin around to poke your head out of the doorway, hands on your hips. You've spent the last twenty minutes trying to organize the tiny bathroom counter to fit most of your cosmetics and other items for the next few weeks you'd be staying here.

"I heard Maxie talking about it." Penelope looks up with big eyes, emphasizing her sad tone, "You aren't gonna live with us anymore?"

Sighing softly, you make your way across the room, sitting down next to a pouting Penelope on the bed, snatching her bottom lip between your fingers and lightly pulling it to make her giggle and roll away as you call, "keep your mouth like that and your face will freeze there forever!"

"It's gonna stay like this because I'm mad!" She groans, forcing back her smile and giggles, and sitting up and crossing her arms. Now overkill pouting to get her point across, "You aren't gonna live with me!"

"P, I don't fit in your place anymore." You sigh softly, laying across the bed and holding out an arm so the child can crawl over to lay against your side, "we gotta make room for the baby."

"We have to change everything for the baby!" Comes the sharp reply you were expecting. Max had warned you Penelope seemed a little snippy recently. While excited to have a little brother or sister, it was obvious Penelope was also feeling left out.

"Penelope," You soothe, rolling onto your side to prop your head up on a hand, "babies are a big change and unlike you and me, they can't take care of themselves. That's why your Momma and Max have to do all these classes, and appointments and everything. They've gotta make sure they're ready for the little thing."

"But the baby isn't even here yet and it's ruining everything!" Penelope laments, curling into your side, "Momma doesn't play anymore, Max is always busy moving stuff around, we haven't even had a movie night recently because Momma's been so tired!"

"I'm sorry, baby." You sigh. Totally unknowingly feeding right into Penelope's carefully laid trap, "you're allowed to be upset, but you have to also understand this is what has to happen."

"Will it go back to normal when the baby gets here?" Penelope looks up and you give her a little shrug, running a hand through her hair,

"Not for a while, baby."

"Can we go back to normal? Even if you don't live with us anymore?" Penelope sits up now, dragging you to join her and you smile, lifting her up to sit right on your lap as you fix up her unruly hair--another sign of Kelly's growing baby bump, the lack of Penelope hair-dos.

"We'll always be the same, and I'm looking at staying nearby. It'll be an adjustment but it won't be awful." You smile, tucking her hair up into a braid, securing it with a little bow at the end, "Wanna go get something to eat? Max gave me back the babysitting allowance card..."

Hook. Line. Sinker.

"Please!" Penelope gasps, standing up off your lap and jumping off the bed to grab her bag. A little stuffed cat Jelly Cat bag you think hearing Lando had snagged on a trip recently for the little girl. It's cute, and Penelope smiles when she sees you eyeing it.

"Lando got me this!" She proudly exclaims, holding it up as you slip on your shoes.

"Yeah?" You ask, walking to the door as Penelope bounces behind you, grinning wide enough her cheeks puff up, "you two seem to get along."

"He's really cool! You guys could be friends," Penelope laments, dragging you out of the hotel room once you have your shoes, jacket, and purse securely fastened for her little rollercoaster of a personality, "He thinks you're pretty."

Which, isn't exactly true, but it makes your face warm enough for Penelope as you step into the chilly air.

"Well, thats very kind of him," is your reply as you turn towards the coastline, hosting Penelope up into your arms so you don't have to worry about the curious five year old scurrying off.

You end up at one of Penelope's favorites, Costadoro Social. The place is downright adorable, and you manage to snag a window table. While you order, Penelope gets out only the best pages from her sticker book for the both of you to put together. Once you're both settled in, sandwiches and drinks (yours a coffee and hers a hot chocolate), the crowd mills out of the building. Leaving you and a somewhat familiar couple off in a corner, a third chair at their table yanked out like it's expecting someone to swing by.

As you two start on some winter scene in this very exact ticker book, Penelope rattles off countless stories to you about the weekend in Abu Dhabi. When she gasps, asking to show you the stickers she gave to Lando, you notice the curly headed man at the other table peeks over before turning to his girlfriend to ask something.

She shrugs, and the bell dings on the entry door. The woman behind the counter cheerily greeting the newcomer as you look down to where Penelope proudly shows you a picture Kelly had taken with her and Lando, showing off his stickers.

"They made him go fast and win," Penelope happily says, settling back in her seat. You nod, of course it was the stickers. Not because Lando was a professional, but Penelope looks smug like she'd been the reason for the McLaren WCC, so you let it slide. It's cute.

A Laufey cover of 'I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm' begins to play as you pull out your phone to show Penelope your mothers cats back home, as well as some other photos of the short trip back home.

The man at the table stands, walking over, and the motion catches Penelope's watchful eye as the two men give a short hug to one another--wishing happy holidays. You set your phone down, looking over as you sip your drink, and the dimpled smile of one of the men catches your eye.

He's cute.

He turns, as if feeling your gaze, and before you can jerk back he grins widely, "Hey Pen!"

"Lando!" Penelope squeaks, wiggling out of her chair and bounding over to give him a hug. The two share quick pleasantries and an introduction to Lando's friends--Max and Pietra, before Penelope gasps and runs over to you, "Lando, it's Yn!"

You stand at the mention of your name, hustling over with a sheepish smile as Penelope grabs your hand and drags you over like she'll die if she doesn't get the chance to.

"Hi," you squeak, shaking his awaiting hand, "It's nice to meet you, Penelope talks about you a lot."

His cheeks are rosy as you shake his hand, and a tiny grin pokes at Lando's lips as he nods, "she talks about you a lot, too."

"I told you she was pretty!" Penelope chimes, making Max nearly snort out his coffee while Pietra laughs softly. You and Lando are a bit closer to mortified at Penelope's insistence, and you manage to get her to say goodbye so the group can enjoy their lunch together since she does have dance rehearsal soon.

About two hours or so later, you get back to Max and Kelly's post rehearsal. And while Penelope curls up all about tuckered out from running amuck down the shopping districts, learning new ballet moves, and endlessly mentioning Lando like a lovesick teenager, you pull up your phone and scroll through your feed as Penelope fights off a nap.

It's due time for an Instagram post anyways.

liked by maxverstappen, kellypiquet, landonorris, and others...

yourusername: back home for the holidays <3

kellypiquet: the absolute best!

user: YESS YN AND PENELOPE CONTENT WILL RETURN

user2: omg that DRESS i need

⤷ yourusername: its an innika choo dress but im not sure if they're even open anymore :( kelly got it for me for my birthday last yr!!

⤷ user2: OMG THANK U ill keep an eye out!!!

maxverstappen: so thats why theres beads all over the carpet?

⤷ yourusername: i wasnt the cat who decided to try and eat them (jimmy)

⤷ maxverstappen: unsurprising

lilymhe: omg !!! we need to meet up! alex and i have been dying to update you on The Lore

⤷ yourusername: please!! ive been dying to see you guys again :(!!

user3: SO CUTE!!

user4: i would die to be living ur life yn

landonorris: penelope seems to keep you busy

⤷ yourusername: you saw her shenanigans today, it only gets worse

⤷ alexalbon: lando what r u doing

⤷ landonorris: ???????

⤷ maxverstappen: 👁️

⤷ landonorris: ???!!!!

You're halfway through helping Penelope with wrapping a christmas present for her dance teacher when Max knocks on the doorway. You turn around, standing when he beckons you over.

"How's Kelly?" You ask softly, knowing she's trying to sleep off a bout of morning sickness. Max shrugs, sipping his Red Bull.

"A bit ill, but she seems to be getting better. Penelope's fine?"

You nod, looking back as Penelope crosses her arms and scowls at all the options for the bow she could put on the bag.

"Lando's cleaned his apartment, finally," Max watches Penelope with a soft look, before turning to you and leaning on the wall with a tired yawn. He's still adjusting from the season, and the early sun dipping behind the buildings wasn't helping his sleep cycle.

"You should go over, take a little tour." Max hums, "You deserve a break from watching P all day."

"It's quite literally what you pay me to do, Max." You laugh softly, but with a few more pushes of insistence you finally agree. He shoots Lando a text to let him know you're on your way down as you grab a pair of Uggs you wear indoors, and your keys so you don't get locked out.

The elevator ride down is short, and you walk into the warm hallway to see Lando down the hall peeking out. He smiles at your approach and holds open the door for you.

"Nice to see you again," He chimes as you enter. It's been about a week since you've seen him, now teetering close to Christmas, and you smile at him.

"Nice to see you too, Lando." You hum, and he brings you to the spare room. It's spacious, with a big window that looks over the entire Monaco bay. You're drawn to it like a moth to a flame, it's perfect. Everything you could've dreamed of and more. Lando makes sure to show you the ensuite bathroom and large closet.

Everything feels too good to be true, so you quickly ask, "How much would you want me to pay you in rent?"

"Rent?" Lando pauses in the kitchen where he'd offered to get you a soda from his sparse fridge. He shakes his head, leaning on the counter and taking a sip of his water bottle, "Max told me your budgets quite small. I figured I could pay rent and you could pay like... utility?"

"That's gotta be like a quarter of what you pay for this place, Lando. I have a good amount saved up!" You protest and he shakes his head, a tiny smile on his lips.

"Listen, you're honestly doing me a favor. You probably know how to make a house a proper functioning home. I barely know how to not burn leftovers when I reheat them." He chides himself and you break into a tiny laugh, missing the way his face gets rosy at your giggles, "I need a bit of help making this place look... homey. And Max told me you'd be good at that."

"So I'm helping you learn to adult to pay my rent?" You ask and your bluntness makes Lando flush as he rubs the back of his neck and looks down with a shrug.

"If that's okay..?"

"I mean... I'd like to pay, but if you wanna do it this way, fine... But if I end up staying here for a long time, you have to let me help with rent." You hold a hand out like this will seal the deal and Lando grins, his embarrassment forgotten as he darts over to happily shake your hand. You try to ignore how warm his hands are against your cold ones.

"Welcome home, then--oh! I have a spare key for you!" He tries to flash you a charming smile, but the excited expression taking over just makes his face go through far too many expressions in a row. You can't help but laugh, looking around the bare but clearly well loved apartment.

It could use some work, sure, but thats your job now... you suppose.

general tag (open!)

@d3kstar @justalittlejess (jess ur on here now enjoy LMAO)

series specific tag (open!)

@nikfigueiredo

#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #formula one fanfiction #f1 smau #formula one fic #lando norris au #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #ln4 x reader

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redeemed-wren · 10 months ago

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Thinking about. Stanley Pines. Once summer, not long after Weirdmaggedon. Sitting in his seat, staring at the tv but realising slowly he's not really watching TV, he's listening.

Listening to Soos, taking a tour group around the Shack, his voice confident and happy, eagerly telling tourists all kinds of tall tales. Soos, with his young son strapped to his chest, held close and dear to his heart, always knowing he is loved and wanted by his father.

Listening to Wendy and Melody, laughter turning to deeper conversations in the gift shop as Wendy pours out her latest dating drama and Melody listens sympathetically--not quite a mother, but an older sister figure is all Wendy wants at the moment.

Listening to a distant boom coming from the basement, a cause for some concern that fades quickly as three peals of laughter follow soon after. One deep and familiar, as comforting and close as the sound of a ship's motor and the open sea. One young and high, cracking with adolescent awkwardness. One loud and cackling, a hint of madness never quite leaving it but more settled than it used to be. And Stan figures it's probably time to send someone down to drag Ford, Dipper and McGucket upstairs before they forget what light is and get too nerdy.

Besides it's nearly dinner time, and he's listening to Mabel's steady, unrelenting chatter in the kitchen, punctuated by a few grunts of acknowledgment from Abuelita as they prepare a meal.

And Stan feels a strange, unusual sensation wash over him, something he hasn't felt for over half a lifetime, by a boat on a beach. A sensation of contentment, of security, of peace. And he realises that if he stood up and walked into any one of the rooms in the Shack he would be greeted with smiles and faces lighting up to see him and cheerful cries of his name.

And he looks down at the darned pig sleeping beside his chair and things, with oddly misty eyes, that he spent thirty years trying to find his brother again. And he succeeded--but somehow, he got more than that. He had formed around him, without even realising it, a family.

#wren rambles #gravity falls #grunkle stan #stanley pines #everything he ever did was for family #stanley pines they could never make me hate you #thinking about how he pulled people too him accidentally #and the people orbiting around him began to orbit around each other #and they form close bonds and friebdships #but Stanley pines is the epicenter #without him no one would have met #even soos and melody--they wouldnt have met without the twins' involvement trying to push soos out of his comfort zone #and the twins are only in gravity falls bc of stan #its all stan.#hes the center. the core. the heart.#and all he ever wanted was family #it took him a lifetime but he got there eventually

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withwritersblock · 8 months ago

Text

Teenage Dirtbag

~Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus but the 1D cover~

Author's Note: requested! this started out as one thing and then it ended up be 5k words of idk! Summary: Jack falls for the quiet girl in the group Warnings: nothing too bad Word Count: 5,746 Jack Hughes x fm!reader

They were the definition of mutual friends. Her best friend was dating his brother’s best friend, so they only interacted in groups. As in, he was always the center of attention and she was observing quietly. They have been mutual friends for a few years now, only sharing a few conversations here and there.

It was the first summer that the boys were all free and so were the girls. It was Luke’s idea to have everyone come to the Hughes’ lakehouse. The entire groupchat was ecstatic and talking about their travel plans. But since Y/N was only really friends with Hanah and her boyfriend John. Y/N was always quiet during the group hangouts so she didn’t think anyone else would notice if she didn’t want to come to Michigan.

She thought at least until Jack had texted in the chat asking if she was planning on coming. She told the chat that she was planning on it and everyone was ecstatic to have the whole group there for the entire summer.

Which is how she ended up in a plane flying to Michigan. She was sitting beside Hanah and John. John was on the isle seat with his rested on Hanah shoulder as he was dead asleep. They were landing in thirty minutes and he had slept the whole flight despite Hanah’s constant chatter. Y/N would mumble a few replies but she was in her own little world.

She was not someone who enjoyed a lot of attention or even being social for a long time. Which is why this group was usually at a distance. She loved being around them but she also needed time away from them.

Two whole months with them felt like a nightmare because she was the only one that didn’t thrive in social situations.

“We’ve got a summer of concerts and a summer on the lake, how are you not excited?” Hanah begged as she took a hold of Y/N’s hand. She rolled her eyes playfully.

“I am excited for relaxation,” Y/N offered as she glanced to the next row to see Jack and Luke chatting somewhat loudly.

Hanah rolled her eyes dramatically as she delicately took a hold his cheek. Y/N watched them intently, a sting of jealously coursing through her body.

“It’s going to be an amazing summer,” Hanah mumbled as she kept her gaze on John. Y/N nodded as she shifted her gaze down towards her phone for the remainder of the flight.

Once they were off the flight the walk through the airport took forever since the boys kept getting stopped for photos and their Uber driver was all the way at the back of the Uber pick up line. The rest of the groupchat was flying in from all over North America and were planning on meeting at the house.

The Uber driver finally pulled up in front of them and Luke happily took the shotgun seat and forced everyone else to squeeze together in the back of the Kia. Because they were in need of an extra seat Hanah simply sat in John’s lap to create an extra seat. The Uber driver didn’t realize that when his car had five seats, it included himself. Jack jumped in and sat in the middle seat, leaving Y/N to sit against the window.

She kept her gaze towards the window despite Jack and her own knee forced to be against one another. “Sorry, last time I cheap out on Ubers,” Jack mumbled as he leaned towards her. She forced a smile onto her lips as she met his gaze for a second.

It’s fine,” she mumbled as she tilted her head towards the window.

Jack kept his gaze on her for a moment before he looked back down towards his lap.

The drive to the Hughes’ lakehouse was only twenty minutes but it was definitely the longest twenty minutes of any of their lives, beside Luke. He was comfortable and eating the driver’s snacks he offered. Zero hesitation in the process.

As soon as the car was put into park, Y/N instantly opened the door and slipped out. She kept it open as she walked towards the trunk and immediately pulling all of their suitcases out. Jack instantly followed in pursuit, keeping his distance. He pulled the last of the suitcases out and closed the trunk. Jack shifted his gaze towards her for a second before he started dragging two suitcases as once.

Quinn, Trevor, and Cole all jogged out of the house, shirtless and excited to see everyone. This was only the third time she’s seen the three in person since the group chat was made. Which is another reason as to why she was unsure as to why she was invited.

“Look at that the plans made it out of the chat!” Cole shouted as he instantly ran around to give each person a hug. Y/N hugged him back hesitantly but the hug last less than a second it seemed.

“Everyone grab a suitcase, we gotta assign roommates,” Quinn let out excitedly. Everyone listened and didn’t seem to care about the situation except Y/N. She kept her own suitcases dragging behind her as she slowly walked towards the entrance of the house. The only person she truly knew in the house was Hanah, and she knew she was going to room with John. But who would that leave Y/N with?

Once they were inside it was obvious the house was huge and yet it still looked like a frat house. It was clean but the decor definitely gave boy. She stood awkwardly beside Hanah while she glanced towards Jack. His hair was covered with a backwards hat now and he had a wide grin on his lips.

She’s always found him attractive, it’s hard not to but he was always so out there. She brought her gaze back towards the tile beneath her sandals.

“Okay, we have five rooms. Which means some of us will have to get snuggly,” Quinn teased. His gaze was dancing around the room, meeting everyone’s eye for a moment. “Obviously John and Hanah will be sharing a room because-well,” he paused as he pointed towards them. The room giggled. “And Y/N you can have your own room.”

“Why does she get her own room?” Trevor whined jokingly.

“Because that would be weird to tell her that she had to share a bed with one of you assholes,” Quinn said while shaking his head, a chuckle falling from his lips.

Y/N let out a sigh of relief. She lifted her gaze to nod towards Quinn. He smiled towards her before he started his shpeel again. “Jack, you can either have your own room or pick between Trev and Cole because Lukey and I already decided to share,”

“I’ll have my own room, thanks,” Jack let out with a wide grin on his lips.

“I didn’t want to spoon with you anyway,” Cole let out, the entire room started to laugh, even Y/N.

“You guys can have my room,” Luke mumbled towards Trevor and Cole.

“Come on, Y/N, I’ll show you our private rooms,” he let out teasingly to the whole group. Everyone started to disperse towards their own bedrooms. Y/N stayed still for a second, her heart jumping into her throat. Alone with Jack. For the first time, ever.

She nodded as she reluctantly followed after him, dragging her two suitcases behind her. The two rooms that Jack and Y/N were in were on the main level while every other room was on the second floor.

Jack opened one of the doors, tossing the door open. “That’ll be your room,” he let out before he spun around to face her. Shyly, she smiled towards him as she started walking into her room. He furrowed his eyebrows, leaving his suitcases in the hallway. She took a hold of one of the suitcases and tossed it onto the bed, a huff of air leaving her lips in the process.

He leaned against the doorway, his hands holding the top of the doorframe. She spun her head around, seeing him standing there. Her heart was beating out of her chest. Swallowing hard she turned her whole body around to face him.

“How did you end up being friends with Hanah?” Jack asked as he slowly dropped his hands to the side, stepping into the room further. Furrowing her eyebrows, she awkwardly crossed her arms over her chest. “I-I mean you’re so quiet and she’s… so not,”

Y/N stifled a laugh as she reached down and took a hold of her other suitcase. She placed it beside her other one and let out a huff of air before she turned her gaze towards Jack.

“We sat next to each other in second grade and I guess she took my silence as a yes to being friends,” she mumbled, he smiled softly. “Which it was at the time,” she continued meeting his eye.

He squinted his eyes sightly as he scanned her frame subtly before he swallowed hard. He stepped back while running his fingers through his hair. She turned around and opened the suitcase. “At the time?” he asked softly.

Taking in a deep breath, Y/N began to pull out her different clothes. Many of them were for dinner, clubs, or swimsuits. “Sometimes I get so tired of being social,” she mumbled, keeping her gaze away from him.

“I get that,” he mumbled, chuckling softly. “This group is all yappers except maybe John-but if you ever need a break don’t be afraid to just leave. We understand,” he explained softly.

Her lips fell into a pout as she turned around, meeting his eye and nodded. He smiled towards her before he slipped out of her room. She dropped her gaze towards the floor. A grin forming to her lips.

~~~

It had been two days since they arrived and it was safe to say that Y/N was already exhausted from all of the group hanging out. She’s done at least for today. Which is why she hasn’t left her room yet She was laying on her bed, hugging a pillow tightly to her chest as she was watching Pretty Little Liars.

A few soft knocks hit her door. She shut her eyes harshly as she quietly forced out, “Come in.” she laid onto her back as the door was softly cracked open. Jack peeked his head inside holding a mug of coffee in his hand.

“I brought you coffee,” he let out quietly as he slipped inside, he delicately shut the door. She pouted her lips as she slowly sat up slightly. “Splash of cream? Right?” he asked as he cautiously handed it over to her.

“Thank you,” she mumbled as she immediately brought the mug towards her lips. He winked towards her as he sat down beside her. She placed it onto the nightstand beside her. She met his eye for a moment before she dropped her gaze back towards her lap.

“We’re heading on the boat soon, do you want to join?” he asked. Subconsciously, her face scrunched up in disgust. He chuckled. “It’s okay, I’ll have my phone on me so text me if you want us to come pick you up,” he muttered, looking into her eyes.

“Thank you,” she muttered as she shyly dropped her gaze towards her lap. He stood up and walked out of the room, not turning back to meet her eye. Shutting the door delicately, he walked down the hall towards the rest of the group and they were all in their swimsuits and walking around slightly stir crazy.

“Is she coming?” Hanah asked hopeful. Jack shook his head as he shoved his hands into his swimtrunk’s pockets. “What, that’s bogus, I’ll grab her.”

“Leave her be, she wants to relax in bed,” Jack let out while chuckling.

“Well who am I supposed to hang with,” Hanah asked with a pout on her lips. John threw his hands to the side with his mouth falling open. “You don’t count,” she said delicately tapping her hand against his arm.

“She wants to be alone that’s all.” Jack continued as he walked backwards towards the door, “We have a boat to get drunk on, come on,”

The whole group started to happily walk out of the house. Jack glanced down at his phone, somewhat expecting a text from her but there was nothing. He sighed as he followed the rest of them out into the heat.

~~~

It was several hours later and everyone was quite drunk beside Jack and Y/N. They were slap happy, giggling and enjoying every drop of alcohol they were drinking. Jack didn’t want to take care of them anymore and decided to see if she would like some company.

He walked up to the door, knocking softly and another echo of come in. He delicately pushed the door open, he peeked his head inside. She lifted her gaze up from her computer and smiled towards him.

“What are you doing Jack?” she asked as he slowly slipped inside.

“Can I hang in here?” he asked quietly. She tried to stop the grin forming to her lips. She nodded as she closed her computer and placed it onto the nightstand. “Did you leave the room at all?” he asked teasingly as he jogged around the bed to sit on the other side.

Furrowing her eyebrows, she met his gaze, “I did, I showered, thank you,” she let out sarcastically. He barked out a laugh as he tilted his head back against the headboard.

They sat together in silence for a few minutes, neither of them looking towards one another. Jack was not used to enjoying quiet, he usually hated anything that was quiet. In his life, quiet meant something bad was happening. But Y/N thrived in the quiet. Maybe even the happiest when it’s just her and silence.

But she does look happy, maybe it was an act or maybe she was actually content with him sitting beside her.

“What are you doing?” she asked again, tilting her head to the side to meet his gaze. He pouted his lips, shaking his head slightly. “We barely interact for years, I think these past three days is the most we’ve interacted… ever,” she expressed.

He smirked as he continued to look into her eyes. “You’ve always caught my eye,” he let out quietly, subconsciously inching towards her.

“Really?” she asked shyly. He hummed as he continued to look into her eyes. “Okay,” she let out softly. He chuckled quietly as he tilted his head back, looking up towards the ceiling.

“What were you doing?” he asked, pointing towards her laptop. Her eyes lit up as her lips curled up into a grin.

“I was working on my manuscript,” she muttered. He grinned. “I started it years ago and now I’m just rewriting and editing it,”

“Can I read it?” he asked. Instantly, she shook her head, “Oh come on!” he let out while laughing.

“No,” she let out giggling, taking a hold of laptop and placing it on the floor, sliding it under the bed.

“When it’s finished can I read it?” he questioned pursing his lips forward. She nodded as she leaned her head back against the headboard. “Good,” he let out. After a few seconds, he tilted his head to the side to admire her side profile. “What’s it about?”

“Jack,” she scolded softly.

“Right,” he muttered as he fought a smile on his lips. He looked back down towards his lap. She giggled as she took a hold of the TV remote beside her and turned on the TV. “What are we watching?” he asked. She simply shrugged before she climbed under the covers. Jack watched her before he followed in pursuit.

“Any preference?” she asked barely above a whisper. He shook his head while pouting his lips. Nodding, she pulled up Hulu and went to the episode of Law and Order SVU she was on. He furrowed his eyebrows harshly as he stared towards her. Shifting her gaze towards him, she fought a grin on her lips.

“Who just puts on Law and Order?” he questioned. She shrugged as she shifted her gaze back towards the screen. “God, you are so weird,” he let out while laughing. She rolled her eyes playfully.

~~~

“She lives!” Hanah teased as Y/N emerged from the hallway. Y/N rolled her eyes as she flipped her off. She wandered towards the empty seat beside Jack.

She sat down and Jack trailed her frame as she sat down. Her frame was covered with loose shorts and a tight thing long sleeve pajama shirt. He pressed his lips together as he tilted his head back against the couch for only a moment.

“Sorry,” Y/N muttered as she sunk into herself. Jack furrowed his eyebrows as he glanced towards Hanah for a second before he looked back towards Y/N. He could that the little joke Hanah said actually hurt her feelings.

“We’re going to the shops, if you want to come with,” Jack asked softly. She met his gaze and nodded. He smiled widely before shifting his gaze towards the group.

“Yes!” Hanah cheered loudly. Y/N forced a grin on her lips before she shifted her gaze back down towards her lap.

The entire group started engaging in conversation, Jack was talking loudly with Trevor about something relating to videos they have to shoot in August. Y/N shifted her gaze towards him, watching him laugh loudly and be the center of attention. The way he laughed and smiled widely was different from how she saw him last night.

It was how she usually saw him. Cracking jokes and laughing loudly. He was always the center of attention, he was Jack Hughes afterall.

She smiled softly as she continued to admire him, maybe secretively maybe not. She didn’t care, a lot of the time no one even noticed that she was there. He shifted his gaze briefly towards her, smiling once he met her eye before he went right back into his conversation.

It was an hour later and they were all at the shops that were full of pastel beach themed colors. The first shop they went to were stereotypical tourist gear but they stuck around to look at the tiny trinkets.

Y/N took a hold of a tiny racoon that was in a fishing boat. She stifled a small chuckle as she continued to look through each of the tiny things. Jack stumbled beside her, nearly knocking over a lamp. He steadied the lamp while meeting her gaze. She chuckled as she took a hold of a tiny frog sitting on a mushroom. She held it up towards him and he squinted his eyes while he fought off a laugh.

“Are you planning on buying anything?” he asked, she shrugged as she continued to show him the weirder and the weirder desk decorations. “You sure you don’t need a dinosaur dressed as a--astronaut?” he asked holding it up towards her. She rolled her eyes playfully.

“That’s insane,” she let out as she took a step back away from the table. He smiled towards her as he pointed towards the exit, where majority of their friends were already heading. She smiled shyly as she followed after him.

“Y/N, this next store has swimsuits, maybe you shouldn’t go in since you don’t like to go swimming,” Hanah said with a smirk on her lips, intending to make a joke.

“Hardy har,” Y/N said while crossing her arms over her chest.

The next store was strictly clothing and everyone was actually pulling things to try on and potentially purchase. Y/N was looking at a handful of dresses. The dresses she had pulled out her skin tight and in many different shades of colors. One of them had long sleeves and she was excited to try it on.

Jack was watching from the distance, he was in the men’s section looking at the random hoodies. He’s always kept an eye on her, something about her always intrigued him. Sure, it was how she would go hours without talking while hanging out or how she would be shyly hiding in the corner of any party or night club.

She was stunning, that was no question. So gorgeous and so comfortable with trying to make sure no one noticed. But he did and he was determined to become close to her. He needed to know more about her.

He pulled the hoodie from the clothing rack and rolled his eyes before he placed it back onto it. He lifted his gaze again to see her walking towards the dressing room. He followed towards her, he shoved through the small crowds of people to try and meet up with her.

There was a line waiting for the two rooms that were available. Jack walked up beside her, smiling towards her. She spun around slowly meeting his gaze, she rolled her eyes playfully.

“Jack,” she mumbled.

“Tho-those are nice,” he let out awkwardly. She squinted her eyes as she furrowed her eyebrows.

“Yeah, I think so,” she expressed as she kept her gaze on his. He glanced down towards the dresses before he looked back up to meet her eye. “What are you thinking?” she asked as her lips curled upward in a small smile.

“Oh nothing,” he muttered, “Just gonna try on some clothes, I think,” he pursed his lips froward. She glanced down to his empty hands. He held his hands up and fought off a chuckle.

“You don’t have-” she trailed off.

“Yeah, I realized that. I don’t honestly know what I’m doing,” he explained while laughing. They moved up the line as someone exited.

She smirked as she tilted her head to the side. “Jack,” she let out. He hummed while shaking his head, “Did you just want to see me try these dresses on?” she questioned teasingly. His mouth fell open as he fought a grin on his lips.

“I was n-not-that is so, yeah I think so. I honestly don’t remember,” he said while avoiding her gaze. She pursed her lips forward as she tried to meet his eye, deliberately moving her head side to side.

“Jack,” she said.

“Yeah,” he let out as he finally met her gaze.

“Maybe later,” she whispered. He grinned as he nodded before he quickly stumbled away from her. She dropped her gaze towards the floor, smiling shyly.

~~~

Finally they all returned to the house, several bags of trinkets and clothes in all of their hands. Y/N delicately placed the bags onto her bed when she heart a small knock on her door. She rolled her eyes playfully as she muttered a come in. He peeked his head inside as he slipped inside. He shut the door behind him and locked the door behind him.

“I was promised a haul,” he mumbled quietly.

“I thought the word that left my lips was a maybe,” she uttered as she turned around to meet his gaze.

“I think you want to give me a haul,” he teased. She rolled her eyes as she dropped her gaze towards the floor for a moment. Jack furrowed his eyebrows as he scanned her suddenly worried features. “You okay?” he asked softly.

“What are you doing?” she asked, keeping her gaze on the floor.

“What?” he asked softly.

“Why are you all of a sudden acting like we’re friends? I mean I was fine playing along but seriously, Jack, what are you doing?” she asked, her lips quivering as she spoke. His eyes scanned her features, watching her waterline fill with tears. “Because if you are just doing this because you feel bad for me-”

“Why would I do that?” he asked softly, he took a step towards her. She pressed her lips together shaking her head, “I have been dying to get to know you. When I told you you’ve always caught my eye, I meant that,” he expressed as he took another step towards her.

“We are friends because I listen when you talk and I know you listen when I talk. We’re friends because I enjoy your company even when you don’t feel like talking. I know you enjoy my company because you keep letting me in. We’re friends because I see you,” he explained as he looked deeply into her eyes, something he hasn’t gotten to do. Her eyes were still teary.

“Okay,” she muttered.

“Okay,” he let out as he nodded slightly.

Her lips curled upward softly as she took a deep breath. “Sit,” she mumbed as she pointed towards her bed. He smiled softly as he listened. “Close your eyes.”

He smirked as he shut his eyes while shaking his head back and forth. She picked up her phone and started playing her playlist softly, she delicately rested it onto the dresser beside her before she started to slip her jean shorts off of her frame. She pulled the tanktop off of her body as she picked up the gold dress.

It barely covered her ass as it was tight against her curves. It was lose along her chest to show off her cleavage. She sighed as she her bra off and kept her underwear on. She slowly slipped the dress on, adjusting it to make sure it fit her perfectly.

The soft hum of the music made this more intimate than what she was expecting but she didn’t mind it. “Jack,” she let out barely above a whisper. He opened his eyes excitedly as he scanned her frame. His cheeks instantly flushed red as he continued to scan her frame. She shyly crossed her arms over her chest.

He shook his head as he stood up. Delicately, he took a hold of her arms and put them on her side. “Let me see you,” he whispered. She looked up towards him, fighting a small smile on her lips as she looked into his eye. “Oh my god,” he said as he hovered his hands around her frame.

“I’ve got like four more,” she mumbled as she continued to look into his gaze. He nodded as he bit his bottom lip, he slowly sat down.

“I don’t know how they’ll beat this one,” he mumbled as he watched her walked towards the plastic bag. She pointed towards him, he dragged his tongue across his bottom lip before he tilted his head back while shutting his eyes.

She slowly started to slip the dress from her frame again.

~~~

For the next few weeks Jack and Y/N would disappear together towards the end of the night. Since their rooms were in the same hallway, it didn’t cross anyone’s minds that they were hanging out together. Because no one’s truly noticed.

Jack was sprailed out on his bed as he waited for Y/N to join him. She was alone in her room, getting into comfortable clothing before she slipped away towards his room.

His feelings for her were starting to come more and more up front. After her little fashion show a few weeks back, he hasn’t stopped imagining what she would look like without the skin tight dresses on her frame. Nothing happened between them that night but she definitely could tell that he had some sort of feelings towards her. At least he thought it was obvious.

He held his phone above his face as he scrolled through his TikTok feed. He was chuckling at a few of the videos. His door was creaked open and Y/N had peeked her head inside. He pulled his phone away to meet her gaze, he smirked before he rested his phone onto the side table.

“Hi,” he let out as he watched her twist the lock on the door. She pressed her lips together as she watched Jack scan her frame. She was wearing a matching gray set of loose shorts and a tight tank top. He bit his bottom lip trying to prevent a wide grin forming to his lips.

“It’s weirdly quiet, are you sure everyone’s still here?” she asked as she pointed behind her. Jack shrugged as he patted the empty side of the bed. She rolled her eyes playfully as she climbed under the comforter and rolled onto her side to face him. He smirked as he kept his gaze on her lips.

“We’ve got the second season of New Girl to start,” he mumbled. She nodded as she inched towards him slightly. Subconsciously, he reached his hand over and took a hold of the base of her neck. He brushed her hair away from her face in the process. Her eyes widened slightly as she met his eye. He was breathing almost heavily but she wasn’t sure.

There was a moment where she felt her body erupt in flames. He continued to stare towards her lips, craving the taste of them. She swallowed hard as she felt her breath stuck in her throat.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked softly as he glided his thumb along her skin. He pressed his lips together as he scanned her features. She shook her head slightly almost instantly. He leaned towards her hovering his lips over hers.

Slowly, she shut her eyes as her lips tingled with anticipation. He smirked before he leaned closer. His lips pressed against hers softly, almost as if asking for permission. His lips were soft and warm as he waited for her to part her lips; to grant him access.

Parting her lips she took a hold of his shirt as he started to roll her onto her back. He adjusted the comforter on them, tossing it lower as a giggle fell from her lips.

Every glide of his fingertips, created goosebumps all over her body as her chest felt heavy. Her breathing became more rapid as he rested both hands on either side of her. Her hands took a hold of his cheeks.

Slowly pulling his lips from hers, he started trailing his lips down her neck. He began to suck and bite the skin just below her ear. She stifled a sudden gasp of air as she tiled her head back as she ran her fingers through his hair.

He pulled away, devouring her lips again. His hand started to toy with the hem of her tanktop.

“Oi, Jackaboy. You are needed in the basement, we’ve got a pool tourney starting!” Trevor shouted as he banged on the door. Jack instaly fell onto his back, staring towards the ceiling. His breathing heavy. “And can you find Y/N? She’s not in her room, we need another team,” he shouted as he banged his hand onto the door.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll find her. Just give me a second,” Jack shouted as he stood up from the bed. He shifted his gaze towards her, stifling a laugh.

“Let’s go man,” Trevor shouted again.

“I’ll meet you down there, damn,” Jack said as me was looking into Y/N’s eye. She fought off a grin as she pulled her knees to her chest. Trevor banged on the door before he wandered away.

Jack jogged around the bed to meet her on her side of the bed. Hovering over her, he took a hold of her cheek. “We got a few minutes of me searching for you, we could uh-” he trailed off as he scanned her features. She pursed her lips forward as she tilted her head back against the headboard. Leaning towards her, he delicately pressed his lips against hers.

“Let’s go,” she mumbled against his lips. He pulled away, pouting before he stood up from the bed. Looking down towards her, he stepped back.

“Lead the way,” he muttered pointing towards the door. She smiled as she slid off the bed. He bit his bottom lip as his eyes trailed her frame.

She peeked her head out of the bedroom to see no one in sight and they both started down the hallways towards the staircase towards the basement. Before they started down the steps, she turned around to meet his eye. “Don’t look at me,” she let out barely above a whisper.

“I can’t look at you?” he asked while meeting her gaze.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered. He smirked as she started walking down the steps.

The rest of the evening ended with a tremendous victory for Luke and Quinn. They wouldn’t stop bragging at how much better they were than everyone else. It was obnoxious but regardless the evening was fun.

At first John and Hanah slipped away to their room. It was soon followed by Trevor and Cole. Quinn, Luke, Jack, and Y/N were the only ones left. Y/N was starting to fall asleep on the beanbag. Quinn chuckled as he rolled his eyes playfully.

“Y/N, maybe you should head up to bed,” Quinn offered. Her eyes shot open as she shook her head slightly. The boys shared glances before Quinn and Luke shot up from their seats. “We’re gonna head up too,” Quinn muttered as he shifted his gaze to Jack, smirking slightly.

Jack waved the brothers off as he stood up from the beanbag. He stood above her, he glanced back towards his brothers who were already half up the stairs. He held out his hand towards her. She smiled towards him as she gladly took it.

He guided her towards the stairs, their hands still interlocked. They climbed up the stairs and Jack kept looking back and forth to check and see if any of their friends were around them.

He continued to guide her towards his bedroom, walking past her room. Delicately, he unlocked the door and guided her inside. She smiled towards him as she watched him locked the door behind them. He stood in front of her, meeting her gaze.

“So where we we?” he asked as he delicately took a hold of her waist. She smirked as she rested her hands onto his chest. “Come ‘ere,” he mumbled as he pulled her towards him, kissing her softly. She giggled against his lips as she glided her hands from his chest towards the base of his neck.

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