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sierrale8ne · 1 day ago

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40 DAYS AND 40 NIGHTS BONUS CHAPTER

pairing wnba!paige bueckers x singer!oc

taglist @thaatdigitaldiary @ohbueckers @wbbgetsmewetter @rosemariiaa @tndaqlwifwy @pboogerswbb @xxloveralways14 @makethemhoesmad @slvt4her @luvapaigeeyy @hedidnotpleaseme @paigesbabygirl @mopopshop @omg-imtumbling @numberonepartyanth3m @wbb4l @authentic-girl03 @slut4uconnwbb @unadulteratedcyclepaper @kplum10 @fuddfanatic35 @avvwritesstufff @paigesluver @bueckersbitch @ryywyd @lupinqs @ohmybueckers

warnings sexual content

kalena speakss 🪽! i hit 1k last night so i figured it would be perfect to give you guys this lil thing. thank you guys so much for all the love since i joined this community, i can’t wait to put out more works for y’all 🥹 THANK YOU AGAIN FOR 1K!

August 2025 — Los Angeles, California

“You’re really about to go have drinks and leave me here? All by myself?” I whine, my head resting on the mirror where I sit on Raye’s bathroom counter.

The last month of being with Maraye has been nothing short of an adventure to say the least. The honeymoon phase was absolutely real, because I honestly think we’ve spent more time with one another than apart. Aside from my last road trip.

Which I believe is the sole reason for my complaining and frowning in front of her right now.

“I’ve had these plans for weeks. I haven’t seen my girls in forever, it’s the first time everyone’s back in LA.” She explains to me, and I get it. I really do, but something about just landing last night and only getting a few kisses before bed makes the fact that she’s going out even more ridiculous in my head.

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen you in forever. Do you just hate me, or what?” I continued. I reach for the belt loop of Raye’s denim skirt, pulling her in between my legs. “Ma, c’mon.”

She has this look on her face that makes it so hard to act upset. Wide eyes and a thin lipped cheeky smile. Concealer dabbed under her eyes, blush on her cheeks, Raye got her lashes done yesterday morning and the fresh set makes her dark rimmed eyes look even more enticing.

My girlfriend is fucking hot. I’ve had the privilege of having my eyes blessed by her since we started dating. But God, even the simplicity of her black top and jean skirt— with the tiniest sliver of skin on her stomach showing and skirt just short enough to bring a lot of dirty thoughts to my imagination— makes the realization stick to me like glue.

“You look good.” I murmur as I trail my hand behind her. It finds a home against her waist at first, but I could only be tempted to drag it lower over her ass. “Real fuckin’ good.”

“I know. Which is why I’m going out.” Raye jeers. She pushes off of me, reaching for her just slightly pink lip gloss. It’s sheer when she swipes it over her plump lips, a nice color contrast to the dark brown of her lip liner.

My fingers tap frustratedly against my knee. “Baby. Jus’ stay wimme, c’mon.” I groan again, hoping that my combination of puppy eyes and the line of my jaw is enough to convince her. I watch the way Raye pats her lips together and I know it’s not on purpose but it sure as hell feels that way.

“You had all day to try to keep me home. You didn’t care until I got all dressed up, P.” She rolls her eyes playfully. Raye shutting off the light and leaving me in the darkness of her bathroom. The sexy scent of her Jimmy Choo perfume briefly puts me in a trance but I get up and follow her anyway.

“That’s ’cause I didn’t expect you to look this…this fucking fine.” My bottom lip can’t help but travel between my teeth as I watch her walk, her boots clicking against the hardwood of her apartment.

“That’s not my problem, babe.”

I scoff. “Don’t go out with ‘em, Raye. You’re telling me we wouldn’t have more fun here?” My voice is suggestive, just enough to make her stutter in her step before slowly pivoting to face me.

She’s processing what to say, and a part of me is begging that she’s going to take her boots off and throw herself at me so I have her as I want for the rest of the night.

Raye struts over to me, pressing her palm against my cheek. We’re nearly at eye level like this, the smell of her hair product wafts up to my nose. I jut my lips out towards her, to be honest I’m not sure I even realized how genuinely needy I was until right then.

“‘M gonna get lipgloss on you.” She sighs.

“On my life, I don’t give a shit.”

It seems enough to get her to give in, enough for Raye to lean in and pull me to her by my tank top, slotting her lips against mine. She tastes like that same faint, sweet, coconut scent of her body wash.

I immediately reach for her hands, lacing her fingers with mine and dragging her other hand down my torso as I deepen the kiss.

She grips the waistband of my shorts, my tongue doesn’t even bother being gentle with the way I shove it between her lips, licking at her tongue in a tangled exchange.

Seemingly, she forgets that she had places to be, which fills me with a sense of pride that sends a rush through me, I think I’ve probably soaked my boxers into nothing by now. Maraye’s phone buzzes in her purse, making her hum in almost…realization.

“They can wait.” I grunt against her lips, our teeth continuing to clash in pure want.

Raye breaks the suction of our mouths, a vulgar popping noise cutting through the soft noise of the TV in the back.

“You can wait.”

“It’s been forever, ma. You gon’ let me go over a week without you? For real?”

A laugh erupts from her mouth, Raye’s thumb brushing under my lip, probably ridding me of any of her now transferred lip product. “There’s food on the stove, don’t touch my AC, and I promise—” the girl pauses, taking the opportunity to sneak a kiss off of me, “— I’ll let you have whatever you want when I get back.”

I can’t do anything more than sigh as I watch her walk away, the sway of her hips and swell of her ass and the light that her kitchen illuminates on those long, brown legs. She picks up her keys and slings her jacket over her arm.

Within seconds she’s gone.

—

When I got to the bar, enveloped in conversation with my girlfriends from college, all it really took was a few shots to get me going. The conversation flowed easily, like we really hadn’t even been apart for as long as we really did. I was having a good time. Which honestly, is surprising considering how much work I’ve been doing for the last handful of months.

The night was calm, the soft noise of 2000’s music pumping through the speakers and the occasional cheers at the expense of tipsy women dancing only a few feet away.

That was until Paige, even as wonderful and perfect as I think she truly is, decided to use my obvious obsession towards her to her advantage.

paige: You doin alright angel?

Yk without your amazing girlfriend and all read 10:38pm

I sip on my margarita, the heat of the alcohol and the almost sudden heat in the pit of my stomach is so strong that they’re one and the same. This is how it starts with her, I’ve learned. Short texts, asking how I am or about my whereabouts. I always find the second question amusing considering she has my location. It’s distracting in a way that makes me forget where I am.

“Oh my God, look at Cass.” My good friend who sits to my left, Nia, points up to my sister. The woman is obviously shit faced, too many drinks taken by this part of the evening. She dances carelessly alongside a few of the other girls.

“I swear she only had a few?” I look shocked, taking a mental note and making sure the only thing Cassie has to drink for the rest of the night is water.

“Multiply that by like, four.”

My ready response is immediately cut off by another text, the blinding light that comes from Paige’s contact makes me roll my eyes.

paige: Read? Wow what position y’all in rn 10:40pm

maraye: oh my god you’re dramatic as hell 😭

i’m fine baby, u? 10:41pm

paige: Nah not rlly

I’m wet as fuck rn just thinking about you

Made a mess on your couch :/ 10:42pm

My breath catches in my throat, coming off as a gasp to Nia. “You okay?”

“Yeah, ‘m fine. Imma head to the bathroom real fast.” I explain, trying my best to mask any possible stutter as I stand up, fixing my skirt. She doesn’t say much, which is a relief to me as I dart off to the bathroom in the back.

This is classic Paige, trying to do anything to get in my head just because she can. And as much as I’d hate to admit that it’s working, it is.

The way she was so straightforward about it, drawing me into the conversation with lighthearted Paige-esque texts only to flip the script into something much more filthy within a matter of minutes.

I lean my back on the singular porcelain sink, gripping my phone in my hands. I reopen our text thread, racking my brain for what to say to her that won’t lead to me making a mess out of my panties.

maraye: paige quit itttt

i literally just got here 10:44pm

paige: I literally don’t care 🤷🏼‍♀️

Can’t get your ass in that skirt outta my head

Got my fingers all sticky and shit 10:45pm

I swear my heartbeat speeds up times fucking ten, my chest heaving like she sucked all the air out of my lungs without even being here.

The picture she just painted in my head makes my knees weak.

Hot and bothered even more than before I left. Paige’s fingers, long and so ridiculously skilled, between her thighs as she got off to me. The thought of her imagining me or looking at pictures of me, it’s so downright dirty that I can’t believe I didn’t indulge in sexting with her before this.

I take a deep inhale, wanting to blink back my thoughts of her coming on my couch, my name off of her lips like a prayer.

paige: 1 Attachment: 1 Video

I think you should come back home 10:47pm

Fumbling with my phone I finally tap the screen and get the video open. It’s pitch black at first, then the view of her lower body fills my whole screen. Paige’s legs spread wide on my couch, a foot propped up on the armrest as she lets out an audible groan.

Her hand tugs up the hem of her wife beater, then her fingers rub circles over her clit. The sound of how wet she is loud, too loud, almost drowning out her moaning. I whine, crossing my legs and shutting my eyes. Maybe if I stopped looking at her I would keep what was left of my sanity.

And then she moans my name, again. My full name. Over and over and fucking over. I can’t help but drag my hand under my skirt, over my panties.

Then she slips three fingers inside, the stretch is obvious but the moan she lets out. Paige curls her fingers inside herself, I watch the camera tremble in response— she’s struggle to hold it still.

Then she’s slamming them in and out, a repetition that makes her almost cry. It sounds like water sloshing on the other side of the phone. Wet. Wet and fucking messy until she comes with a sound that could really only be described as a scream.

maraye: fuck baby 10:50pm

paige: I can’t stop cumming ma

Needa fuck you so bad

Come home 10:50pm

My breathing is ragged, and I know I shouldn’t but I’m considering it heavily. It’s so hard to believe that not even two weeks without her was making me act like this but it was.

maraye: you gotta come get me 10:51pm

paige: Otw read 10:52pm

—

"So, What'd you tell 'em?" I murmur. We sit at a red light, my left hand gripping the steering wheel so hard that even in the late night lighting you can tell how strained they are. But my right hand, trails slowly up Raye's thigh. She didn't fight me, not at all, her legs spreading further in the seat of my Jeep.

I can feel the warmth exuding from her before I even get a chance to press against her cunt.

"Hmm?"

"Your girls. What was your excuse, ma?" I ask again, pressing my foot to the gas pedal as soon as that green light flashes in my face.

My fingers take their time traveling towards her center and the second they do, Raye adjusts in the seat. She pushes her hips up the leather, tipping her head back on the head rest.

"Told 'em you needed a good fuck?" I pull her panties aside, and the second they touch my fingertips I learn that she's fucking soaked. "That you were so fuckin' needy that you had to go home to me, huh?"

The soft sound of PartyNextDoor fills the car alongside the soft hum of pleasure from Raye's lips. My eyes dart down to her, the way she has her eyes glued shut, the heavy rise and fall of her chest. Then I follow the slope of her nose and the tip of her head. The city streetlights make her look like an angel, just glowing.

"Y’were the one begging for me." She groans as I slip my finger inside. The angle puts a slight strain on my wrist but I don't really care. I look back to the road, it's pure luck that the roads tonight are kind of empty.

“It worked tho’ right? Got you just how I want you.” I smirk at the fact, tapping my free hand against the steering wheel.

Raye is so damn warm against me, hugging my middle finger like a vice. "So jus' lemme know. Did you say how wet I make you, that's why you couldn't stay?"

"Oh fuck you." She moans, biting her lip so hard that I think she might draw blood.

“Imma do that, baby. Trust me.” I hum.

Maraye is reactive, if it’s the one thing I’ve noticed about having sex with her, it’s that. Sure the sound of her pussy around my finger is loud but her moans might be louder. Then when I slip in a second finger she lets out a whimper, an almost helpless one.

She tries to steady herself, splaying a hand on my center console but it only does so much. It stabilizes her for a moment until I curl my fingers in that way I know she likes. Her hips jerk up, riding up her skirt in the process.

“You tryna run? I thought you knew better than that, Raye.” I shake my head. I’m lucky we’re on a straight road, it gives me enough time to briefly let my hand leave the wheel to pin her hips down to the seat.

“Y—you’re so good.” She groans, blinking her eyes open. “M’gonna cum.”

I make a swift turn onto her street, racking my brain for all the ways I could turn this woman to putty until the sun came up. “Nah you gonna hold it until we get to yours.” I mutter, dragging my fingers in and out with a fervor. “Then you’re gonna let me fuck you with my cock.”

I watch her jaw fall slack at my words, either in shock or pleasure but regardless it’s addicting. She nods rapidly, whining as I slow my fingers until they’re barely even moving inside her and I finally get a chance to park the car.

“More, baby. Mor—”

“Gonna soak me up the way you’re soaking my seat. Jus’ fuckin’ up my car, huh? You’re gonna give it to me.” I turn my body to face her, gripping her chin so she’s looking at me. My fingers twist inside of her, the squelch of it all catches us both off guard. “Imma stretch you out so wide it hurts. Ruin that pussy, yeah?”

“Yes. God, yes.” Raye nods.

Her eyes roll back, more than enough to make me moan and pull my fingers out. They’re soaked with her arousal, a sheen that drips to my palm. I’m wrapped in the scent of her— sex, perfume, and coconut— a combination that makes me drip down my legs.

“Then let’s go.” I mutter, turning off the car sticking my keys into the pocket of my shorts. My hand comes up to my lips, cleaning them of the mess she had made. “Lemme get you right.”

—

Paige is fucking hot.

Her skin burns under my touch, yes, but it’s everything else too. How her lips chase after mine like I could run away, capturing my bottom lip in her mouth. Her tongue licking past my lips, into my mouth, and onto my tongue.

Our clothes are mostly long gone, my boots and skirt laying somewhere near my front door, and the rest of them occupied random spots across my bedroom floor.

And then that damn harness.

The first time we had sex and she brought up the strap I thought it was all a ploy to turn me on. Don’t get me wrong, it worked, made me cum so hard my legs shook until I fell asleep. But seeing it, seeing the way the dildo hangs from her hips— a long and girthy dark purple— made me drool.

She was blatantly vulgar with it, my cock, the words off her lips so dirty that i’m surprised they turn me on as much as they do. But that’s just Paige, everything she does turns me on.

She tangles her hand behind me to the clasp of my bra which she unclips and forces down my arms. Following that, a slap meets my ass hard. Hard enough that I’m almost positive she left a bruise.

“I been dreaming about this shit, y’know?” She starts. Her teeth nip at my lips, soothing the slight sting with short and soft pecks. “Tearin’ it open, how good that shit would feel.”

I hum against her, letting the blonde push me back against the bed. “That’s what got you so worked up, baby?” I tease. Paige watches me with wide eyes and an even wider mouth as I trail my panties down my legs, they’re soaked from her stunt over the phone and in the car.

“Fuck, Raye, y’ont even know.” She groans.

I watch the way her eyes flutter shut, like she’s imagining it all over again, and her hand travels to the strap. Her hand wraps around it, enough to remind me of how fucking huge her hand is. She strokes it as if it’s an extension of her. There’s a faint buzzing that I hear on the other end, and just knowing she’s getting off too makes this whole thing even more appealing.

“Been thinking about splitting me open, yeah?” I ask as my hands travel up to my chest, gripping my breast before bringing my other hand to my mouth. I’m putting on a show for her licking my fingers and shoving them between my legs, rubbing over my clit. “Make me cum on your cock, baby. Please?” I beg, widening my legs to make room for her.

“Scoot back.” The blonde instructs. And I do. I know better than to work her up some more.

I watch my girlfriend’s spit drip from her mouth and onto the tip as she hovers over me. She spreads it over the silicon before spitting on my cunt too. Paige teases the tip against me and I swear the minute she pushes it inside me, my body heat rises uncontrollably.

“Oh my—shitttt, baby!” I think I feel it in my chest, the pressure that fills me completely. My inner thighs sting as she slides the dildo in to the hilt, letting out a soft gasp that matches my expletive. Paige’s arms cage me in, palms pressed against beside my head as she starts rocking her hips.

I’ve had my fair share of sex and sexual experiences, but this right here, makes everything else I’ve ever done look like child’s play. The stretch is unbelievable. And even if Paige had taken it upon herself to try and prep me with her fingers all this time, they don’t even compare.

It’s so intimate, Paige’s breath fanning against my face and her thin silver chain dangling against me too. Her strokes are slow, and deep. Incredibly deep. She reaches a spot inside of me that hasn’t been tapped before, and she does it fast, almost instantly.

“Talk to me, pretty girl.” She murmurs in my ear. Paige’s hand wraps around my waist, raising my hips just enough to make my eyes water. “Tell me how that pussy feelin’.”

I gasp. “So… so fuckin’ good. Mmmm it’s perfect, baby.”

Paige speeds up, not rapid but just enough that I’m arching my back and throwing my hips down against her. My legs curl around her hips to pull her in deeper.

“Oh shit.” Paige grunts, the vibrator against her cunt coupled with the movement of my hips is stimulating her heavy. “This whatchu needed? Just good dick, yeah? He wasn’t hittin’ it right?”

I dig my nails into her biceps, which are huge from her All-Star break workouts, and shake my head. Her eyes flutter open, lip tucked between her teeth. She looks fucking incredible, Paige’s hair is down for the first time in a while. She’s always pulling it back, but right now with the way it shadows us in a curtain is goddess like.

“Answer me, angel.”

“Uh huh, yes! Fuck yes, I needed it so bad, P.” I moan. Paige only briefly pauses to change her angle, but then she’s right back against me. Skin to fucking skin. She unhooks my leg from around her, pushing it back as far as she could.

Her nose brushes against my own. “You take me so good. Keep suckin’ me up, ma.”

My eyes roll as the coil in my stomach tightens, I don’t think I’ve ever come this fast in my life. The way the strap rakes laboriously into my cunt is toe curling. “Needa cum. Let me, please.” I hiccup. My fingers tangle into her hair, tugging her locks slightly.

“Tell me you love it.”

Those five words are enough to make me fall under a spell. Paige’s voice is laced with fucking drugs, deep and breathy against my mouth.

“I love this shit. Love your cock, baby.” It comes out as almost a cry.

The admission makes Paige smirk and chase after my mouth, locking our lips in a kiss that draws the orgasm out of my body. She moans all high and drawn out into my mouth meshing our tongues messily.

“You wanna cum, Raye?” She stutters. I notice it, obviously. The change in her pitch and the way she slightly trips over her words. She’s close, probably overstimulated from her activities on my couch.

“Please?”

“I want it, baby. Cum for me.”

And I do. Gushing over the silicone almost instantly. Paige helps me ride it out, kissing the corner of my mouth before trailing her lips to my cheek. “Good girl. My perfect girl.” She hums.

She carefully pulls out, trying to be as gentle as she possibly can but I still hiss at the feeling. A whimper leaves my lips at the empty feeling, I miss her inside me already.

Paige flops beside me on the bed, she’s watching me catch my breath. I can feel her eyes on me even though i’m not looking at her. Her eyes like lasers, scanning over me. The blue says everything she’s yet to.

“Just say you wanna go again.”

She laughs at that while throwing her arm over my hip. It rests heavy on my abdomen. I finally turn my head to her, the sweat on her entire body only makes the chain on her neck glisten in the light.

“C’mere.” It comes out as a whimper and I can only assume it’s from the dull stimulation from the vibrator. Paige reaches for my hips, helping me straddle her hips. I happily lean down to her, kissing her perfect pink lips with a smile. “Ride it.”

I take the length in my hand, my release now decorating my palm. I tease my own entrance then sink down on it slowly. The feeling is even more foreign than taking her in missionary.

Before I even get the chance to take every inch my hands fly to her chest, I plant my palms on her for stability.

“Too big?” It’s one of the first times I’m unsure if she’s serious or just teasing. I press my forehead against Paige’s, my chest heaving and breathless moans leaving my mouth.

“N—No. Jus’ full. So full, P. Fuck.” I dart my head into the crook of her neck whining like an animal as she pushes me down her cock. I swear it sits in my stomach.

Her large and veiny hands grip my ass, she starts the pace off slow, using me like a fucking toy. “Y’know I gotchu.” Paige whispers into my ear.

“It’s—mmph— so fuckin’ deep. I can’t, baby.” I moan again, trailing my hand back to her hair as if the blonde locks would ground me.

It’s like Paige’s demeanor shifted within a matter of seconds. She’d been soft all night, at least for the most part, but the way her hand slaps my ass is anything but soft. “One month with me and you can’t take dick no more? What happened, mama? You were talking all that shit—”

I cut her off by getting on my toes and the first grind of my hips shuts her up. Her groan was thick, the kind of gruff sound that made it seem like she was barely hanging on herself. The blonde nips at my collarbone.

Paige watches me like a hawk, her breathing heavy and jaw slightly slack. “M’fucking God, Raye. Ohhh shit— you’re a fuckin’ slut.” She moans. Her body falls deeper into the stack of pillows, leaning back just enough to look over my body. My tits in her face and her strap sliding in and out of my soaked cunt.

“Your s-slut tho’. Right, baby?”

“Yeah. All fucking mine, ride me like a pro.”

The way her eyes snap shut makes me work harder. I bounce on the balls of my feet, any previous inhibitions disappearing as soon as I saw how good it was for her. How her legs trembled under me.

I bite my lip in an attempt to keep quiet, much to Paige’s dismay. She reaches for my bottom lip, untucking it from my mouth and forcing her thumb inside instead. I suck on it instantly, throwing my hips down harder.

“Feels so good, P…” I mumble around her finger. “S’in my stomach.”

“I know, ma. So tight, for me.” She groans. Paige’s hips snap up into mine, instantly ruining any rhythm I had for myself. I scream erupts from my throat, one I didn’t even know I was holding back until she does it again.

Her thumb leaves my mouth, hands gripping my hips, nails digging into the skin. I meet her halfway, matching her thrusts with my grinds. “Gonna cum. Need it, baby. Needa nut in this pussy, fuck.” Paige babbles, her better judgment clouded by the need to get off.

It’s sexy. Her voice frays around the edges, suddenly becoming much more weak than before.

“You love this pussy, right, baby?”

“Mmm. Love it, love this shit. Oh my God.”

There’s only been a few times I’ve gotten to see Paige fall apart. Like fully lose all of her dominance and just lose herself. This is easily one of those times.

“Raye, I’m— fuuckkkk, you feel so good, damn.” She tosses her head back, moan after moan meeting my ears as she finishes. And there’s a part of me, that hopes all the literal inaccuracies dissipate and she does come in me. Deep inside until I’m dripping with it.

That picture makes me work faster. She’s overwhelmed, clawing at my hips but I don’t care. The need to finish myself clouds my brain.

“Ma, hold on. Fuck, hold on.”

“Needa get mine too. Don’t be selfish, P.” I grumble. I sit back on my knees, grinding my hips back and forth. I don’t hold back anything for a single second, moaning and crying out her name. Paige’s hips jerk up, and that jerk pushes me over the edge.

I squirt. Hard.

I think I go blind for a minute, nothing but stars in my vision. Paige clutches my hips, I hear the whimper that comes from her. Getting off on my own orgasm.

When I finally stop, Paige is quick to turn the vibrator off, letting out a breath I didn’t even know she was holding in. She helps me off of her and my legs, that literally feel like jelly, give out immediately. I fall to her side, and the room is filled with a comforting silence.

Paige looks at me, it was caring at first, eyes silently asking me if I was alright. To which I responded with a small nod. Then it shifts. She looks smug.

“What?”

“I took your girl virginity.” She sings, making me roll my eyes.

“I hate you.” I mutter.

“Oh I bet you do.”

#sierrale8ne #kalena’s works ୧ ‧₊˚ 🍵 ⋅#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers smut #wbb smut #uconn wbb #la sparks #lesbian #my fic #40 days and 40 nights

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goldenroutledge · 3 days ago

Text

someday my prince will come

pairing ⤜ rafe cameron x fem!reader

word count ⤜ 3.7k

summary ⤜ fluff. in which you’ll never feel alone as long as you have rafe, and he’ll never feel alone as long as he has you.

warning(s) ⤜ wedding planning stress, toxic family members

a/n ⤜ inspired by ‘alone together’ - sabrina carpenter || masterlist

Expect the worst and you won’t be disappointed. That’s what you try to tell yourself, hoping it will wish away the cynicism surrounding what is supposed to be the happiest time in your life. Transactional relationships set the norm on Figure Eight for friends and foe alike. Everyone used anyone they could get their hands on, only leaving them for dead when the conditions were no longer suitable.

It should’ve been no surprise that people would be treating your upcoming marriage to Rafe that same way. As if it’s nothing but a transaction curated to mutually benefit yourself, Rafe, and your respective families. Truthfully, your relationship was anything but.

Years together proved that passion still burns between you, in a way that most can’t begin to dream of. Every look, every kiss and every touch holds that passion somewhere deep inside. There was no denying that you two have enough of it to last a lifetime and then some when Rafe got down on bended knee and asked you to spend your life with him. You love Rafe Cameron for all the right reasons and he loves you the same.

Your families and friends around you are fools to not acknowledge that, seemingly destined to have their own ways of projecting insecurities onto the both of you. Planning your wedding was something you imagined to be a magical time, selecting colors and florals that would paint a picture reminiscent of a fairytale. Expect the worst and you won’t be disappointed.

From the moment your perfectly cut diamond ring was noticeable on your left hand, some chose to take it as a personal invitation to assert their unwarranted advice. It started with your mother, divorced and remarried now more times than you care to keep track of. Her guidance hardly resembles the special experience between mother and daughter that planning a wedding usually brings. After one of your first meetings with your wedding planner, you’d come to regret asking your mother to accompany you.

“I just don’t see why he’s walking you down the aisle instead of me.”

“You mean my father? I didn’t think you’d have such an issue with it given you chose to marry and have a child with him.”

“And I chose to divorce the asshole, too.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with me, Mom. You both made your choices and I made mine. My father is going to be at my wedding whether you like it or not.”

“50 feet away from me at all times, I hope.” She speaks lowly, barely under her breath. You’d be burning with embarrassment right now if it weren’t for your wedding planner, ever attuned and able to spot an argument a mile away, who kindly left you and your mother to chat in private.

“Please, don’t worry about that. I’m sure he wants nothing to do with you either. The only difference is that he’s willing to tolerate you for the sake of my happiness.”

“This isn’t about happiness, Y/n. It’s about respect. Had I not raised you right, you wouldn’t be able to attract a man like Rafe in the first place. The least you could do is acknowledge your mother on your wedding day.”

“That’ll make for a beautiful toast at your next brunch with the ladies from the club. I’ll be sure to write that down.” You chide sarcastically, unable to hold back from rolling your eyes at her audaciousness. “It’s good to know that’s what you’re really excited about. Showboating to your friends that I found someone successful, not that I found someone I love.”

“Like it or not, it’s the truth. I’m not afraid to be honest with you unlike some people in your life.”

“What exactly is honest about guilt tripping me into letting you make all of my wedding decisions for me? For us! You’re lucky Rafe isn’t here or he would’ve thrown you out by now.”

“And risk our relationship just when we’re about to be in-laws? You’re ridiculous. I hope he knows the kind of dramatics he’s marrying into.”

“No kidding.”

“I’m not trying to be malicious, dear. I just want you to have your priorities straight.”

“Believe me, they are.”

“You can’t forget your family in the process, my darling. You can’t just leave me behind like I don’t exist because when this marriage is over you’ll realize that I’m not as crazy as you think. You’ll need me again one day.”

“When my marriage is over? This isn’t some fucking contract. We love each other.”

“There’s no need to get hysterical, Y/n. I told myself all the same things too. You’ll see.”

—

Your conversation with your mother left you disheartened at best, infuriated at worst. One look into Rafe’s eyes would have your worries melting away, but you can’t help the nagging feeling inside that’s telling you to say something. You know how much courage it took for him to open his heart to you in the way that he has. You know how much courage it’s taken for you to open your heart, too. You know how with each other it’s been so easy that neither of you really noticed how naturally your love has blossomed. When you fell for each other, there was nothing that could stop you.

That explains why this nagging feeling, that you assume is guilt, simply won’t go away. How can you imagine getting married to Rafe Cameron, the love of your life, and feel anything but unbridled joy. To give a big ‘fuck you’ to everyone doubting your relationship, you’d love nothing more than to proclaim your love for each other in front of a crowd. But in the many scenarios you’ve played in your head, none of them put you at ease.

There was no denying the deep trust that connects you, knowing that you can tell him whatever is on your mind. The worst thing you’ve ever done, the darkest thought you’ve ever had, he will stand by you through anything. And you would do the same for him. It’s why the idea of saying: ‘Hey, by the way, I don’t want a wedding’, is not something you can muster the courage for. Guilt begs you to tell him anyway, knowing how badly he would feel to know you’re suffering in silence like this.

Little do you know, Rafe is troubled in reconciling his own guilt. It’s not just your mother who wants to see the worst come of your relationship. Considering Rafe’s strained dynamic with his father, that should come as no surprise.

Cameron Development takes up most of Rafe’s time these days, leaving him and Ward to spend quite a lot of it together. Rafe prefers to keep their topics of discussion focused on the company. Their relationship works best that way, a transactional partnership between father and son that would benefit the Cameron legacy for generations.

But if it weren’t for Ward’s nagging, Rafe never would’ve ended up here at the Island Club having lunch with his father. He knows for a fact that it would’ve been time better spent with you, his future wife, desperate to feel the kiss of your lips or be able to exhale in your arms in the midst of a busy day.

Ward spends all of 5 minutes discussing some company stuff that could’ve easily been sent in an email drafted by his assistant before getting down to his real intentions. He always hides them behind the mask of a loving father.

“I lied about why I needed to speak with you today.”

Rafe scoffs, but always manages his expectations when it comes to Ward. “Imagine that.”

Ward chuckles, trying to play off his son’s jab as innocent sarcasm. “I wanted to talk to you about your soon-to-be marriage to Y/n.”

Rafe takes a gulp of his drink, already feeling slightly on edge and on guard at the mention of your life together. “What about it?”

“Have you two discussed a prenup?”

“Dad-” Rafe tries to interject, but to no avail. Ward’s already a step ahead of him.

“I know it’s only been a couple months into the engagement, but it’s never too early to have these conversations.”

“I don’t need to worry about having these conversations at all. And you definitely don’t need to be concerned with it either because I’m not asking her to sign a prenup. Simple as that.”

“Rafe, if there’s anything I’ve learned in my marriage to Rose-”

“Your marriage to Rose is a sham. And Y/n is nothing like her.”

“Y/n’s great.” Ward seemingly surrenders, in hopes to disarm Rafe while still getting his point across. “I’m not trying to suggest otherwise. I’m just saying that things happen in marriages and you need to be prepared. What do you think will happen to Cameron Development if she winds up with half in a divorce?”

“If we get divorced, it means that I’ve got bigger problems than potentially losing Cameron Development.” Rafe laments, finishing his drink. “Besides, she wouldn’t want it.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I know her. For sure. Alright?” Rafe fires back, firm intent behind every word. “I know you have a hard time imagining what it’s like to be loved for something other than your money. And I’m sure you have a harder time imagining how she could love me without it. But you can save your fatherly advice, I’m gonna live my life with Y/n without any of your prenup bullshit.”

Rafe grabs his wallet from his pocket, throwing down several bills on the table that he doesn’t bother counting. All that’s on his mind right now is getting back home to you.

“Have a nice day, Dad.”

—

At this point in his life, Rafe has mastered the art of ignoring Ward Cameron. He’s come to accept that they’re simply a better duo in business than as father and son. The family he came from felt less like family when he fell in love with you. Now that you were about to be married, it was gonna be real. You would be each other’s family not only in spirit, but officially on paper. For the rest of your lives you would be where you always belonged; together.

Right now, Rafe can’t shake the feeling that his father is already preparing for everything to fall apart before you two have a chance to build anything more. Logically, he knows the concept of a prenup isn’t a stupid idea. But his father’s intentions for him have proven to be anything but pure. There’s always something in it for Ward.

Rafe loves you, and that means he’s ready to share his life with you, money be damned. Besides there’s nobody more deserving for him to spend it on, no matter how badly you insist that you don’t love him for the fine jewelry or the dates at expensive restaurants around the island. For him, that’s all the more reason why he commits to showing you a lifestyle that’s beyond comprehension.

He wants to tell you about the absolute bullshit his father brought him to lunch to talk about today but hesitates in mentioning it at all. In any other scenario you’d both laugh it off, but this was a special time for your relationship. It’s delicate, and deserves to be handled with care. Rafe wants nothing more than to protect you from anyone looking to tarnish it.

Rafe’s final straw strikes later that night while waiting for you to finish your skincare routine and join him in bed. His phone sounds with several text messages from Topper. His eyebrows furrow in curiosity, expression quickly turning sour as he reads the messages.

Clearly, after cutting lunch short, Ward was quick to enlist Topper Thornton into his agenda. Seeing the way he wears his heart on his sleeve, he’s an easy enough target to carry out something like this. Rafe scans the messages, catching the gist of it.

Something about ‘A prenup is just insurance, you might not need it! But you should be prepared anyway cause she could leave you at any time, bro’ and ‘Have you heard of the infidelity clause? I'm not saying she would, but you know what Sarah did to me, better be safe than sorry.’ Rafe’s frustration catches your attention when he curses something about ‘this motherfucker’ under his breath.

“Everything okay, baby?”

Rafe looks up to meet your eyes peeking outside the bathroom door. He gives you a reassuring smile, but you can tell that it doesn’t reach his eyes. Coupled with the fact that his energy has been off ever since he got home today, you can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s nothing, it’s just Topper bitching to me about the wedding. He doesn’t think he’ll find a date in time.” Rafe cringes at his white lie, but figures it’s better not to stress you out when you’re about to go to sleep. And it’s not completely untrue, Topper has expressed his concerns about finding a date ever since he found out about the engagement. At this point, it’s to be determined if he’s still invited.

You chuckle at the thought. “Our wedding date is 7 months away, surely that’s enough time.”

“Speaking of our wedding.” Rafe starts, which reminds you of the pit in your stomach. “How did it go with your mom today?”

“It was good.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows inquisitively, picking up on the uncertainty in your voice. Finishing your nighttime routine, you make your way to your shared bed. Rafe gets up to meet you halfway and to make sure you’re okay. He’ll be able to tell with just a glance.

“Okay, baby. You know as long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Your heart flutters and you smile at him, knowing in your heart that he truly means it. “I know.” You press a kiss to his cheek, wrapping your arms around his large frame. Being in his embrace drowns out any lingering thoughts of frustration. After all, you could choose to blame it on pure exhaustion clouding your mind. “Can you believe we’re getting married in seven months?”

Rafe beams at the thought. “No. Can’t even fathom what I’ve done in my life to deserve you in the first place.”

You shove his chest softly, the tips of your ears warming up at his words. “If anything, it’s the other way around.”

“Not sure about that one, baby.”

You sigh, full of contentment while being held in the secure hold of your fiance. Yet a part of you still feels resigned from the stresses of today. “Just ask my mother.”

You can feel Rafe’s muscles tense slightly before he pulls back to look at you. “What do you mean? I thought it went well today?” The gears are turning in his head as he anticipates your response. He’s always been great at picking up on the smallest of cues, be it the change in your tone or the look in your eyes.

“It could’ve been better. I mean you know her, she always has something negative to say about everything, she’s pretty much allergic to my happiness.” You chuckle softly, trying to deflect and keep the conversation from going where it’s headed.

Rafe is having none of it. “She doesn’t think we should get married?”

“Not without her involvement, ad nauseam. Everything I suggested, she had a better idea. She’s trying to guilt trip me into letting her walk me down the aisle instead of my dad. It was just her usual schtick, trying to control me any way she can, hoping she’ll get my attention by using our wedding to play her little mind games.”

“You don’t owe anything to her, not about this. Besides, security will take care of it if there’s any problems. I’m not gonna let anything ruin this for us.”

“I know.” You reassure him, running your hand up and down his arm. “It’s just a lot of tradition this, and family legacy that. She’s sucking the joy out of everything, like usual.” You mumble that last sentence, almost hoping Rafe didn’t hear it. “Not that I’m not excited to marry you. You know what I mean, right?”

Rafe nods, flashing back to the conversation he had with his father at lunch today. It’s almost uncanny to him how you two are often on the same page about everything. It’s comforting above all else. “Yeah, I do. I know exactly what you mean. I had lunch with my dad today, got a lot of the same bullshit.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I shut him down. I guess our parents are just hellbent on making sure we do things the same way they did.”

“As if we want to be anything like them?”

Rafe chuckles at your quip, relieved at how you two are able to make light of the stress your families have imposed on you. “As if.”

You both stand in silence for a few moments, enjoying the calm of being in your lover’s arms. The weight of your worries feel lighter now that you’ve shared them with Rafe, unfortunately knowing that they’ve made a home with you until the big day is over and done with. Hopefully you make it, if the stress doesn’t kill you first. If there’s anyone you’d have by your side through this, it’s Rafe. You can’t imagine enduring the hardships that life has to offer with anyone else. Then again, there are worse problems to have. Just seven more months.

“Did you ever see yourself here before? Getting married?” You ask Rafe.

“Not until I found you.” He charms, satisfied with the way you snuggle even closer to him. “How about you?”

“The same. Never thought I’d find the one until I found you. If I’m honest, that’s all I’m excited for, to just be husband and wife.”

“Y/n?” You hum in response, matching his curious tone. “Do you even want a wedding?”

You freeze, noticeably tensing the same way Rafe did some time ago. You knew the answer and had a feeling that he did too. It was painful to put into words. “I want to be married to you, Rafe. You know that right?”

“I know that, silly. I wanna be married to you too, clearly.” Rafe acknowledges, brushing his thumb over the engagement ring on your finger. “But a ceremony and a reception, the tradition. Do you want that?”

You can’t help but give him a knowing look, one that says damn, you’re good. But it’s also filled with a plea for understanding. “I could live without it, but our wedding will be beautiful, Rafe. I just want to make sure that it’s ours. I hope you don’t have the wrong idea, that I’m having second thoughts or anything because I-”

Rafe cuts off your ramble by kissing you, your face cupped in his hands delicately. He’s gentle, but reassuring. He needs you to remember that he knows you and he’ll never forget.

“Run away with me?” His eyes gaze into yours and there’s an intensity of love behind them that leaves you tearing up. “Our wedding will be beautiful, because it will be ours. Just you and me. We can still have the actual event, don’t think that I don’t dream of you walking down the aisle towards me. We can still have the party and the tall ass cake that you deserve. But having that doesn’t mean we can’t have what we want.”

Rafe’s never been more sure of himself as he watches a tear slip down your cheek, his thumb wiping it away before it can fall too far. You beam at him, and it’s your turn to kiss the man that you love. The man that you’re about to run away and elope with.

“Screw tradition, let’s get married.”

—

The sun sets in the distance, giving you and your husband the perfect view of your spot on the beach, taking turns at feeding each other bites of a miniature cake, coated in a silky white frosting to commemorate your marriage. It was Rafe’s surprise to you, having ordered it custom, and practically overnight, decorated with icing rosettes and your new titles, Mr. and Mrs., written beautifully in the center.

“Our families might kill us, you know.”

Rafe’s smile doesn’t budge, he’s convinced it might just be stuck on his face forever as long as he’s spending it with you. “I guess that means we’ll have to die together then, doesn’t it?”

“I guess it does.” You whisper, closing the distance to kiss your husband. You’ll never get sick of it. Golden rays from the setting sun surround you in glowing warmth, something you’ll feel in your heart from this day forward. The light catches your diamond ring perfectly and it winks at you with a sparkle, forever a reminder of the love you and Rafe share.

He pulls back, yet never too far as he holds your face in his hands. His cerulean eyes glimmer with a hope you only see when he’s looking back at you. “You don’t regret it? Not having the fairytale wedding?”

“This is my fairytale wedding. Just you, me, and a cake.” Rafe smiles, unable to imagine that this is his real life; unable to imagine that having him and him alone, is more than enough for you. There’s not a decision he’s been more sure of in his life than asking you to marry him. “Do you regret it? Marrying me without a prenup?”

Rafe scoffs lightheartedly. “You’ve already taken my heart so you might as well have the rest. Nothing else matters to me as long as you’re mine and I’m yours. I love you, remember? ‘Til death do us part.”

He holds out his pinky and you happily reciprocate the youthful gesture by locking your fingers together. “‘Til death do us part.”

Emotion overcomes you once more, pouring your heart into a kiss that’s as true as your promise to each other. You know he intends to keep his, and so do you. Daring to love each other through the pretty and the ugly, healing each other with a simple look or touch. You wouldn’t trade it for anything. If you don’t have each other, then you have nothing at all.

💌: reblogs & comments are always appreciated! thank you for reading <3

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patrixjia · 3 days ago

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No Ordinary Groupie

Plot Overview: You’re Bang Chan’s groupie. It started as a no-strings-attached fling, just the thrill of being close to him after the concerts. But as the nights blur together, so do your feelings—his and yours. What began as fun and games quickly becomes something more complicated, and you’re left wondering if this was ever just about sex or if you’re falling for the one person you can’t have.

Warnings: smut, explicit content, angst, lust/passion, angry sex, emotional intensity, tension and jealousy, explicit language, a bit of degradation, happy ending

☆･ﾟ:✧☆･ﾟ:✧☆☆･ﾟ:✧☆･ﾟ:✧☆☆･ﾟ:✧☆･ﾟ:✧☆☆･ﾟ:✧☆･ﾟ:✧

It started like any other concert. The deafening music, the blinding lights, the collective energy of thousands of voices singing in unison—it all blended into one euphoric moment. But you never imagined you’d be standing here, watching him from across the room, a little too close for comfort. The sweat on his skin, the intensity in his eyes as he scanned the crowd—it was like his gaze lingered a fraction too long. Maybe it was just your mind playing tricks on you, but somehow, it always felt like he was looking right at you.

You’d told yourself it was just a coincidence the first few times. You were just another fan in the crowd, right? Another face in a sea of screaming STAYs, eager for a glimpse of their idol. But now? Now you were here backstage, lingering in the shadows, waiting for him like it was your spot. You’d slipped past security more times than you cared to count, your secret handshake with the staff—one only they seemed to know—making it easier each time. You’d been to so many concerts now that your face had become familiar, and with each show, your role seemed to shift. You weren’t just a fan anymore. You were his groupie.

You never thought it would be like this. Hell, you didn’t even know what the fuck a ‘groupie’ really was until it was you—until you were the one he pulled behind closed doors, the one he made sure was always there after the show, the one who stayed when everyone else was long gone. The one he’d kiss like it meant something, only to vanish into the night, leaving you with nothing but the thudding of your heart and the memory of his touch.

It had started with stolen moments—quick glances across the stage, backstage conversations as if no one else was watching. The text messages, casual at first, but slowly, gradually becoming something more. His words would linger, text after text, like a breadcrumb trail leading you deeper into a place you weren’t sure you wanted to go. You’d told yourself you’d stay detached—that you’d just enjoy the ride, keep things light, and move on. But every time he looked at you, every time his hand brushed against yours, every time he grinned like there was a secret only the two of you knew… it became harder and harder to pretend it was just about the music.

The first time you caught his eye? It was during the encore of a show. You’d always thought of him as just another idol, another guy performing for a crowd. You’d seen plenty of famous faces before, but there was something different about him. Maybe it was the way his energy filled the entire room, the way he didn’t just perform but became the music. Maybe it was the intensity in his gaze as he swept over the crowd, his eyes scanning the sea of people until they landed on you.

You didn’t think it was anything special at first. A passing glance, nothing more. You were just another face, another member of the audience, right? But as the seconds stretched on, his gaze didn’t waver. It felt like he was staring at you—like he saw something there that you didn’t even see in yourself. And that look… it was like an unspoken promise. A silent invitation to something you couldn’t name.

After the show, you weren’t expecting anything. But somehow, you found yourself in a coffee shop the next morning, standing in line, hoping to grab a caffeine boost to get through the day. You’d been going about your usual routine, convinced that meeting him the night before was just a one-off encounter. But fate had other plans.

There he was. Chan. In the same coffee shop, no more than a few steps away. You froze, unsure if you should act like you hadn’t seen him or just pretend it wasn’t a big deal. But then, he turned, his smile wide and unbothered like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“I swear, I’m not following you,” he said, his voice light, playful, as he slid into the seat across from you like he had every right to be there.

You couldn’t help but laugh, an involuntary response to the absurdity of it all. “You’re following me now?”

He smirked, taking a sip from his coffee, looking way too comfortable for someone who was supposed to be famous. “I’m just getting coffee. You happen to be in my favorite spot.”

“Uh-huh.” You raised an eyebrow, barely containing the smile tugging at your lips. “I’m sure. You just happened to pick the same coffee shop on the same day at the same time…”

He shrugged nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Yeah, alright. You got me. But I’m glad I ran into you.”

There was no hiding the smile that broke across your face. Of course you were glad. After everything that had happened the night before, you both knew this wasn’t just a coincidence. This wasn’t just a random meeting. This was something—something that had started the night before and would continue whether you admitted it or not.

By the time you made it backstage that second night, you were already in too deep.

The whole backstage area felt like it belonged to him—every corner, every hallway, every whispered conversation. It wasn’t the music that kept you there anymore; it was him. The way he looked at you when no one else was watching. The way he touched you, lingering just a bit too long when no one was looking, his fingers brushing your skin like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way he made you feel like you weren’t just a face in the crowd, but someone who mattered to him.

And then, that first time—that first night.

You couldn’t quite remember how it happened, only that it was like everything changed in an instant. One minute, you were standing there, talking casually, as if the world hadn’t shifted under your feet. And then, the next moment, his lips were on yours, demanding, soft, and completely overwhelming. His hands were everywhere—under your shirt, pulling you close, pressing you against him like you were the only thing that mattered.

You could have stopped it. You could have pulled away, told him it was a mistake, told him you weren’t the type of girl who did this. But you didn’t. Because it felt right. In a way you couldn’t explain, it felt like this was where you were supposed to be.

And here you are again. Another concert. Another night where everything feels different. The lights are still blinding, the music still pounding in your chest, but this time, you don’t feel like you’re part of the crowd. This time, you’re his. The one he seeks out, the one he texts between shows, the one who’s always there in the background, waiting for him. It’s complicated, it’s messy, and it’s nothing like what you imagined when you first moved to Seoul.

But you can’t deny it anymore. It’s not just the music you’re here for. It’s him. And now, you’re his ‘regular groupie’. The one who knows all the backstage secrets, the one who gets special treatment, the one who stays long after the lights go out. You’re not just another fan anymore, and neither is he.

You never thought you’d be here. But then again, you never thought you’d end up falling for him.

The moment the final song ends, the roar of the crowd still vibrates through the walls of the venue. The adrenaline is thick in the air, the members still breathless from the performance, their bodies damp with sweat, grins plastered across their faces as they stumble off stage. The energy is chaotic, electric—post-show euphoria still buzzing in their veins.

You’re already waiting in the hallway leading to the dressing rooms, leaning against the wall with a casual ease that only comes from experience. This isn’t your first time here. You know exactly how this goes.

The first to spot you is Seungmin, his eyes lighting up as he jogs toward you. “Hey, look who’s here!” he calls, loud enough to get the others’ attention.

“Y/N!” Han beams, his voice slightly hoarse from performing but still bright with excitement. “How was it? Did we kill it or what?”

Felix, still buzzing with energy, practically bounces on his heels as he waits for your answer, while Hyunjin shoots you a knowing grin from behind him, tossing his sweat-damp hair out of his face.

“You guys were insane,” you say with a wide smile, your voice genuine. “Every show I go to, you just keep getting better. The energy, the performance, everything was unreal.”

Chan appears through the group, his presence like gravity, pulling your attention immediately to him. He’s still catching his breath, his hair a mess, sweat glistening on his skin, but his eyes—his eyes are locked onto you, unreadable yet intense.

Then, that smile. The slow, lazy curve of his lips, the kind that makes your stomach tighten, your pulse spike.

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice just low enough for you to hear over the chaos of the dressing room.

His arm finds your waist like it belongs there, fingers pressing lightly against the small of your back as he pulls you in. It’s subtle, almost casual, but the warmth of his body against yours is anything but. It’s a quiet claim, one that doesn’t need to be spoken.

The others, used to this by now, don’t bat an eye. They just keep laughing and talking, still riding the high of the show.

Then, Chan leans in just a fraction closer, his breath warm against your ear as he speaks. “Come back to the dorm with us. Little afterparty, just to celebrate.”

You tilt your head slightly, meeting his gaze. There’s something behind those words—something heavier than just a casual invitation.

“And after a few drinks?” you tease, your voice low, playful.

His smirk deepens. “Something more,” he promises, fingers subtly squeezing at your waist.

You pretend to consider it for a second before giving a small nod. “Alright. You convinced me.”

From the side, Minho watches the exchange with a quiet knowing. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t call Chan out for the way he looks at you, for the way his hands linger on you longer than necessary. He just observes, his gaze sharp, understanding something that maybe even Chan himself isn’t ready to admit.

Chan pulls away, satisfied, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something deeper, something unspoken.

“We’ll head out in a bit,” he says, turning toward the others. “Y/N will meet us there.”

You already know the drill. You can’t just walk out with them, not without risking recognition. So, as the members pile into their usual cars, you’re led to a separate vehicle—a staff car, discreet, barely noticeable.

You settle into the backseat, the events of the night replaying in your mind, but most of all—his voice, that promise lingering in the space between your ribs.

Something more.

And you wonder, not for the first time, if either of you even knows what that really means anymore.

The atmosphere in the dorm is lively, the kind of buzz that lingers long after a good show. The music is playing low in the background, the members scattered across the living room, sprawled on couches or sitting on the floor. Empty soju bottles and half-eaten snacks litter the table, proof of the celebration already in full swing.

You’re comfortably seated on the couch, a half-filled shot glass of soju in hand, the warmth of alcohol already settling pleasantly in your veins. The energy is light, effortless, the conversations flowing easily between teasing and reminiscing about the night’s performance.

“You seriously nailed that last verse, Jisung,” you say, pointing your glass at him before taking a sip. “You looked possessed out there.”

Jisung laughs, leaning back with a smug grin. “Possessed by talent, obviously.”

“Possessed by something,” Felix chimes in, making the group chuckle.

From beside you, Chan snorts, shaking his head. He’s sitting close—not close enough to be obvious, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the awareness that’s always there between you two. His arm is stretched over the back of the couch, fingers occasionally brushing the ends of your hair, subtle but deliberate.

You glance at him, playful. “You were good too, I guess.”

Chan scoffs, tilting his head with an amused smirk. “Guess?”

You hum, tapping a finger against your chin as if you’re in deep thought. “Yeah, I mean… you were okay,” you tease, dragging out the word just to rile him up. “Not bad for a guy pushing thirty.”

The others burst out laughing, while Chan gapes at you, feigning offense. “Are you serious right now?”

“I’m just saying,” you shrug, barely biting back your grin.

“You know what?” He leans in a little, voice low enough that only you can hear. “I’ll remember that later.”

Your stomach flips at the weight in his tone, at the underlying promise beneath his words. You tilt your head, smirking. “Oh? You gonna prove me wrong?”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, but there’s a flicker of something dark in his eyes. “You have no idea.”

Before you can retort, Changbin—who has definitely had one too many shots of soju—suddenly flops onto the couch beside you, his broad arm slinging over your shoulders.

“You’re so fun to have around, Y/N,” he says, his voice slightly slurred but affectionate. “Seriously, why aren’t you here all the time?”

You chuckle, leaning into his side without much thought. “Because I have a job, Binnie.”

He makes a dismissive sound, tightening his hold around you in a half-hug. “Your job should be hanging out with us.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, amused, but doesn’t say anything. Jisung snickers behind his glass.

You just shake your head, entertained. “Oh yeah? I should just quit and become your full-time party companion?”

“Yes!” Changbin exclaims, grinning. His hand slides down to your waist, resting there casually, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns over the fabric of your shirt. It’s nothing too much, nothing you haven’t seen before—Changbin is always like this when he drinks, all warm affection and teddy bear energy.

So you don’t think anything of it. You indulge him, letting him rest his head against yours, laughing when he dramatically sighs and says something about how comfortable you are.

But you don’t see the way Chan’s jaw tenses.

He’s watching. Burning.

The fingers resting on the couch behind you curl into a fist. His easygoing posture remains the same, but there’s a tightness to his shoulders, a flicker of something sharp in his expression.

Because he knows what Changbin is doing.

It’s not random, not just the usual drunk affection. No, Changbin is making a point—a very deliberate one. Because unlike you, he knows exactly how deep this runs for Chan.

And Chan hates it.

Hates how easily you lean into it. Hates how you laugh, how you let Changbin touch you so freely. Hates how unbothered you look—how it doesn’t even register to you that this might be a problem.

Because to you, this is just fun.

But to him?

This is his worst fucking nightmare unfolding in real-time.

Still, he doesn’t say anything.

Not yet.

He just grips his shot glass a little too tight, jaw clenched, the warmth in his veins now burning.

And the worst part?

Changbin smirks at him from over your shoulder.

Like he knows.

Like he’s challenging him.

And fuck—Chan hates losing.

Changbin hasn’t moved from your side. If anything, he’s only gotten bolder, the soju clearly fueling his every action.

His fingers, once resting innocently at your waist, now trace absentminded patterns over your hip. His arm around you lingers a little too long, his body leaning into yours just enough that the line between friendly and something else starts to blur.

And then there’s the flirting.

“Come on, Y/N,” Changbin says, voice playful, slurred just enough to be noticeable. “You sure you don’t wanna quit your job and just be my personal cheerleader?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Oh? Yours specifically?”

“Obviously,” he grins. “I’d treat you right, you know? Spoil you. Carry you around the house if you’re too tired. You’d never have to lift a finger.”

From across the room, Jisung snorts. “Dude, you can barely carry your own weight when you’re drunk, let’s be serious.”

Changbin ignores him, his focus entirely on you. “Think about it, though,” he hums, his fingers lightly drumming against your thigh now, his voice dipping into something suggestive. “Bet you’d love the attention.”

You scoff, nudging him playfully. “You’re full of shit, Binnie.”

But you’re smiling, entertained by his antics. Because to you, this is just how he is—warm, affectionate, a little ridiculous when he drinks.

You don’t notice the way the room has shifted.

The way everyone has gone quiet.

The way Chan hasn’t said a single fucking word.

But the others? They see it.

Felix glances between the two of you and Chan, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Jisung raises an eyebrow, like he’s waiting for the inevitable.

And Minho—Minho just sighs, shaking his head slightly, because he knows. Knows exactly what Changbin is doing.

And he knows exactly why it’s working.

Because across from you, Chan is seething.

His fingers grip his shot glass so tightly his knuckles have gone white. His jaw is locked, his breathing slow and measured, like he’s forcing himself to keep it together.

But his eyes.

His eyes are burning, locked onto every single movement, every single touch, every single word that leaves Changbin’s mouth.

And then, Changbin—fucking Changbin—takes it one step further.

He turns his head, leans in just a little closer, his lips near your ear as he murmurs, “Or maybe you already like all the attention you’re getting, huh?”

And that’s it.

There’s the sharp, sudden scrape of glass against wood as Chan slams his drink onto the table, standing up so abruptly that the entire room freezes.

His chair scrapes back against the floor, his movements tight, controlled—but his expression?

Fury.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

The words slice through the air, low and dangerous, his voice taut with restrained anger.

You blink, startled, finally looking up at him. “What?”

But Chan isn’t looking at you.

He’s staring directly at Changbin, his eyes dark, his body tense, barely keeping himself in check.

Changbin, to his credit, doesn’t back down. If anything, he looks satisfied, like he’s been waiting for this.

“What?” he echoes, feigning confusion. “What’s the big deal, hyung?” His voice is light, taunting. “I mean… after all, you’re just fucking, right? That’s what you said. Or what?”

Silence.

A thick, suffocating silence that stretches through the room.

Chan’s entire body locks up.

And the worst part?

You feel everything shift.

Because the way Chan stiffens—the way his breath catches—tells you everything.

This isn’t just about Changbin being drunk.

This isn’t about harmless flirting.

This is about something else entirely.

And suddenly, you get it.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

The tension in the room is thick, suffocating.

No one moves. No one breathes.

And then—Chan laughs.

But it’s not his usual laugh. It’s not warm, not full of amusement.

No, this is something sharp, something bitter, something that barely conceals the sheer rage simmering beneath his skin.

He tilts his head slightly, his jaw clenched so tightly you can practically hear his teeth grinding together. His hands ball into fists at his sides, muscles tensed like a predator about to pounce.

“Say that again,” Chan says, his voice dangerously low.

His tone makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

Changbin leans back slightly, but his expression is unapologetic, his mouth curling into something almost challenging. “I said,” he repeats, slow, deliberate, “what’s the big deal, huh? You’re just fucking, right? That’s what you said. Or what?”

The second time he says it, the words sting.

Because now you’re fully aware—of the way Chan’s fists are shaking, of the barely contained fury in his eyes, of the way his entire body looks like it’s about to snap.

But most of all—you’re aware of your own reaction.

Of the way your stomach twists.

Of the way your chest tightens.

Because it’s true.

That’s what Chan’s always said. That’s the unspoken rule between you two, the line that’s been drawn and reinforced over and over again.

And yet—he’s standing there, looking like he wants to fucking kill Changbin for just saying it out loud.

The air crackles, seconds stretching into an eternity.

And then—Chan moves.

Faster than you can register, he lunges.

The table between them rattles as Chan grabs a fistful of Changbin’s shirt, yanking him forward, their faces inches apart.

“You think you’re funny?” Chan growls, voice thick with barely contained rage. “You think this is a fucking joke?”

Changbin’s smirk falters slightly, but he doesn’t look scared. If anything, he looks vindicated.

“Oh, I know it’s not a joke,” he says, his voice lower now, something pointed in it. “But you keep acting like it is. Maybe it’s time you fucking admit it, Chan.”

Chan’s nostrils flare, his fingers tightening in Changbin’s shirt.

“Chan,” Minho warns, standing now, his voice calm but firm.

But Chan isn’t listening. His breathing is heavy, his entire body coiled, seething with something primal.

And then—Changbin glances at you.

Right at you.

And his next words are for you, not Chan.

“You really think this is just sex?” Changbin asks, voice quieter, almost pitying. “Because if you do—” His gaze flicks back to Chan, and he smirks. “Then why is he about to beat my ass over it?”

Something cracks in Chan’s expression.

Like something inside him has just snapped open, raw and exposed.

You feel it happen.

And it makes your heart fucking race.

Before anyone can react, Chan lets go of Changbin’s shirt—but only to turn on you.

The shift is instant. One second, he’s staring Changbin down like he’s about to throw a punch—the next, he’s grabbing your wrist, tight, his grip possessive.

Your breath catches.

“Come with me,” Chan says, voice low, rough—demanding.

You freeze. “Chan—”

“Now.”

The authority in his tone leaves no room for argument. He’s not asking.

And you—fuck, you should resist. You should say something, should call him out for how he’s acting.

But you don’t.

Because the way he’s looking at you—the fire in his eyes, the sheer desperation laced beneath the anger—sends a rush of heat down your spine so intense it almost knocks the air out of you.

So when he pulls you toward his room, his grip unrelenting, his movements rough, you don’t fight it.

You follow.

And the moment the door slams shut behind you, you know exactly what’s coming next.

And fuck—you want it.

The second the door slams shut, Chan has you.

Your back barely hits the wood before his mouth is on you, crushing against yours in a kiss that is desperate, furious, all teeth and tongue and raw need.

You gasp into it, barely able to keep up as his hands roam—gripping your waist, sliding up your sides, pressing you against the door like he needs you there.

And fuck—you feel it.

The anger. The frustration. The jealousy that’s been burning in him, now spilling out in the way he holds you, in the way he devours you.

This isn’t just sex.

This is a claim.

You barely have a second to process before he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head against the door, his breath hot against your mouth.

“You think this is just fucking?” he growls, his voice rough, dangerous. “That what you think, huh?”

Your breath hitches.

“Chan—”

“Answer me.”

You swallow, your body burning beneath his touch. “I—”

But you can’t. You can’t answer, because you don’t know.

Because the way he’s looking at you right now—like he needs you, like he hates that he needs you—makes your head spin.

His grip on your wrists tightens, his body pressing flush against yours, pinning you there.

“Changbin touches you once,” he grits out, his jaw clenched, “and suddenly you forget who you belong to?”

Your stomach drops.

Your lips part, but no words come out.

And Chan notices.

His eyes flick between yours, something dark flashing in them—something possessive, something dangerous.

“That it?” he breathes, his voice low, pressing in even closer. “Say it.”

Your body shudders.

Because you can’t.

Because the moment you open your mouth, the only thing that comes out is a ragged, “Chan—”

And that’s all it takes.

Something inside him fucking snaps.

Suddenly, his grip breaks—only for his hands to move fast, dragging down your arms, over your shoulders, grabbing your hips as he spins you around, pressing your front against the door now, his chest firm against your back.

“You want me to remind you?” he murmurs darkly against your ear, his hands sliding under your shirt now, gripping at your bare skin. “Want me to show you?”

Your breath stutters, your fingers flexing against the door.

“Chan—”

“Say yes,” he rasps. “Say fucking yes.”

And fuck—fuck—you do.

“Yes.”

And then?

All hell fucking breaks loose.

The second the word yes leaves your lips, Chan moves.

His hands yank at your clothes, his patience completely shattered. The shirt you’re wearing is gone in seconds, peeled off like it’s offended him just by existing. His fingers dig into your waist, pressing you harder against the door, making sure you feel just how much he wants this—wants you.

“Fucking teasing me all night,” he grits against your ear, his breath hot, his tone dangerous. “Letting him put his fucking hands on you like it’s nothing.”

You shudder, your forehead falling against the door as his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pants, dragging them down your hips, leaving you bare.

“I—”

“You what?” he interrupts, his palm smacking against your thigh before gripping at the flesh, kneading hard. “Didn’t notice? Didn’t think it was a big deal?”

You whimper at the sheer possessiveness laced in his voice, at the way his hands are claiming you.

“Didn’t think it’d fucking matter,” you gasp, your cheek pressing against the cool wood.

Chan laughs—but it’s dark, bitter.

“Didn’t think it’d matter?” His teeth graze the shell of your ear before he bites down, just hard enough to make you gasp. “Look at where you fucking are right now, baby. Look at what I’m about to do to you.”

His hands are everywhere—gripping, marking, making sure you feel him. His breath is ragged, his movements rough, his usual careful touches completely gone.

Because tonight isn’t about taking it slow.

It’s about making a fucking point.

You belong to him.

And by the time he’s done with you—you won’t forget it again.

Chan’s hands are everywhere—gripping, pulling, forcing you closer to him with each sharp motion. He’s barely holding on to the last sliver of control, and it’s obvious in the way his fingers dig into your skin, the way his breath comes out in heavy, uneven pants.

His mouth trails down your neck, biting harshly at your skin, marking you like a fucking claim.

“You think you can tease me like that?” he spits, his voice hoarse with frustration. “Think you can let him touch you and nothing’s going to happen? You really think you’re just gonna waltz in here and walk out untouched?”

The anger in his tone is palpable, each word hitting you like a blow, each word reminding you how much he wants this, how much he’s burning for it.

You can barely hold yourself steady against the door. His hands are pulling at your underwear, tossing it aside with the same force as the rest of your clothes, stripping you of any semblance of control.

You’re shaking, your mind spinning as you finally understand the depth of his frustration. This is no longer about just sex—it’s about him needing to own you in the worst way possible. He’s not asking for permission. He’s demanding it.

His fingers slide between your legs, making you flinch at the roughness of the touch. He’s not being gentle. He’s not being careful. He’s giving you exactly what you’ve awakened in him—a need, a hunger that won’t be tamed.

“You’re mine,” he growls, voice low and dark. “Mine to fuck, mine to touch. Don’t you fucking forget it.”

You gasp, his fingers moving faster now, pushing you closer to the edge with each rough motion, but you don’t know if it’s because of him or the frustration rising inside you.

“Chan—please…” You don’t know if you’re begging for mercy or for more, but he’s not stopping.

“You want it? Want me to fuck you like you’re begging for it?” He growls, his hands pulling at your hips, guiding you to him. The heat from his body feels like a furnace behind you, and you’re desperate for it, desperate to feel all of him.

Without warning, he slams into you—hard, unforgiving.

You moan, your hands scrambling against the door for balance as he begins a pace that’s frantic, angry. There’s no rhythm, no gentleness. Just a fucking need to feel you, to claim you, to show you who you belong to.

Each thrust is a punishment. Each movement feels like an explosion of frustration, of desire that has finally been set free. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, but it’s not enough to calm the storm between you.

The only thing that matters is the sound of his voice—growling, demanding, pushing you to the edge of everything.

His hands grab your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck, his mouth now ravaging your skin like he’s trying to mark you for good. His words are gritted out in between thrusts, filled with venom and need.

“You think you’re just gonna walk away from me? Think I’ll let you leave here, like nothing ever happened?” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “You’re fucking wrong.”

You can barely breathe, your body giving in to him, to the need, to the rage he’s pouring into you. The heat between you is suffocating, overwhelming.

You’re his. In this moment, you’re nothing but his.

And when the pressure builds to a point where you can’t take it anymore, you give in, your body shattering around him, your fingers gripping at the door for dear life.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps fucking you, pulling you back into him with an intensity that makes everything burn.

You hear him curse under his breath, and with a final, powerful thrust, he follows, his body jerking against yours as he holds you tight, like he’s afraid to let go, afraid to lose the one thing that’s finally his.

The two of you are left panting, sweating, your bodies still locked together.

And as he pulls away slightly, his hands find your hips again, guiding you back toward the door.

Neither of you says a word. Not yet.

The silence between you is heavy. Too heavy.

But Chan doesn’t look at you with the same anger anymore. There’s something darker in his eyes, something that hasn’t quite settled yet.

And you know.

This isn’t over.

Chan’s hands are back on you before you can even catch your breath. He grabs your arm, tugging you towards the bed with a force that makes your heart race. He’s silent, but the anger in his eyes is louder than any words he could say. There’s no softness in the way he touches you, no tenderness, just an urgency that makes everything else disappear.

He doesn’t give you a moment to think before he’s pushing you down onto the mattress, positioning you with a swift, almost harsh movement. The edge of the bed digs into your knees, and you don’t have the chance to protest before he’s behind you, his hands gripping your hips to steady you.

“You don’t get to act like this,” he growls, voice thick with frustration. There’s no hesitation, no slowing down, and it’s clear this is no longer about lust—it’s about something deeper, something darker, something that’s been simmering beneath the surface for way too long.

You feel the cool air against your skin as he presses against you, his body hard and unforgiving. His breath is hot on your neck as he speaks again, each word a harsh reminder of everything that’s been building.

“Thought you could just waltz in here and let him put his hands on you,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “Thought you could just—”

Before he can finish the thought, he thrusts into you, a sharp, punishing movement that makes your body stiffen in response. The pain is quick, the intensity raw, and there’s no gentleness in his touch—this is his punishment. For everything.

His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you back against him, and the way he moves is rough—demanding, punishing, as if he’s trying to carve the frustration out of him.

You can’t breathe properly, every thrust pushing you further down, the bed creaking beneath you, but it’s almost impossible to focus on anything other than the overwhelming force with which he’s taking you.

“This is what happens when you act like a slut,” he growls, each word punctuated by a brutal thrust. “You think I wouldn’t notice?”

You want to answer, want to push back, but your words get caught in your throat as he pulls you back to him again. You’re lost in this—lost in the anger, the tension, the sheer intensity of what he’s doing.

His grip on you doesn’t loosen. It tightens with every movement, as if he’s afraid to let you go. His body presses against yours, his breath ragged in your ear, his voice demanding, possessive.

“You don’t walk away from me,” he spits, the words almost a command, a declaration of his need, his desire, his control.

The rawness of the moment, the way he’s fucking you in such a frantic, desperate way, makes everything inside you twist, your body responding to his anger, to the heat, to the frustration.

And when he finally speaks again, his voice lower this time, softer almost, it feels like the weight of the moment hits you. “You’re mine. Don’t forget it.”

As the tension between you both builds, Chan’s movements become more frantic, more desperate. The anger, the frustration, the unspoken emotions—everything is tangled together in this moment. And as his body presses into yours with a final, powerful thrust, a gasp escapes your lips. His name slips out in a breathless moan, and everything inside you breaks, the pressure, the need, the raw energy finally unraveling.

He follows right behind you, his body tense and straining as he shudders, pushing himself deeper with one last, heavy motion. His hands dig into your sides, holding you in place as he rides out the last waves of his release, his breath harsh in your ear. The world seems to slow down as you both find your rhythm, as the energy between you finally begins to settle.

Chan, still pressed against your back, stays there for a moment, both of you still tangled together, unable to move just yet. His fingers slowly loosen their grip on your waist, but he doesn’t let go. The weight of his body on yours is comforting, almost possessive, and his breath fans over your ear.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice rough and low, like he’s barely holding it together. His lips brush against your neck, leaving a trail of heat behind. “I fucking love fucking you.”

The words hang in the air, loaded with meaning, and the rawness of the moment lingers as the intensity of the night finally starts to settle.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, his gaze heavy, his chest still heaving from the intensity of it all. There’s something in his eyes—something possessive, something soft, but raw all at once. He’s still trying to piece together the storm that just passed between you both.

He doesn’t move right away. Neither of you does. And even though the anger has died down, the connection is undeniable now, clearer than ever.

As Chan pulls away, the silence between you both feels heavier than the storm of emotions that just ravaged the room. Your heart is still pounding, your skin flushed, but there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Everything is so intense, and yet there’s something lingering that feels like it should have been addressed—something more.

You push yourself up, your legs shaky as you sit on the edge of the bed, the cool air feeling sharp against your heated skin. The satisfaction from moments ago seems to slip away, replaced by something darker, something uncertain. You want to understand, but you can’t.

Your voice trembles, shaky with frustration, as the tears start to pool behind your eyes. You look at him, his gaze still soft but guarded, his chest rising and falling with every breath. But you can’t ignore the feeling creeping up inside you—the anger, the confusion, the hurt.

“That’s all?” You say, your voice tight. “You just love fucking me?”

The words taste bitter in your mouth, like they don’t even belong to you. You never thought you’d be the one asking these questions, and yet, here you are, lost in the aftermath of his raw need.

Chan’s silence stretches, his jaw clenching, eyes still on you, but it’s like he’s struggling to form an answer. He’s not the one caught in the mess this time—it’s you.

“I don’t fucking understand, Chan!” You stand up now, unable to stay still, your body trembling with frustration. “We do this over and over, but you don’t even talk about it. Don’t even acknowledge it.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “What the fuck, baby?!” The words escape in a rush, the emotion finally pouring out of you. You’re not even sure if you’re angry or heartbroken, but your voice cracks as the tears finally spill over. “What are we doing? What do you want from me?”

You wipe your face, your hands shaking. “Am I just a fucking game to you, Chan? Is that it?” Your breath hitches. “Because I can’t— I can’t do this anymore if you don’t—”

That’s when he moves. Fast, like he can’t stand seeing you like this anymore. His hand reaches out, gripping your wrist to pull you towards him with a desperation you weren’t expecting. He’s on his knees in front of you now, his face inches from yours. His voice is low, strained, a mix of frustration and something softer, something deeper.

“No,” he breathes out. His eyes lock onto yours, and there’s an intensity in them that makes your heart stop. “No.” He presses his forehead to yours, both of you breathing heavily. “It’s not like that.” His voice cracks with the weight of the words he’s finally letting slip.

“I don’t fucking know how to say this,” he admits, his hands shaking slightly as they rest on your waist. His thumb brushes against your skin, almost like he’s grounding himself. “But this… this isn’t just about sex. It never was. I—”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes softer now, full of that raw vulnerability that he’s rarely shown. “I care about you, Y/N.”

You feel your chest tighten at the confession, the weight of it crashing into you. It’s almost too much to process, too sudden. You’re a mess, your tears still fresh on your cheeks, but there’s something in the way he’s looking at you now that’s different. Something that finally feels real.

“I can’t just fuck you and let you walk away,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “You mean something to me. You’ve always meant something.”

Your heart flutters, but you’re still confused. “Then why the hell do you keep doing this? Why push me away?”

Chan’s expression softens even more, and his hands come up to cup your face gently, wiping away the remnants of your tears. “Because I’m scared, okay?” He finally admits, his voice shaky. “I don’t know what to do with this. With us.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. It’s thick, but there’s a vulnerability there that wasn’t before. You’re both breathing heavily, still trying to understand what just happened, what you’ve just confessed to each other.

“I’ve never been good at this… at feeling things, Y/N.” His voice is almost apologetic. “But I can’t lie anymore. I want you. I want more than just the fucking. But I don’t know how to make you understand that.”

You stay quiet, letting his words sink in. You��re still processing everything, but it’s clear that the anger between you is shifting into something else. Something that feels real.

“So, what now?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper, your heart still racing but lighter now, finally beginning to understand the rawness of it all.

Chan takes a deep breath, his fingers gently cupping your face as his eyes trace over every detail of your expression. He can see the vulnerability, the confusion, and the hope all mixed together in your gaze. He knows this moment—this conversation—is the turning point, and he wants to make sure he doesn’t screw it up.

He presses a soft kiss to your forehead before lowering his lips to your jaw, placing gentle, lingering kisses along the sensitive skin there. His hands slip around your waist, guiding you back onto the bed with careful, deliberate movements. His body hovers above yours, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from him, but not pressing—just enough to keep the connection. His gaze is soft now, steady, as he speaks again, voice lower, softer than before.

“Now,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your neck as he speaks, “now you let me take you out on a proper date.” His breath is warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine as his hands trail down to your hips, gently caressing the curves of your body. “I’ll buy you flowers,” he continues, his words a whisper against your skin, “take you to a nice place to eat… and we’ll see from there.”

You close your eyes for a moment, the tenderness of his words colliding with the warmth of his touch. It’s so different from the rawness of before—so much gentler, more vulnerable. And something about it makes you give in, your body relaxing beneath his touch, your fingers curling into the sheets.

“I never thought I’d hear that from you,” you say with a soft laugh, a playful edge creeping into your voice despite the emotion you still feel in the pit of your stomach. “A date… flowers? You sure you’re not just saying that to get in my good graces?”

His lips pull into a smirk as he pulls away slightly to look at you, his gaze filled with amusement. He leans in again, kissing your neck softly before brushing his lips against your ear. “Trust me, I’m not that smooth,” he says, his voice teasing, yet sincere. His hands move back up your body, gently running along your arms, the touch almost too tender compared to the previous moments. “I’m just trying to make this right.”

You feel your heart flutter again, his affection suddenly making you feel like you’re the only person in the world. Chan isn’t just saying these things—he’s showing you, in the way he holds you, in the way his touch is no longer rough but soft, deliberate. His hands caress your arms and shoulders, a gentle reminder that the anger has melted away, replaced by something deeper. You meet his eyes again, allowing yourself to fall into this moment with him.

“You always know how to make me feel conflicted,” you say, your lips curling into a smile despite yourself. You run your fingers through his hair, just to feel him a little closer, to keep this connection.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. “I’m full of surprises,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. His lips trail down to your collarbone, his hands now resting lightly on your waist as if holding you in place, not to restrain you but to keep you with him. “But seriously, Y/N… I don’t want to keep pretending like this is just a thing that happens. You deserve more. And I want to give you more.”

His words strike you deeper than you expect, and you let out a small breath, the weight of everything sinking in. The sincerity in his voice, in his touch—it’s enough to make your chest tighten with a mix of emotions.

“Then show me,” you whisper, meeting his gaze again. “Show me you mean it.”

He nods, his hand gently brushing the side of your face as he moves even closer, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, not desperate or angry, but slow, tender. It’s a kiss that feels like an unspoken promise, something more than just the heat between you. It feels like the beginning of something new, something real.

He pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you still tangled together in the quiet aftermath of everything. “I’ll take you anywhere you want, Y/N. Just say the word,” he says, his voice soft and sincere. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Taglist: @velvetmoonlght

#bang chan #stray kids #skz #bang chan fanfic #skz smut #kpop smut #bang chan smut #stray kids fanfic #bang chan x y/n #bang chan skz #bang chan x you #bang chan x reader #bang chan stray kids

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l0s3rd0wnt0wn · 2 days ago

Text

LIKE WHAT??

Weird black neglected!reader

The readers fears

The reader is honestly terrified of looking like Bruce; he is your biological father, but nothing scares you more than getting older and having some random reporter say you have Bruce's nose. You'd probably fall apart at the thought, like shellshock—scared it may not even be in facial features, just how you carry yourself. The confident, cocky stride is only found in Bruce Wayne, and somehow, you seem to have it. When asking Alfred to help tie your tie for a gala, and when he finished, he stepped back and chuckled, hiding his mouth behind his knuckles.

"Oh, young master, you're starting to look just like your father when he was younger."

This fact leaves you in shambles, and you decide not to wear a tie that night, fearing someone might say something. You'd rather look like your mother than him; your biggest fear is that you might lose all your mother's features as you get older, looking more and more like Bruce. At one point, your friends told you that you have Bruce Wayne's smirk, and you didn't smile for a week. You used to deny looking anything like your father—the tall stature? Hey, Jason's taller! The long nose? It's not that long! The cocky attitude? You're just confident, no biggie!

You remember when you were younger, way before going to Wayne Manor, you had asked your mother what your father looked like? It made her giggle.

"You little noisy wart! You wanna see what Daddy looks like? Fine, I'll show ya. Come here." She went to her bedroom, pulled out an old worn photo album, and sat back down on the couch. She picked you up and sat you on her lap. She flipped through the pages in the album. You saw pictures of you as a baby, photos of your momma in college. They looked really old, but then again, you were really young. Then she stopped on the page smack dab in the middle.

"There he is, your daddy," It was an old picture of your mom and Bruce. Your mom looked young, slimmer, and less wrinkled, and beside her was... the infamous Bruce Wayne: piercing blue eyes, killer jawline, and a genuinely soft smile. It made you frown; you didn't look anything like him. Your skin was darker, your hair wasn't straight but curly, and your eyes weren't blue. There were more photos of him and your mother; she looked so much happier, or maybe it was your imagination.

"Are you sure? I don't think I look anything like him," you huffed in disappointment, just for your mother to smile and pull you closer.

"I don't think so; you have his cute little nose." She tapped your nose, making you cover it with a pout.

"And his strong chin," she tickled under your chin, which made you giggle.

"His lovely ears," she tickled behind your ears and neck.

"And those pretty, chubby cheeks!" She pinched your cheeks, and you fell into a fit of laughter, just before she hugged you and nuzzled your cheek with her rounded nose.

"Darling, you are just as handsome, if not more beautiful, than your father."

"I want to look like you more!" you shouted, making your mother giggle.

But those soft and sweet memories faded to black, and the more you thought about it and stared at a picture of your "father," the more you hated it. You didn't want to look like him; you didn't want to resemble a deadbeat lunatic who frightened people in the dead of night. You didn't want to have his voice or his brains; you didn't want to be compared to him at all. You were your own person with your own dreams and ambitions, your own thoughts and ideas. You aren't a Wayne, never were, never will be; you’re an [Last Name] for life. Even if you changed your surname after being in Bruce's custody, you still weren't a Wayne; you're not perfect; you're not an acrobat. You're not strong and buff; you're not that great with gadgets. You didn't drop out of high school to fight crime, and you weren't smart enough to do that. You weren't trained by killer assassins or raised to fight. Your dad wasn't a supervillain, and you sure as hell weren't some metahuman who could shoot lights from his hands. You were just a little weirdo who liked video games, anime, and comics, who would stay up late controlling your Sims, who spent their free time making stupid mods for fun, who had crude humor and was kind of an asshole. That was who you were; you were your mother's child. You had your mother's face, her smile, her laugh, and her soft brown eyes.

"[Name], you have such fabulous fashion! Where did you get it from?" a reporter said, pointing a camera and a mic right at your face; it almost gave you whiplash.

"Thank you, ma'am. I got it from my momma," you said with a small smile as you pushed the camera out of your face.

You'll never look like Bruce, no matter who said so. Sometimes, it irks your soul down to the core when you hear Damian now call you "Sister," "Brother," or "His older sibling." First off, you all were half-siblings, and second, you never considered that little gonk as your little brother. Maybe when you were younger, you thought so, but you're not that delusional anymore, and you barely see Bruce as a father. You're willing to have a whole argument about it, but it.

"We have Wayne blood running through our veins, [Name]," the little hellspawn would say every time you tried to blow him off.

"The only blood running through my veins is my mother's," you snarled. You are nothing like them or like him.

#yandere batfam #yandere batfamily #yandere batboys #yandere batman #yandere jason todd #yandere tim drake #yandere dick grayson #yandere damian wayne #yandere bruce wayne #black!reader #batfamily x neglected reader #x neglected reader #x black reader

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lunaswicked · 2 days ago

Text

Sweet Spot

A/N: Sorry this one took so long, college has been kicking my black ass, but im back with a juicy Roman fic!

Paring: Roman Reigns x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Summary: A bold ultimatum turns into an irresistible claim when you demand your place in Roman Reigns' Bloodline. What starts as a power struggle quickly turns into something far more intense as Roman asserts his dominance.

Tags: Oral, (female receiving), language, p in v, smut village, claiming, 18+, USE YOUR IMAGINATION BABE!!!

“The Tribal Chief will be back soon after his interview, Y/N. You really shouldn’t be in here—”

Paul Heyman’s voice carried that usual mix of authority and nervousness, like he was trying to keep the peace but also lowkey freaking out. Classic Wiseman behavior. But before he could finish, you hit him with a cold, uninterested stare and cut him off.

“I don’t care… Paul.” You dragged his name out like it tasted bitter on your tongue. Your arms crossed over your chest, your body language screaming defiance as you dropped into one of Roman’s ridiculously expensive leather chairs, making yourself comfortable. “I’m staying right here until I talk to Roman about the Bloodline.”

Paul’s mouth opened, then shut like a fish out of water. He clearly wasn’t used to people shutting him down, especially not when it came to anything involving Roman. He adjusted his tie, the slight fidget a dead giveaway that he was scrambling for a way to handle you without setting off a nuclear-level argument.

"Y/N," he started again, voice softer now, like he was trying to reason with a child throwing a tantrum. "I understand your frustration, but decisions like these take time. The Tribal Chief has a lot to consider—”

You scoffed, leaning back in the chair like you owned the damn place. “Paul, don’t give me that ‘decisions take time’ speech. Roman’s been stringing me along for months. Either I’m in, or I’m out. No more waiting around while he plays mind games.”

Paul’s lips pressed into a thin line. You could tell he wanted to say something slick, something wise and calculated, but you were past the point of caring. Your patience had been worn down to nothing. You weren’t just some random outsider begging for a spot—you had proven yourself. You had bled for this. And yet, Roman still hadn’t made the call.

Paul sighed dramatically, rubbing his temples like you were personally giving him a migraine. “This is not how things work. You don’t just demand to see Roman. You wait for him to summon you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Summon me? Paul, be fucking for real right now. I’m not some peasant waiting on a royal decree. If Roman wants loyalty, he needs to show me I’m not wasting my damn time.”

Paul exhaled sharply, clearly at a loss. He checked the time on his phone like that was gonna magically make Roman appear faster. “If you just wait—”

“No,” you cut in. “I’m done waiting.”

Your eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. Any minute now, Roman would be walking through that door. And when he did, you were gonna make damn sure he finally gave you an answer.

You adjusted the black dress draped over your body, subtly pulling at the slit running up your thigh. The fabric clung to your curves just right—not that you planned it for Roman, but if he noticed, well… that was his problem.

Paul gave you one last lingering look, one that screamed you’re playing a dangerous game, before he sighed and exited Roman’s private room. The door shut with a soft click, leaving you alone in the space that practically reeked of dominance and control.

Minutes passed as you scrolled mindlessly through your phone, pretending like your heart wasn’t racing. Like you weren’t anticipating the moment he walked through that door. And then—

Click. Thud.

Your head snapped up at the sound, and there he was.

Roman Reigns.

Dressed in a sleek black suit, crisp white shirt, and a tie that somehow made him look even more powerful. His presence alone sucked the air from the room, commanding attention without a single word. And damn, did he look good. So good that heat crawled up your neck before you could stop it. For a split second, you almost forgot why you were here in the first place. Almost.

His sharp eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, before one eyebrow quirked up.

“Y/N, sweetheart,” his voice was smooth, teasing, laced with amusement. “Who let you in here?”

The way he said sweetheart sent a shiver down your spine, but you kept your composure, tilting your chin up as he stepped closer. He shrugged off his suit jacket and placed it on the chair beside you, the fabric brushing against your arm like a silent reminder of his presence.

You swallowed, clearing your throat before answering. “I—I let myself in.”

He hummed at that, walking over to the small table in the corner, pouring himself a cup of coffee like he had all the time in the world. The casual dominance, the way he moved, the sheer confidence—infuriating.

“And where’s Paul?” he asked, lifting the cup to his lips.

“He left.”

That made him pause. His head turned slightly, eyebrow raising again.

“He left?” Roman repeated, almost like he didn’t believe you. Paul never left before he was back. Ever.

You crossed your arms, refusing to shrink under his gaze.

“So, let me get this straight.” He took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes still locked on you. “You invite yourself in… and then run off my Wiseman?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, pulse flickering under his intense stare.

“I wouldn’t say run off,” you muttered, shifting slightly.

Roman smirked, setting his coffee down with a soft clink. He took a step closer, the air between you growing heavier with every movement.

“Mm. That so?” His voice was low, edged with something dangerously amused.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to punch him or let that voice do dangerous things to you. Maybe both.

You straightened your back, squaring your shoulders as you met his gaze head-on. No more games. No more waiting.

“I’m here to tell you that I’m not waiting anymore, Roman,” you said, voice firm despite the way his presence made your pulse spike. “It’s either I’m part of your Bloodline, or I’m not. I mean, it’s been months, and I—”

You didn’t even get to finish.

Roman lifted a hand, cutting you off without a word. The simple gesture was enough to shut you down, not because you wanted to stop talking, but because there was something about the way he did it—calm, effortless, like he already had control of the entire situation. Like you were only here because he allowed it.

Then, before you could react, he moved.

Two long strides, and he was right in front of you, towering over you, his scent wrapping around your senses like a noose. Clean, masculine, laced with expensive cologne and something undeniably him.

His eyes flickered down to yours, dark and unreadable.

“Up. Now.”

A command. Not a request.

Your body reacted before your brain could catch up, pushing up from the chair without hesitation.

You stood, arms crossing over your chest as you forced yourself to hold his gaze. Even in heels, he made you feel small, like he could swallow you whole if he wanted to. The heat rolling off him, the authority dripping from every inch of his stance—it was infuriating.

And yet, you still obeyed.

Roman moved around you with a slow, calculated pace, like a predator circling its prey. Every step was deliberate, heavy with unspoken authority. You felt his presence even when you couldn't see him, the energy in the room shifting with every move he made.

Then, he stopped behind you.

The heat of his body ghosted over your back, close enough that you could feel him but not close enough to touch. His fingers landed on your shoulder, featherlight but firm, sending a shiver down your spine.

“It’s risky,” he murmured, his voice low and rich, the kind that made the air in your lungs thin. “And you’re too sweet.”

You clenched your jaw, shaking your head immediately. “I’m not sweet,” you shot back, voice sharper than you intended.

Behind you, Roman chuckled, the sound deep and knowing, like he was in on a joke you weren’t privy to.

“Sweet,” he mused, his fingers trailing lightly over your shoulder before pulling away. “But not fragile.”

You swallowed hard, refusing to let him see how much he was getting to you.

“I can handle it,” you said, turning your head slightly but not fully facing him.

Roman didn’t respond right away. Instead, he let the silence stretch, let the weight of his presence press into you, let the moment settle in a way that made your pulse hammer against your ribs.

Then, he leaned in just a fraction, voice nothing but a whisper against your ear.

“Are you sure about that, sweetheart?”

You inhaled sharply, the warmth of his breath still lingering against your skin. Roman didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he stepped away, walking toward the locker in the corner of the room, leaving you standing there, your body still buzzing from his proximity.

You turned slightly, watching as he opened the locker with ease, rummaging through it before pulling out a black T-shirt. Bold red letters stretched across the fabric.

Bloodline.

Your breath hitched.

Roman turned back to you, holding the shirt in one hand as he strode forward. The look in his eyes was unreadable—calm, unreadable, but undeniably intense.

“This is yours,” he said simply, stopping just inches from you. His voice was smooth, but there was something deeper laced within it. Something that made your stomach twist.

He held the shirt out, his fingers brushing against yours as you reached for it.

“Was gonna give it to you next week,” he continued, eyes flickering over you like he was assessing you all over again. “But you’re so damn bold… so here.”

Your fingers curled around the fabric, your heart pounding in your chest.

You stared down at the shirt in your hands, the bold red Bloodline lettering staring right back at you like it was daring you to make a choice. The room felt heavier now, charged with something unspoken, something dangerous.

Roman took a step back, arms folding across his broad chest as he watched you. He licked his lips, the slow drag of his tongue over them making your stomach tighten.

“How about you put it on right now?” he said, voice smooth, low, but laced with authority. Like he wasn’t really asking.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and the intensity in them made your breath hitch. He was testing you. Waiting.

You exhaled slowly, then—without breaking eye contact—you reached for the hem of your dress and pulled it over your head in one swift motion, leaving you in nothing but your black lace bra and matching panties. The air in the room shifted instantly.

Roman’s jaw clenched. His eyes darkened, flickering over your body with a heat that sent shivers down your spine.

You smirked slightly, then took your time slipping the Bloodline shirt over your head, letting it fall just below your thighs. The fabric was soft, the scent of him still lingering on it.

Roman exhaled sharply through his nose, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath before stepping closer, his fingers grazing the hem of the shirt as he looked down at you. “Fits you good, sweetheart.”

You tilted your chin up, your own smirk growing. “I told you I belong here.”

Roman chuckled, low and deep. “Guess we’ll see about that.”

Your back hit the wall before you even realized he was moving. Roman was on you in an instant, his sheer presence crowding your space, making the air between you crackle with tension.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unwavering, his expression unreadable—but his intent? Crystal clear.

“Rules,” he murmured, unbuttoning the top of his shirt, his fingers slow, deliberate.

Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling faster as you swallowed hard. “Rules?” you echoed, barely recognizing your own voice.

Roman’s jaw clenched, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips before he leaned in, his breath ghosting over your face.

“You’re mine,” he said, his voice low, rough, possessive. “Mine. Not Jey’s. Not Jimmy’s. Not Solo’s. Mine.”

The way he said it, like it was law—like it was already written in stone—made your stomach tighten. Your pulse hammered against your ribs as his hand lifted, fingers grazing the hem of the Bloodline shirt now hanging loosely on your frame.

“You understand that, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice thick with something dangerous, something that sent a shiver down your spine.

You licked your lips, your throat suddenly dry. But you didn’t back down. You wouldn’t.

“I understand,” you whispered, your voice softer than you intended.

Roman smirked, but it wasn’t playful. It was dark. Satisfied. Like he’d just won.

He leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear, his fingers tracing the edge of your panties. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice thick with promise. “I’m gonna pull these down, taste you, then I’m gonna fuck you—hit that sweet spot over and over, just to remind you of exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into.” His words were low, dangerous, and laced with an undeniable intensity.

The heat surged through you as he slowly slid your panties down, his touch deliberate and teasing. You gasped, breath hitching, "Roman—" you whimpered, unable to hide the desire creeping into your voice. His gaze never left yours, intense and unwavering, as he slid his middle finger between your folds, making your pulse race even faster.

He set a slow, teasing rhythm, his fingers moving in a steady pace, the sound of your wetness filling the room, making the atmosphere thick with tension. "Oh god—" you moaned, your eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure coursed through you. Roman’s jaw tightened, his grip firm as he continued, his pace unrelenting, each movement deliberate, driving you closer to the edge.

"This what you wanted, sweetheart?" he groans in your ear, his pace quickening, pushing you further into a haze of pleasure. You struggle to catch your breath, "Mhm... yes..." you whimper, your body betraying your words.

Without warning, he pulls his fingers out, his grip shifting as he hooks his arms around your thighs, effortlessly lifting you up against the wall. He raises you so high that your pussy aligns directly with his face, and the shift leaves you breathless, heart pounding.

Roman’s breath was warm as he hovered just inches from where you needed him most, his lips so close that every exhale sent a new wave of desperation coursing through you. Then, without warning, he blew a slow, teasing stream of air against your wetness, the sensation making you jolt in his grip.

"You’re dripping, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction, with control, with possession. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and heavy with intent, waiting—watching—as your body reacted to his every move.

The heat between your thighs throbbed, and your fingers instinctively tangled in his hair, desperate for more. But Roman? He took his time, his hold firm, ensuring you had nowhere to run from the way he was about to ruin you.

That was the moment you lost all control—the second his tongue darted out, licking a slow, deliberate stripe against your slick heat without warning. A choked gasp escaped your lips, your head falling back against the wall as a surge of pleasure shot through you like wildfire.

“F-fuck—” you stuttered, your voice barely above a breath, but he didn’t give you a chance to gather yourself. His grip tightened on your ass, his fingers digging in possessively as he held you in place, completely at his mercy.

Then, he latched onto that sensitive bead, sucking with just the right amount of pressure, making your entire body jerk in response. A strangled moan tore from your throat, your thighs trembling around his head as you instinctively tried to press closer, needing more—needing everything.

He groaned against you, the vibration sending another pulse of pleasure straight through your core. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured between strokes of his tongue. “Let me hear you.”

Your fingers curled in his hair, tugging helplessly as your legs threatened to give out—not that he’d let you fall. He had you trapped, exactly where he wanted you, and he wasn’t stopping until you were completely undone.

His dark eyes locked onto yours, filled with hunger and unrelenting dominance. The intensity in his gaze made your breath hitch, anticipation coiling in your stomach like a tightly wound spring.

Without breaking eye contact, he shifted his hold, dropping his left hand, leaving you suspended with only one strong arm wrapped around your waist. The sheer power he possessed sent a shiver down your spine, reminding you just how effortlessly he controlled you.

With his free hand, he worked the button of his slacks, then the zipper, his movements slow—calculated. The sound of fabric rustling filled the room as his slacks slid down his legs, pooling at his ankles, followed by the drop of his boxers. Your mouth went dry at the sight of him, thick and hard, standing tall beneath you.

Roman smirked at your reaction, his grip tightening. “See something you like, sweetheart?” he rasped, amusement laced in his deep voice.

You swallowed hard, unable to form words, but the need pooling between your thighs said enough.

He didn’t give you time to dwell on it. Instead, he adjusted his stance, his large hands gripping your thighs as he guided you down, letting gravity and desire take over. Your back slid down the wall, your body trembling from the overwhelming sensation of his warmth pressing against you.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips the moment you felt him stretching you, inch by inch, your walls molding around his thick length. Roman groaned, his head falling forward as he buried himself deep inside you, his grip bruising as he held you still.

“Fuck—” he growled through gritted teeth, his breath ragged. “You feel even better than I thought.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as pleasure and pain blended into something euphoric, leaving you breathless. “please—ooHH MY GOddd” you whimpered, voice breaking in agony.

He lifted his head, his nose grazing yours, his lips ghosting over your parted ones. “What, baby?” he taunted, rolling his hips just enough to make you whine. “This what you wanted?”

You barely managed a nod, your body trembling in his grasp.

He smirked, dark and wicked, his hands tightening around your thighs as he pressed you harder against the wall. “Good,” he murmured, voice dripping with authority. “’Cause I ain’t lettin’ you go now.”

His dark hair slipped free from the messy bun, cascading over his broad shoulders as sweat glistened on his golden skin, accentuating every defined muscle and intricate tattoo under the dim lighting. His pace was relentless now, each deep thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through your trembling body, pressing you harder against the wall.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your breathless moans and his low, guttural grunts. His grip on your thighs was firm, possessive, holding you in place as he drove into you with a punishing rhythm.

Roman’s head tilted back slightly, his jaw clenched, his breath heavy. “You wanted this, didn’t you?” His voice was deep, laced with raw dominance. His piercing eyes found yours again, dark and full of hunger. “Wanted to be part of my Bloodline so bad…” He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, making you cry out.

You could barely think, let alone respond, but that didn’t stop him.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he growled, “Then you’re mine now, sweetheart.” His teeth grazed your earlobe before he sucked it between his lips, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your nails raked down his back, desperate for something to hold onto. “R-Roman—” you gasped, your voice breaking from the intensity.

He chuckled, dark and amused, before pulling back just enough to meet your dazed, pleasure-drunk gaze. “From now on, every Friday night,” he murmured, rolling his hips slow and deep, making you whimper, “I’m gonna fuck you into my Bloodline.”

A sharp cry left your lips as he picked up his pace again, pounding into you harder, making good on his promise.

With one last deep, punishing thrust, Roman buried himself to the hilt, his grip on your thighs tightening as a guttural groan ripped from his throat. Your body tensed, the overwhelming pleasure crashing over you in powerful, shuddering waves.

“Oh my—Roman!” you gasped, your head falling back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure consumed you. Your walls clenched around him, milking every last drop of his release as his breath came out in ragged pants against your ear.

“Fuck—” he growled, his forehead pressing against yours as he rode out both of your highs, his body trembling slightly from the force of it. His hands slowly loosened their bruising grip on your thighs, fingers grazing over your heated skin as he took deep, steadying breaths.

Your chest heaved against his, bodies still tangled together as the aftermath of your passion settled in the air. The only sounds in the room were the mingling of your unsteady breaths, the cooling sweat on your skin making you shiver against him.

Roman smirked, his lips barely ghosting over yours. “You good, sweetheart?” His voice was thick with satisfaction, but there was something else there too—something possessive.

You swallowed, still dazed, nodding weakly. “Yeah…” you breathed out, your body still tingling from the intensity of it all.

He chuckled lowly, his nose brushing against yours as he finally—slowly—slid out of you, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. He kept a firm hold on your waist, ensuring you didn’t collapse the second your feet touched the ground.

Your legs felt weak, unsteady, and Roman smirked knowingly. “That was cute,” he murmured, amusement lacing his voice as he held you up.

You rolled your eyes, even as a small smile pulled at your lips. “Shut up,” you muttered breathlessly, swaying slightly as you leaned into his solid chest for balance.

Roman reached for his discarded suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders, his touch surprisingly gentle as he smoothed the fabric down your arms. His fingers lingered at your waist before he pulled back slightly, tilting your chin up with a single finger.

“You’re mine now,” he said, voice firm, leaving no room for argument. His dark eyes bore into yours, possessive and intense. “No backing out.”

You met his gaze, feeling the weight of his words settle deep in your chest. There was no denying it—you had just crossed a line that couldn’t be undone.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across your lips. “Guess I’m in the Bloodline now, huh?”

Roman chuckled, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip before leaning in, his lips hovering over yours.

“Damn right, sweetheart.”

#smut #fanfic #roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns smut #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns fic #tribal chief #wwe smut #wwe fanfiction

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steddieas-shegoes · 2 days ago

Text

if you fall, i will catch you

for @steddielovemonth day 2 using Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper

rated t | 855 words | no cw | tags: high school, prom, slow dance, flirting, open ending but assumed getting together

🪩🕺💃🪩🕺💃🪩🕺💃🪩💃🕺🪩

Prom is stupid.

Steve didn’t even want to come. He didn’t have a date and nothing is more embarrassing than showing up to prom alone. Even the nerds come as a group, dancing and laughing together.

His mom made an appointment for his suit fitting and he couldn’t really explain to her that there was no need. She still thinks he and Nancy are on track to be married when Nancy graduates high school. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he’ll probably die alone.

Okay, that’s a little dramatic. He’s probably not gonna die alone.

But he may die unhappy, and that’s worse.

Most of the music hasn’t been terrible so far, at least. Only one slow song played and no one seemed interested in dancing to it.

Steve’s a fucking wallflower at his own prom. He never saw this coming.

He figures he could probably escape within the next few songs, no one would even notice his absence. He makes a mental plan to wait until one of the parent chaperones walks back to the other side of the room.

Then he’s off.

He manages to escape to the hall behind the gym, the one that leads to the auditorium and drama class, not the main building of the school. No one should be back here. It’s the perfect escape route.

“Never thought I’d see the day when King Steve is trying to escape prom,” a voice says from the end of the hall. The music from the gym is echoing in here, but the voice is much louder. It’s familiar, too. “Miss Wheeler too busy with Byers to dance?”

It’s Munson. Steve sighs.

“Why are you even here?”

“It’s my senior prom, too! Or should those of us not graduating not be allowed?” Eddie walks closer and Steve sees that he’s actually dressed up. It’s not a designer suit like he’s been forced into, but it’s nice. Eddie looks…nice.

“Wait,” Steve registers what he actually said. “Not graduating?”

“Yep. Apparently quadratic formulas are crucial to my development and I cannot enter society until I understand them.” Eddie kicks his foot across the tile, leaving a scuff mark from shoes that have probably been waxed beyond necessity. “And I guess dissecting a frog and turning in homework may have helped.”

“But aren’t you pretty smart?” Steve thought he was one of those dungeon dweebs like Dustin. Dustin’s the smartest person he knows, without a doubt, kid or not. He thought all the nerds who play that game were like that.

“Sure, I’m smart enough,” Eddie scoffs. “But I don’t play by their rules. I forget to do homework. I argue.”

“But if you know the stuff, they can’t fail you.”

“Ah, but they can. I don’t have the Harrington name to convince them to change a D to a C. It’s all good. Everyone expected it.”

Steve’s brows furrow, forehead creasing as he thinks about how many things people expected of him that won’t happen.

“Just because people expect it doesn’t mean you have to give it to them,” he says.

Eddie’s eyes widen and he seems shocked by Steve’s words. But the shock wears off quickly. Steve wonders if he imagined it.

“Right you are! Very wise words from the king,” Eddie bows dramatically.

Steve laughs.

Eddie glances up, tense until he realizes Steve’s not laughing at him, just at the entertainment. He stands straight and holds out his hand.

“I do believe such wise words should be repaid with a dance,” Eddie puts on a fake British accent, nose pointed to the sky, smirk playing on his lips.

Steve thinks this must be what it’s like to be charmed by someone.

“A dance?” Steve asks. “Here? With me?”

“It would be my honor,” Eddie loses the accent and turns his head back down so he’s looking right at Steve’s eyes. “Miss Lauper wrote this song just for us, after all.”

Steve’s confusion grows until he hears the song coming from the gym. He can only imagine how awkward it must be in the gym while some couples slow dance with chaperones watching their every breath. He reaches out and takes Eddie’s hand.

“The honor is mine, sir Munson,” Steve tries for an accent like Eddie had previously, but it falls flat.

Eddie pulls him close, but hesitates before he puts an arm around his waist. Steve feels breathless all of a sudden, like they’ve rocketed into space and he forgot one of those astronaut suits. He nods, giving permission for Eddie to take the lead.

When Eddie pulls him closer, they’re almost flush against each other.

Steve’s heart is racing.

“I didn’t know you were weird,” Eddie admits quietly. It sounds a lot like admiration. He’s swaying them back and forth gently, and Steve finds it’s easy to lose track of everything but the way Eddie’s hands rest on his body. “It’s nice to see you, Steve.”

It’s a lot more than what it sounds like.

As Cyndi Lauper plays, Steve wonders if this is how his prom was always meant to be spent: in Eddie Munson’s arms, falling.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie events #steddielovemonth #steve harrington x eddie munson #prom #slow dancing #flirting #high school

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chelseeebe · 2 days ago

Text

timeless

18+. mdni. smut. mentions of drugs. no use of y/n!

you find yourself back in hawkins, with nothing but your grandad’s old diner and a bunch of conflicted feelings about your old best friend, can you say goodbye to him all over again?

a/n: set in the 80s but also the 50s idk i just wanted that old timey feeling pretty long fic i was originally going to split up but decided against.. hope you read it and enjoy anyway:)

⋆ and you were headed off to fight in the war, you still would’ve been mine, we would’ve been timeless ⋆

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

hawkins was really the end of the road for you.

deserting the dreams of the big city to come right back to where it had all started.

it had been years since you’d stepped foot in this town, not much had changed since then, if you were completely honest.

still the same old shitty, rundown dump it always was.

eternally grateful that your grandad still owned the old diner at the other end of town, meaning you’d flounced right into a job and somewhere to stay once you’d packed your bags and left new york behind.

it’s nothing like the office used to be, barely seeing a dozen customers a day, only if you were lucky. but it was nice, a change in pace after the hustle and bustle of the city.

the radio hums on quietly in the background, a couple of regulars sit sipping their coffee at various tables. they did this day in, day out. drink coffee, complain about some mundane new issue they had with the town and then shuffle off back to their homes.

it didn’t exactly seem like your idea of fun.

there’s a bang from outside, metal hitting the ground and a chorus of laughter pulling all attention to the back of the kitchen.

you don’t hang around, barrelling through the kitchen to just about catch the gaggle of kids sprinting off down the road leaving behind their cans of spray paint and a delightful new mural on the back wall.

“what the fuck?” screaming out after them though it’s really no use, they’d already gone.

exasperated that in the seven years you’d been gone, the kids hadn’t changed a bit.

you slink back inside, immediately reaching for the phone, hoping that maybe the police had gotten a little better since you’d left.

though you hold no hope, if they were anything like they were when you were a misfit teen, you’re screwed.

the sun had set, the regulars had scurried off home and now it was just you and the crude painting on the wall. hours and hours of waiting for someone to get out to you.

only for the patrol car to rattle up into the parking lot, just as you had given up all hope.

you storm out of the building, infuriated by the nonchalant attitude hawkins police still seemed to hold, “oh, how nice of you to come! i only called three-,” stopping dead in your tracks as the man exits his vehicle.

you still completely, frozen to your spot, blinking rapidly in disbelief.

eddie fucking munson stands, with his thumbs hooked into his belt, at the door of his patrol car. hawkins police department uniform to boot, a complete shell of the man you had known years ago.

“when’d you blow in?” he asks innocuously, slamming the door shut. a new found confidence, or maybe it was cockiness, in his stride.

“last week,” still coming to grips with the fact that the man stood before you was the same nerdy metal head you were once inseparable with, “when’d you become a cop?”

out of all the possible occupations you could’ve imagined eddie munson in, cop would’ve been dead last on that list. in fact, inmate was several dozens of spots higher.

he chuckles, realising how ridiculous it must look, “few years ago,” he’s close now, close enough that you can see his long black curls peeking out the back of his hat, “didn’t know you were coming back, i would’ve been quicker if i’d have known it was you.”

you scoff, very much doubting that, “you should’ve been here hours ago anyway,” beckoning him to the back of the building, no time for reunions while you had a diner plastered in lewd drawings.

“these fuckin’ kids,” you huff, shaking your head like a scolding old lady, “look at it,” motioning at the hideous spray painting they’d vandalised the entire back wall with, “if you were here on time, you might’ve been able to catch ‘em,” turning your displeased scowl to eddie.

the corner of his lips twitches, creeping into a full smile. only angering you further.

“what? d’you think this is funny?”

he shakes his head, cautiously meeting your eye, “no, it’s just.. pretty sure we got taken to the station for doin’ this behind melvalds,” his shoulders shaking as he chuckles.

you stand, straight faced, the irony wasn’t lost on you, it just didn’t feel like a laughing matter.

“are you joking? no, really? you’re serious?” rubbing your fingers viciously over the dried paint, “you can paint this shit since it’s so funny to you.”

“alright alright,” eddie soothes, “i’ll help you paint it,” eyeing the large canvas he’d now been tasked to paint.

“no,” you frown, “i said you can paint it, i’m not helping you.”

he smiles, teeth peeking out from his lips, “you get the paint and i’ll do it, deal?”

driving such a hard bargain, it’s almost impossible not to fall at his feet and sarcastically thank him for his help.

“fine, deal.”

“great,” he beams, “now how about some coffee?”

“we’re closed.”

he exhales, pursing his lips slightly, “please?”

eddie blabbers on about the vagrant youths in hawkins, how just yesterday he was dragging some boy by the scruff of his neck back to his parents.

it’s all great, exhilarating stuff really. except, you can’t help but let your mind wander, noting his lack of visible tattoos and a ripped up band tee.

and then further down onto his wedding ring.

wedding ring?

“you’re married?” you blurt out, staring at the plain band on his fourth finger. eddie munson, married. a feat you had never thought possible.

“huh?” following your gaze down to his hand, “oh, no,” sliding the silver band from his finger, “it’s the only one they’d let me wear.”

his fingers once adorned with various rings and shoddy stick and poke tattoos, now plain and simple with only the shadows of once black markings.

“oh,” looking back at his face, “i don’t like it,” shaking your head as if you had any real say on his jewellery, “doesn’t feel like you.”

eddie takes a sip of coffee, looking just through you, rather than at you, “maybe this is the new me.”

you ponder, wondering whether you should get as equally profound as he was, “maybe.. still don’t like it,” turning to slide the rest of the dirty plates through the hatch, “when’d you decide to become a traitor anyway?”

eddie chuckles loudly, the walkie on his shirt crackling incoherently, “a few years ago, it was either this or jail so..”

“how was it between this or jail? what the hell d’you do?” motioning to his iron pressed getup.

he sighs, looking down into his mug, “hopper caught me selling at the high school.. not just weed but,” he nods, making a circular gesture with his hand, “like, real hard shit..” sighing softly again as his eyes meet yours, “he told me that he could turn me in and i’d be lucky to get a couple years, or he could get me a job down the station and we could forget all about it.”

you can’t help the pang of guilt from seeping across your chest. you’d left pretty abruptly in ‘89, much to eddie’s defiance, leaving him to a town full of people that either hated him or only acknowledged his existence when he was useful to them.

there’s no question as to whether your departure was anything to do with him peddling hard drugs, that was a given.

“well shit,” the frown between your brows deepening, “i’m sorry for opening my mouth,” brushing your hands down your apron, hoping that he would see the funny side.

eddie just shrugs, sliding the empty coffee mug back over the polished wood top, “it’s alright, i don’t mind it actually, not much happens in hawkins anyway.”

“i wouldn’t say that,” you frown, deciding that the mug would simply have to wait until tomorrow to clean, “there’s a bunch of ugly graffiti on the side of my diner,” quirking your brow, hoping it’ll serve as a reminder to why you’d even called him up here in the first place.

his eyes sparkle in the dim light, creasing with contained laughter, “i told you i’ll paint it,” his chair scrapes across the wooden floor, straightening his hat, “where’re you staying now anyway? need a ride?”

you shake your head, looking back at the clock, “i’m at my grandpa’s for the time being.. he should be here soon,” silently praying that he’d arrive so you weren’t forced to ride in the back seat of his patrol car.

certain people would have plenty to say about that for sure.

“alright well.. i’ll see you later,” saluting with his two fingers as he leaves.

an indescribable feeling settles in your stomach. somewhere between melancholy and regret.

maybe things would’ve been different if you’d stayed.

maybe not.

that’s what makes you the most unsettled, it’s a sick nostalgia for something that never even happened.

a question that had plagued you for the past seven years, one you’ll probably never know the answer to either.

you brush whatever wistful, reminiscent reflections out of your mind, turning the lights off to wait for your ride in the mellow july evening instead.

the coffee machine hums, the only thing in this place that seemed to be used consistently. forced to make hundreds of bland black coffees for crony old men day in, day out.

that’s how bored this place had you, pondering the feeling of the inanimate coffee machine. jesus christ.

time creaks on by, ticking slowly as the sun clears off and the night settles in. one more hour and you’d be on your way home, ready for another night of re-runs and a stale tv-dinner with your grandad.

you couldn’t complain really, he’d been extremely welcoming, sorting your own little bedroom out for you in his unused office.

tires screech into the parking lot, crunching on the gravel, alerting you to that damned patrol car pulling up again.

you watch as he does his little routine, strolling into the diner with a tiny smile, sidling up to the counter with such an air of self-importance, it actually makes you a little sick.

“you come to paint the wall?” you quip, offering nothing but a tight lipped smile back.

he clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, “uh.. no, coffee actually,” pointing to the used and abused machine.

“hmph,” shaking your head, “you promised.”

“yeah and i’m gonna do it,” holding his hands up, admitting that this was a battle he had already lost, “tell you what, i’m free all day next saturday, you get the paint and i’ll be here.”

you don’t believe him, you have no reason to but alas, you nod anyway, “you better or you can kiss this friendship goodbye.”

eddie grins, splaying his palms out flat as he shrugs, “so how about that coffee?”

eddie makes sure to stop in every single day this week. and next. often for hours at a time until his walkie dragged him away and back to the work he’d been ignoring.

like clockwork, his car crunches over the gravel, swinging in to the same spot without fail.

nobody even looks twice as the bell rings, too invested in the financial times to spare a second of their attention.

“you’re here an awful lot,” raising your brows, sliding your notebook back into your apron.

eddie shrugs, placing his hat onto the counter, “what can i say? i like the coffee,” smiling innocently as he takes his seat.

“oh i’m sure,” rolling your eyes in return, grabbing a mug and pouring his coffee before gently sliding it over the bar.

he stays until close tonight, lingering behind as you lock up, no doubt pretending to offer some sort of protection though you’re absolutely sure that you’d be more capable of fighting off any potential threats than he’d ever be.

you look at your watch, knowing your grandad should’ve been here by now. it was a long, treacherous walk back to his place, not exactly something you wanted to tackle at ten pm either.

“you need a ride?” eddie asks, standing at his car with his keys in his hand.

you press your lips together, taking another look at the ticking clock face on your wrist, “if you’re going that way, that’d be great.”

his eyes roll back, knowing that even if he were driving to the other side of the country, he’d still take you home first, “c’mon,” opening the passenger door as you begrudgingly slink over.

he certainly keeps his car in better condition than he ever kept his beat up, old van. sometimes it felt like you’d die from dust inhalation than his shoddy driving.

“they give you this for free?” you ask, admiring the plush leather seats.

“yup,” tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, “pay for the gas too.”

“wowww,” feigning amazement, “you’ve got it good.”

he glances over, scowling just so, unappreciative of your sarcasm, “who’s the one with a driving license and a car here? because it’s not you.”

your mouth falls open, blinking rapidly at his terrible attempt at a joke, “ouch okay,” hoping he’d regret his callousness, though it wasn’t likely.

“i offered to teach you.. you could’ve been on the road by now,” his eyes leaving the road every other second, fingers itching to rest on your knee.

“pffft. driving lessons from you? i’d rather walk.”

you wish he’d just do it, his hands were twitchy, begging to make contact.

they don’t.

keeping on the steering wheel instead.

but he chuckles, low and grumbly, “dustin didn’t wanna learn with me either for some reason.”

“oh wow yeah, i wonder,” turning to stare blankly at the side of his head.

he glances over, shaking his head before turning back to the road, “you’re so mean,” throwing out a pathetic pout.

the car rolls onto the familiar street, an unwilling sinking in your gut that the journey was over too soon.

eddie taps the wheel, peering out of the window at the decaying row of houses, “jeez,” air blowing out of his lips, “hasn’t changed a bit.”

you shake your head, wanting to stay in the car just a bit longer, “nope..” emphasising the ‘p’ as you follow his eye to the splintering door.

he nods, still staring straight ahead rather than daring to meet your eye, “i’m really glad you’re back,” his fingers playing a repetitive tune on the leather, “i feel like i’ve been waiting for you to come home for so long now that i wasn’t sure if you ever would.”

you hadn’t ever planned on it.

dreams of new york had filled your mind for as long as you can remember.

that was supposed to be it.

and at the start it really did seem like you’d spend the rest of your life there. but a string of tumultuous relationships and an awful

boss had forced you back to hawkins.

“i didn’t think i was ever gonna,” sighing softly, “i’m sorry for just.. leavin’ you,” turning unexpectedly bashful, “i thought about you all the time you know? new york’s not really that great but i think you would’ve made it better,” feeling the heat soar to your cheeks.

it was true, at least, at the start. you’d often find yourself wondering about what eddie was up to or if he was thinking of you too.

“don’t apologise for that,” shaking his head, “i get it. if i coulda, i woulda done it too. you’ll have to show me around one day when i’m-,” clearing his throat, “when i’m not stuck at work.”

he sounds off, something hidden in his tone that you really don’t understand. the moment too tender to query it too much, apprehensive to change the subject just as things had started to feel normal again.

“i can do that,” turning to eddie to find him already gazing back. “you gotta give me a tour of the station first though, it’s only fair.”

“deal,” eddie nods, offering his hand out for you to shake.

you do it, not acknowledging his clammy palm or the way his fingers are shaking just so.

“alright,” you nod, breaking the tension, “i better go, you’ve gotta busy day tomorrow,” reminding him of your long-awaited agreement.

“wait-,” grabbing ahold of your fingers before you’re able to climb fully out of the car.

you turn, eyebrow raised, “what?”

he’s been so strange all night, like he’s edging to say something

“uhm.. what time did you say again?”

you blink, baffled by his outburst, “uh.. anytime in the afternoon, i’ll close up early and come and help.”

“o-okay yeah perfect,” letting go of your fingers.

your face contorts but you keep your thoughts to yourself, he was pretty peculiar at the best of times, this was no exception.

“goodnight eds,” finally closing the door, leaving him to his confusing little stupor.

eddie’s there right on time, with a paint bucket in hand and the brush tucked into the pocket of his ratty, paint spattered shirt.

he looks a picture, resembling more wayne than the eddie munson you knew.

“what?” he questions your marvelling expression.

“you look ridiculous,” tucking the cloth back into your apron to get a further look at his get up. his jeans closely resemble the ones he wore as a teen, tattered and torn with spatters of paint adorning the denim. it’s no wonder who he’d stolen his clothes from.

“ouch,” clutching his heart, “i can just go home if you want? leave that graffiti on your wall?”

“i didn’t say that,” tutting your tongue against your teeth, “go on out, i’m just gonna finish up in here and i’ll join ya,” ushering him back out the door.

closing takes longer than you’d expect. mr. casey wasn’t best pleased to hear he had to finish his coffee and go, grumbling all the way out of the door and into his car.

you make it outside just as eddie spreads the last lick of paint onto the wood, “nice of you to join me!”

you stare up at the freshly painted wall, grateful to never have to look at the god awful eyesore every again, “doesn’t look like you needed my help anyway,” feet crunching against the stones as you make your way over to him.

“what d’you think?” proudly showing off his work.

your eyes scan the wall for anything you can make a quick quip about, only to find that he’d really done a great job.

“yeah..” frowning slightly as you peer at the wall, “you just missed a tiny little spot,” gesturing for him to come closer.

“what? where?” stomping over, displeased with your criticisms of his hard work.

“right here,” grabbing the brush from his hand, smearing a streak of dusty grey across his cheek before immediately jumping back to admire your handiwork.

eddie stands in shock, hands in the air while the cogs in his brain tick away slowly, figuring out how to get you back.

he goes for the can, picking up the full metal bucket and angling it in your direction, a maniacal, nay, evil grin on his face.

“don’t even fucking think about it eddie, i’m serious!” dropping the paintbrush in defeat, surrendering your hands in the air.

he cackles, thunderous laughter that makes you shriek in response, hands flying over your face to protect yourself for the onslaught.

eddie bounds over, the paint spilling over onto the floor as he goes, forcing you to brace yourself.

except the paint doesn’t come, daring enough to open your eyes to find him a few steps in front.

“come on,” he complains, “you didn’t really think i was gonna do it, did you?”

“yes! i did!”

he collapses into a fit of laughter, placing the can safely back on the ground, “i would never,” inching closer to prove his innocence.

only, he isn’t at all.

his fingers swipe the paint from his cheek to wipe the dusky colour onto yours instead, a perfect hand print encapsulated on your face.

“you’re an asshole,” grabbing his wrist to redirect his paint covered palm back to his own face.

eddie is, no doubt, stronger than you are. twisting your arm until it’s tangled around your own body. encasing you within your own limbs, held tight by his own unfaltering grip and his chest pressed against your back.

“what was that?”

“you’re an asshole and i’m going to scream if you don’t let me go,” an empty threat really, considering the dreary regulars had all shuffled off home and the nearest neighbourhood was a good mile east.

“i mean, you can if you want to but i don’t think anyone’ll hear you,” snickering into your ear.

you hadn’t anticipated that he’d now had years of experience with apprehending criminals, you were never a worthy opponent nowadays.

you lurch forward, taking both of your bodies over to the wall, eddie’s clumsy clown feet knocking over the tin of paint on his way. splashing the bottoms of your legs and shoes with the ghastly stuff.

you go stumbling into the still-wet wall, eddie following closely behind, pressing your back into the sticky paint. his chest heaves, still holding onto your arm though you’d come to face him now. his fingers twitch against your skin, slotting his between yours, holding your hand against the wall after the most painful few weeks of almosts.

quickly, his other hand comes to cup your chin, tilting it up to meet his. in a split second he goes from staring at your lips to crashing his into them.

knocking your head back against the wall with such ferocity, years of tension and unanswered pining leading to this moment.

“jesus christ,” he mutters through rushed kisses, “i’ve been waiting to do this for so long,” combing his dirtied fingers through your wild hair.

your arms snake around his neck, surely spreading white finger prints across his clothes and into his hair, “you should’ve.”

the sun beats down on your skin, painting his face a glorious orange hue, wanting nothing more than to bask in this view for the rest of your life.

eddie pulls away, pressing his forehead to yours, “you okay?”

you’re breathless, chest heaving against his, “yeah,” falling into a fit of giggles, “yeah.. are you?”

he nods, fingertips gently tucking strands of messy hair behind your ear, “yeah.. well, i’m better now,” ducking his head to lean in and meet your lips again.

you’d read about sparks flying and all sorts of other romanticisms in books for years, brushing them off as exaggerated works of fiction, only now, the very happenings you’d denied were happening to you.

to feel that someone’s lips were made so perfectly just for you seemed absurd, but truly, it was possible.

eddie’s words rumble against your lips, incomprehensible as your brain is preoccupied with processing what was happening.

“hey.. hey,” only really hearing him once he’d pulled away and was staring into your eyes with his deep, brown ones. “anyone home?” laughing at your vacant smile, as if he weren’t the culprit behind it.

“just shut up and kiss me again.”

the evening winds down rather quickly, now covered in peeling eggshell paint, your uniform half-off, half-dirtied.

you didn’t mind one bit, slowly making your way inside the diner to attempt to clean yourself up before heading home.

“since we’re in here..” eddie starts, leaving you wondering what was going to come out of his mouth next, “coffee?” eyeing the machine you’d already polished and turned off.

“seriously?” dead-eyed as you turn to face him.

“i wasn’t lyin’ about coming for the coffee,” smiling from across the bar, “i just didn’t mention that i was also coming to see you.”

your eyes roll back instinctively, however sweet he was being.

eddie offers to take you home, a gesture of goodwill after you clean him up and fill him with free coffee. both of you skirting around the fact he had you pinned up against the wall just mere hours ago.

if he’s not going to, you have to.

there was no going to back to normal, not after that, not after he had proclaimed that he had been waiting for that.

“pull over,” you blurt out. too loudly, too rushed that eddie can’t help but panic, questioning your urgency and most likely, safety.

but he follows your orders, pulling into the nearest clearing, all the while looking completely panicked and a little unsettled.

the engine is barely off before you’re sliding over onto the drivers seat, thighs resting either side of his as you skilfully lean down to push his chair back all at once. refusing to give him the chance to jabber his way out of this one.

“hey.. woah, what the fuck?” chuckling softly though his hands reluctantly come to rest on your hips, eyes darting around the dark outside of the window, “i’m in my patrol car.. what if someone sees?”

“who d’you think’s gonna see?”

“i-i dunno,” allowing himself to get comfortable, “but i’ll get fired,” reluctance in his throat.

“you can come work at the diner, you’re there all the time anyway,” interrupting his worrisome whining with a kiss to the side of his lips, taking his bottom lip between your teeth.

he indulges for a moment, sighing softly into your parted lips before hastily pulling away, “i mean it, i can’t,” gazing up to you with his doe-like eyes.

“fine,” you grumble, sliding back into the passenger seat, “d’you wanna come over? grandad’ll be asleep by now,” picking at your fingernails like some teenager talking to her crush.

that’s sort of what he was, an eternal crush that you’d never really get over.

“you sure? we could.. i mean, wayne still lives with me but i’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” eddie offers, though the thought of doing anything in that trailer made you recoil and shudder.

it was cozy and served you well during your adolescence but privacy was nonexistent, every breath or movement was projected very clearly into the next room.

you shake your head, “i’m closer anyway, i’m sure it’ll be fine,” after years of living on your own, debating where the safest place to have sex was seemed like a hundred steps back.

eddie can hardly focus, hand squeezing your knee the entire drive over. any longer and he’d have broken skin, that’s certain.

but now it’s your turn, you can’t keep your paint tarnished hands off of him, the second eddie steps over the threshold and into the corridor, you pounce. wrapping your arms tight around his neck, pressing your lips together with such ferocity that he falls back into the wall.

but he catches up quick, finding your waist as he walks the both of you up the hall, hungrily grabbing at the sliver of flesh peeking from underneath your shirt.

a light at the top of the staircase flicks on, forcing your lips apart.

“hi sweetie,” your grandad calls from upstairs, “good day?”

eddie’s fingers squeeze your waist, sharing a panicked look before you clear your throat, “hey grandpa.. it was good,” knowing full well that he wouldn’t venture out of his room at this time to catch you, “i’ll see you in the morning, alright?” ushering eddie through the kitchen door.

“okay, goodnight dear,” he calls, the light finally flickering off allowing you to release the breath you weren’t aware you were holding.

silently pulling him down the tiny hall and into your converted bedroom, holding in a devious cackle.

it really wouldn’t matter if he had caught you, grandad had always been a huge fan of eddie’s, cooking him dinner and offering him unsolicited dating advice during your teens. if anything, he’d be championing the ship.

“oh my god,” you mouth, closing the door, your room was the tiny office space right at the back of the house, which in hindsight, seemed like the best option now.

eddie’s hands find you again, resting on your hips with a sickening smile, “thought he was asleep?”

your eyes roll back on their own, hooking your arms around his neck once again, “so did i,” guiding him towards the bed, “just be quiet and we’ll be okay,” rushing to unbutton his shirt.

fifteen years of friendship boiling down to this very moment, a litany of teenage tension and hidden feelings bubbling to the surface all at once.

eddie moves your bodies as one, lowering your back onto the bed with tepid hands, coming down on top of you, “i don’t know if i can do quiet.”

“well try,” you hush, connecting your lips in a haste, rushing to unbutton the rest of his messy shirt.

grandad was partially deaf, the likelihood of him hearing anything was minuscule, but you weren’t willing to take that risk.

his tongue swipes across your bottom lip, no longer the novice he once was apparently. groaning softly into your mouth with every slight move of his hips.

you struggle with his shirt, his now-defined arms hold himself above you, leaving the fabric draped around his shoulders. you can’t complain, fingertips tracing over the solid muscle, a stark contrast to the spindly biceps you once clung to.

he taps your hip, signalling for them to move, allowing him to slide your pants down your thighs.

eddie had seen you naked a handful of times, mostly followed by you screaming at him to get or close his eyes. it was different then, when being naked in front of someone was the most personal thing you could ever do.

now it feels natural, his hands roaming your body as if they’ve always belonged there.

tossing his shirt to the ground before working on removing yours, all the while pressing hungry kisses to your lips, jaw and neck. chest heaving with the palpable tension.

it’s mostly silent bar your concealed sighs and the sound of his lips smacking against the crook of your neck.

he’s so hard, nudging against your aching core, you can feel it with every tilt of his hips, painstaking in the way he comes so close just to pull back again.

your panties end up on the heap of clothes last, eddie’s teeth gnaw at his bottom lip, watching the lacy fabric slide over your supple thighs.

“fuck,” gasping under his breath, marvelling your bare body.

his boxers go next, your eyes trailing down to his slick cock, far different to how you’d ever imagined.

there’s a slight jolt in your stomach, wondering why you’d ever waited so long for this to happen.

you’d have to make up for lost time, secret pining and infantile crushes all gone to waste.

two fingers tease your hole, shining in your release as they draw in and out. stifling the squeaks of pleasure into your palm, thighs closing around his arm.

you could truly cum from this alone, so pent up, so turned on that just his thumb tapping at your clit had you clenching around his digits.

“need.. more,” holding onto his bicep, refusing to let him prolong this any further.

“yeah?” eddie nods, “i can do more,” positioning himself at your sopping entrance, waiting for your go ahead to slide in.

“yes.. yes.”

he slips inside with a groan, only, the groan doesn’t come from his lips, but instead the creaky old mattress holding you both up.

eddie freezes, wide-eyed as his hips still. there was no way you could have sex on this old thing, at least not indiscreetly.

your lips twitch, laughing at the sheer insanity of this entire encounter, the world was clearly against the idea of you two having sex.

he falls into a quiet chuckle, still halfway inside of you at this point, “what should i do?” unwilling to disrespect your grandad while also being unwilling to give this up.

you felt like a teenager again, sneaking around with boys you shouldn’t, except, this time you’re twenty five and far too old to be worrying about being caught in the act.

“just- just fuck me,” you order, sick of the karmic interventions. there was only so much you could tolerate before things became too ridiculous.

eddie’s eyelashes flutter, letting his hips move as your cunt envelopes him.

“god- fu-uck,” fingers gripping at the sheets besides your head. beginning to lose his sanity already.

your pants fill the room, closely followed by the sound of his skin colliding with yours. moving in perfect harmony around one another in a bid to keep this as quiet as possible.

“eddie,” you sigh, loosening your grip on his neck only to cradle his cheek, meeting his eye in what was possibly the closest he had ever felt to anyone in his life.

there’s no hope in this lasting much longer, not with the way he was fumbling his words, certainly not with his cock twitching as he reached new, otherworldly heights. though his strokes are slow, they make your legs tremble, his tip nudging softly against your sweet spot.

your chin tilts, pressing clumsy kisses to the side of his mouth, panting in tandem with one another.

there’s something skilful about the way he angles himself, sliding in and out of your glistening pussy, pulling almost all the way back out just to end up filling you to the hilt again.

refusing to think about the implications of that.

“sweetheart i can’t- won’t last much longer,” whining against your cheek, carelessly pecking the soft skin.

“nearly.. nearly there,” you breathe, letting your eyes roll back, focusing on the way his core meets your clit and his soft cries that fill your ears.

this gives him the much needed determination to not let himself topple over before you had. coming even closer as he lowers himself, using one hand to glide down to your throbbing clit, two fingers rubbing lazy circles in time with his messy thrusts.

your stomach flips without warning, falling to pieces underneath his body as your thighs tighten around his hips. cumming around his cock, accompanied by incoherent mewls, an attempt to keep quiet though it fails miserable.

eddie’s hips sputter, grunting with each feeble, final thrust. barely pulling out before he cums, thick ropes of his release paint your cunt and stomach.

“ohh shit,” he curses, sitting back on his knees to assess his mess.

heaving for breath as he searches frantically for something to clean you up, a reformed gentleman. there’s no way eddie of the past would ever think to do something so thoughtful.

“there’s a towel.. somewhere,” gesturing vaguely to the floor, though your legs are intertwined with his, making it a much harder ordeal.

he scrambles off anyway, sweaty skin on skin causing him to fumble, almost tripping over completely just to save himself seconds before disaster.

your cackle erupts, watching him stumble around like a mad man. this had been anything but the quiet endeavour it should’ve been, and yet you can’t bring yourself to care.

after years of waiting for things to fall into place, they finally felt like they had. like something had clicked and you were right where you were supposed to be. what you had been missing was eddie, a best friend before he was ever a lover. someone that knew you and not just the version of you the city brought out.

“jesus christ,” he huffs, wiping his release from your stomach, “i tried,” tossing the towel back onto the floor, coming to collapse beside you.

immediately nestling into his side, still giggling over his pathetic tumble, “you’re ‘bout as grateful as a baby deer,” placing a hand on his chest, much leaner than his teenage years.

“be grateful i’m too tired to fight back,” sliding his arm under your resting body, bringing you in close. “god i missed you so much,” he sighs, melancholy out of nowhere, “i uh.. i..” trailing off into silence, while his fingers find their way onto your shoulder, drawing lines on the goosebumped skin.

you’re too weary to pay too much attention to his muttering, dozing off to sleep with the help of his chest. there’s something about his thumping heartbeat that soothes your messy head, he could tell you in the morning if it were truly that important.

a late august morning blooms outside the window, peeking through the curtains to pull you from your slumber.

only to find an empty bed and the scent of bacon wafting into your bedroom.

that can only mean one thing, and that petrifies you.

there’s no saying what your grandad would divulge about you over morning coffee, he was terrible at secrets at the best of times.

“..what’s going on?” rounding the corner with apprehension in your face, not wanting to disrupt whatever conversation they were having.

you meet eddie’s eye first, his lopsided grin and messy hair making your own smile emerge, grateful that he hadn’t ran off during the night.

“breakfast,” your grandad replies, sharp and snappy but soft as always, “we normal folks tend to eat it in the morning,” a dig at your late awakening, despite the clock only reading 9:30.

“has anyone ever told you how funny you are?” pulling a face behind his back, purely for eddie’s benefit.

your grandad hums, “i found eddie here, rather underdressed, coming out of your bedroom this morning,” transferring the greasy bacon onto a plate, thankfully avoiding all eye contact, though you can spot his cheeky smirk a mile away.

“oh.. right,” catching eddie’s eye just to widen your own, terrified for what else he may come out with.

there’s a silence between the three of you, only the sounds of cutlery clinking against the plates and your feet shuffling awkwardly around the kitchen.

“i don’t care,” he announces, breaking the uncomfortably long quiet, “i think you deserve this more than anything,” finding your gaze, a gentle, sincere smile plastered over his face.

“thank you grandad,” ignoring eddie for a second, you’d shared tidbits of your time in the city, but nothing compared to what your grandad had heard for years.

“i mean it,” he starts, including eddie in the conversation finally, “you’ve both grown into remarkable young people and you..” pointing his fork at eddie’s smiling face, “you, i would’ve never guessed you’d grow up,” eddie doesn’t wince, taking his jabs on the chin, “but look at you.”

eddie nods, grinning sincerely, “thank you sir, i appreciate it,” a tender moment that makes your heart swell.

you don’t want to call it what it so obviously is, not yet. but watching him grin at your grandad, completely domesticated and tender, you can’t help but think about it.

your grandad smiles, sliding plates of food in front of you both, “now get and eat this before it goes cold.”

the diner had apparently become a circus of sorts, only you seemed to be the main attraction.

now that things were partially out there and eddie didn’t feel so scared to let you ride him in his patrol car, people, namely his colleagues had become regulars at the diner.

you wouldn’t have ever cared, really. it was bound to get out at some point and if this was going to be a permanent, serious thing, you’d have to meet them all eventually.

what you aren’t fond of, is their incessant staring, the gawping and tittering about your endeavours.

eddie hadn’t believed you, always arriving just after they’d left, leaving you feeling crazed all alone.

except for today, too busy refilling coffee to notice his car pull up, his lackeys too busy watching you refill coffees to notice either.

the bell rings above the door, your eyes flitting up to find him staring at the table.

they notice one by one, quickly looking down into the mugs and unfinished eggs, embarrassed and rosy-cheeked.

vindicated in your madness at last.

“afternoon,” eddie nods, strolling over to the counter, looking more amused than the angry, stern eddie you’d hoped for.

“hmph,” awaiting his reaction,

“you weren’t joking, huh?” eyeing the rambunctious table, his chest puffed out to showcase his seniority.

you scoff, rolling your eyes, “no,” making your way around the bar to grab his arm, “what’ve you told them? i thought we weren’t going to make this a big thing,” shoving the mug of coffee into his chest, though he didn’t deserve your hospitality.

eddie holds his hands up high, a plea for his innocence, or forgiveness, “i just.. i told a few people about you. i’m happy, im sorry,” opting for puppy dog eyes. “i didn’t think they’d come up here to antagonise you, honest,” stroking your arm, a gesture of peace you can’t help but resist.

your eyes narrow, slipping away from his grasp to get back to your job, “you’re so lucky i like you.”

eddie had stayed until close again, mumbling something about vacation and helping out. but you’re ravenous the second the door locks, a one track mind to get into his pants and out of yours.

tugging him by the collar into the kitchen, throwing yourself on him with such ferocity his body almost sends the cutlery to the floor as he holds the counter for stability.

“okay.. okay,” he laughs, breaking away from your lips to hoist you atop of the cold, steel counter, “rough day, huh?”

you nod, wasting no time in getting your legs wrapped around his midriff, arms draped over his shoulders. now that having this was a real thing, you didn’t want to ever stop.

your lips find solace in the crook of his neck, working your way up to his ear, your teeth nibbling at the sensitive skin.

“huh- fuck okay,” eddie’s hands clamp down on the surface top, enveloping you perfectly within his grasp. his uniform hangs off of his frame, disheveled by your wandering hands.

eyes scanning the clearly empty restaurant for what feels like the thousandth time already, as if even he believed that someone would sneak in just to catch you two out.

“eds please,” huffing frustratedly into his ear, “i practically own this place.. no one’s gonna find us,” snapping his distracted gaze back to your pouty lips, his hands settling on your hips almost immediately.

“i know i know,” nodding along, “okay, shit,” further diving into the space between your legs, his cock teasing as it nudges your clothed entrance.

“need you so bad,” jutting your bottom lip out further, fingers dipping below the messy collar of his button up, in dire need of something a little more substantial to satiated the ache between your legs.

his twitchy fingers struggle with the button of your jeans, failing him in his time of need.

“ah fuck,” eddie gives up completely. head dipping into the small space between you, forehead resting on your chest.

“what’s wrong? what’s.. what’s the matter?” you tug at his hair in an attempt to bring him back upright.

he sighs, the warm air splaying across your exposed skin, “i gotta tell you something,” finally reemerging to meet your eyes, “you’re gonna be mad but.. i just need you to listen, okay?”

your brows furrow, features crumpling in sheer confusion. he was terrifying like this, cryptic and coy. what could he possibly have to say that couldn’t wait until after you’d fucked?

“what is it?” your voice trembling, still cradling his face, terrified for whatever he might blurt out.

he sighs again. deep and guttural as his gaze flickers, “i’m.. sorry, first of all. for not telling you about this.”

your anger and worry both grow increasingly stronger, “sorry for what? eddie, i don’t understand what’s going on.”

eddie pauses, brushing his thumb over your hot cheek, “i’m being shipped out on monday,” chewing down on his lip nervously. rightly so too.

dropping the bombshell of the century at five in the afternoon as you sat pathetically, covered in grease and coffee stains all the while ridiculously turned on.

“what?”

his mouth opens but nothing comes out, he’d run out of things to say already. he’d had weeks and weeks to tell you, to at least prepare himself for what to say and this was the best he could come up with?

“why didn’t you tell me?” dropping your hand, positively raging with the stupid boy, “how long have you known?”

you can almost hear the gulp, regret and guilt seeping through his face immediately, “the day after you got back,” sounding utterly pathetic.

your hands push him back instinctively, anger pulsing through your veins, “and you didn’t tell me?” you slide off of the counter, shoving him backward.

“i didn’t know how..” scrambling now, refusing to allow his cowardice ruin this, “i wasn’t expecting to fall in love with you again-“

“-don’t! don’t do that!” jabbing your finger harshly into his chest, “why didn’t you fucking tell me!”

“because i was scared,” eddie somehow remains level-headed despite your lack of control, “i didn’t know that i was gonna feel this way or that you were gonna stick around again,” sighing frustratedly, “i never wanted to hurt you,” a complete and utter dejection in his voice.

your lip trembles, tears threatening to spill over, “and you thought that not telling me would be any better?”

“no! i didn’t..” shaking his head, hands reaching out one more time, “i wasn’t thinking at all,” you don’t push him away this time, too encompassed by your devastation to notice his hands grab yours.

“you’re unbelievable eddie,” scolding him for his ignorance, but he can feel you relax into his touch, “three days… three days is all i’ve got to say goodbye again,” forlorn, already wishing away the year.

what if he never come back?

he could meet someone else, decide that hawkins was a dead end and stay the rest of his life with someone other than you.

it’s unfathomable, the last time you said goodbye, you didn’t see him again for years.

eddie’s eyes are wet,

“wait for me,” he nods assuredly, “a year and i’ll be back,” trembling as he speaks, desperate to not lose you again, “please.”

“a year?” you fret, angry all over again, “i’ve just.. i’ve just got you back! you can’t-” struggling to breathe through your sobs, “what if you don’t come back? and then i’m stuck here for the rest of my life waiting for you!”

“that’s not gonna happen,” pressing the rough pads of his thumbs into your wrists, keeping you in his hold, “i’m coming back for you,” wrapping your arms around his waist, pulling you into his chest where your cries become muffled wails. “i want to be with you forever. you don’t have to worry about that,” resting his chin atop of your head, drawing soothing patterns into your back.

“promise me,” you blubber, pulling back just enough to catch his eye, “promise me that you’ll come back,” sniffling through your words, a mess that would scare any man from coming back.

“i promise you, i’m coming back.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson angst #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader

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chaiihuo · 2 days ago

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GUNSLINGER . . . ft. boothill

cw :: boothill x f. reader. nsfw. mdni. established relationship. gun play. f. masturbation. fingering. petnames. praise. oral fixation. overstimulation. wc. 2.3k

note from the lamb :: i am forever thankful to nick for having this on their blog still

this was a private moment, one boothill really shouldn't have been watching. but he couldn't help himself.

he had been planning to be gone the entirety of the three day weekend, but his scheduled bounty had gone much quicker than he intended, and he had made it home in just two days.

he had expected you to already be there when he opened the door, expecting that you'd have come running to the door when you heard his house key in the lock of your front door. but there was nothing but the still furniture of your shared home. you were nowhere in sight, and boothill had assumed maybe he just happened to come home while you were out.

until he looked down and saw your boots still lined neatly against the entry way wall. curious, he kicked his own boots off— leaving him about an inch shorter— before wandering down the hall. he'd need to wash once he greeted you, sweat, dirt and mud dirtying his hair, body and clothes.

he went down the hall towards your room, the next most likely place for him to find you. it made him a little excited, imagining you curled up in bed wrapped in a tight bundle of blankets, in the middle of a circle of pillows and stuffed animals, probably dreaming about him. he'd like to think, at least. he'd wake you up by peppering your face and neck with kisses, and you'd be so excited when you woke up to see his face.

when he pushed the bedroom door open, he found you in bed but you definitely weren't sleeping. boothill stood completely still in the doorway, seemingly unnoticed by you, his eyes wide and practically glued to your body.

your body that was writhing and squirming on your shared bed, hips jerking and twitching upwards as your fingers slid and rubbed in and around your cunt. boothill lost track of the minutes as they passed, watching your fingers dip in and out of your hole, rubbing quick and frantic circles around your clit.

he felt his face get hot, so hot it felt like someone had lit a match against his skin, eyes wide as he watched you.

but you weren't really getting anywhere. and boothill felt a little bad, watching you and listening to all the whiny, almost pathetic sounding moans and whimpers that fell from your lips.

he stepped closer to you, the gentle metal clanking of his body finally alerting you to his presence. it was nearly comical how you jumped, pulling your hand away from between your legs like you were caught doing something wrong.

"b-boothill ?!" you stared at him with wide eyes, "y-you're home.."

boothill chuckled, a little smirk on his face, "well try not to sound too excited darlin'," he was standing at the edge of the bed now, staring down at you. his hands reached out, fingers wrapping around your ankles. he pulled you down the length of the bed, earning a surprised yelp from you. he pulled you down so your legs from the knees down dangled off the end of the bed.

he kept your legs spread open, arms hooked under your knees. "you don't gotta stop just cause i'm here, baby doll" he said, eyes fixed between your legs.

"boothillll" at your embarrassed whine, the cyborg's eyes moved up to your face. your lips were swollen and pink from biting and sucking on them, shiny from your drool. your cheeks were puffy from your pout, streaked with tears, and hot from embarrassment.

"alright, alright" boothill lowered your legs back onto the bed "i'm jus' kiddin', doll. don't gotta get all whiney with me" he wasn't really kidding all that much though. he wouldn't mind watching you for hours and hours if you'd be so kind as to let him. he climbed up onto the bed, body propped up over yours like he was doing a push-up over your body. he lowered his body, arms bent at the elbows, pressing firm kisses over your face. "did you finish ?" he asked, raising his eyebrow.

you looked up at him, brain still flustered from having been caught. you shook your head 'no'. boothill's bottom lip stuck out. "oh, you poor baby" the sly, confident smirk twitched at the corner of his exaggerated pout. "you want help, pretty girl ?" he asked

you nodded your head, a little too quick to react. a low and rough chuckle left boothill before he raised himself off the bed, and made his way to the bathroom. he could hear your frustrated whines, and the sheets moving on the bed as you shuffled around, as he turned the bathroom faucet on.

while waiting for the water to get hot, he undid the holster strapped to his thigh. he released the cylinder, pushing the last three bullets out so all the chambers were empty. when the water from the faucet got hot enough it began fogging up the mirror, he tucked the three bullets into his cheek, gnawing down on them as he soaked a wash rag in the steaming water.

he ran the soaked cloth up and down the barrel of his gun, rubbing away the build up of soot and gun powder off the carbon steel weapon. when he was satisfied with his work, he returned to the bedroom. you were still more or less in the same place he had left you, which filled him with a little more pride than he'd like to admit.

the galaxy ranger made his way over to you, setting the empty the gun on the bed near your head, he undid his heavy belt, falling on the ground joined shortly by his gun holster. he joined you on the bed, hand curling over the back of your neck to bring your face to his. the kiss he pulled you into was a little rougher than his kisses usually were, pushing his body impossibly closer to yours, hand firm on the back of your neck, keeping your mouth against his.

his sharp teeth bit and grazed against your lips, tongue filling your mouth like it was meant to be there. his free hand trailed down your body, stopping only once to slide under the loose fitting tank top to pinch at and brush his thumb over your nipple.

your hips bucked forwards, brushing up against his thigh. his hand moved down, pushing your hips back down onto the bed. he only needed one hand, and not much of his strength to hold you down.

"just be patient, baby doll," he mumbled. his kisses had left you out of breath, panting for air. not boothill, nothing ever left him out of breath. nothing ever would. "never not givin' you what you wanted" he added, though mostly to himself.

his hand trailed down your bare hip, moving to your crotch still warm and wet and ready for him. and his fingers slid in with ease, they slid back and forth without any friction or resistance. "there we go" he drawled, "there's a good girl"

metal fingers moved with a steady pace, pumping in and out of your hole, spreading and curling to rub against the special spot amongst your spongy walls.

your own fingers had made their way to your mouth, lips wrapped around your index and middle finger, sucking and drooling around digits, muffling your dirty noises. it was always like this, always had something in your mouth. his fingers, your fingers and, when boothill was feeling really nice, the length of a silicone cock.

the hand under the back of your neck slid out from under you, a motion you didn't even notice until it took hold of your wrist, pulling your fingers from your mouth. they left the suction of your lips with a wet 'popping' sound, followed by a series of whines, head straining to reach them again.

"stop it" boothill wasn't trying to be mean. he just had something better to fill your mouth with, you just had to wait a second. your struggles stopped, clinging to every word and order boothill gave you.

he reached out on the bed next to you, grabbing his recently cleaned and unloaded six shooter. "close your eyes for a sec" when your eyes fluttered shut, boothill brushed the muzzle of his gun against your bottom lip. the cold of the metal made you shiver, eyes almost shooting open to look. it was such a stark difference to how warm boothill usually was. but you kept them closed tight. "open up"

he used the muzzle to push your bottom lip down, opening your mouth. he slid the barrel in, careful not to grind the metal against your teeth. your eyes shot open, making brief eye contact before they shot down to the gun barrel in your mouth.

"calm down, calm down," like he read your mind, "just relax. keep breathin' baby"

you took deep, shaky breaths through your nose, jaw relaxing around the cylindrical steel. your slacked jaw gave boothill the leeway to move the barrel. with the fingers of his other hand still knuckle deep in your cunt, unmoving, his other hand slid the barrel of his six shooter over your tongue.

it didn't take long before he was comfortable enough in his movements, pushing the barrel back far enough that it caused your body to jerk and gag. he repeated the movement, moving the barrel back before pushing to the back of your throat again.

he did it over and over, unblinking as he watched your face. it was soaked soon enough, lips covered in slabber, cheeks puffy and streaked with tears and sweat. a symphony of gags and sobs were muffled by the gun.

it wasn't until you'd acquired so much drool and spit around the gun that it was running down your chin, leaving streaky lines all the way down your neck, did he decide he was satisfied.

boothill pulled the gun from your mouth, the motion simultaneous with him pulling his fingers from your cunt. you took a deep gasp for air the second the gun left your mouth, coughing and sputtering from the temporary lack of air. boothill revealed in the noises.

but he only let himself a few seconds of taking in the situation before moving on. he moved down, pulling your legs over his hips to keep them spread open. he brought the gun down to your crotch, metal still dripping in your saliva. he used the muzzle again, using it to trace circles around your hole, front sight brushing against your clit. your legs squeezed at his sides, instinctively trying to close your legs, blocked by his body.

"boothill" you whined "boothill please"

the man raised his eyebrow, his movements stopped. "please what ?" he asked. he knew exactly what. he just wanted to make you say it.

"boothill" you whined his name again

"come on, baby. i ain't a mind reader." his movements continued, so slow it barely did anything to relieve the hot pulsing sensation in your crotch. "you gotta tell me what you need"

you sniffled, whining through your words "i need ta... need ta cum"

boothill smirked, "look at you" his tone was proud, like he just successfully taught a pet a new trick. "see, it ain't so hard usin' your words"

he pushed the barrel into your pussy, moving it slowly until he couldn't push any more of it in. he held it still, watching your face as it scrunched and brow furrowed, waiting until it relaxed. "ya ready for me to move it ?" he asked

you nodded your head feverishly, desperately even. "please. oh please boothill"

that was all he needed. the motion went from zero to a hundred, using the barrel of the gun to fuck your pussy. the dull sound of clanking metal was quickly drained out by the noises that spilled from your lips. a series of moans, pleas, squeals, and whimpers that sounded like a gospel song in boothill's ears.

your feet kicked in the air behind him, fingers gripping at the sheets around you as boothill's movements never subsided, not even for a second. if anything, they got quicker, rougher. fucking you harder with his gun.

he could do it forever, he'd never get tired, never even lose his breath. he could go on forever, he wanted to. wished he could. maybe he could get kinda close to feeling like it.

your hips raised off the bed, meeting boothill's thrusts. your core tightened, legs shook and jerked in the air. you reached out, your hands desperately trying to grasp at boothill's arms. if for nothing else than to ground yourself, you couldn't do anything to stop him even if you wanted to. his strength outmatched your by leagues.

"b-boothill !" your mouth hung open, panting for air, eyes rolling towards the back of your eyes. you repeated his name through your gasps, fingers moving to grip the sheets again.

"yeah baby ?" he cooed, feigning sympathy. though it was only partially pretend.

your eyes shut tight, gasp hitched in your throat min-inhale. the moan you let out as you came around the revolver's barrel sounded unreal, like it came out of a film. it was definitely worthy of being in dirty movies. high pitched and squealing, legs kicking out straight before falling limp behind him.

the orgasm hit hard, and the overstimulation came soon after. boothill didn't stop his movements, still thrusting the gun back and forth, in and out, of your pulsating cunt. "n-no ! o-oh boothill ! boothill 's sensitive !"

boothill clicked his tongue, leaning down kissing and licking away the tears that streaked the fat of your cheeks. "come on, baby" he whined, almost teasing the whiny way you spoke to him, "you can do more. don't take this away from me"

#᱖ little lullabies #boothill x reader #boothill x reader smut #honkai star rail #honkai star rail smut #hsr #hsr smut #hsr x reader smut #honkai star rail x reader smut

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scriptedinkbyxim · 3 days ago

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Past the Finish Line: The Final Lap [CL16]

After heartbreak leaves her lost once again, (Y/N) finds unexpected solace in Charles Leclerc’s friendship. Through adventures and quiet moments, he helps her rediscover herself and the beauty of life. As their bond deepens, she learns that love can be gentle, joyful, and transformative.

Pairings: Charles Leclerc x Sainz! Female Reader, Ex! Max Verstappen x Sainz! Female Reader, Sainz! Female Reader x Brother! Carlos Sainz, Sainz! Female Reader x Sainz! Family.

Warnings: Existential Crisis, Alcohol consumption, Talks of sex but nothing explicit, Pregnancy (not reader), Smut. This is LONG.

A/N: Hi, Xim here. Here is one of the alternative endings of "Past the Finish Line" short series. English is not my first language so apologies in advance for any mistake. I should've probably divided this in 2 parts. There won't be more parts.

Part. 1 | Part. 2 | Part. 3 | Lando’s Ending

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Some hearts didn't break all at once; they lingered, unraveling thread by thread until you stood bare, wondering how you'd lost everything without even noticing. (Y/N) had always imagined that moving on would feel decisive, like flipping a page or slamming a door. But it wasn’t. It was waking up back in her home town with no echoes of the past, only to realize that silence could be louder than chaos. It was standing in the middle of your own life and feeling like a stranger, as though someone else had written your story, and now you'd been handed the pen without instructions.

Madrid was beautiful—warm stone streets that basked under golden light, the scent of churros lingering near small cafés, and a city that pulsed with a rhythm unapologetically its own. People moved through its streets with purpose, laughing, living, thriving. She had hoped that immersing herself in this symphony would drown out the stillness of what she’d left behind. But it hadn’t. And that realization gnawed at her.

Madrid was supposed to represent freedom, yet here she was, caged by her doubts.

She was seated on the couch opposite by the window, arms crossed, watching the city unfold beneath her. The life she had with Max had once seemed infinite, like a story that would never find its final chapter. And when it did, it ended not with a dramatic conclusion but with a quiet disintegration. Eight years woven so tightly together had left their marks — not just on her heart but on her very sense of self.

The late afternoon sun filters through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long golden streaks across the polished wooden floors of her new apartment that bore the marks of a fresh start, yet it still clung to echoes of an old life. The golden hues of the Spanish sunset cast long shadows over her sparsely decorated living room. The furniture was minimalist and modern, but devoid of the personal touch that made a place feel like home. Long gone were the days of lavish Monaco views and Max’s meticulously curated spaces. Now, it was just her, a city bustling with life beyond the walls and an uneasy silence that seemed louder with each passing day.

Manuscripts, marked by hasty edits and half-formed ideas, lied scattered across the large oak desk by the window. A mug with remnants of cold tea sat forgotten beside them, its faint bitter aroma mingling with the crisp scent of the busy city air entering through the partially opened window.

Pushing herself off the couch she starts pacing in the middle of the room, barefoot and restless, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, staring at the blank page on her laptop screen, its emptiness mocking her. A dull ache gnaws at the pit of her stomach—a feeling she can’t quite name but knows all too well.

Despite the quiet, her name was far from forgotten. The books she had written during her time with Max — stories drafted in the rare quiet moments between chaotic schedules — had finally seen the light of day. At first, releasing them felt like closure, a testament to creativity surviving under pressure. The drafts she'd tucked away while navigating his demanding world had been polished and sent into the world, gaining modest acclaim. But now, with nothing left in the drawer, she was left staring at blank pages, wondering if the well had run dry.

Her eyes flicker to the shelves lined with her books, tangible reminders of the words that once flowed effortlessly from her mind to the page. Words born from passion, heartbreak, and love. But now nothing comes.

She rubbed her temple, frustration prickling beneath her skin. Was her creativity dependent on being in love, even if that love had been turbulent? Max had always been a storm—thrilling, consuming, and impossible to ignore. The drafts she completed had blossomed in the eye of that storm, but now there was only calm, and her imagination wilted in the stillness.

(Y/N) sighed, eyes flickering to a framed photograph of her family on the bookshelf. Carlos' arm was slung over her shoulders, their smiles wide and carefree. Moving back home was supposed to be a new chapter.

Madrid hummed outside — the distant chatter of evening commuters, the rustling of leaves in Retiro Park not far from her building. Yet even this vibrant city seemed unable to spark something within her, she felt untethered, as though the story had ended, and no one had told her how to begin the next one.

Maybe she’d fooled herself into thinking love had nothing to do with her creativity. The thought gnaws at her pride, but deep down, she wonders if there’s truth to it. Eight years of love and shared dreams had fueled her stories. Now, without that intensity, without him, she feels hollow. It had been flawed, chaotic, and ultimately unsustainable, but it had shaped her in ways she couldn’t ignore.

Now, even after months, she wasn’t sure who she was without the scaffolding of that relationship holding her up. The books she'd published were proof of that. Stories born between Max’s races and media obligations had been completed only because she'd clung to something familiar when everything else spun wildly out of control after their breakup. Those books had been a testament to survival, but now she feared they were the only testament she'd ever have.

Her fingers traced the cool glass of the window as she closed her eyes, breathing in slowly. Love wasn't supposed to consume creativity, was it? But maybe it had. Maybe being in love—even a flawed love—had been a constant spark, lighting her imagination. And without it? She was adrift.

She shook her head, frustration bubbling to the surface. No, that couldn't be true, she couldn’t let those years define her. There had to be more within her, waiting to be untapped. She just didn’t know how to find it.

Her gaze drops to her phone on the coffee table, the screen dark. No messages. Not that she’s expecting any. The social invitations have long dwindled since she distanced herself from the F1 paddock and its orbiting social circles.

The thought of Max flickers uninvited into her mind. Not the heartbreak or the messy end but something simpler—a mundane morning memory and flashes of her life with him came unbidden — the way he knew her order without asking, the absentminded kisses when he passed by, the shared glances that spoke volumes.

“Two sugars, no milk,” Max had said with a smirk, handing her a perfectly prepared cup of tea. He had known every detail about her preferences without needing to ask. How she didn't like eggs (or breakfast in general), the way she hated loud chewing, her favorite obscure indie novels—he knew it all.

And now? She was sitting across from strangers on awkward dates who didn’t even knew her favorite color.

Her recent foray into dating had been nothing short of disastrous. One man had talked about cryptocurrency the entire evening; another had wrongly corrected her grammar during casual conversation, not knowing she was a published author. Each date left her more exasperated than the last. How could she possibly start from scratch when she’d been with someone who knew her so completely?

Then her thoughts shift briefly to Lando. Sweet, charming Lando, who had always been there as a friend. After Abu Dhabi, he had wanted more, offering solace and companionship. But it had been too soon—her heart too raw and fractured to entertain the idea of love again. She’d turned him down gently, grateful for his understanding. Now, seeing him happily moved on with someone else brought a bittersweet ache to her chest. She was genuinely happy for him, but it only highlighted her own stagnant state.

The sharp trill of her phone breaks her reverie. Y/N hesitates before picking it up. A text from her editor appears on the screen.

Any updates on the manuscript?

Her stomach tightens. She types out a vague response before tossing the phone back onto the couch. Pressure mounts like a weight on her chest, but no amount of staring at the blank page will summon the words.

The apartment feels suffocating. The neatly arranged furniture, the spotless countertops—it all mocks her. She needs air, movement, something to shake her out of this creative and emotional paralysis. Taking her jacket, she grabs her keys and steps out of her flat, the cold breeze brushing against her skin.

Her hometown thrived around her, beckoning her to move forward. (Y/N) wanted to answer that call, to find inspiration in the world again. But as much as she hated to admit it, part of her wondered if she was still waiting for something—or someone—to show her how.

There’s also a part of her that wants to escape, to run until she finds something—anything—that makes her feel alive again. She just doesn’t know where to start.

The kitchen at the Sainz family house was alive with the comforting hum of quiet conversations, the soft clink of silverware against porcelain, and the low, rhythmic shuffle of feet against the terracotta tiles. The aroma of freshly baked bread and sizzling meat wafted through the home, mingling with the faint citrusy scent of polished wood that always lingered in the air.

The house itself was warm, familiar, and steeped in history—a tapestry woven with laughter, loud debates over races, and countless family gatherings. Yet today, (Y/N) felt oddly out of place within it, like a guest in her own life.

She stood near the window of the living room, watching the late afternoon sun stretch shadows across the manicured lawn. Her mother, Mercedes, was bustling in the kitchen with the same fervor she reserved for holidays, even though this was just a casual gathering. Or so (Y/N) had thought. Carlos Sr. had his arms crossed, already assembling the dinner furniture outside, a portrait of patriarchal pride.

She leaned against the doorframe, watching them, as if caught between two worlds. She was in her childhood house, surrounded by the people she loved the most, but part of her still felt distant, untouchable. They had noticed it too, of course. Her parents always had a way of seeing through the cracks, even when she didn’t speak of them.

Her sister Anna flitted through the space like a hummingbird, effortlessly balancing conversations and helping with the setup. And then there was Carlos, her older brother, who had insisted on this gathering like it was some divine intervention meant to jolt her back to life.

"You can’t just keep hiding, hermanita," he had said over the phone, his voice tinged with concern. "It’s time to come back. The paddock misses you. I miss you."

She knew he meant well, but the idea of returning to the Spanish Grand Prix—facing the paddock, the whispers, the memories—felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, uncertain if the fall would break her or set her free.

Still, she had agreed to this family gathering as a compromise. Baby steps, she told herself. One evening surrounded by the people who loved her, even if their well-meaning concern sometimes felt suffocating. Eventually she decided on moving deeper into the living room, unable to avoid her parents’ gentle but insistent attention.

Her Father raised his eyes as she passed by, offering her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but she could see the tenderness beneath. He’d always been perceptive, sometimes too much for her liking, but today it felt... different. There was a weight in his gaze that made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t been in months.

Mercedes wiped her hands on a dish towel, her movements fluid and sure, before looking up at her. “Sweetheart,” her mother’s voice broke through her thoughts, soft and careful as always. “How have you been feeling? Really?” Her tone laced with the same concern that had been in her eyes ever since (Y/N) had arrived at the family home, looking... hollow.

It was the way her mother asked—the concern in her eyes, the almost imperceptible line between her brows—that made (Y/N) shift uncomfortably on her feet. She knew what her mother was asking. She didn’t have to speak it aloud. The same question that had echoed in the silence of Mallorca, after the breakup with Max, had come back again, lurking like an unspoken shadow.

“I’m fine, Mum,” (Y/N) replied, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was the same smile she’d been wearing for weeks now. A protective barrier, a shield to keep them from seeing the truth. She didn’t want to admit it, not here, not now. “Just working on some new ideas. You know how it is.”

Carlos Sr. looked at her over the rim of his glass, his expression both knowing and gentle. “You’ve always been a creative soul, cariño. We know. We’ve all been wondering how the new book is coming along.”

(Y/N) froze, the warmth in her chest suddenly turning cold. Her father’s words were simple and innocent, yet they cut through her carefully constructed defenses. She shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flicking toward the window. The question about her writing felt like a gentle prod, a reminder of the woman she used to be—a woman who poured herself into her work. But these days, her words felt trapped somewhere between her heart and her mind. How could she explain that to her parents? That the words wouldn’t come, that the inspiration she had once relied on now felt... foreign.

"It’s... it’s coming slowly," she said after a beat, her voice not quite convincing even to herself. "I’ve been... taking a break."

Mercedes moved towards her, a subtle concern creeping into her expression. She touched (Y/N)’s arm gently, her grip warm and steady. "A break is fine, but we’ve all seen how much writing means to you," her mother said, her tone soft but purposeful. "What’s really going on, hija?"

(Y/N)’s chest tightened at the underlying question. It wasn’t just about the book anymore; it was about everything that she’d been avoiding—her own brokenness. The world she had once found solace in, whether it was through the pages of her books or the comforting embrace of Max’s presence, had all crumbled, leaving her questioning if she could ever find that peace again.

She glanced at the gentle understanding in her mother’s face. It was almost too much to bear, how easily her parents could read her, how much they cared. She turned her gaze down to the floor, as if trying to avoid their eyes.

“I’ve… been trying to figure things out,” (Y/N) murmured, her hands wringing in the soft fabric of her blouse. “But I don’t have the same… inspiration. Not like I used to.”

Carlos Sr. nodded slowly, then took a quiet sip of his wine. “Maybe it’s time to step out of that shadow, hija. We’ve been through this before. After everything with Max…” he trailed off, and she could feel the air in the room shift.

Her stomach twisted, and her throat tightened as her father spoke the name she hadn’t let escape from her lips in months. Max. So effortlessly woven into the fabric of her past, felt like a raw wound when it was spoken. It wasn’t that she hated him—she didn’t. But the memories of their time together, once so sweet, now felt tainted, stained by the ache of loss and betrayal.

“Dad…” (Y/N)’s voice was low, but the tension in it was palpable. She forced a smile again, as if to reassure them, but it faltered almost immediately. “Can we not talk about that right now?”

Mercedes reached out, placing her hand gently over (Y/N)’s. The touch was gentle, steadying. “Cariño, you can’t keep carrying this alone. We’re your family. We’re here for you, always.”

She blinked, her throat constricting as the weight of her mother’s words settled on her chest. She wanted to tell them everything, to confess how lost she had felt, how lonely she had become, but the words stuck in her throat. What good would it do them, to see their daughter broken once again? They had already seen the aftermath of her heartache. She couldn’t bring them back to that place.

“I’m not…” She shook her head, trying to form the words but failing. “I’m just… I’m fine.”

Mercedes squeezed her hand, her voice soft but insistent. “You don’t have to carry the world on your own. But it’s okay to lean on us when you need it.”

Her father’s gaze was gentle now, understanding. “You’ve been cooped up in this house for too long. It’s time to get out there again, to find your spark. You don’t have to have it all figured out right away. But don’t let yourself hide away.”

The conversation lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. (Y/N) didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she closed her eyes, briefly allowing herself to sink into the warmth of her parents’ concern. But just as quickly, she drew back, pulling away from it. The last thing she wanted was to load them more than she already had.

(Y/N) felt the heat of tears burning at the back of her throat, but she blinked them back. "I’m fine, really. I don’t want to worry you.”

The truth was, she didn’t want to burden them with her creative drought or the gnawing fear that maybe her inspiration had dried up along with her love life. They deserved to see her thriving, not grappling with existential questions about her identity and purpose.

Suddenly her siblings appeared, entering the intervention. Carlos walked over to her, his large hands settling on her shoulders with the kind of care only an older brother could provide. "We can see it," he said gently, his deep voice carrying the weight of years spent growing up together, understanding her. "We saw you when you came back from Hungary, and we’re seeing it again now. You’re not fooling anyone with that smile of yours."

There was a long silence, one where (Y/N) could only hear the steady rhythm of her own breathing, trying to collect herself. The weight of Carlos’ words hung in the air between all of them, both soothing and heavy. He wasn’t pushing her. He wasn’t trying to fix anything. He just wanted her to know that she wasn’t alone.

"Maybe... maybe you should go to the Spanish GP, you’ve never missed that race" Anna said softly, as though sensing the moment had come for something more direct, but still with an encouraging tone. "It’s been a while, (Y/N). And you’ve been away from the paddock for so long. Carlos needs you there. We all miss seeing you there."

(Y/N) bit her lip. It wasn’t the suggestion she’d been expecting. She’d been trying to avoid the very thing they were suggesting—returning to the world she had once inhabited with Max, with all the expectations and emotions that came with it. But as she glanced at her mother’s face, her warm, understanding eyes, she knew this wasn’t about the race. It wasn’t about Carlos either. This was about helping her reconnect to something real, something she’d always loved.

Her father nodded, as if confirming Anna’s words. "You’ve always had a way of making the world feel... lighter," he said with a small, knowing smile. "Maybe it’s time to find that spark again."

The words stung, more than she anticipated, and yet they held a certain kind of truth. She’d been hiding, cocooning herself in the aftermath of everything—Max, the breakup, the uncertainty. Perhaps it was time to stop running from it, to stop shutting out the world around her.

(Y/N) drew in a shaky breath, then nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. "I’ll think about it."

Her parents exchanged a look, one of silent understanding. Mercedes placed her hand over (Y/N)’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "We’ll be here no matter what, cariño. Just... don’t stay hidden forever."

Desperate for an escape, (Y/N)'s eyes darted to the front door as the bell rang. "I'll get it," she said quickly, seizing the opportunity to flee the conversation.

She padded through the hallway, her sandals tapping softly against the tiled floor. The house hummed with the distant sounds of conversation. As she walked toward the door, she didn’t know that the moment she opened it would bring everything she had been trying to bury crashing back into her life. She was expecting a neighbor or maybe a delivery.

Instead, standing on the threshold was Charles Leclerc.

He looked different somehow—more rugged, perhaps, or maybe it was just the way time had softened her perception of him. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as though he’d driven with the windows down, and he held a bottle of wine in one hand, his stance awkward but charmingly so. His fitted button down linen shirt was paired with tailored beige trousers that hugged his lean frame.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world seemed to narrow, blurring everything but the man in front of her. Her heart stuttered in her chest, caught off guard by his appearance.

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

Charles shifted his weight, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Surprise?" he offered weakly.

(Y/N) blinked, trying to shake herself free from the spell. "I... I didn’t know we were expecting guests."

"Apparently, neither did I," he admitted, lifting the bottle slightly. "Carlos invited me. Said something about finally making good on his promise of cooking for me before his home race."

Of course, she thought wryly. Her brother had a knack for orchestrating situations without informing anyone of his grand plans.

Before she could respond, Carlos’s voice boomed from behind her. "Leclerc! You made it, amigo!"

Charles’s face lit up with genuine warmth as Carlos strode toward them, clapping him on the back with the familiarity of old teammates.

"You’ve kept me waiting for those burgers long enough," Charles joked, his Monegasque accent adding a melodic lilt to his words.

"Come on in, man. Don’t just stand there."

Carlos's presence broke the spell, and she finally stepped aside, allowing Charles to enter. As he brushed past her, she caught the faint scent of his cologne—clean and crisp, tinged with something subtly masculine.

Her fingers clenched at her sides as she tried to steady herself. It was just Charles, she reminded herself. The same Charles who had been a friend, nothing more. Yet the weight of their shared history — or lack of it — lingered in the air, unspoken but palpable.

As the two men exchanged playful banter, (Y/N) found herself retreating toward the kitchen, needing a moment to collect herself. Her mother glanced up from arranging a platter of grilled vegetables.

"Who was at the door?"

"Charles," Y/N said, keeping her voice steady.

"Ah, Charles. Such a lovely and handsome young man," Mercedes said with a smile. "It’s good to see him again."

She nodded absently, her mind still swirling. This gathering had just taken an unexpected turn, and she wasn’t sure how to navigate it.

When the gathering moved outside, laughter and conversation filled the space like a comforting balm. Carlos now stood by the grill, expertly flipping burger patties, his brow furrowed in concentration. The rich sizzle of meat met the crackle of flames as he turned to Charles, who lounged nearby with a glass of wine in hand, looking far too relaxed for someone who had been enduring a season of relentless competition.

The golden afternoon light stretched lazily over the expansive gardens of the estate, dappling the neatly trimmed grass and casting soft shadows beneath the ancient olive trees. The scent of grilled meat and vegetables lingered in the warm air, mingling with the earthy aroma of wild rosemary and lavender that fringed the garden paths. Birds chirped in the distance, their melodies blending seamlessly with the occasional bark from Olive and Piñón.

“See, I told you I’d make these burgers one day,” Carlos declared with a triumphant grin, his Spanish accent thick with pride.

Charles chuckled, the sound warm and effortless. “I didn’t think I’d live to see the day. You’ve been promising me these since we first started being teammates.”

“Well, better late than never, no?” Carlos shot back, flipping the final burger onto a platter and gesturing for Charles to grab the buns.

“Touché,” Charles admitted, standing to assist. His white linen shirt billowed slightly in the breeze, now with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms that bore faint tan lines from countless hours under the sun.

Nearby, (Y/N) watched them from a shaded corner of the garden, her arms loosely crossed over her chest. She hadn’t intended to linger, but there was something mesmerizing about seeing the easy camaraderie between her brother and Charles. For years, their rivalry had been palpable, a tense undercurrent in the paddock, but now that Carlos had moved to Williams, there was a genuine warmth between them that hadn’t existed before.

It was strange, seeing Charles here, outside the context of race weekends and press conferences. He seemed lighter, more grounded. And yet, there was still that familiar glint in his eyes — a mixture of mischief and sincerity that had always made him impossible to ignore. With one look at his piercing green eyes came the sudden rush of memories—the podium dedication he’d made to her at Abu Dhabi and his raw, heartfelt confession at Monza months ago, still engraved in her mind.

From the moment I met you, I wished you were single. I wished I had a chance to show you what you deserved, to make you happy in ways he never did. Because if you were mine, I would never take you for granted. Not for a single second.

Carlos caught sight of her and waved enthusiastically, polling her away from her thoughts. “¡Hermana! Come here, you have to try these. They’re my masterpiece.”

Reluctantly, she made her way over, her sandals brushing softly against the grass. Olive trotted alongside her, tail wagging happily.

“Masterpiece might be a stretch,” she teased, arching a brow as she approached. “But I’ll humor you.”

“Trust me, you won’t regret it,” Carlos assured her, placing a perfectly assembled burger into her hands. “I should open a restaurant.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she quipped, taking a tentative bite. The burst of smoky flavor was immediate, and she couldn’t help but hum in appreciation. “Okay, I’ll admit — this is pretty good.”

Charles grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Careful, Dolcezza. His ego doesn’t need any more inflation.”

Carlos scoffed, clearly pleased with himself. “I’m taking that as a compliment.”

As the conversation flowed around her, she kept glancing at Charles, his presence both familiar and disarming. There had always been an ease between them, a mutual understanding that didn’t require words. And yet, the events of the past year lingered in the spaces between their conversations — unspoken, but not forgotten.

At some point, Carlos excused himself to check on their parents, leaving her and Charles standing together beneath the olive trees. The breeze rustled the leaves above them, casting dancing patterns of light and shadow across the ground.

“So, long time no see” Charles began, cringing internally at his own words, “how have you been?,” his tone tentative but curious

She hesitated, the question hanging heavily in the air. She had grown so used to deflecting, to offering rehearsed answers that kept people at arm’s length. But Charles had always had a way of coaxing honesty from her, his sincerity like a balm against her defenses.

“I’ve been… surviving,” she admitted quietly, her gaze fixed on a distant point beyond the garden. “It’s been strange, trying to figure out who I am without all of that.”

Charles nodded thoughtfully, his expression devoid of judgment. “I can imagine. Eight years is a long time.”

“Too long, maybe,” she murmured, her voice tinged with bitterness. “I keep thinking… What if I wasted all that time? What if I don’t know how to be me without him?”

“You didn’t waste it,” Charles said firmly. “You loved, you learned, and now you get to decide what comes next.”

Y/N swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over her. “I’ve tried dating again, you know. But it’s been a disaster. None of them know me — not really. They don’t know how I like my tea or that I hate when people leave wet towels on the floor. It’s exhausting, starting over.”

Charles’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “Starting over is hard. But it’s also freeing. You get to redefine everything.”

She let out a scoff. “I’m not sure I even know where to begin.”

There was a pause, filled only by the rustling of leaves and the distant chatter of her family. Charles’s gaze never wavered from her, steady and grounding.

"Maybe you just need a change of scenery," he suggests thoughtfully. "New experiences, new adventures." His tone is playful but sincere.

Y/N frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you can come with me sometimes,” he said simply. “Let’s do things you’ve never done before. Adventures, experiences, whatever you need to rediscover yourself. No expectations. Just two friends figuring out life,” he offered, his voice gentle but resolute. “Let me help. Let me show you the world—no strings attached.”

(Y/N) hesitates, skeptical. "Charles, I don't need distractions."

"It's not a distraction. It's a chance to rediscover yourself," he counters gently.

She stared at him, disbelief flickering across her features. “You’re serious?”

“Completely,” he assured her. “I’m not saying I have all the answers, but I can promise you this — I won’t let you get stuck in the past. And who knows? Maybe you’ll even find some inspiration along the way.”

(Y/N)’s heart ached with a mixture of hope and skepticism. The idea was tempting, but it also felt daunting. She had spent so long retreating into herself after Abu Dhabi, afraid to face the world. Could she really step out of that shadow?

“I don’t know, Charles,” she said hesitantly. “What if I’m just… broken?”

He shook his head, his gaze unwavering. “You’re not broken, (Y/N). You’re just in transition. And that’s okay.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with possibility. She bit her lip, torn between fear and the faint glimmer of hope Charles had ignited.

"You don’t have to decide now,” he added softly. “Take your time. Think about it. The offer’s open for you to take it.”

She nodded slowly, her mind swirling with thoughts. What exactly did Charles mean by that? Was he offering her the world — a chance to rediscover herself beyond the weight of heartbreak and lost years? Or was there a double meaning hidden in his words, a subtle invitation to take him, too? The idea lingered, unsettling yet alluring. Her heart clenched, torn between longing and uncertainty. There was something about him — the steadiness he offered without pressure or demand — that made the prospect feel less terrifying and perhaps even worth considering.

Her gaze flickered to him, standing there with his quiet confidence. She couldn’t deny how good Charles looked now, the late afternoon golden light catching in his tousled hair, tracing the sharp angles of his face and the warm sincerity in his eyes making it impossible to look away. He was devastatingly handsome, effortlessly so, but she shook the thought away. That wasn’t what she needed right now. Love and romance had only ever anchored her to someone else’s orbit, and she was desperate to learn how to stand on her own two feet again. No, this was about her — about finding her footing in a world that still spun without Max.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, the words laden with unspoken gratitude.

Charles nodded, trying to mask the nervous thrum in his chest. He hadn’t planned this proposition at all, when the words poured out of his mouth they did with anything but friendship in mind — or at least that’s what he told himself. She didn’t need a suitor, and he had no intention of becoming one just yet. But somewhere, deep down, he held onto the faint hope that maybe, someday, things could be different. For now, he wanted to see her smile again, to help her find joy in places she hadn’t dared to look. If that was all he could give, he would do it gladly.

“For what?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“For… being here,” she admitted. “For not giving up on me.”

Charles smiled, warm and sincere. “Always Dolcezza.”

As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting the garden in hues of pink, lilac and gold, (Y/N) felt something shift within her — a tentative step toward healing, toward rediscovery. And though she didn’t have all the answers, she knew one thing for certain: Charles’s new friendship was a lifeline she hadn’t realized she needed.

And maybe, just maybe, it was enough to take that first step back into the world.

The Spanish Grand Prix weekend arrived cloaked in tension and nostalgia, casting shadows over (Y/N)'s resolve. The echoes of roaring engines and the unmistakable scent of burning rubber filled the air, stirring something deep within her. Long gone were the days when she walked these grounds with Max by her side, but the memories lingered like ghosts, clinging to the edges of her consciousness. The paddock buzzed with life — journalists, mechanics, and fans moving in a chaotic symphony. Headlines about her disappearance from the F1 world had swirled for months, masked by the temporary excuse of her book releases. But now that she was out of drafts, that facade no longer held weight.

Her family had convinced her of attending, rallying around Carlos as he embarked on a new chapter of his career with Williams. She couldn’t disappoint them, even if the thought of stepping back into this world filled her with trepidation. The familiar sights and sounds were both comforting and suffocating, each corner a reminder of what she had lost — and what she still hadn't found.

Slipping away from her family’s watchful gaze, she maneuvered through the bustling paddock toward the Ferrari motorhome. Determination fueled her steps; she had made a decision and intended to give Charles her answer. Their conversation at the Sainz family gathering a few days ago had lingered in her mind, a flicker of possibility in the midst of her existential crisis.

The motorhome loomed ahead, a sleek fortress of crimson and black. She took a steadying breath before pushing the door open and stepping inside. The hum of machinery and muted voices filled the space, but she was focused on one destination — Charles’s driver room. Her knuckles brushed against the door, but before she could knock, it swung open.

There he stood, shirtless, a towel slung casually around his neck. Drops of water clung to his skin, catching the light and tracing the defined contours of his torso. (Y/N)’s breath hitched involuntarily, her gaze wandering before she could stop herself. The toned lines of his abs, the faint trail that dipped lower —

Heat flooded her cheeks, and she whipped her head to the side, staring determinedly at the wall.

“Ah, désolé,” Charles said, clearly amused. “Didn’t expect visitors.”

“I—uh—didn’t know you were... busy,” she managed, her voice strained.

He chuckled, the sound warm and teasing. “You’re welcome to wait while I put a shirt on, but I won’t be offended if you enjoy the view.”

Her eyes snapped back to him, narrowing despite her embarrassment. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And yet you’re still here,” he teased, stepping back to let her in.

She turned her back to him, focusing on the framed photos lining the wall. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, but she willed herself to stay composed.

“I came to give you my answer,” she said, her voice steadier now.

Charles’s tone shifted, softening with genuine interest. “Oh?”

“I’ll do it. Your proposal, I mean,” she clarified quickly, avoiding any implications. “Just as friends, right? No expectations.”

There was a beat of silence, and she dared to glance over her shoulder. Charles had pulled on a shirt, but his expression was unreadable — a mix of surprise and something warmer.

“Deal,” he said, though the flicker of disappointment was almost imperceptible.

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel, heart racing. “See you around, Leclerc.”

As she walked away, she heard his laugh echo down the hall, rich and genuine. Her lips twitched despite herself, but she scolded her wandering thoughts. This was about reclaiming her life, not falling for someone new.

The race itself came with a brilliance that matched the electric atmosphere of stands roaring to life under the blistering Barcelona sun. The atmosphere thrummed with tension and excitement, the grandstands a sea of colors waving flags and banners. The familiar scent of Fuel lingered in the air, mingling with the electric energy of thousands of fans who had come to witness the spectacle of speed and adrenaline.

The Williams garage was a sea of blue and white, her family buzzing with excitement. Carlos was in high spirits, determined to make his mark with his new team. Y/N stood among them, trying to soak in the positivity, her heart pounding in sync with the engines revving on the grid. The familiar thrill buzzed through her veins — a visceral reminder that no matter how much time passed, no matter how far she tried to run away, racing was in her blood. She was a Sainz, after all. Fuel ran through her veins. The roar of twenty engines was like music, each note vibrating through her bones.

Her eyes drifted to the grid as the cars lined up, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Carlos’s Williams gleamed under the Spanish sun, a blue-and-white beacon of determination. Her heart swelled with pride for her brother, who was ready to prove his mettle in front of their home crowd.

Further ahead, the scarlet Ferrari of Charles Leclerc sat poised, an emblem of precision and power. (Y/N)’s gaze lingered on him longer than she intended, but there was something magnetic about the way he carried himself — composed, yet fiercely competitive. He had pole position, and judging by the determined set of his jaw, he wasn’t about to give it up without a fight. Charles had always commanded attention, and today was no exception. His focused expression, the way he carried himself — it was magnetic. She shook her head, chastising herself for the distraction.

The lights went out, and the race exploded into motion. The deafening roar of engines filled the air as the cars hurtled toward Turn 1. She gripped the edge of the pit wall, her pulse racing as Carlos made a clean start, holding his position against a charging midfield.

Charles, meanwhile, launched flawlessly, defending his lead from a fast-approaching Red Bull. The battle at the front was fierce, every corner a test of nerves and skill. Her breath hitched as Charles defended aggressively into Turn 3, forcing Max Verstappen to back off. The precision with which he navigated the track was mesmerizing — a dance on the edge of control.

Lap after lap, the race unfolded with heart-stopping intensity. Carlos fought tooth and nail, executing daring overtakes and defending his position with the tenacity of a seasoned warrior. The Williams team buzzed with energy, their optimism growing with every successful move he made.

(Y/N)’s chest tightened with pride as Carlos surged forward, climbing the ranks with a calculated aggression that mirrored their father’s rally racing days. The Spanish crowd roared with every overtaking maneuver, their support palpable.

“Come on, Carlos,” she whispered under her breath, willing him to keep pushing.

At the front, Charles was locked in a strategic battle, fending off relentless pressure from the Red Bull behind him. The tension was unbearable, each sector split flashing on the screens like a countdown to chaos.

“Hold him off, Charles,” (Y/N) murmured, her voice barely audible over the noise.

And he did. Lap after lap, he maintained his composure, extracting every ounce of performance from the Ferrari. His lines were precise, his braking perfect. Watching him was a masterclass in control and determination.

As the final laps approached, the pit wall became a hive of nervous energy. Carlos was holding steady in P5, a remarkable feat for Williams, while Charles was on the brink of victory.

“Last lap,” a voice crackled over the team radio.

(Y/N)’s heart was in her throat as the cars thundered around the circuit one final time. Carlos defended fiercely against Kimi Antonelli’s Mercedes behind him, refusing to relinquish his position.

Up front, Charles crossed the line, taking the checkered flag with a triumphant roar from the Ferrari garage. The crowd erupted, a sea of red waving in celebration. (Y/N)’s breath caught as she watched him pump his fist in the air, his victory securing him a commanding lead in the championship.

Carlos crossed the line moments later, claiming a solid P5 finish. The Williams garage erupted into cheers, the team hugging and clapping in celebration. (Y/N)’s father, Carlos Sainz Sr., had tears glistening in his eyes as he embraced his son, pride radiating from every pore.

(Y/N)’s heart swelled, a lump forming in her throat. This was what racing was about — the triumphs, the struggles, the moments that made your heart race and your spirit soar.

As the podium ceremony commenced, (Y/N) found herself drawn to the spectacle. Charles stood tall on the top step, his smile wide and genuine. The Monegasque national anthem played, and she couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride for him.

But then Charles caught her gaze. The world seemed to blur as he winked, playful and confident, just as he had in Abu Dhabi. He lifted the winner’s trophy, signaling to it and then to her. Her breath hitched, her heart doing an involuntary flip. The underlying implication wasn’t lost on her, and heat crept up her neck.

Damn him.

The paddock was winding down as Y/N prepared to leave with her family, the adrenaline of the race still thrumming in her veins. Carlos's strong finish and Charles's victory were still vivid in her mind, their accomplishments filling her with a pride that was both fierce and bittersweet. Yet beneath that rush of excitement, there was a nagging weight — something unspoken clinging to her like the humidity in the Barcelona evening.

As they made their way toward the exit, she patted the pockets of her blazer and realized she had forgotten her airpods.

“I’ll catch up,” she told them, waving off her parents' concerned looks.

Her sister Anna raised a brow. “You sure?”

“Positive. It won’t take long.”

With a reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, she turned back toward the garages. The corridors were quieter now, the frenzied chaos of race day fading into the hush of impending night. Shadows stretched across the pavement, mingling with the lingering scent of burnt rubber and sun-warmed asphalt.

She moved with purpose, her heels clicking against the ground, determined to retrieve her forgotten item and rejoin her family. But as she rounded a corner, her steps faltered, breath catching in her throat.

Max.

He stood just a few paces ahead, his familiar figure sharp against the backdrop of the fading sun. His stance was casual, hands tucked into his pockets, but there was a tension in his posture that spoke of years of high-stakes racing and battles both on and off the track. Beside him stood Kelly, her hand resting on her rounded belly, the fabric of her dress clinging to the unmistakable curve of pregnancy.

The engagement ring on her finger caught the light, gleaming like a taunt.

Time seemed to warp, stretching painfully as (Y/N) stood frozen in place. Her heart clenched, a visceral ache that she hadn’t felt in months. Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to take a steadying inhale. This was life now. Max was no longer hers, and she had no right to linger on what could have been.

Kelly noticed her first, offering a polite but wary smile. “(Y/N),” she greeted warmly, if a bit cautiously. “It’s been a while.”

She forced a smile onto her lips. “Kelly.” Her gaze flickered to Max, whose blue eyes held a mix of surprise and unreadable emotion. “Max.”

He nodded, his voice low. “(Y/N).”

The air was thick with unspoken memories, the kind that lingered even after months of distance. Kelly shifted slightly, her hand instinctively moving to her belly.

(Y/N)’s stomach twisted, but she forced a polite smile.

“It’s good to see you. Almost didn’t recognize you — you’ve been off the grid.” Kelly offered a warm, yet cautious smile.

“I’ve been... busy,” she answered vaguely.

“Yes, I get that. I’m almost due,” she said conversationally, her tone gentle but perhaps too aware of the weight of the moment. “We’re having a boy.”

She did the math without meaning to — nearly ten months had passed since that devastating breakup in Hungary. He must have been with Kelly not long after their relationship ended. Her chest tightened as the realization sank in — While she was drowning in loss at Mallorca, Max had moved on swiftly, almost immediately.

Her heart clenched again, but she schooled her expression into something resembling polite interest. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Kelly said softly. “Well, I’ll give you two a moment.” She glanced at Max before excusing herself, leaving them standing awkwardly in the fading light.

Silence hung between them, heavy and oppressive. Y/N crossed her arms over her chest, unsure of what to say. The last time they had spoken, emotions had run wild, raw and unfiltered. Now, there was only a strange hollowness where their bond had once been.

“You look well,” Max offered, his voice tentative.

“So do you,” she managed, her voice steadier than she felt but betraying a flick of bitterness.

They stood there, the weight of their history pressing between them.

He shifted on his feet, his gaze flickering to the ground before meeting hers again. “I’ve seen the headlines about your books. It’s impressive, Y/N. I’m happy for you. You’ve always deserved success.”

There was a tinged irony to his words. He thought she had moved on, found success and fulfillment. How wrong he was, If only he knew, she thought bitterly. Her creative well had run dry, and inspiration eluded her like a phantom she could no longer grasp. But she wouldn’t let him see that.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “I’m glad things are going well for you too. Kelly seems… wonderful.”

“She is,” Max admitted, though his tone was gentle, not boastful. “And I’m happy.”

There it was. The confirmation she hadn’t realized she was dreading. He had found happiness without her, built a new life with someone else. And while it stung, it was also freeing in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

“I’m happy for you too,” she said sincerely, even though her heart ached with the weight of those words. “You deserve it.”

Max’s expression softened, a hint of sadness flickering in his eyes. “We had good times, didn’t we?”

“We did,” she agreed, her voice thick with emotion. “But it was time to let go. We weren’t happy anymore.”

He nodded, as if accepting the truth they both knew but had never spoken aloud.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for. Take care (Y/N),” he said earnestly.

“You too Max. I hope you keep finding happiness,” she replied, meaning every word.

They stood there for a moment longer, the past finally settling between them like dust after a storm. There was no animosity, no bitterness — just closure.

As they parted ways, (Y/N) felt a strange sense of relief wash over her. Max was no longer hers, and perhaps he never truly had been, always focused on racing before anything else. Life had moved on.

Her steps were lighter as she made her way back toward the exit, where her family waited. But as she walked, her mind buzzed with thoughts — not of Max, but of the future.

The rest of the night blurred in a haze of music and flashing lights. Her siblings had dragged her to a club, determined to celebrate Carlos’s strong finish where she drowned her thoughts in drinks, dancing with reckless abandon. The ache in her chest dulled with each beat of the music, but it never fully disappeared.

By the time she stumbled back to her hotel, head spinning and heart heavy, clarity struck through the fog. A message from Charles lit up her phone:

Looking forward to our adventures. Let’s make them unforgettable.

Her lips curved into a faint smile. Perhaps it was time to let the past go and embrace whatever came next. Max had moved on, and now it was her turn.

And with Charles by her side, perhaps the world wasn’t so daunting after all. With that thought, she drifted into sleep, the Barcelona night stretching before her, filled with possibility.

He had been persistent but never overbearing. After the Spanish Grand Prix and her unexpected agreement to his proposal, they'd fallen into an easy rhythm of back-and-forth messages, planning adventures that had drawn her out of the numbness she'd felt for so long.

Through playful back-and-forth texts, Charles kept his promise, planning and curating a series of adventures meant to push (Y/N) beyond her comfort zone. Their conversations brimmed with excitement, teasing suggestions of daring escapades and quiet explorations alike. Despite his meticulous planning, Charles always left room for spontaneity — a gentle reminder that this journey was as much about rediscovering freedom as it was about seeing the world.

It didn’t take much convincing for Carlos, her ever-enthusiastic older brother, to jump on board with the idea. Thrilled to have his baby sister along for the rest of the season, Carlos welcomed her presence in the paddock with open arms, insisting that her infectious energy would be a good-luck charm for Williams. Between races, Charles kept his promise, inviting her to explore the world in between the chaos of race weekends.

Monaco, naturally, had to be their starting point — Charles’s hometown and the most iconic GP on the calendar. Once tainted by memories with Max, now revealed itself in a fresh light under Charles' guidance. From swimming in crystal-clear waters and hiking through hidden trails to discovering quaint cafés, gardens and cobblestone streets tucked away from tourist eyes, the quiet hum of the city beneath a golden sunset sparked her creativity anew became her new canvases of inspiration. Charles had a way of turning the familiar into something magical, making even the simplest corners feel new, showing her a side of the city she had never known, despite having lived there in the past for years. They wandered through markets brimming with vibrant produce, shared quiet conversations by the harbor, and laughed as they stumbled upon paths even Charles hadn't ventured down before.

Slowly, (Y/N) realized how different these experiences felt — Charles never dictated where they should go; he merely invited her, always giving her the choice. There was no pressure, no expectation. Just an open hand and an easygoing smile that made her want to say yes, not because she had to, but because she wanted to. And with each step, she found herself not only rediscovering Monaco but also piecing together fragments of herself she thought she'd lost.

On Race day the streets of the principality buzzed with life, electric in the aftermath of Charles’s monumental win. His second victory on home soil had sent the principality into a frenzy, and celebrations stretched from the marina to the glittering rooftops of luxury hotels. Music pulsed from every corner, mingling with laughter and the clink of glasses. The scent of salt and champagne lingered in the air as she danced under the starlit sky, the glow of the city casting golden reflections on the water.

Charles was never far from her, his presence grounding even amidst the chaos. He had abandoned his race suit for a tight black shirt that clung to his lean muscular frame. His victory grin hadn’t faded, and every so often, their eyes would meet across the throng of people, a spark passing between them that neither dared to acknowledge.

Her body swayed to the rhythm of the music, heart thrumming with a mixture of exhilaration and the heady buzz of too much champagne. Charles had handed her a flute earlier, insisting on a toast, and she hadn’t stopped since. The warmth in her veins made her bolder, lighter.

At some point, their dancing had become closer, the line between friendship and something more blurring with every brush of skin. His hand lingered at her waist, hers resting against his shoulder. The world narrowed to just the two of them, the music fading into a distant hum.

Tentative touches became deliberate—a graze of wandering fingers, a fleeting press of hips. Their breath mingled as they moved, the space between them charged with unspoken tension. (Y/N) felt a heat rise within her, unfamiliar and thrilling. Her gaze flickered to his lips, and for a moment, she wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

But then the spell was broken.

“Hey,” a voice slurred from beside them. A man, short but broad-shouldered, stumbled slightly as he addressed her. His grin was too wide, his eyes glassy. “Wanna get out of here? My hotel’s just up the street.”

(Y/N) blinked, the daze of champagne clouding her judgment. The suggestion hung in the air, tempting in its simplicity. She opened her mouth, words teetering on the edge, but Charles stepped in before she could respond.

“I think she’s good right here,” he said, his tone polite but firm. His hand tightened around her waist, anchoring her.

The man’s grin faltered, but he shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He stumbled off into the crowd, leaving a strange silence in his wake.

(Y/N) exhaled shakily, the reality of the moment crashing down on her. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice unsteady. “I think I almost said yes.”

Charles’s brow furrowed. “You don’t have to explain.”

“No, I do.” She ran a hand through her hair, suddenly feeling exposed. “It’s just… after Max, I don’t really know how to do this anymore. I mean, I’ve only ever been with him. Sexually, I mean.”

Charles’s eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his features. “You don’t have to—”

“We started dating when I was sixteen,” she continued her drunken rambling, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “After we broke up, I just… I wasn’t sure how to approach that with anyone else. Even strangers.”

Her confession hung between them, raw and vulnerable.

Charles’s expression softened, his gaze warm. “There’s nothing wrong with that, Y/N. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for your choices.”

She looked away, the sting of embarrassment creeping up her spine. “It just makes me feel... stuck. Like I missed out on something.”

He hesitated, then reached for her hand, his touch gentle. “You haven’t missed out on anything. And you’re not stuck. You’re figuring things out.”

She nodded, grateful for his understanding. But what she didn’t see was the flicker of something darker in his eyes—a primal instinct he fought to suppress. The idea of her innocence, her vulnerability, stirred something deep within him, something he knew he had no right to entertain. He clenched his jaw, silently berating himself. His role was to help her, not corrupt her.

“We should get out of here,” he said, his voice steadier now. “Walk it off.”

She agreed, and they made their way down the quiet path along the harbor. The water lapped gently against the docked yachts, their reflections shimmering under the moonlight.

“Thank you,” she said softly, breaking the silence. “For saving me back there.”

“Anytime,” he replied, his lips curving into a faint smile.

Their footsteps echoed against the pavement, the tension between them easing into something calmer. Yet beneath the surface, something had shifted. They both felt it but neither spoke of it.

The days that followed were filled with new experiences—From snorkeling in crystal-clear waters off the Amalfi Coast to hiking through mist-shrouded mountains in Switzerland, each experience had been a step toward rediscovering herself and bringing them closer, their connection deepening with every shared laugh and quiet moment.

Skydiving marks a pivotal turning point. The rush of free-fall strips away her fears, and when Charles grips her hand in exhilaration after landing, their shared laughter feels louder than the rush of wind. And always, at the end of the day, she would say the same thing.

“Thank you, Charles.”

And he would smile, knowing that those two words carried more weight than she could ever express.

It was a slow burn, this thing between them—unspoken but undeniable. And neither of them was in a hurry to define it.

The build up tension eventually bursts one evening in Monaco. The sea breeze curled through the open terrace of her hotel room, carrying the scent of salt and lavender from the Mediterranean gardens nearby. The quiet hum of life in Monaco faded into the background as (Y/N) leaned against the cool iron railing, her gaze fixed on the shimmering waters below. Shadows danced across the cobblestones, mingling with the golden hues of dusk.

Her phone buzzed on the table behind her. Without looking, she knew who it was. (Y/N)’s lips curved faintly as she picked up the phone.

“Still up for tonight, Dolcezza?”

“I’m not sure I’m prepared to face whatever madness you have planned this time.” She half-joked through the phone.

“Madness? Moi? I was thinking something simple—just a quiet night by the sea. Bring a jacket. It might get cold.”

Her heart did an inexplicable little flip. His voice always carried that light, teasing tone, but beneath it was something steady, something that had become a source of comfort she hadn’t realized she needed.

“See you soon. Charlie”

She slipped into a light sweater, its soft fabric brushing against her skin, and made her way to the rendezvous point Charles had suggested—a hidden cove far from the bustling streets of Monaco.

When she arrived, the scene took her breath away. The cove was illuminated by lanterns Charles had strung up along the rocky outcrop, their warm glow reflecting on the gentle waves. A blanket was spread across the sand, complete with a small picnic basket.

“You really know how to set the mood,” she teased as he turned to greet her.

Charles grinned. “Only the best for you.”

Her pulse skipped. It was so easy with him—this banter, this comfort. Yet there was always an undercurrent of something more, something she wasn’t sure she was ready to confront.

They settled onto the blanket, the soft hum of the waves filling the space between their conversations. Charles poured them each a glass of chilled rosé, his fingers brushing against hers as he handed her the glass.

“To new adventures,” he toasted, his eyes gleaming in the lantern light.

“To getting out of my comfort zone,” she countered, clinking her glass against his.

They drank in silence, the wine crisp and refreshing. The conversation flowed easily, touching on everything from their favorite childhood memories to the absurdities of life in the public eye. Charles’s laughter was infectious, and she found herself leaning closer, drawn in by his warmth.

As the night deepened, the air grew cooler. (Y/N) wrapped her sweater tighter around herself, but Charles noticed.

“Here,” he said, draping his jacket over her shoulders. The scent of cedar and something distinctly him enveloped her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice softer than she intended.

He smiled, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his gaze.“You've thanked me a hundred times,” he says softly, his voice tinged with warmth. “But I need to say it now — thank you for letting me share this with you.”

Waves lap gently at the shore, a rhythm that mirrors the pulse between them. Charles breaks the comfortable silence.

She turns to him, heart thudding against her ribs. “I think I needed this more than I realized.”

His gaze searches hers, steady and sincere. “I told you, you're not broken, dolcezza. You're just finding your way again. And it's beautiful to watch.”

Her breath catches, the vulnerability between them palpable. He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, the touch lingering. Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. The tension that had been simmering beneath the surface now crackled like a live wire.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, his voice low.

“Of course.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

The question, once a source of frustration, now feels gentle and filled with possibility. So she laughed softly. “That’s random.”

“Humor me.”

She considered it for a moment. “It used to be blue, but right now?... I think it might be rosso corsa.” She whispers.

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Good choice.” And then he laughs, softly with realisation, a sound that warms her chest.

The air thickened, charged with anticipation. (Y/N)’s heart raced as he shifted closer, his knee brushing against hers. His gaze dropped to her lips, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.

She knew this was a crossroads. She could pull back, retreat into the safety of friendship, or she could lean into the unknown, take the leap she’d been too afraid to take.

Charles’s breath fanned across her cheek, warm and inviting. Her resolve wavered, and before she could overthink it, she closed the distance between them.

The first brush of their lips was tentative, testing. But then something shifted. The kiss deepened, fueled by the unspoken emotions that had been building between them. His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing against her skin, while her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt.

Time seemed to stand still, the world fading into a blur of sensation. The taste of wine lingered on his lips, mingling with the heady thrill of finally giving in to what had been simmering between them.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, (Y/N) searched his eyes, finding a reflection of her own disbelief and wonder.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the words carrying a weight they never had before.

Charles’s smile was soft, his thumb tracing a gentle path along her cheek. “I think that one was for me.”

And perhaps it was. For love, for healing, for taking a leap into the unknown. They sat there, wrapped in each other and the promise of something new. For the first time in a long time, (Y/N) felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be—no longer defined by the past but open to whatever the future held.

The air hums between them, electric and inevitable. Slowly, as though drawn by an unseen force, she leans back in. He meets him halfway, his lips brushing against hers. The kiss is tentative at first, testing the waters, but it deepens with a sweetness that speaks of promises and newfound beginnings.

And it started here, with him.

As the 2025 season progressed, so did Charles and (Y/N)’s relationship, quietly blossoming amidst the chaos of race weekends, media scrutiny, and the exhilarating highs and lows of F1. To the public, she was simply there to support Carlos, her older brother, cheering from the Williams garage as he fought for solid points finishes. But those in the know — a select, trusted few — were aware of the subtle glances, hidden smiles, and fleeting touches exchanged between them whenever they thought no one was looking.

Spending time with Carlos came naturally; he was her steadfast brother and protector, the anchor in the storm that the paddock could sometimes be. But she also found herself forming bonds with Charles's inner circle. Joris, his easygoing friend with a sharp sense of humor, and Andrea, his dedicated trainer with a heart of gold, quickly grew fond of her. They saw her not as an extension of Charles but as someone worth knowing in her own right. Unlike Max’s friends, who had once treated her as just ‘Max’s girlfriend,’ Joris and Andrea asked about her life, laughed at her witty comebacks, and genuinely enjoyed her company.

As summer break arrived in August, Charles proposed a plan: the first half with his family and friends, the second half with hers. “Balance, no?” he had teased, grinning that signature mischievous smile.

The first part of their holiday unfolded on a sun-drenched yacht along the French coast. It was the first time she would meet his family as his girlfriend, and nerves prickled under her skin as they sailed toward the gleaming vessel anchored off the shoreline.

“They’re going to love you,” Charles assured her, his hand warm on the small of her back as they stepped onto the deck.

His mother, Pascale, was the first to greet them, her embrace warm and genuine. Lorenzo and Arthur followed, their easy smiles dissolving any lingering tension. Even Charlotte and Jade, Lorenzo and Arthur’s girlfriends, welcomed her with open arms, immediately drawing her into their conversations.

Those days were filled with laughter, good food, and playful banter. Pascale watched with quiet contentment as (Y/N) fit seamlessly into their dynamic, her laughter blending effortlessly with the family’s joy. As the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, Charles found himself alone with his mother, leaning against the railing as they watched Arthur and (Y/N) teasing each other over some inside joke.

“You’re happy,” Pascale observed, her voice gentle.

Charles smiled, his gaze softening as it lingered on his girlfriend. “I am.”

“She’s the one for you, isn’t she?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes. She is.”

Pascale’s hand found his, squeezing it reassuringly. “Then hold on to her.”

The second part of the summer break took them to Costa Rica, where the Sainz family had gathered for their annual vacation. Charles joined them as “just a friend,” but Anna’s knowing glances and (Y/N)’s parents’ perceptive gazes told a different story. Her father, Carlos Sainz Sr., was particularly watchful, his protective instincts never far from the surface.

On the last night of their vacation, as the sun set over the ocean and a warm breeze rustled through the trees, Anna cornered her while their parents poured glasses of wine on the terrace.

“So,” Anna teased, her grin mischievous, “first Max, now Charles? Is this a pattern with Carlos’s teammates?”

(Y/N) groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “Please don’t start.”

Their father’s brows furrowed with concern. “Charles is a good man, though?”

“Yes,” she said earnestly. “He’s… he’s different. Good-hearted. I wouldn’t be with him otherwise.”

Carlos Sr. nodded slowly, his expression softening. “Even if you’re my baby girl, you’re an adult now. I trust your judgment.”

Their mother, Mercedes, chimed in with a playful smile. “Carlos is too blind to notice the way Charles looks at you, but a mother always sees these things.”

Heat crept up (Y/N)’s neck, but there was a warmth in her chest too — the kind that came from being seen and understood.

After the summer break, she continued traveling alongside Charles, her days filled with the thrill of races and the quiet joy of shared moments with Charles. But when the Azerbaijan GP arrived, she found herself unable to attend.

Charles had a disastrous race, and when she called to comfort him afterwards, his voice was strained, disappointment heavy in his tone.

“I just needed you there,” he admitted quietly, the vulnerability in his voice tugging at her heart.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll be at the next one. Promise. ”

But Charles had never been one to wait when something mattered to him. The very next day, a knock at her front door in her flat startled her.

Opening it, she found Charles standing there, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder, his expression both tired and determined.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice breathless.

“I needed to see you,” he said simply.

The city of Madrid pulsed with its usual rhythm, but inside the sanctuary of (Y/N)’s flat, time stood still. Curtains drawn to keep the world at bay, soft amber light from scattered lamps casting a warm glow across the living space, they existed in a bubble of their own making. Charles had arrived days earlier, seeking refuge from the relentless pressures of the championship fight. His usual composed demeanor had cracked under the weight of expectations, and she had seen the exhaustion lingering in his eyes the moment he stepped through her door.

She hadn’t asked questions. He didn’t need to explain.

They simply were, moving through the quiet, sacred spaces of her home with an ease that spoke of their deepening connection. Mornings were spent curled up on the couch, her head resting against his shoulder as they sipped coffee in comfortable silence. Afternoons drifted by with music playing softly in the background, their conversations meandering through light-hearted banter and moments of raw honesty.

And then there were the nights — when the world faded completely, leaving only the two of them.

Charles had always been tactile, his touch a grounding force. His fingers would trace absent patterns along her arm as they talked, his gaze steady and filled with something unspoken. She cherished these quiet moments, grateful that he didn’t push her away when the pressure mounted.

On one such evening, the air thick with the scent of rain from an earlier storm, (Y/N) sat beside him on the floor, their backs against the couch. Her hand rested atop his, their fingers loosely intertwined. The TV flickered with muted images, forgotten background noise to their hushed conversation.

“You’ve been quiet,” she murmured, turning her head to study him.

His jaw clenched, the flicker of tension evident. “Just thinking.”

“About the championship?”

He nodded, exhaling slowly. “It’s… a lot.”

“I know,” she said softly, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. “But you don’t have to carry it all alone.”

His eyes met hers, the vulnerability there making her heart ache. “It’s hard not to.”

“You have me,” she reminded him, her voice firm despite the tenderness in her tone.

A faint smile curved his lips. “I know. And I’m grateful for that.”

The weight of the moment hung between them, heavy yet filled with an undercurrent of something more profound.

That night, as shadows danced along the walls and the city hummed beyond the windows, something shifted within (Y/N). Love had always been a treacherous thing for her, tangled with fear and uncertainty. But with Charles, it was different — steady, grounding, a magnetic force that pulled her closer until resistance felt impossible.

She wasn’t afraid anymore. Not with him.

“I’m ready,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the soft hum of the night.

His brow furrowed in question. “For what?”

“To give myself fully to you.” Her gaze was unwavering, filled with quiet resolve.

Charles’s breath hitched, the weight of her words sinking in. “Are you sure?” he asked gently, his voice thick with emotion.

In response, she cupped his face, her lips capturing his in a kiss that spoke of love, trust, and a fierce determination to show him just how certain she was. The world fell away as the kiss deepened, their souls blending in a way that felt as if the universe had been leading them to this very moment.

There was nothing rushed, nothing uncertain. Only a shared love for what they were building together.

Their breaths mingled in the dimly lit room, the air thick with the scent of rain and something deeper – the raw energy of love made tangible. Charles's fingertips traced delicate lines down the curve of her spine, memorizing every dip and rise as though she were the map to a world he'd only just begun to discover.

(Y/N)'s heart pounded against her ribs, not from nerves but from the overwhelming beauty of the moment. There was no hesitation, only the quiet surrender of two souls drawn together by something far greater than desire alone.

Soft whimpers escaped her lips as his kisses trailed from the hollow of her throat to the curve of her shoulder, each press of his mouth leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Her hands roamed across the taut expanse of his back, feeling the strength that lay beneath his smooth skin.

"Charles," she breathed, his name a prayer on her lips.

He lifted his head, his gaze searching hers, eyes darkened with lust but still gentle, always gentle. "I'm here," he promised, voice thick with devotion.

And he was. Fully present, fully hers.

Their mouths met again, the kiss deepening into something that spoke of trust, love, and a longing to give and receive without barriers. Time ceased to matter as they moved together, their bodies finding a rhythm that was both instinctual and sacred.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, anchoring herself to him as waves of sensation coursed through her. His quiet groan reverberated against her skin, a raw and unfiltered sound that spoke of how deeply he felt this moment too.

Every touch, every breath, every whispered plea was a testament to their journey — from heartache and uncertainty to this place of unshakable connection.

There was a reverence in the way Charles held her, as though she were something precious, something fragile and infinite all at once. And she met him with equal tenderness, her touch a vow that she was no longer afraid to love, no longer afraid to be loved.

Their bodies moved as one, a seamless blend of giving and receiving, of exploration and certainty. Skin slick with sweat, limbs entwined, they surrendered to the moment, their souls blending in a way that transcended the physical.

As they reached the peak of their shared passion, (Y/N) buried her face against his neck, her breath warm against his skin. Charles's grip on her tightened, his chest rising and falling with the force of his emotions.

Their hearts beat in sync, the world outside fading until there was nothing but them, suspended in a moment of pure, unadulterated love. When the intensity ebbed, they remained tangled together, their bodies still pressed close, unwilling to break the connection.

Later, as they lay tangled in the sheets, their breathing slowing to a harmonious rhythm, Charles pressed a kiss to her temple. “I love you,” he whispered, the words slipping out unbidden but utterly true.

Emotion welled in her chest, too overwhelming for words. Instead, she whispered back, “Thank you.”

The unspoken meaning hung in the air between them — Thank you for loving me. Thank you for teaching me to love the world again. Thank you for never giving up on me.

They remained cocooned in their sacred space for the rest of his small break, limbs tangled together as they moved through her apartment with an intimacy that spoke of shared promises and future dreams. The outside world buzzed with tabloids and speculation, but inside these walls, there was only them.

Charles's laughter echoed through her flat, a sound she had grown to treasure. Blissfully unaware of the outside chaos, they spent lazy mornings in bed, afternoons cooking together, and evenings wrapped in each other’s arms.

But, as with all things, their idyllic bubble was not meant to last.

Carlos had remained blissfully unaware of their rendezvous as well — until he didn't.

The door burst open without warning, the clatter of keys echoing through the space.

“(Y/N)?” Her older brother's voice rang out, loud and insistent, muttering about forgotten golf clubs. “You here?”

Y/N’s heart plummeted as panic surged through her veins, realizing the situation they were in — her topless frame, straddling a shirtless Charles on the couch.

“Shit,” she hissed, scrambling to grab the nearest blanket.

Carlos rounded the corner, his eyes widening comically as he took in the scene. His jaw dropped, words failing him entirely.

Charles, ever the composed one, cleared his throat, his expression caught between amusement and mild embarrassment. “Hey, mate.”

Carlos blinked once. Twice. Then his eyes narrowed. “No. Absolutely not.” Then pointing an accusatory finger at them. “What the hell is going on here?”

(Y/N) groaned, burying her face in Charles's shoulder. “Kill me now,” she muttered.

Charles's laughter rumbled against her, and despite the mortifying situation, she couldn’t help but smile.

Their little bubble had burst, but as she met Charles's gaze, filled with love and unwavering support, she knew one thing for certain — whatever came next, they would face it together.

“Carlos—” she started, her face flaming with mortification.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing, Leclerc?” Carlos cut her off, his tone a mixture of disbelief and overprotective outrage.

Charles raised his hands in mock surrender, though a mischievous grin tugged at his lips. “I swear, this isn’t what it looks like.”

Carlos crossed his arms. “It looks like you’re corrupting my sister.”

“Well... then it’s exactly what it looks like,” He quipped, earning a groan from (Y/N).

“Mon cœur,” she warned under her breath, though she couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips.

“Mon cœur?,” Carlos arched his brow and threw his hands up in exasperation. “First Ferrari, now my family? Is nothing sacred?”

Charles stepped forward, his expression softening. “Look, mate, I get it. You’re her big brother and you want to protect her. But I’m serious about this. About her.”

Carlos’s eyes flicked between them, his protective instincts warring with something softer. “You’d better be.”

“I am,” Charles said firmly. “I love her. A lot.”

Carlos sighed, his shoulders relaxing. “Fine. But if you mess this up, I’ll—”

“I won’t,” Charles promised, cutting him off.

Carlos grumbled something under his breath before pointing a finger at (Y/N). “You’re still a menace for dating this one”

“But a happily in love menace,” she shot back, grinning at Charles, who squeezed her hand and gave her a tender kiss.

Carlos shook his head, muttering in Spanish as he walked toward the fridge. “I need a drink. Please get dressed, both of you.”

As soon as he was out of earshot, Charles let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “That went... better than expected?”

And when Carlos finally came around, grumbling but supportive, (Y/N) knew they had turned a corner.

The Yas Marina Circuit gleamed under the relentless winter desert sun that loomed high over the Abu Dhabi circuit, casting a shimmering golden hue across the paddock, the race track pristine asphalt shimmering in the heat. Palm trees swayed gently in the dry breeze, a picturesque contrast to the storm of emotions brewing across the paddock. The air crackled with anticipation, as if the universe itself held its breath for what was about to unfold.

Abu Dhabi, the final race of the 2025 Formula 1 season, would crown a champion.

There was an almost palpable tension in the air, a mixture of nerves and anticipation crackling like static electricity. The entire racing world was here to witness history, as three titans of Formula 1—Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, and Max Verstappen—stood tied for the championship title. Three contenders stood on the precipice of glory. They were tied in points—a statistical rarity that had the world captivated.

Everything came down to this. One race would decide it all.

And she was by Charles’s side.

(Y/N) had never imagined returning to the paddock in this capacity, not just as Carlos's sister or a writer finding inspiration but as Charles’s girlfriend. Officially. Publicly.

Speculations about their relationship had swirled for months, fueled by cryptic sightings and fleeting moments caught by eagle-eyed fans. But today, there was no hiding. She was there for him, fully and unapologetically.

Charles needed her, and that was all that mattered.

The media frenzy had already begun the moment they stepped off the private jet. Camera flashes exploded, reporters clamored for interviews, and whispers rippled through the crowd like wildfire. The speculations that had brewed for months were finally confirmed.

She had never seen Charles quite like this — his usual composure strained by the weight of what lay ahead. Yet, even amidst the chaos, he never let go of her.

(Y/N) stood beside him, her fingers intertwined with his as they walked toward the Ferrari motorhome. Despite the sweltering heat, a chill prickled her skin. His grip on her hand tightened, grounding her amidst the chaos of media day. Journalists swarmed, microphones thrust forward like weapons, but Charles navigated it all with a grace honed over years in the spotlight.

“Charles, how are you handling the pressure of this championship-deciding race?” one reporter asked, voice sharp with urgency.

He smiled faintly, though tension lingered in the corners of his eyes. “It’s a privilege to be in this position. I trust the team, and I’m ready to give it everything.”

During media day, (Y/N) stayed close, offering quiet support as Charles navigated interviews and press obligations. His calm demeanor masked the storm of emotions she knew raged beneath the surface, but every now and then, his thumb would brush over her knuckles, grounding himself through her presence.

At one point, a journalist asked him about the championship pressure and his life off-track blending with his career.

“And what about your personal life? There’s been speculation—”

The reporter’s question hung in the air, heavy with implication.

Charles's eyes flicked to (Y/N), who stood trying to blend into the background. But there was no hiding from the attention today. Charles' gaze softened despite the tension etched into his features. “I’m lucky to have the love of my life by my side on this journey,” he said simply, his voice steady but filled with unspoken emotion.

The words lingered in the air, shimmering with significance. She knew then that no matter the outcome of this race, their story had already reached a place of triumph.

The statement echoed in her mind, leaving her breathless.

Love of his life.

Her heart fluttered, warmth spreading through her chest. Despite the nerves gnawing at her, Charles’s unwavering confidence in their relationship steadied her.

As they moved through the rest of the media obligations, (Y/N) remained by his side, offering quiet support. As they walked back toward the Ferrari motorhome, a figure caught her eye—Max Verstappen, standing by the Red Bull garage. He glanced their way, his expression unreadable, but there was no animosity, no lingering resentment.

It was strange how time had softened the edges of their shared past. Max had found his own happiness, now a devoted husband and father. And she... she had found something even more precious: peace.

Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. They had both moved on, and in doing so, had found better versions of themselves.

Charles's hand tightened around her waist, drawing her back to the present. She smiled up at him, grateful for the love they had nurtured, steady and sure.

Later, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose, they found a brief moment of peace. Charles leaned against the railing of the motorhome terrace, the cityscape sprawling behind him.

(Y/N) joined him, their shoulders brushing. “How are you feeling?” she asked softly.

He exhaled, the weight of the day visible in the slump of his shoulders. “Nervous. But with you here... better.”

She smiled, touched by his honesty. “You’ve got this, Charles. I believe in you.”

He turned to her, eyes shining with gratitude. “Thank you, amore.”

As the final light faded from the sky, casting the circuit in shadows, (Y/N) felt a sense of calm wash over her. Whatever happened tomorrow, they would face it together.

Race day arrived with a crescendo of anticipation.

The grandstands roared with excitement, a sea of red Ferrari flags waving fervently with a palpable sense of electricity in the air.

(Y/N) stood with Charles in the moments before he suited up, their pre-race ritual unfolding in quiet intimacy.

His forehead rested against hers, eyes closed as he drew in steadying breaths. The roar of the crowd faded into the background, leaving only the sound of their synchronized breathing.

“No one deserves this more than you, mon cœur,” she whispered, her voice unwavering despite the butterflies in her stomach. “You’re Il Predestinato for a reason. Go show them what you’re made of”

A faint smile curved his lips. “Only if you’re here when I cross the finish line.”

“Always.”

The weight of the moment hung between them, heavy yet charged with possibility.

Charles pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead before stepping back, his expression fierce with determination. “For us.”

The race itself was a blur of adrenaline and chaos. Engines roared, tires screeched, and the tension was suffocating. (Y/N) sat with Charles’s family in the Ferrari garage, her hands clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Pascale offered her a reassuring smile, but even she couldn’t hide the nerves. Carlos had joined them after a devastating DNF, his attempt to overtake Lewis ending in a dramatic crash that took both drivers out of contention.

“He’s got this,” Carlos said firmly, his presence a steady anchor beside her. “Charles is the best driver on that track.”

(Y/N) nodded, though her heart raced with every lap.

The battle between Charles and Max was relentless, neither giving an inch. Overtakes, defensive maneuvers, and nail-biting near misses kept everyone on edge.

Her breath caught as Charles made a daring move, taking the lead with only a handful of laps remaining. The Ferrari garage erupted into cheers, but she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think until the checkered flag waved.

And then it happened.

Charles crossed the finish line, victorious.

The radio crackled to life, his voice breaking with emotion. “We did it... We did it!”

Tears streamed down (Y/N)’s face as she listened to his overwhelmed gratitude.

“And thank you,” Charles added, voice thick. “Thank you, dolcezza. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Her heart swelled, pride and love intertwining in a way that left her breathless.

"This is your moment. It's all yours, Charlie.” She managed to answer between sobs. "Go claim your victory. I’m so proud of you mon cœur.”

The Ferrari crew spilled onto the track, and she ran with them, Charles’s family and friends close behind. As he parked the car, time seemed to slow.

Charles sat there for a moment, helmet still on, the weight of his achievement sinking in.

For my father. For Jules. For the team. For (Y/N).

He removed his helmet, scanning the crowd until his eyes found her. Everything else faded away.

She reached him just as he climbed out of the car, and without hesitation, he pulled her into his arms. Their lips met in a kiss that spoke of triumph, love, and everything they had fought for together.

The cameras captured it all, but neither of them cared.

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips, tears mingling with her smile.

“Thank you,” he said, voice raw with emotion.

The podium ceremony was a blur of celebration. The Monegasque anthem played as Charles stood on the top step, the championship trophy held high.

He glanced down at (Y/N), his signature wink accompanied by a playful point to the trophy and then to her.

She laughed, heart full, and blew him a kiss.

Charles’s chest swelled with joy, the memory of last year flashing in his mind. How far they had come. How much had changed.

Subtly, his thoughts drifted to the engagement ring hidden in his luggage, a promise waiting to be made.

As the champagne sprayed and the crowd roared, (Y/N) reflected on her journey.

Before Charles, she had been lost, adrift in a sea of uncertainty. But he had put her back on track, not by leading her but by standing beside her, showing her that love didn’t have to be a battlefield — it could be a haven.

He had taught her to stand on her own again, to rediscover the beauty of life.

And she loved him for it.

Past the finish line, there were only possibilities. And with Charles by her side, she was ready to keep discovering the world — and herself — all over again.

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A/N 2: For those who wanted a more concise endings, here is It how things Will have turned out If (Y/N) choose Charles. Now I want him to show mw arround the world and be my personal Monaco guide as well. Also Carlos obliviousness and his realisation are priceless. I thik this ending it's a little more realistic than the Lando's one, if my ex of 8 years left me I would be pretty upset too. I got a little bit carried away and this ended up being longer than what I had initially expected. I had the Lando's version direction clearly in my head so I just put it into words, but I didn't knew what to do with Charles, so I just kept writting untill I was satisfied. Still, I think I like this ending better. What is the one you prefere?

You can check Lando's ending here.

Love You - Xim

Tagglist:

@cmleitora

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