#like all of my stuff is here and it keeps distracting me

[notnowtobey]

Enjoy a little bit of “Buck and Tommy are seeing each other again, but Buck thinks they’re just friends and Tommy thinks they’re dating” aka “Buck friend-zoning his boyfriend Tommy” 🤗

—

“I have a favor to ask.”

Buck looked up in surprise. He’d been studying the menu, trying to distract himself from the sinfully beautiful man sitting across from him. But he couldn’t resist locking eyes with him, immediately feeling lost in Tommy’s gaze. Before he got too lost, he at least had the wherewithal to mumble an affirmative “hmm?”

“I booked a trip for this weekend, but I just found out it includes all this extra stuff I won’t be able to enjoy on my own. And I’d hate to miss out on the experience. I booked it months and months ago, before we — before I — well. Anyway. Would you want to go with me? It’s all inclusive, you wouldn’t have to pay for a thing. And, Evan, I know it’s last minute, so no worries at all if you can’t make it. I just thought, things have been going so well…” Tommy trailed off, looking down at his own menu. He seemed almost shy, and Buck couldn’t help but feel incredibly fond of Tommy.

Tommy, who was his friend. Who he was just friends with. Who he was on a friendly outing with, to the new Thai restaurant that Hen and Karen had been raving about the last time he saw them. He had decided to take his friend Tommy there. As friends. Because they’re friends. And this was just Tommy returning the favor, right? Sure, a weekend getaway was slightly less platonic than a dinner, but it could still be totally platonic. Friends go on trips together all the time.

Buck, ever the good friend, barely hesitated to cut in, “I’d love to, Tommy.”

Tommy smiled nervously and said, “yeah?” Buck was immediately flooded with the memory of Tommy reacting the same way when Buck admitted he wanted to get to know him. And Buck responded with a simple, “Yeah, of course.”

Tommy rewarded him with his crinkliest smile, and his gaze turned impossibly fond. Buck thoughtlessly started to follow the line of his throat down to the smattering of chest hair that was peeking out of Tommy’s shirt, that was maybe unbuttoned one too many buttons for a friendly dinner between friends, but maybe Tommy was planning to go out after they finished eating and let someone else unbutton the rest. The thought hit Buck like a bucket of cold water, and his gaze jumped back to his own menu. He vowed to keep his thoughts about his friend totally platonic for the entire trip, and save any jealous spiral for after.

Then Tommy started rambling, clearly excited, “This is going to be so great! I’ve always wanted to go there with someone, but I’ve never had the chance. I promise lots of good food and drink, and maybe we could even go dancing! There’s this place down the road that usually has live music and—“ And Buck zoned out, realizing just how screwed he was. And not even the good kind of screwed! Because they’re friends. Just friends.

—

Tagging some of y’all who showed interest, I hope you like it! ����

@middyblue @politenotice @aringofsalt @andrew-dwyer @here-there-be-fics @comfortingevanbuckley @a-mel0n @obitez @derangedsynthpop

[misspermitted]

I’m so unbelievably feral for the idea that, while the rest of the Saja boys are singing to the audience in Your Idol, all of Jinu’s verses are directed towards Rumi. I mean, in all fairness, the entirety of Your Idol is filled with jabs at Rumi and Huntrix, but while the others are singing to the audience directly counteracting Huntrix’s influence, Jinu is just talking to Rumi. Actually just the pure fact that Jinu 100% wrote Your Idol right after singing Free with Rumi drives me insane.

In fact, it makes me so insane I’m gonna meta analyse the entire song right now:

The Pop Industry Commentary

Let us begin with the base level analysis that we shall build off for the stuff that my shipper heart goes feral for:

So naturally the entire point of this song, which is why it’s such a good villain song, is to straight up just tell everyone watching that they’re planning to kill them and the audience not giving a fuck because of the power of celebrities. But what makes this song extra awesome is that it’s also essentially explaining about how teach member’s k-pop trope has manipulated the audience.

Abby and Escapism

Like you got Abs McGee going:

“Keeping you in check

Keeping you obsessed

Play me on repeat kkeuteobsi (endlessly) in your head”

Which is SO COOL because it totally fits with what we’ve seen from Abs. Which is that both Mira and Zoey get repeatedly distracted by him and stare at him (“keeping them obsessed, playing endlessly in their head.”) And one of his only lines is “I know they would (follow us in here), that one keeps looking at me” ie. keeping them in check.

Then his next line:

“Anytime it hurts

Play another verse

I can be your sanctuary”

Really clearly explains how him being, literally, eye candy distracts from things being serious. And further, a meta commentary on using media and simping over pretty abs to escape from life and things that do matter.

Romance and Parasocial Relationships

Then you’ve got Romance’s lines are:

Yeah you gave me your heart

Now I’m here for your soul

Now we don’t see much of Romance but what we do see is really interesting, and very much expands on my interpretation of him. Which is mainly his interactions with Mira (namely, staring) which the movies actual audience went crazy about as cute and romantic.

And that’s really funny because that’s totally what Romance supposed to be. He’s supposed to be the soft sweet one who people transfer onto and trust “Look at him looking at her, surely he’ll get a redemption arc” (he doesn’t)

Making me think this audience reaction was 100% intentional is Romance’s next lines:

Nae hwangholui chwihae (intoxicated with my ecstasy) you can’t look away

Don’t you know I’m here to save you

God the fun meta commentary on K-pop and fandom culture in this song and movie is so awesome. Like Romance being a whole satire on the one band member that has a relationship and gains peoples trust by sharing their personal life. This movie is so good!!

Mystery and Making Celebrities Superhuman

I won’t fully go into Mystery because I’m only analysing the movie song and not the full song which gives him more lines, but my reading of his small amount:

No I’m the only one right now

I will love you more when it all burns down

More than power, more than gold

Is that he’s about the celebrities that are put on a pedestal and have to remain carefully mysterious to stay there, whose fans do literally anything to try to impress them. I could go into how him being Zoey, the established people pleaser’s favourite is a really interesting exploration of who the act of “pedastal”-ing celebrities appeals to, but that. Is. Not. The. Point.

The point is that, in this song, the Saja boys are taking to the audience about, essentially, how they manipulated the hell out of them.

The only exception to this rule is Jinu, and this is because he isn’t a satire of K-pop bands. Jinu’s character is a narrative foil for Rumi.

Jinu’s Lines as Directed Towards Rumi

Now the counter argument to Jinu actually singing to Rumi is that he’s “just singing his master’s song/on behalf of Gwi-Ma). And at some points this is true, especially in the latter half of the song, ie.

I will set you free

When you’re all apart of me

Where “me” is clearly Gwi-Ma. (You may notice the “free” mention here. We shall address the little jabs at Rumi throughout this song in p2).

However there are other parts, particularly the first half, where Jinu is clearly not singing for Gwi-Ma because his tone is wildly different. At least in my opinion.

I saw a comment that really succinctly summed up the tone of Your Idol as someone who has already gotten what they wanted. They’re not asking for the audience’s adoration, they’ve already got it. They’re literally just bragging about it. And you’ll see that’s congruent with my interpretation of the other Saja boys who are just explaining how they’ve gotten such control.

Jinu is the only one who actually asks the audience to do something. And it doesn’t actually make sense that he does:

Listen cause I’m preaching to the choir

Can I get the mic a little higher?

Give me your desire

I can be the star you rely on

Why is he asking the already enamoured audience to listen? Why is he asking them to give him their desire when they clearly already have? Why is he saying that he “could” be their idol when he already is? It’s a completely different tone from the others’: “You gave me your heart” and “You can’t look away” and “I’m here to save you”

Also the phrase “listen cause I’m preaching to the choir” really doesn’t seem like something you’d say to the choir. Just saying.

Let’s Just Assume Because it’s Fun

In all fairness, no matter how much I try to justify it, I can’t actually prove that he’s singing to Rumi But let’s just head canon it because then we get to have some fun.

So Jinu’s first chorus is:

I’m the only one who’ll love your sins

Feel the way my voice gets underneath your skin

Listen cause I’m preaching to the choir

Can I get the mic a little higher

Give me your desire

I can be the star you rely on

Yeah I’m all you need imma be your idol

Now what I love about this is firstly, Jesus Christ the “I’m the only one who’ll love your sins” is so close to “I understand what it’s like to have patterns, I’m the only one who will.” Which is crazy shit. But also so clear in how shame is isolating and Jinu purposefully uses that tactic against Rumi to isolate her while also believing it himself.

Like before that first interaction with Rumi Jinu tells Gwi-Ma he’ll use Rumi’s shame to isolate her from her friends. And his “I’m the only one who understands” is absolutely the first step in doing that. And it works. She questions her order and feels isolated as hell.

But that tactic slowly morphes into something that actually makes Rumi and Jinu healthier, love and acceptance. While Gwi-Ma’s whole thing is seeing your sins and guilting you, Jinu sees Rumi’s patterns and accepts her. And in Free, which Jinu sings like right before writing this one, it gets explicitly stated that Rumi felt like the only time she’s felt like she could breath and like she could be more than her sins is with Jinu.

Jinu’s lyrics here is such an interesting response to “Free” in that he is saying, from this reading: “We can’t fix our sins, but I love you for them.” And, especially with him exposing her in front of her friends, “I’m the only one who will love your sins.”

In fact, it could be said that the entire of his chorus is him saying that Rumi is worshipping a false idol as a hunter. That she is a demon not a hunter. That he can be the code she follows, “the star you rely on.” That what Rumi desires, to “fix” them both, is wrong. Which, though incredibly concerning, is also not wrong. Rumi does realise that the hunter code is wrong, that the thing she is protecting is wrong. That she doesn’t need to be fixed. To a certain extent, Jinu’s points about Rumi and him always being demons, that she can’t fix it, is correct.

I love that if you read the lyrics in this way, you can hear the frustration in some of his lines. Like “Give me your desire” and “No one is coming to save you!” Taken in the context of his lines in Free, where he says that no one sees him the way she does, that it feels right to let her in, that he wants to be free with her, but doesn’t sing along to her chorus about healing what is broken and fixing him. And their later argument where he says that they can’t be fixed.

Why would he be singing to her?

What is also interesting is that Jinu clearly doesn’t expect Rumi to be there. When he hears her voice you see panic flick over his face. So why would he be singing to her?

I think this really gives a bit of insight into Jinu’s character as someone who is way more comfortable singing his feelings then saying them. And someone who is so scared of rejection. Almost every time him and Rumi have a conversation she gets the last word and he is usually quite frustrated with himself about it.

But he doesn’t want to be vulnerable with anyone. Even if he could communicate his feelings he’s incredibly hesitant to because he has been told for 400 years that he’s a terrible person and is both certain and terrified or rejection.

So when Rumi gets mad at him, like in their third meeting or in the argument before this, he leaves before she can say anything else. And probably cries like the boy failure he is. But the entire point of Your Idol is to counteract Huntrix’s influence so he can say what he wants to. About how he doesn’t like the hunters code, about how he wants Rumi to join him. And it’s actually incredibly useful song wise.

I also keep in mind with this headcanon that Jinu wrote this song after Free. Incredibly internally conflicted.

I had other things to say about Baby’s part and all of the subtle digs Jinu put into the song but this has already been insanely and unnecessarily long so, part two incoming for that (maybe).

[yourstardarling]

Mars In Taurus

The Sensual Protector

I wanted to do a deep dive on Mars in Taurus to further understand how this affects me in my daily life. It’s a very interesting placement because this is a debilitation of Mars because of its Venusian influence.

Mars in Taurus is a very calm and sensual placement. Just like Venus in Aries, these individuals wage war using seduction, glamor and their beauty. Slow and steady is there motto. They move at their own pace and at their own time which often causes underlying conflict with other people around them.

They prioritize refinement and making sure there is a sense of stability before taking actiion. That is why Mars struggles here because things can’t always be stable before taking action. The quickness and speed of Mars thrives in chaos and pressure, when put under that pressure Taurus becomes immobile.

Stubbornness is a key trait for this sign. They won’t budge just because you tell them to. they have to go at their own time. They hold grudges and keep bottled up feelings brewed up inside. Anger for them starts with passive aggression and pettiness. They will say they are not angry and then cancel plans for a group trip two days before.

They don’t get to that point easily, but when a mars in Taurus explodes it’s a bulldozer. They attack anyone and anything in their way. It becomes a charge and they say all the things that they have buried underneath the surface. Gets really nasty when this Mars is out of control. You eventually see why they normally don’t let themselves lash out often.

In, action:

It can be really hard as a mars in Taurus to find the energy within to do stuff. Willpower is not enough especially when it’s much easier to not do anything at all. So it is important to remember. Pleasure is what keeps you moving. There is a great satisfaction that comes from having comfort and security. Comfort allows them to feel safe enough to take action. The issue is oftentimes not everything is comfortable for them to do especially taking first steps into a new endeavor. So it’s important for them to bring the tiny comforts in their life to the new things they find scary to do. For example, beauty is an essential. When taking action, make sure you surround yourself with things that make you feel beautiful.

There is an issue here to not like to be rushed, but often times procrastination creates havoc. A bad habit of pushing things for last minute then somehow bulldoze things through. This ability to push through obstacles at the last possible second is why they often deal with procrastination. They save things for later because they know that an inner strength within them can find a way to deal with blockages.

How to deal with this Mars?

I like to call Mars in Taurus the bull riders of the mars placements. Oftentimes, the reason why they struggle with procrastination is because they feel overwhelmed by the tasks they have to get done. They usually have a lot on their plate to manage at once. These people are hard workers because they have the drive to push through the heavier parts of life, but feel exhausted or anxious to get started.

For a Mars in Taurus the key to getting things done is to “let it be easy”. You will need to compromise your comfort to get things done. It is important to make things small and simple. Don’t look at the issue as a bolder that can’t be moved. It is improtant to use your brain first when it comes to action, break things down into simple form and start piece by piece. Eventually, the bull can be tamed.

Think of everything you do as a garden. As the gardener you are tasked with being intentional about your plans, be intentional about your time. It’s easy to get distracted in overindulgence in your comforts. But you must ask yourself what seeds am I sowing with this time. Is this current action going to help me grow? No action is a form of action. So ask yourself does rest serve me right now or does it debilitate future development?

The seeds you have planted will grow in their time and in their season. You will see the fruits of your labor come to fruition. But you must consistently take small steps, little action and pour water into them in order to succeed.

-yourStardarling

[maculategiraffe]

oh we watched the recent nosferatu by the witch / lighthouse / northman guy! he is one of my boyfriend's favorite directors so we knew he would love it but I also liked it a lot more than I expected to. things dracula appreciators will appreciate:

-the count is DISGUSTING. absolutely the least sexy thing you've ever seen in your life. I don't mind a good sexy vampire but I feel like it's ages since I've seen a vampire that actually looked like an abomination. give it up for bill skarsgaard who clearly takes his job of looking like a horrible fever dream of his brother very seriously

-relatedly the part with jonathan* in dracula*'s castle is absolutely harrowing. I mean the whole movie is, it is not lighthearted or fun at all and they have cut the cowboy and the train tables entirely, but this actor they got for jonathan does a fantastic job of being absolutely paralyzed with terror. like a rabbit in a python's cage. you are worried he is going to drop dead of fear before dracula can even bite him. but he is very brave also. a+++ jonathan. really wish we got more of him with mina*

-willem dafoe as van helsing* is an unutterable delight. what a joy he always is to have in a movie and this one especially. his rapport with mina is one of my favorite things about the novel and it's beautifully expressed here

-they cut all the fun flirty polyamorous lucy stuff because this movie will have absolutely no truck with fun, but they DO keep in the strong love between lucy* and mina

-I haven't seen the original nosferatu but I guess maybe it is the origin of the whole "mina and dracula have a Mystical Connection" thing that junks up every goddamn dracula adaptation ever? idk but I really liked this movie's take on it. one of the most disturbing (and compelling) scenes for me from the novel is when mina's been bitten and van helsing offers her holy communion and when he touches the wafer to her forehead it sears her skin. and she cries out in pain and horror and says "even the Almighty shuns my polluted flesh." this movie doesn't have that scene, or the overt christianity, but it really captures the horror mina feels at her own contamination, the sense that her body and even her soul are in some sense territory claimed against her will by the forces of evil. very disturbing but powerful

also, for me personally, it was a visual delight. love me some costumes and interiors. and I'm not a bird hobbyist so the inaccurate bird call I heard about didn't distract me

*they have all their nosferatu: totally not a dracula adaptation names so they're called like benjamin and tina instead of jonathan and mina but I can't be learning a whole new set of copyright evasion aliases at my time of life. you know who I mean

[ambroziadelphine]

Mother Nature's child (Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes) Part 15

Marvel Masterlist Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14

“We found it.” Sam said as I hid with him and Bucky as Steve distracted Tony and the others. “Their Quinjet’s in hanger five, North runway.” He said, using his little pet thing to find it. Steve put his hands up and Clint shot the web Tony’s little apprentice tied his hands with, Tony turning to look but seeing nothing. It was only a moment later that Scott supersized from being tiny and jumped off the shield the spider guy took from Steve, kicking him under his chin and away. Lang took a stand by Steve, handing over his shield, a beat passing before Tony took off, probably to follow Wanda and Clint as Rhodey also got up.

“We gotta go.” Sam said as we all took off through the terminal.

“Stay close to me.” Bucky said to me, holding my wrist as we tried to be quick, only for the spider guy to swing onto the outside of the terminal, crawling on the window. “What the hell is that?” He asked and I chuckled, looking at him with a shrug.

“Looks like Tony got an apprentice.” I said, Sam’s face turning sour.

“Everybody’s got a gimmick now.” He said, making me roll my eyes and scoff.

“I don’t.” I said, making him scoff.

“I think your situation with two super soldiers is yours for now.” He said, the spider guy swinging on what I assumed were webs given his outfit, and kicked in the glass, entering the terminal and kicking Sam. Bucky and I stopped, the former turning to punch the boy only for him to grab his metal fist, managing to hold it in place as Bucky and I’d eyes widened as he easily bent it back a bit to look at it.

“You have a metal arm?” He asked and I froze, yearning just how young he sounded. “That is awesome dude.” He said, sounding like he thought this was fun and it made me feel sick.

“You’re a kid..” I muttered, his head turning to me, seeing my horrified face. I know Steve and Bucky had told me how in their time, children were more common as soldiers, but I didn’t want to think they still used them now. He didn’t have time to react before Sam barrelled into him, wings spread as he flew him away, the kid fighting him the whole way.

“You have the right to remain silent!” I heard him yell as I looked at them in horror.

“He’s a child…” I whispered, feeling something break in me. Sure he wasn’t tortured like HYDRA would have done, but no child should be made to fight adult battles. No matter how strong they can be.

“We have to go.” Bucky said, grabbing my arm as Sam distracted the spider kid. We ran to keep up, bucky throwing a huge sign at him and it narrowly missed as he pulled me behind a pillar, his arm wrapped around me protectively. A moment passed before Bucky leaned out to check if the coast was clear.

“Hey, buddy, I think you lost this!” I heard the kid yell and I felt my hairs stand on end, pulling Bucky back just as a sign hit the side of our hiding spot. We moved to a new spot, the kid back on Sam until he used his webbing to shoot at one of his wings, clogging up one of the mechanisms and grounding him as he cracked into a kiosk stand and onto the ground. He got up only for the kid to web his hand to the railing behind him, the kid sticking to a pillar nearby as he looked at the stuck soldier.

“Those wings carbon fiber?” He asked Sam who was looking at the webbing him a slightly disgusted look.

“Is this stuff coming out of you?” Sam asked him but he did not seem to want to answer as his focus was on his wings.

“That would explain the rigidity-flexibility ratio, which, gotta say, that’s awesome man.” He said and I felt my heart break, hoping this was the only time this kid would ever get caught up in these issues until he is an adult. He sounds like he’s barely 16.

“Stay here.” Bucky said as he got up, slowly walking towards Sam’s spot as the kid spoke.

“I don’t know if you’ve been in a fight before, but there’s usually not this much talking.” Sam said, cutting him off.

“All right, sorry. My bad.” He said and swung away as Bucky ran out in front of Sam only for them both to crash into the ground below and I gasped, turning invisible as I quickly ran to them, jumping down as the kid webbed Bucky’s hand down to the ground. Bucky looked my way, seeming to furrow his brows slightly, giving the slightest shake of the head no as the spider kid crouched down on one of the pillars, looking down at the two.

“Guys, look, I’d love to keep this up, but I’ve only got one job here today and I’ve gotta impress Mr. Stark, so, I’m really sorry.” He said, putting his wrist out before he tilted his head. “Hey, weren’t there three of yo-” He was cut off as Falcon's little pet swooped by and grabbed his wrist, taking off with the kid out the glass wall and into the sky. I waited probably half a second before running out there and hurrying to take Bucky’s binding off first.

“You couldn’t have done that earlier?” Bucky asked Sam who had his arms stuck folded across his chest.

“I hate you.” Sam seethed and I sighed, helping Bucky up, brushing some glass from his hair before turning to Sam.

“Well, we get through this, and you might never have to see him again.” I sighed, helping him up as we all took off running.

—-----------------

We made it outside, joining Steve and the others as I breathed a sigh of relief to see everyone okay. We were getting so close when suddenly a beam of gold started carving a line between us and the jet making us stop, my hands grabbing both Steve and Bucky’s, the ladder squeezing my hand in anxiety. Vision floated above us and I frowned, knowing I had never met him before; I didn’t know Wanda much, enough to be familiar at least, but I knew even less about Vision.

“Captain Rogers..” Vision started, addressing him and I gave both of their hands a squeeze of reassurance. “I know you believe what you’re doing is right. But for the collective good..” He said as Tony flew down, Natasha walked up to join them.

“You must surrender now.” Vision finished as he floated down to hover over the ground, T’challa, Rhodey and the spider kid joining them across the line from us.

“What do we do, Cap?” Sam asked, Steve giving my hand a squeeze before letting go.

“We fight.” He said as he ran forward, all of us joining as they ran at us too, my heart aching as the spider kid looked almost confused for a moment before joining. Does he even know what this fight is about?

Steve clashed with Tony as we got close, Rhodey and Sam, Scott and Natasha, Wanda and the spider kid, Vision and Clint, and I stayed by Bucky as T’Challa set his sights on him. Bucky and I worked together, pushing the King back and fighting him off until he managed to land a hit on my chest, making me stumble back, though Bucky threw him away as he charged at him, T’Challa getting up with his claws ready.

Bucky and him fought roughly, the King blocking his punches until he punched under his jaw, sending him up and back as he did a flip to land back on his feet. I got up and ran, hanging onto his back as he stumbled away from Bucky.

“Why do you protect him?” T’Challa hissed, trying to pry me off, his claws digging into my arms as I bled slightly.

“I promised myself and his son I’d bring him home. I’m not letting either of my boys down even if it kills me.” I hissed just before he managed to fling me off of him. Bucky grabbed him by the throat, pushing him back when he kneaded him in the stomach, stopping him in place and reaching for his neck.

“I didn’t kill your father.” Bucky told him.

“Then why did you run?” He asked and I grimaced as I got up slowly. T’Challa pulled Bucky’s arm back, so Bucky pulled it back, throwing a punch with his whole hand which was grabbed by the king, the both of them rolling on the ground. The King twisted Bucky’s arm back, turning and kicking him in the head as he was sent into the side of some wooden crates. I quickly ran to him and stood defensively in front of him, between T’Challa and him just as he reached his claws out only to be stopped by Wanda’s magic. She threw him away into a baggage loading container and I quickly helped Bucky up, checking him over before hugging him tight.

“Thank god you’re okay.” I muttered, pulling away as he grabbed my wrist.

“Stay close to me.” He said as we ran, hiding behind a container after maneuvering over to Steve who was ducked hiding as well for the moment. “We gotta go. That guy’s probably in Siberia by now.” He told Steve who sighed and looked around the sky for a moment.

“We gotta draw out the flyers.” He said before looking to Bucky and I. “I’ll take Vision, you two get to the jet.” He instructed and I bit my lip, not wanting to stay separated from him this whole time even if we were in the middle of a battle.

“No, you get to the jet! All three of you.” Sam said into the comms and I saw Steve look conflicted. “The rest of us aren’t getting out of here.” He said, his tone firm.

“As mush as I hate to admit it,” Clint started. “If we’re gonna win this one, some of us might have to lose it.” He finished and Steve bowed his head, I looked at him softly and put a hand on his shoulder.

“We have to go.” I said and he sighed.

“This isn’t the real fight, Steve.” Sam said and Steve looked at Bucky and I for a moment.

“All right, Sam.” He said, still looking at Bucky and I. “What’s the play?” He asked.

“We need a diversion. Something big.” Sam said.

“I’ve got something kinda big. But I can’t hold it very long.” Scott said after a beat. “On my signal, run like hell. And if I tear myself in half, don’t come back for me.” He dramatically, Bucky looking at us in confusion as I furrowed my brows too.

“He’s gonna tear himself in half?” Bucky asked, making me frown deeply.

“Please don’t kill yourself, Scott.” I said and he chuckled into the mic.

“I make no promises.” He mused, Steve also looking concerned.

“You sure about this, Scott?” He asked carefully.

“I do it all the time.” He said before stuttering a little. “I mean, once. In a lab. Then I passed out.” He said and I felt myself sigh, hoping he was okay after this. A few moments passed before suddenly we turned and saw Scott mega supersized, holding Rhodey as he tried to fly away. We could hear Scott laughing over the mic as Bucky, Stev and I stepped out of our hiding spot.

“Guess that’s the signal.” Steve said and I chuckled, grabbing their hands and grinning.

“Time to go!” I said, leading Steve and Bucky through the chaos to the Quinjet. We were almost there and I was smiling before Vision tried blocking our way by lasering down a tower, but Wanda held it up out of our way as best she could until Rhodey blasted her with a sonic device that mad her cover her ears. I looked down at my arm with slowly dripping blood and smeared it on my hand, grabbing some seeds in that hand and spreading them out as they rapidly grew, holding the larger pieces of debris before it fell, leaving just enough time for us to slide under before they collapsed under the weight. We got to the other side only to see Natasha and I looked at her with pleasing eyes.

“You’re not gonna stop.” She said as she looked at us and Steve shook his head lightly.

“You know we can’t.” He said and her eyes turned to me before she sighed, raising her hand.

“Then I’m going to regret this.” She said, shooting an electric charge behind me at T’Challa he hadn’t even noticed and electrocuting him to the ground. “Go.” She said and I smiled, tears in my eyes.

“Thank you.” I whispered to her and she gave a tiny smile.

“You should thank Hailey and Sasha when you get James back. They had quite the time keeping him out of government hands while you were gone.” She said softly and I smiled, nodding in thanks before quickly joining Steve and Bucky on the Quinjet. Steve was quick to take the controls, shooting some debris out of the way before flying us out, T’Challa just missing his chance to grab on and follow us as he tumbled to the ground. Steve noticed Rhodey still following us as we flew away from the airport, only to be shortly shot out of the sky by a beam Vision tried using to stop Sam, Tony going to help his friend, leaving us to fly away without any other stragglers.

—-------------------------- Chapter 14

I was trying to relax for the little bit we had of quiet, Bucky and Steve sat quietly and I let out a small sigh, frowning as I felt my shirt sticking to my chest a little, an uncomfortable feeling settling over me. I looked down, not noticing anything on my jacket when I unzipped it a bit and closed my eyes, sinking back against the wall before begrudgingly getting up with a small groan. I was really regretting waiting as long as I could to completely stop breastfeeding, mainly just using it more as a nutrition boost in James’ meals now and minor bonding time, but it had been quite a bit since I got to pump. My supply isn’t what it was a year ago, but it's still enough to make a big mess if I don’t stick to my pumping schedule.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked, turning to face me as I sighed, glancing at him as he and Bucky watched me with slight worry.

“Nothing just.. Kinda need a new shirt now.” I said with disappointment, looking down at the wet shirt. Steve sighed slightly and put the jet on auto pilot for a moment, walking over to me, Bucky following quietly.

“Why do you need a new shirt?” Bucky asked until he saw my front and his face turned concerned, just seeing a large splotch of wetness on my dark shirt. “Are you hurt?” He asked and I chuckled a little, shaking my head.

“No, definitely not.” I said as Steve searched for a spare shirt that may be tucked away somewhere.

“I think there should be a few spares in here from missions..” He muttered as I sighed, taking my shirt off making Bucky turn away quickly, his face flustered as my lack of warning. I looked at him and chuckled, rolling my eyes.

“You can look at my Bucky, I’m not expecting you to jump me or anything.” I joked and he looked at me hesitantly, his cheeks pink as his eyes would occasionally glance at my chest as I took my soaked bra off. I didn’t even notice as Steve and him stared at me, a cough coming from Steve as he cleared his throat and handed me a spare shirt he found.

“Do you think you can handle coming with us?” He asked as I took the shirt and sighed with a small shrug.

“Only one way to find out.” I said, his thinking face coming over him as he looked at Bucky for a moment then back at me.

“One of us could always help if you needed it before we landed.” He suggested and I felt my face turn bright red, Bucky looking at Steve in confusion but he just smirked a little at my red face. I bit my lip and looked down, sighing as I was still actively leaking and the familiar tightness of my skin became more present, something I guess I had been ignoring intensely for a few hours now.

“Wait, help how?” Bucky asked, looking between us as I bit my lip and chuckled.

“Remember the time you came over to see James, and James said he was hungry and kept reaching for my shirt?” I asked and he nodded, looking a little confused. “It's cause I still breastfeed sometimes. And I just so happen to be too full right now.” I said sheepishly, his face turning red as did mine, but Steve just smiled, putting an arm around me as he looked down at me.

“I think James’ favourite food is you.” He said and I smiled, chuckling as he might actually be right sometimes about that. Bucky looked at me and gulped, opening his mouth as he glanced down at my chest before he took a step back.

“I-I don’t think I should help. I don’t want to hurt or upset you.” He said and Steve sighed, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Believe me, you will not hurt her.” He said before looking at me. “Are you okay with him helping?” He asked and I blushed, looking at Bucky through my lashes before I nodded, his face turning red.

“Good, so I’ll fly the jet and you can help her.” He said, giving Bucky a bit of a smug look before heading back over to the pilot's seat before he paused and looked back at us. “Oh, and Buck, she’s very sensitive. And loud.” He said with a smirk, making eye contact with me before he turned back around and I wanted to smack him and kiss him all at once because, Jesus, he doesn’t need to say these things right now.

Bucky looked at me sheepishly, my arms at my side, the spare shirt still in my hand before he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“If you don’t want my help, I understand.” He said, making me raise a brow at him.

“Do you want to help?” I asked and he blushed, looking away for a moment before nodding a little.

“I.. I want to touch you truthfully.” He said, making me smile, taking his hand as I led him back over to his seat.

“I didn’t realize you were making this a show for me too.” Steve mused as he could see us behind him to the side, myself pushing Bucky back to sit as I straddled him. I rolled my eyes and looked over at Steve with a raised brow.

“You’ll get a real show once we all are done with this mess.” I said with a small wink before Bucky’s hands on my hips pulled me back to the soldier in front of me.

“You know, she can’t do this much talking if she’s moaning, Buck.” The blonde soldier mused, Bucky staring down at my chest with eager eyes. Another drop leaked out of me but I gasped as his tongue wrapped around the perky bud, a moan slipping from my lips as he pulled me closer, his hands under my thighs and behind my back to keep me as close as possible.

“Fuck, Bucky!” I moaned, my arms wrapping around his shoulders, a shiver going down my spine as he closed his eyes and let out a small groan, taking more of my breast into his mouth to suck on. I couldn’t stop the moans and whimpers that escaped me, my senses solely focused on his mouth and hands on me, my brain going haywire as I realized this felt nothing like when the Winter Soldier would touch me before. This held so much love and care in his touch rather than the cold and harsh touch from him nearly 3 years ago.

He was eager and greedy as he drank until he needed a breath, switching breasts after a second while my fingers tugged at his hair softly. I whimpered and leaned my head back, feeling a warmth spreading through my belly and down as Bucky held me tighter, his metal arm firm as it cooled my scorching skin. I let out a cry of his name, feeling the familiar coil in my belly as I ground my hips down onto his, a sharp gasp coming from him as he looked up at me hungrily for a moment, teeth pulling at my nipple gently and it felt like sparks went through me. I couldn’t hold myself back much longer as I felt a tent starting to form in his pants under me, my clit rolling over it and making me twitch and gasp out.

“Bucky!!” I cried as the coil in me snapped moments later, my body shuddering as I came, Bucky’s lips still attacking my breasts until he seemed to drink me dry. He let go moments later, his lips instantly attaching onto my neck, littering it with kisses and small bites as I came down from my high, hugging him tight while I buried my nose in his neck. I took a moment to calm down before pulling back, a hand still resting on the back of his head when I pulled him into a loving kiss.

“I think you might be my favourite food too.” He mumbled as we pulled back and I couldn’t help but laugh, covering my mouth as Steve looked at us.

“I wonder if you can still breastfeed when pregnant.” He mused and I looked at him with a chuckle.

“If you want another baby, you know you’ll have to save most of my milk for that baby, right?” I asked, pulling the spare shirt over me and he smirked.

“So you want another baby?” He pointed out and I blushed but refused to act embarrassed given he was right, I did really want another baby.

“Are you going to give me another baby?” I asked haughtily and he looked at me in surprise before smirking as he looked at Bucky then back at me.

“I think between Buck and I, we could give you a dozen more babies at least.” He said and I blushed, looking back at the brunette and smiling gently.

“Would you want another baby?” I asked and he stared at me a moment before his hand on my thigh tightened and he nodded.

“I won’t lie, I was pretty disappointed I didn’t get to experience your pregnancy or James’ birth.” He said quietly, his voice still hesitant and I chuckled, brushing some hair from his face as I looked at Steve then him.

“I wonder if you two could somehow give me twins, one from both of you.” I joked and felt Bucky’s hand trail up my back.

“We could always try.” He muttered and Steve grinned.

“Now that’s a theory I would love to test out.” He mused and I smiled, looking at two of the men I loved dearly in this world. We would all be okay, as long as we made it out of Siberia alive, we’d always be okay. I know it.

—-----------

We had been flying for a bit longer, getting quite close when I noticed Bucky’s mood seemed to be reverting back to how it was before, picking at his metal fingers as he stared down in thought. We all sat back in our seats, me beside Bucky as Steve leaned back against his chair. I couldn’t help my hand from reaching over and squeezing his hand slightly, getting him to look up at me to see the reassuring smile I held for him and he smiled back slightly. It didn’t last long though as he looked down again, now just playing mindlessly with my fingers gently.

“What’s going to happen to your friends?” Bucky asked Steve who paused for a moment, shaking his head slightly.

“Whatever it is…” He started with a small sigh. “I’ll deal with it.” He said as Bucky stared at the ground in front of him, slowly starting to shake his head.

“I don’t know if I’m worth all this..” He said quietly and I squeezed his hand again as Steve looked back at us for a moment.

“What you did all those years.. It wasn’t you.” Steve reminded him, Bucky’s hand stopped playing with mine as he looked out the window at the snowy landscape. “You didn’t have a choice.” He said and a corner of the brunette's lip twitched, his head just barely nodding along.

“I know.” He said, chewing on his lips for a moment before looking at Steve. “But I did it.” He said, looking at me as I shook my head, Steve turning back to the front, a conflicting look of just wanting to help his best friend was clear on his face.

“You are not responsible for when HYDRA was controlling you.” I said softly and his lip twitched again.

“It was my hands..” He said, looking down. “Means it was my responsibility.”

[plusultraetc]

today someone stopped me to tell me I had a 'great voice' and ask if I had ever done anything on the radio and while that was such a lovely and unexpected compliment it also reminded me that Present Mic brain rot is a real & genuine problem in my life bc my first thought was 'omg that's so sweet' and my second thought was 'NO BUT I'VE OFTEN WRITTEN ABOUT THE RADIO MAN'

[pollen]

hi fellow neurodivergent people

i hate to jump on the "i think i might have adhd" bandwagon, but if i think i might have adhd, how do i bring it up to my care team as a 28-year-old cis woman who was a massive overachiever until i couldn't keep up the ruse anymore?

[notnowtobey]

I’m back with more “Buck and Tommy are seeing each other again, but Buck thinks they’re just friends and Tommy thinks they’re back together” aka “Buck friend-zoning his boyfriend Tommy,” this time with some light angst sprinkled in 🤗

(Thank you to everyone for the positive feedback!! This is my first time posting stuff like this, and I’m blown away that even one of y’all liked it!)

—

When Tommy asked to go on a trip together, Buck was imagining connected rooms, a night or two drinking beer at the hotel bar, and splitting the bill on a nice meal. You know, typical friend stuff. Because they’re friends. Just friends.

What he absolutely did not expect was for the hotel to be a lodge and for their room to be a cabin. It was…private. With a lovely view of a small lake, the lights of the lodge barely glowing in the distance. Some might say it was very, very, very romantic. But not Buck! He had vowed to keep his thoughts totally platonic, and so far he was succeeding. Maybe not totally, but definitely mostly.

It wasn’t helping that there was only one bed, that felt like the focal point of the whole cabin. Or maybe Buck felt that way because he couldn’t stop focusing on the red rose petals that were dusted all over the lush looking comforter. When he first noticed the roses, his eyes shot to Tommy, who looked awed by the whole setup.

Tommy glanced at him, and with a shy smile said, “It’s not too much, right? I think it’s all part of the package.”

“No, it’s, uh, so great. Very…fragrant? I’m sure it’s a big hit with all the guests. And I love roses, so. Really, it’s perfect.”

At that, Tommy blushed. Blushed! Buck was proud to admit he remained standing. Because friends don’t drop to their knees for their other friends, unless maybe they’re picking up a pen they dropped.

They decided to freshen up and try a restaurant Tommy found, with an outdoor seating area complete with twinkle lights and a small band playing. After they settled at their table, Buck was once again struck by the thought that all of this could be considered romantic by some. But Buck was built different.

“You know, I was a little surprised you agreed to this. I was worried it would be too much, too fast,” Tommy admitted after they finished their meal. He gazed at Buck, and Buck couldn’t help but gaze back. Friends gazed at each other, right?

“I, uh, I’m a little surprised you asked me, to be honest. I know you said you always wanted to bring someone here, so I’m honored you picked me,” he said as his eyes dropped to the glass of wine he was twirling in his hand. “I hope this trip is everything you want it to be,” Buck murmured.

“It’s already so much more, Evan,” Tommy said on an exhale. “I really, I think it’s going to be good. For us.”

Buck felt his strictly platonic resolve melting as he felt his cheeks blush. The restaurant was romantic enough in its own, but now Tommy was saying things that could definitely be considered romantic. If not for the fact that he was saying them to his friend. Maybe Tommy doesn’t realize? Does he talk to all his friends like that?

Buck desperately needed a distraction.

“Do you want to check out the band? They sound pretty good,” Buck nodded over to the corner of the deck with a small stage set up. There was an area cleared for dancing, with some couples already dancing. Buck wondered if any of them were just friends.

Tommy stood and extended his hand, “Can I have this dance?” Buck swallowed and took his hand, allowing him to lead them to the dance floor. He stumbled a little as Tommy suddenly stopped and turned around, and he caught himself with one hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy took his other hand and pulled him even closer, and placed his own at Buck’s waist. He hummed quietly to the music as they began to slowly spin around the floor.

Buck could barely breath, let alone think. He was closer to Tommy than he had been in months. Probably since that last night they spent together, before he messed it all up the next morning. He was trying so hard to be good, to keep his feelings in check, but he missed this so much. His eyes slipped closed as he leaned his temple against Tommy’s. Time seemed to slow, and the music faded. He was with Tommy, and that was all that really mattered.

After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, Buck felt Tommy lean back and his eyes fluttered open. Tommy looked at him softly and his breath hitched as Tommy swayed toward him, nudging their noses together before pressing their lips together. Buck immediately and completely melted into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Tommy’s lower back. One of Tommy’s hand settled on Buck’s neck, and he carded his the fingers of the other through Buck’s curls.

Buck pushed into him harder, trusting Tommy to keep them upright. He wanted him to pull on his hair, wanted him to leave marks, so in the morning he would know this wasn’t all just a dream. He was kissing Tommy again. Kissing Tommy, his—Buck reared back. No, no, no, no, no.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Buck felt so frustrated with himself he could cry. He was going to lose Tommy again.

“I, I, we shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry. I should, I need to—“ Buck gestured over his shoulder and spun around, taking off for the exit.

Leaving Tommy, his friend, alone on the dance floor.

—

Tagging some peeps, I hope you like it 💕

(please let me know if you don’t want to be tagged)

@politenotice @andrew-dwyer @comfortingevanbuckley @aringofsalt @here-there-be-fics @derangedsynthpop @obitez @kinardnatural @beckym2001 @dornigetulpe @fierybuck @hcrm @partofthelouniverse

[sleevebuscemii]

.

[arolesbianism]

Vibrates. Normal. I'm normal. I'm so normal.

[crushedsweets]

CREEPED VISUAL NOVEL Link, tutorial, extra art, Q&A, some chatter

The CREEPED Prologue is completely free and browser-ready. Gameplay is about 10 minutes. Please read the "tutorial" and notes before playing!

Follow Y/N and their dog, Max, through their grandparents' farm and a mysterious forest filled with...less than fortunate people!

PLAY HERE; works best on PC

This visual novel is powered by GOOGLE SLIDES! It has 0 programming and was created by one person in a little over a month, so please bear with any "bugs" and clunkiness!

TUTORIAL

>Click using mouse/trackpad >Go slowly to not break game >Do not use arrow or space keys

EXTRA NOTES:

>Works best on PC/Browser, I haven't tested the full game on mobile yet >In general, clicking the PNGs on the textbox (Apple, Teddy Bear, Hatchet, etc) will lead you to the right page >If you land on a page that tells you to "go back," that's when you should click the back-arrow key. If your cursor disappears, it doesn't register the click correctly >I recommend moving your cursor periodically to avoid it disappearing and sending you to the wrong page

EXTRA ART

some WIPS and the original sprite-style i was gonna choose LOOOOOOOL

Q&A

Q: Is this an x reader? A: This is a reader-insert, but it's not romantic and I try to keep it as neutral and unidentifiable as possible! Q: What's the plot? A: GENERALLY AND WITHOUT SPOILERS, your dog gets you into trouble and you're just looking to help him!

Q: Who is in the prologue? A: Tim, Brian, Toby, and Kate! More will be added in future chapters.

Q: When will future chapters be posted? A: Not sure! This took me about a month to do, and half was spent over winter break. I will try to get chapter 1 posted before summer, but I am a full-time student, employed, have extracurriculars, etc etc

ok thats all i only remember 4 questions feel free to ask more LMAO

CHATTER(because you know i can talk forever)

ok i just wanted to be able to talk about how the process was with this and how i feel about the results and whatnot...

ive been wanting to make a google slides visual novel since i was like 13 LOL it hit the point where i was repeatedly told i should just learn to code but i was like NOOOOO ITS GOTTA BE GOOGLE SLIDESSSS which is totally stupid but hey. i think that gives it some sort of simple charm that reminds me of being 16 and doing little projects in my room LOL i like working with the easiest tools . my bad

anyway. im just very happy LOL. it's not perfect but i feel like i came full circle in a sense?!?! i've been into creepypasta since i was 9 and it comforted me when things were really hard, and when i was 18 i was going through a really hard time and got back into creepypasta as a way to distract myself. i've always had a habit of throwing myself into fiction for escapism when things suuucked.

i'm 20 now but i've met SO many amazing people, had so many fun awesome exciting projects with friends, created tons of stuff im proud of, felt more motivated to create since i was like 13, have been inspired by so many amazing artists/authors on here, etc. just so so so lucky to find community in such a tight-knit cute fandom that thrives off of creativity and playing around! i hope i can keep the momentum and make a couple more chapters this year, but im kinda busy with school and work...LOL . i'm just excited to have this posted so i can have more discussion about it T_T

anyway thank you if you read this far and thank you if you played etc etc yaahhhhhh omg ok BYE THIS IS SO EMBARRASSING im just so grateful to be in this fandom

[sonrium]

DP X DC: A Minor Drinking Problem

Phantom is a relatively new member of the JLA, but it's been a few months, and things are settling in well. He's shy and polite but is a master of the snark with villains.

Before a big mission, the all hands on deck kind, everyone is talking about scars and the crazy stories behind them to distract from the coming fight. Danny, finally feeling like he can join in the conversation with all these adult heroes, pulls off his right glove to show a pretty gnarly scar on the back of his wrist. “I got this one when I fought a guy from the Revolutionary War a few weeks ago! Didn't think he'd charge me with a bayonet.” He shares a couple more stories and scars, but only the ones that he can easily show off.

Because of stories like that and some historical depictions of Phantom from different time periods, they think he's this ancient and powerful immortal that just looks like a teenager, it wouldnt be the first time. He's powerful enough to go toe to toe with Superman, so there's no way he's actually a kid. He even sometimes has the haunted, world weary eyes that their most hardened members only get after experiencing too much. Danny, being our lovable, obliviously dense idiot, has not realized that they think he's an ancient being.

After the mission concludes -it was a rough one-, the JLA celebrate their victory with a couple drinks back at the watch tower. Danny is understandably uncomfortable with this whole situation and keeps asking, “Are you sure I should be here?” They reassure him it's fine as they pass around beers, which Danny politely declines several times. Danny eventually sees this as the perfect chance to pad his blackmail folders on his inebriated coworkers.

Anyway, as the night goes on, they have a good time, but Phantom still hasn't gotten a drink like the rest of them, and Green Lantern (or hero of your choice) really wants their shy friend to come out of his shell. So, he slams an open beer bottle on the coffee table in front of Phantom. “Come on Phantom! Let loose a little. Celebrate!”

“Dude! What the hell?! I'm 16! That's illegal!” Phantom squeaks in shock.

“We don't care how old you were when you died. It's how long you've been a ghost that counts.” Flash slings an arm around Danny's shoulders from where he’s sat next to him on the couch. Flash can't get drunk, but he also thinks it would be fun to see their uptight new member drunk.

“That's even worse! You'd be giving alcohol to a two year old!” Phantom is horrified that his coworkers are so casually breaking the law.

“But you said you fought in the Revolutionary War this morning!” Green Lantern said with his eyebrows knit in confusion.

“No, I said I fought someone from the Revolutionary War. As in, the ghost of someone from the revolutionary war!”

“You can't pull that on us. There's murals and stuff of you from thousands of years ago.” The Flash waves off with a laugh.

Phantom’s finger presses painfully hard into Flash’s chest. “I do not need to explain time travel to you of all people. My mentor hates you, and I'm STILL sent on missions constantly to clean up your messes.” Phantom's clear and low. Flash liked it better when he was shouting and not staring him down like a predator with narrowed eyes.

(This random idea popped into my head. It made me laugh, so I thought you might, too. Here you go!)

[harrylights]

.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 13: February 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, Me trying to write therapy sessions.

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

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Daniel Ricciardo, Carlos Sainz, Lewis Hamilton)

Lando: ok wait, are we sending flowers??

Oscar: flowers seem good

Daniel: FLOWERS YES but like what KIND of flowers

Lando: nothing too funeral Lando: nothing too romantic Lando: nothing too "you almost died but like in a chill way"

Lewis: you guys are the worst crisis team I’ve ever seen

Oscar: YOU’RE IN THIS TOO LEWIS

Lewis: i’m saying it with love.

Daniel: ok no roses…roses feel wrong

Carlos: no lilies either, too funeral

Lando: sunflowers??

Oscar: too happy Oscar: feels like "yay you survived!" party energy

Daniel: small soft bouquet?

Lewis: yeah Lewis: something like daisies Lewis: baby’s breath Lewis: stuff that feels gentle

Oscar: Lewis Hamilton out here secretly a florist

Lando: I KNEW IT

Lewis: I just have better taste than you idiots.

Carlos: confirmed.

Daniel: ok so like gentle happy survival flowers

Oscar: can we also send cookies?

Lando: yesssssssss

Lewis: i’m ordering them now Lewis: no glitter. Lewis: no weird colors. Lewis: keep it simple.

Daniel: who’s writing the card???

Lando: "Dear Belle: Sorry the world is trash. Love, some idiots who are rooting for you."

Oscar: perfect.

Carlos: send it.

***

Text Messages: Daniel Ricciardo & Max Verstappen

Daniel: Hey mate. Daniel:  Just heard from Lewis what happened last night. Daniel:  Wanted to check — is Belle okay?

Max: Yeah. Mild concussion. Some bruises. They kept her overnight for observation. She’s home now. Resting.

Daniel: Fuck, man. Daniel:  I’m glad she’s alright. Daniel:  That must’ve been scary as hell.

Max: It was.

Daniel: If you need anything. Daniel:  Or if she needs anything. Daniel:  You know — groceries, errands, new car — whatever. Daniel:  We’re all around.

Max: Appreciate it. Thanks, mate.

Daniel: Seriously, anything. Daniel:  Give her a hug from all of us, yeah? We’ll send flowers. Oscar insisted on Cookies too. 

Max: I’ll tell her. She’ll appreciate it.

Daniel: Good. Tell her we’re all thinking about her. ***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Arthur: Hey, can you grab croissants on your way over?

Charles: And coffee. Please.

Lorenzo: Maman needs flowers for her lunch today.

Pascale: Isabelle, mon ange, if you have time, could you pick up some things from the market?

Isabelle: Yeah, no. Can’t. I was in a car accident last night.

Arthur: ???

Charles: WHAT.

Lorenzo: What do you mean you were in a car accident???

Arthur: This better not be a joke.

Isabelle: I’m fine. A drunk driver ran a red light and hit me. I spent the night in the hospital for observation, but I’m okay.

Pascale: WHY AM I ONLY HEARING ABOUT THIS NOW?

Arthur: Yeah, kinda rude to just drop that on us.

Isabelle: EXCUSE ME???

Charles: Were you driving too fast?

Isabelle: NO.

Arthur: Were you on your phone?

Isabelle: IT WASN’T MY FAULT.

Lorenzo: But are you sure you weren’t distracted?

Isabelle: I swear to God.

Charles: Okay, okay. Do you need anything?

Isabelle: Just rest.

Arthur: Sooo… no croissants?

Isabelle: ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW.

Arthur: Just asking.

Pascale: Isabelle, you should have told me immediately.

Isabelle: It was the middle of the night!

Lorenzo: You still could have texted.

Charles: Next time, at least let us know sooner.

Isabelle: Next time??? Do you think I PLAN to get hit by a car???

Arthur: …so that’s a no on the croissants?

***

Isabelle was curled up on their couch, a blanket over her lap, her hair still a little messy from sleep and bruises peeking out from under the neckline of his hoodie. She was nursing a cup of tea when Max came in from the kitchen with her breakfast.

“Here,” he said softly, setting the tray in front of her. “Eat something.”

She smiled up at him, touched. “Thank you.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, but as he sat next to her, she noticed his eyes drift toward her phone, still open to the Leclerc family group chat.

Max squinted.

“What’s that?” he asked, his tone already shifting.

Isabelle blinked. “Oh. Just my brothers being… them.”

Max, already suspicious, plucked the phone gently from her lap before she could stop him.

Scrolled. Read.

And then he went absolutely still.

When she finally looked at him, his entire body was tight with anger. Not explosive. Not loud.

Cold.  Sharp.  Deadly.

“They’re asking about croissants?” Max said, voice low and dangerous. “After you spent the night in the hospital?”

Isabelle opened her mouth. Closed it. Shrugged helplessly.

Max stood up abruptly, pacing a few steps across the living room like he needed to physically shake off the fury vibrating through him.

“They’re angry at you?” Max said incredulously. “For not calling them? After you got fucking hit by a drunk driver?”

Isabelle flinched. Not because he was yelling — he wasn’t.  Max’s voice had dropped into that awful, simmering tone he only used when he was one second from completely losing it.

“They’re blaming you?” he said, his voice rising just slightly, like he couldn't believe the words as they left his mouth. "Like you did something wrong?"

"It’s not that bad," Isabelle said automatically.

Max spun to face her. His expression was something brutal and raw.  "Don't," he snapped. "Don't defend them."

Isabelle curled tighter into herself, clutching the tea like it was a shield.

"They don’t mean it like that," she said weakly.

Max crossed the room in three strides, crouching in front of her again, his hands gentle even when his voice wasn’t.

"Belle," he said, fierce and low. "You could have died. You could have been killed. And their first reaction was to demand coffee and flowers and fucking croissants? To scold you like a child?"

Isabelle looked down, her throat burning.

Max caught her chin lightly, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"You are not their errand girl," he said, every word knife-edged. "You are not an afterthought. You are not disposable."

Tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them.

Max’s face softened instantly.

He pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe — but she didn't want to breathe anywhere else anyway.

Max let out a breath through his nose, still fuming. “Next time something happens, you tell me before you tell them. Actually—just always tell me first.”

“I did.”

That made him pause.

She looked up at him, soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You were the first and only person I called.”

The fight in Max deflated just a little. His jaw relaxed, and his shoulders slumped as he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’ll never make you explain why your pain is valid.”

Isabelle pressed a kiss to his jaw, and despite the aches and bruises, she felt lighter somehow. Safer. Seen.

Max kissed the top of her head again, his voice low against her hair.

***

Text Messages: Sebastian Vettel & Max Verstappen

Sebastian: Hey, Max. I heard about what happened in Monaco. Isabelle okay?

Max: ... How do you—

Sebastian: Lewis.

Max: Of course.

Sebastian: He didn’t say much. Just that it was bad. And that you were with her. I figured I should check in.

Max: She’s alright. Concussion. Bruises. Scared the hell out of me, but she’s recovering. Resting at home now.

Sebastian: Good. I’m glad she’s safe. And I’m glad she has you.

Max: Thanks. Really.

Sebastian: Brave of you, keeping it from Charles. Man’s got a temper.

Max: So do I.

Sebastian: 😅 Fair enough. Sebastian:  But seriously — that’s not an easy line to walk. Sebastian:  Keeping something that important private.

Max: It’s not about him. It’s about her. She’s not ready for them to know. I’ll wait until she is. Whatever it takes.

Sebastian: Good. You’re doing the right thing. Sebastian:  (And honestly... I don’t think Charles deserves to know until she’s ready to make him see her properly.)

Max: Agreed.

Sebastian: If you need anything — if she does — let me know. Tell her I’m thinking of her.

Max: I will. She’ll appreciate that. She always liked you, you know.

Sebastian: I like her, too. Always thought she was the strongest Leclerc. Even if no one noticed.

Max: I noticed.

Sebastian: I know. That’s why she’s with you.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: Hey. Wanted you to hear it from me. Belle was in a car accident last night. Drunk Driver T-boned her. 

Emilie: WHAT. Emilie: WHAT DO YOU MEAN. Emilie: IS SHE OKAY???

Max: She’s okay. Bruised, mild concussion. No serious injuries. She’s home now. Resting.

Emilie: Max. You can’t just DROP that on me. I nearly had a heart attack.

Max: Sorry. Didn’t want you finding out through someone else.

Emilie: Thank you for telling me. Is she... really okay? I mean, really?

Max: She’s shaken. But the Volvo did it’s job. It could be so much worse.  

Emilie: Good. Emilie:  Protect her, Max. Or I’ll break your kneecaps. (With love.)

Max: Would expect nothing less from you.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW.

Isabelle: Hi??

Emilie: DON'T "hi" me. Emilie: I just found out you were in a CAR CRASH??? Emilie: A drunk driver hit you?? Emilie: AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME???

Isabelle: I was going to... Isabelle: I just didn’t want to worry you. I’m okay. Isabelle: Bruises, concussion. That’s it. I promise.

Emilie: Isabelle. Emilie: You’re literally my favorite human being on this planet. Emilie: You do not get to almost die and then not tell me.

Isabelle: 🥺

Isabelle: I’m sorry. Isabelle: I really am. Isabelle: It was just a lot last night. And Max was already there and—

Emilie: WAIT. Emilie: Max was there?? Emilie: You called him first???

Isabelle: ... Yeah.

Emilie: 😭😭😭😭 Emilie: Okay. Fine. Emilie: At least SOMEONE was looking after you. Emilie: (Still a little bit furious tho.)

Isabelle: I deserve that. I’m sorry.

Emilie: You are not allowed to apologize for getting hit by a drunk driver you absolute gremlin. Emilie: I’m just glad you’re okay. Emilie: (And also kinda glad Max is apparently ready to physically fight Monaco if needed.)

Isabelle: He’s very serious about it 😅

Emilie: Good. Emilie: You deserve people who take your safety personally. Emilie: And you deserve better than people who think you should apologize for surviving.

Isabelle: 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 Love you.

Emilie: Love you more, Belle. Emilie: See you soon. Emilie: (Also, Max better share the couch or I will fight him.)

Isabelle: 😂 I’ll warn him.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Hey. Need to tell you something.

Victoria: Everything okay??

Max: Yeah. Now it is. Max: Belle was in a car accident. Drunk driver hit her.

Victoria: WHAT. Is she okay????

Max: Yeah. Concussion. Some bruises. She’s home now. Safe.

Victoria: Oh my god. Max. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?

Max: Took a few years off my life. But yeah. Better now.

Victoria: I can’t even imagine. Seeing something like that happen to someone you love... Victoria: I remember when you crashed in Silverstone…For a moment it just…that feeling. That helplessness.  Like the world could just... rip the person you love away from you at any second. I know what that feels like.

Max: Yeah. Exactly that. One second everything’s normal. Max: Next second you’re standing in a hospital room wondering how you’re supposed to keep breathing if they don’t.

Max: Feels like everything inside me cracked open at once. Max: I’m never letting anything happen to her again. Max: I don’t care what I have to do.

Victoria: You can’t protect her from everything, Maxie. I wish we could. But you’re doing the most important thing already. You’re there. You love her. You make her feel safe. That’s more than enough.

Max: Sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough.

Victoria: It always feels like that when you really love someone. It’s the cost. But it’s worth it.

Victoria: She’s lucky to have you. And you’re lucky to have her.

Max: I know.

Victoria: Give her a hug from me. And Max?

Max: Yeah?

Victoria: Give yourself a little grace too. You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to love her that much.

Max: Thanks, Vic.

Victoria: Always.

***

The apartment was dim and warm, the only light coming from the small lamp in the corner. One cat was sprawled across Max’s legs, purring softly; the other had wedged itself stubbornly against the arm of the couch.

It was quiet, comfortable — but Max barely noticed.

He was too busy keeping an eye on the hallway, listening for any sound of her.

Isabelle finally padded into the living room, wearing one of his hoodies and soft pajama shorts, her hair damp from a shower. She carried a mug of chamomile tea between her hands like it was a lifeline.

Max’s chest tightened when he saw the bruises — angry marks along her collarbone, a purple smear near her temple just so peeking out from underneath the bandage that covered her stitches — but she looked a little better.

Softer around the edges.

Steadier.

She settled in beside him without hesitation, leaning lightly into his side.

“Hey,” she said, voice gentle and tired but still teasing, still her. “What are we doing for Valentine’s Day tonight?”

Max blinked down at her like she had asked him if he wanted to fight a bull barehanded.

He set the remote down and turned fully toward her.

“Nothing,” he said firmly. “You’re resting.”

Belle blinked, surprised. “Nothing?”

“You got out of the hospital this morning, Schatje,” Max said, brushing his knuckles carefully along her jaw. “You’re bruised, concussed, exhausted. You’re not putting on a dress or pretending you have the energy for anything.”

She smiled sheepishly. “I wasn’t thinking restaurant. I was thinking… I don’t know. Candlelight? Dessert? A dumb rom-com?”

Max’s heart softened instantly.

“That’s different,” he murmured. “That I can work with.”

For a moment, there was a lull — the safe kind — until Belle sighed quietly and looked down at her tea.

“I’m sorry I ruined it,” she said.

Max froze.

“What?” he asked, sharper than he meant to.

“Valentine’s,” she said, voice even quieter now. “We were supposed to have a real night. You always say you don’t care about this stuff, but you still try. And instead, I ended up in a hospital bed, and you had to spend the night watching me sleep in an awful chair.”

Max blinked at her.

Once.

Twice.

Then, without a word, he took the mug gently from her hands and set it on the table.

“Belle,” he said, low and serious, “you are absolutely insane.”

She frowned. “That’s not—”

Max cupped her face in both hands, his touch achingly tender, like he thought she might break if he wasn’t careful.

He looked at her like she had just split the world open and made everything new again.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said, voice rough with the force of it. “You scared the hell out of me. That’s all. The only thing — the only thing — I cared about yesterday was that you were still breathing.”

Belle blinked, stunned.

Max leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against hers.

“You’re here,” he whispered. “You’re breathing. You’re safe. That’s all I want.”

Belle closed her eyes tightly, a tear slipping free before she could stop it.

“I just wanted it to be special,” she mumbled.

Max pulled back just enough to see her face, his thumbs brushing lightly along her jaw.

“It is special,” he said, fierce and quiet. “You’re here. You’re with me. There’s nothing more special than that.”

He exhaled hard, trying to keep himself steady, but the fear — the pictures his mind supplied, of her bleeding and dazed in that broken car — hadn’t really left him.

“You could have died, Belle,” he said, voice shaking despite himself. “And if you think I give a fuck about Valentine’s Day after that—”

He broke off, swallowing hard.

“You’re sitting here apologizing because I didn’t get to give you overpriced flowers and a chocolate box?” Max shook his head, breathing out a shaky laugh that was half disbelief, half heartbreak.

Belle let out a breathy laugh too, her voice cracking.

“Well, when you say it like that, I sound ridiculous.”

“You are ridiculous,” Max said fondly, his voice dropping to something unbearably soft as he kissed her forehead.

“You’re my Valentine every goddamn day, Belle. You don’t have to do anything except be here.”

And as he tucked her into his side, wrapping an arm around her, Max made himself a quiet, blistering promise:

Whatever it takes — he would make sure she always had a safe place to land.

***

Alexandra Saint Mleux had always loved Valentine’s Day.

Not for the grand gestures, not for the over-the-top declarations, but for the little things.

 The small, specific ways Charles made her feel seen every year.

Last year, it had been a bracelet with a tiny charm that matched a doodle she'd made in a notebook once.

It was never about the price or the spectacle.

It was the way Charles remembered the quiet parts of her — the parts no one else seemed to notice.

Which was why she knew, before he even handed her the gift this year, that something was... off.

The box was beautiful — simple, elegant, wrapped in gold paper.  But when she opened it, it was a generic necklace. Pretty, but impersonal.

Something anyone could have picked out of a catalog.

Charles was smiling at her expectantly, the way he always did, waiting for her reaction.

And she smiled back — because she loved him, because she didn't want to ruin it — but a small, quiet ache bloomed in her chest.

It wasn't about the necklace.

It was about the feeling that something had slipped, unnoticed, between them.

They went out for dinner after — a cozy little restaurant tucked away from the paparazzi, candles flickering between them — but even there, Charles seemed... distracted.

 Tense in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

It wasn’t until dessert, when she asked casually about his family, that she got a piece of the puzzle.

"Isabelle was in a car accident," Charles said offhandedly, swirling the last of his espresso.

Alexandra's heart stuttered. "Oh my God — is she okay?"

He shrugged, too casual. "It was just a little fender bender. Nothing serious. She’s fine."

Alexandra frowned slightly. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Charles said, waving it off. "She said she was fine."

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t offer any more.

And Alexandra — who had seen the way Isabelle seemed to fold herself smaller whenever the family swirled too loudly around her — felt that same ache twist sharper.

Something told her Belle wouldn’t have made a fuss even if she wasn’t fine.

Something told her that Charles hadn’t really looked.

She said nothing, just smiled and let Charles change the subject back to racing, back to schedules, back to anything but the sister who maybe, just maybe, needed him to see her.

Alexandra tucked the necklace back into its box when she got home that night.

 It was beautiful.

 It just wasn’t quite hers.

***

The apartment smelled like coffee and something sweet.

Max had gotten up early — not because he was particularly good at mornings, or baking — but because Belle deserved something warm and comforting.

He’d managed toast, burnt only slightly, and found the last few frozen chocolate croissants buried at the back of the freezer.

Small things.

Safe things.

Belle was curled up on the couch in one of his old hoodies, knees tucked beneath her, Lilly on her lap, while Jimmy was laying on her legs and Sassy sat next to her like this was all beneath her, but was slowly inching closer, jealous to at she wasn’t getting any attention.

She looked small.

Tired.

Healing.

Max was wiping his hands on a dish towel when a knock came at the door.

He frowned, crossing the apartment in a few quick strides.

When he opened it, a delivery man stood there — arms full.

Two enormous bouquets, one a soft explosion of yellow and white, the other a careful arrangement of pink and cream roses, and a box tied up with a silky ribbon.

Max blinked.

Took the flowers and box with a muttered thanks.

Kicked the door shut behind him.

Belle looked up immediately, eyebrows lifting when she saw what he was carrying.

“What’s all that?” she asked, sitting up straighter.

Max set everything carefully down on the coffee table, tugging the little notes free from between the stems.

He read the first card — his mouth curving into a small, real smile, the kind he barely remembered how to make before her.

“This one’s from my family,” he said, tossing the card onto the table for her to see. “Flowers from my mom. Chocolate from Victoria.”

Belle’s mouth fell open slightly. “They didn’t have to—”

Max shrugged. “They wanted to.”

He kissed the top of her head before reaching for the second card, tucked between the wild, chaotic second bouquet and the neatly wrapped box underneath.

He read it, and let out a soft huff of laughter.

“And,” he added, setting the card down, “these are from the idiots.”

Belle blinked. “The idiots?”

Max leaned back against the couch, stretching his legs out lazily. “Lando, Oscar, Lewis, Carlos, Daniel. Group effort. They sent you flowers and a box of cookies.”

Belle stared at him, completely thrown.

“They said,” Max quoted dryly, “and I’m reading here, ‘Dear Belle: Sorry the world is trash. Love, some idiots who are rooting for you.’”

Belle let out a small, incredulous laugh — the first real one he’d heard from her since the hospital— and covered her face with her hands.

Max just watched her, something warm and achingly fond spreading through his chest.

When she lowered her hands, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“They’re ridiculous,” she whispered.

“They are,” Max agreed. “But they mean it.”

He shifted closer, resting his hand lightly against her thigh.

“Victoria sends her love, by the way,” he added. “Said next time you’re in the Netherlands, you’re not allowed to leave without a girls’ day.”

Belle laughed again — a softer, breathier sound this time — and toyed absently with the edge of her sleeve.

There was a pause.

A shift.

And then, almost too quietly to hear, she said:

“Your family’s starting to feel like mine too.”

Max stilled completely.

He turned, reaching for her hand instinctively, finding her fingers and curling his own around them.

Belle looked up at him, vulnerable in a way she almost never let herself be — open and a little raw, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say it out loud.

Max melted.

Utterly.

He cupped her face gently in both hands and kissed her — slow, deliberate, reverent — like he had all the time in the world just to love her properly.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was rough with emotion.

“They already think of you that way,” he whispered against her forehead. “You’re one of us, Belle. You always will be.”

She blinked fast, trying and failing to fight the tears burning her eyes.

Max just pulled her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight.

Not too tight.

Just enough.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen

Isabelle: Hi Victoria, Thank you so much for the flowers and chocolates. It really meant a lot to me. You didn’t have to do all that.

Victoria: First of all: YES I DID. Second: you’re welcome. Third: you’re stuck with us now. No returns. No exchanges. No refunds. Family policy. Love you.

Isabelle: 😭 I love you too.

Victoria: Tell Max if he doesn’t keep spoiling you, I’ll show up and do it myself. (And make it VERY public and VERY embarrassing.)

Isabelle: 😂 I’ll warn him.

Victoria: Good girl. Rest up. Heal. And when you’re ready, come visit — Lio made you a "Get Well" card and it’s mostly just glitter but the intention was pure.

Isabelle: I can’t wait to see it. Thank you, Vic. Really. For everything.

Victoria: Always, Belle. Always.

***

Text Messages: Sebastian Vettel & Kimi Räikkönen

Sebastian: You’re not going to believe this. (Or maybe you will. You’re hard to surprise.)

Kimi: Busy. Make it fast.

Sebastian: Max Verstappen is dating Isabelle Leclerc.

Kimi:  Huh. 

Sebastian: That’s it? Huh??? I just dropped a nuclear paddock secret on you!

Kimi: Not my business. If they’re happy, who cares.

Sebastian: I mean. True. But still.

Kimi: Good for them. Hope she can handle him. Not many can.

Sebastian: I think she’s the only one who can.

Kimi: Makes sense. Quiet ones are dangerous. Good match.

Sebastian: Also apparently no one in her family knows yet. Including Charles.

Kimi: Charles will cry about it. Not my problem.

Sebastian: 😂

Kimi: Tell Max if he breaks her heart I’ll run him over with a snowmobile.

Sebastian: Will pass along the message.

Kimi: Good. Busy now. Kids want ice cream. Tell Max congratulations.

Sebastian: Will do. (Enjoy the ice cream.)

Kimi: Always.

***

Max hated this.

He wasn’t even trying to pretend otherwise.

He stood by the door, suitcase packed, keys and phone in one hand, looking like someone had asked him to do the impossible instead of board a plane for pre-season testing.

Belle watched him from the couch, a blanket wrapped around her, her bruises faded now but still faintly visible under the soft lamplight.

"You have to go," she said gently, reading his mind like she always did.

Max grimaced, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I don’t like leaving you."

"You’re not leaving me," she corrected immediately, voice calm, steady.  "You’re going to work. You’re doing what you love."

Max ran a hand through his hair, visibly struggling.

"You just—" he started, then stopped.  "You just got hurt, Belle. I should be here. I should be with you."

"You are with me," she said, rising slowly from the couch and padding over to him.

She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her.

"Every time you call, every time you text, every time you think about me — you’re here," she said softly. "I’m not alone."

Max closed his eyes, leaning into her touch like he physically couldn’t help it.

"And you’ll be home before you know it," she whispered, brushing her thumbs over his cheekbones. "Then you can hover and fuss and drive me crazy again."

A reluctant, broken laugh escaped him.

"I don’t want to leave you," he said again, more quietly now.

Belle smiled, tears prickling her own eyes — because even now, even with the whole world pulling him in a thousand directions, he was still here with her first.

"You’re not leaving me," she said again. "You’re just chasing your dreams. And I’ll be right here when you get back."

Max bent his head, resting his forehead against hers.

"You’re my dream too," he whispered.

Her breath hitched.

"And you’re mine," she whispered back.

They stayed there for a long moment — just breathing together — until finally, finally, Max exhaled.

He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, like he needed to memorize her, and she kissed him back just as fiercely.

When he finally pulled away, it was with visible effort.

"Promise me you’ll rest," he said, brushing his knuckles down her cheek.

"I promise," she said. "And you — promise me you’ll drive safe. Listen to GP. Don’t try to out-stubborn the car."

Max huffed a quiet laugh. "Bossy."

"Someone has to be," she teased, smiling.

He kissed her forehead one last time, squeezed her hand, and finally — reluctantly — turned to leave.

Belle watched him go, feeling the ache of missing him before he’d even stepped outside the door.

But it was okay.

Because he would always come home to her.

And she would always, always be waiting.

***

Text Messages: Lewis Hamilton & Max Verstappen

Lewis: Mate.

Lewis: Did you just drop off a bag of stuff at my motorhome?

Max: Yeah.

Max: Belle made something for Roscoe.

Lewis: I just opened it.

Lewis: A handwritten note. And homemade vegan dog treats???

Max: She insisted.

Max: Wanted to thank you properly.

Max: Even though she’s supposed to be resting.

Lewis: I don’t even know what to say. The note made me emotional and Roscoe is probably going to try and mug me for the biscuits.

Max: Good. He deserves them.

Lewis: Tell her thank you.

Lewis: Seriously.

Lewis: She didn’t have to do anything.

Lewis: I was just in the right place at the right time.

Max: You stayed.

Max: It matters to her.

Max: It matters to me too.

Lewis: You’ve got a good one there, Max.

Lewis: Also, if Roscoe explodes with happiness, I’m sending you the vet bill.

Max: He’ll be fine. Belle double-checked the recipe three times.

***

GP had known Max Verstappen for a long time.

Long enough to recognize when something wasn’t sitting right under the surface — even when Max didn’t say a word about it.

He noticed it that morning, before Max even climbed into the car.  The slight tightness around his mouth.  The way his hands flexed once, sharply, before putting on his gloves.  The way his answers in the pre-session briefing were short, mechanical. Efficient, but colder than usual.

GP filed it away. Max would tell him when he was ready.

And he did — just after the second run of the day, in the shade behind the Red Bull garage, water bottle in one hand, telemetry printout in the other.

“She was in a crash,” Max said, his voice flat enough that if GP hadn’t been paying attention, he might have missed it.

GP frowned, stepping closer. “Who?”

Max didn’t look up.  “Belle.”

The name hit harder than GP expected.

“What happened?” he asked, more sharply now.

Max’s jaw tightened. “Drunk driver ran a red. T-boned her car. Hit the passenger side, just behind the front wheel. Sent her spinning into a light post.”

 Quiet. Clipped.  Words that barely scratched the surface of the horror GP could hear pulsing beneath them.

GP stared. “Christ. Is she—?”

“She’s alright,” Max said. “Bruised. Concussion. Hospital kept her overnight.” He paused. “But it could’ve been a lot worse.”

GP’s stomach twisted sickly.  He couldn’t — wouldn’t — let himself imagine Max getting that phone call in the middle of the night. Wouldn’t let himself imagine what it must’ve felt like to walk into a hospital room and see Belle curled up in a stark white bed.

And then Max said, in that same low, steady voice that somehow carried more weight than shouting ever could:

“The Volvo you helped me pick out for her? It saved her life.”

GP went still.

The memory flickered: Max months ago, texting him…asking for his opinion. 

Just buy her a Volvo. Safe. Reliable. Built to last. Also one of the best crash-tested brands in the world. You did say you were thinking about kids, right?

And now — thank god — Belle was still breathing because of it.

GP swallowed thickly, feeling a knot loosen somewhere deep in his chest.

“Thank fuck,” he said hoarsely.

Max gave a short nod.  No dramatics. No sentimentality.

But GP could feel the magnitude of it radiating off him like heat off the tarmac.

This — this — was the side of Max Verstappen few people ever saw.  The side that loved without conditions.  That protected without compromise.

“Thank you,” Max said quietly. 

No dramatics. No fuss.  Just that heavy, quiet sincerity Max reserved for the rarest moments.

GP reached out and clapped a hand to his shoulder — a solid, grounding gesture — knowing Max didn’t need anything else from him right now.

"I’d do it again tomorrow," GP said.

Max nodded again, and GP watched him turn back toward the data screens, pulling his headset on, ready to work like nothing had happened.

But GP knew better.

Max had always raced like he had something to prove.  Now, this season, he was racing with something to protect.

And GP would make damn sure everything — the car, the strategy, the team — was ready for that fight.

Then there was no margin for error anymore.

Not even a sliver.

He pulled his headset back over his ears and keyed into the comms with a calmness he didn’t entirely feel.

“Let’s run another systems check before lunch,” he said smoothly.  “And someone triple-check the safety settings while you’re at it.”

The comm crackled to life with quick affirmatives.

***

Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Eloisa Lambiase

GP: We’re getting you a new car.

Eloisa: ???

Eloisa: Good morning to you too?

Eloisa: What’s wrong with my car?

GP: Not safe enough.

Eloisa: You’re the one who picked it out, love.

GP: Doesn’t matter.

GP: We’re upgrading.

Eloisa: Did something happen?

GP: Yeah.

GP: Belle — Max’s Belle — she was in a crash last week.

GP: Drunk driver ran a light.

Eloisa: Oh my god.

Eloisa: Is she okay???

GP: Shaken. Concussed. But alive.

GP: Because she was driving the Volvo Max bought her.

GP: The one I told him to get.

Eloisa: Oh.

GP: Yeah. That’s why we’re getting you a better car.

Eloisa: Gianni…

GP: No arguments.

GP: Please.

Eloisa: …okay.

Eloisa: But only if I get to pick the color this time.

GP: Deal.

GP: Something with five stars on every crash test rating.

GP: I’m sending you options this afternoon.

Eloisa:  (And coffee. You owe me coffee for giving me a heart attack.)

GP: Already on it.

GP: Triple order.

GP: Love you.

Eloisa: Love you too, you giant overprotective marshmallow

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Max: We need to get you a new car.

Isabelle: Max, I’m fine.

Isabelle: The Volvo did its job.

Max: Exactly. Which is why we’re getting another one.

Isabelle: You’re serious?

Max: Volvo customer for life now. I’m about to put their logo on my helmet at this point.

Isabelle: You’re ridiculous.

Max: Not taking chances, Schatje.

Max: Same model or you want to pick something else?

Isabelle: …I did love that car.

Max: Same brand, non-negotiable. Colour’s up to you. Same as before or something different?

Isabelle: Honestly? I liked the old one. That dark green felt like me.

Max: Then we’ll stick with it. Dark green it is.

Isabelle: You don’t have to do all this, Max.

Max: I do. I’m not letting you drive anything that isn’t built like a tank.

Isabelle: You’re going to spoil me until I forget how to function on my own.

Max: That’s the plan.

Isabelle: You’re impossible.

Max: You love me.

Isabelle: Very much.

Max: Fortunately, it’s mutual.

Isabelle: Fine. Dark green Volvo. But I’m picking the air freshener this time.

Max: Deal. As long as it’s not something that smells like cupcakes.

Isabelle: No promises. And it was strawberry. 

Isabelle: Consider it payback for forcing me into an indestructible Swedish fortress.

Max: Best decision I ever made. Second only to falling in love with you.

Isabelle: You’re dangerous when you’re sweet.

Max: Only for you.

***

Alexandra wandered the halls, pretending to admire a modern art installation while covertly people-watching — one of her favorite pastimes when the pace of life let her slip out of the Ferrari bubble for a few hours.

She was standing near a collection of minimalist sculptures when she caught snippets of a conversation between two women nearby, both well-dressed, deep in quiet, intense discussion.

"I still can't believe it," one woman murmured, her voice low but urgent. "She could have been killed. Did you see the photos? That car was destroyed."

Her friend nodded, wide-eyed.  "Near the tunnel, right? Total mess. And poor Isabelle  — I mean, she's so sweet. She did that whole project for our office last year."

Alexandra’s heart stopped.

She took a tiny step closer, pretending to examine the sculpture in front of her.

"Isabelle Leclerc," the first woman said again, confirming what Alexandra already knew. "Such a shame. She's so talented. And to walk away from something like that — it’s a miracle, really. They said the drunk driver didn’t even hit the brakes."

Alexandra felt her stomach churn.

Destroyed.  Miracle.  No brakes.

That didn’t sound like a fender bender.

That didn’t sound like "nothing."

Another man chimed in, sounding grim. "I heard the paramedics said it was a miracle she didn’t have internal injuries. They were worried about a collapsed lung at first."

Alexandra blinked hard, the art blurring in front of her.

Collapsed lung.

Not a fender bender.

Not nothing serious.

She pressed her lips together, hands curling slightly at her sides.

The women moved on, voices fading into the low hum of the gallery, but Alexandra stayed frozen in place for a long moment.

When Charles had told her about the accident, he’d been so casual. So dismissive.

Alexandra swallowed hard against the knot forming in her throat.

Isabelle hadn't been fine.

Isabelle had survived something horrific.

And Charles — either through ignorance or unwillingness — had looked the other way.

Again.

Alexandra didn’t know what bothered her more: the fact that Charles hadn't seen it, or the gnawing fear that maybe he did — and just didn’t know what to do with the parts of his sister that didn’t fit into the neat, tidy picture of the world he needed to believe in.

She glanced down at her phone, thumb hovering over Isabelle name in her contacts.

For a moment, she debated it — reaching out, saying something, offering something.

But what could she offer that wouldn't sound hollow?

Her family saw her as nothing more than background noise and Alexandra loathed to admit that she was guilty of the same on more than a few occasions. 

It was just…so easy not to think about Isabelle. Which sounded horrible, the longer she examined that thought. 

Isabelle was so happy in the background, so sweet and kind in a way that never seemed to want any kind of attention for it. 

 So easy to overlook. 

***

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint Mleux & Charlotte Di Pietro

Alexandra: Hey, random question. Did you know how bad Isabelle’s car accident actually was?

Charlotte: ?? I thought it was minor? That’s what Lorenzo said when I asked.

Alexandra: It wasn’t. I overheard people talking at the gallery tonight. Paramedics thought she might have had a collapsed lung. Car was totaled. Impact was bad — drunk driver didn’t even brake.

Charlotte: No one told me any of that. Lorenzo made it sound like a dented door and a headache.

Alexandra: Yeah. Charles too. He brushed it off like it was nothing.

Charlotte: …They’re acting like it’s an inconvenience.

Alexandra: Exactly. It’s been sitting wrong with me all night. Like there’s something broken there that no one’s talking about.

Charlotte: Maybe. But I do know they love her.

Alexandra: I don’t doubt that. But love isn’t the same as seeing someone. I’m not sure they know how to see her properly.

Alexandra: I am not sure we know how to see her properly. None of us thought to invite her to lunch…you know, when we ran into her. 

Charlotte: You are right…They aren’t the only ones guilty of forgetting her…

Charlotte: Speaking of forgetting. 

Charlotte: Guess who forgot about Valentine’s Day until the morning off. 

Alexandra: Oh? (Spill.)

Charlotte: Valentine’s Day. Lorenzo didn’t plan anything. Literally nothing.

He said, "Well, it didn’t feel like a big deal this year."

Charlotte: Later he grumbled that "normally Belle helps" and "everything feels off without her."

Alexandra: Wait, what?

Charlotte: Yeah. Apparently Belle used to remind them, plan ideas, even organize half the stuff so they wouldn’t forget.

Alexandra: …Oh my god. Alexandra: That tracks. Alexandra: You know, her friend once joked that Isabelle was the one who bought all my birthday presents from Charles.

Charlotte: Wait, seriously??

Alexandra: Apparently. Alexandra: I didn’t take it seriously at the time — Alexandra: Thought it was just teasing. Alexandra: But now… Maybe it was true.

Charlotte: She shouldn’t have to carry everyone. Charlotte: It’s not fair.

Alexandra: No, it’s not. Maybe it’s a good thing they’re feeling the consequences now.

Charlotte: Let them sit in it. They need to learn.

Alexandra: Agreed.

Charlotte: (Also. Are you ready for Arthur's dramatic downfall?)

Alexandra: LOL. The girlfriend disaster?

Charlotte: The girlfriend disaster. At this point, I’m tempted to bet how long until he posts a sad song on Instagram.

Alexandra: 100 euros says it’s before Thursday. Bonus points if he posts cryptic black-and-white stories too. With quotes he definitely doesn’t understand.

Charlotte: You’re on.

Alexandra: God help us all.

***

The Bahrain paddock buzzed under the heavy sun — mechanics shouting, tires rolling, the faint scent of burning rubber hanging in the air.

Charles leaned against the barrier separating the hospitality areas, sipping from a bottle of water as he chatted with Pierre, both of them still in their race suits, unzipped halfway down against the heat.

Pierre had just casually asked, somewhere between a joke and genuine concern, "Hey, by the way — your sister’s alright, yeah? Heard she had some kind of accident?"

Charles waved it off immediately, flashing a small, tight smile.  "Ah, yes. Isabelle is fine. Just a little fender bender."

Pierre nodded, a little relieved but still wary. "Good. Glad she’s okay. Monaco drivers, man."

Charles laughed lightly. "Exactly. Probably more dangerous in the city than on track."

But before he could say anything else, a voice cut through the air, calm and deliberate.

"It wasn’t a fender bender, Charles."

Charles blinked, turning instinctively toward the sound.

Lewis Hamilton stood a few feet away, gloves dangling loosely from his fingers, expression unreadable.

Charles frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

Lewis shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his chest. "I was there."

The words dropped like stones into Charles’ stomach.

"I saw the crash," Lewis continued, voice low and even. "Drunk driver ran a red light. Slammed into her side full speed. Spun her into a pole. The car was totaled."

Charles opened his mouth — but no words came out.

Lewis wasn’t finished. "Isabelle was trapped in the car. Shocky. Barely able to talk. I called the ambulance. Stayed with her until they got there."

Charles’ heart kicked hard against his ribs, cold and sickening.

He tried — for a second — to picture Isabelle in that moment.

 Tried to imagine her small body pinned in a wrecked car, blood trickling down her forehead, gasping for breath.

It made something twist inside him — sharp and ugly and guilty.

"She’s lucky she survived," Lewis said quietly. "Don’t call it a fender bender."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Lewis gave him one last look — not angry, not cruel — just disappointed.  And then he turned, walking away toward the Mercedes garage without another word.

Charles stood frozen in place.

Pierre cleared his throat awkwardly after a beat. "Uh," he said lightly, "maybe you should... check on her properly. Yeah?"

Charles didn’t answer.

He just stood there, staring after Lewis, feeling — for the first time in a long time — the uncomfortable, foreign sensation of having missed something important.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Daniel Ricciardo, Carlos Sainz and Lewis Hamilton)

Lewis: Guys. GUYS.

Oscar: uh oh

Lando: what happened now

Lewis: Charles just called Isabelle’s crash a "fender bender." fender bender. LIKE. MINOR. INSIGNIFICANT.

Daniel: ...oh no.

Lewis: IT WAS BAD. Lewis: Bad enough that the car was crushed against a streetlamp. Lewis: Bad enough that she couldn’t even get the door open. Lewis: Bad enough that she was shivering and barely breathing and covered in cuts and glass.

Lando: Lewis is going full caps lock. This is bad.

Oscar: It’s worse than bad. He’s spiraling.

Lewis: I WATCHED HER BLEEDING IN A BROKEN CAR. Lewis: I HELD HER HAND UNTIL THE PARAMEDICS GOT THERE. Lewis: AND CHARLES IS OUT HERE LIKE "lol oopsie minor incident"????

Daniel: Breathe mate Breathe

Carlos: Yeah, deep breaths. We need you alive.

Lewis: HE CALLED IT A FENDER BENDER. I AM GOING TO LAUNCH HIM INTO THE SUN

Oscar: Not before Max does.

Lando: Max is gonna find out eventually and we will ALL need to evacuate Monaco

Lewis: I literally saw it. Lewis: I thought she was dead for a second. Lewis: And Charles didn’t even know how bad it was. Lewis: Didn’t even ask. Lewis: Didn’t even CARE.

Daniel: You okay mate?? Do you need snacks?? Or wine??

Carlos: Or a punching bag???

Oscar: Or a very large blunt object???

Lewis: I need Charles to grow a brain cell.

Carlos: Welcome to the nightmare brother.

Daniel: We have t-shirts.

Lando: and wine Lando: lots of wine

Oscar: and emergency stress snacks

Lewis: I’m bringing tequila next meeting. Lewis: We’re gonna need it.

***

Leclerc Siblings Group Chat

 (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: Isabelle. Why didn’t you tell me the accident was that serious??

Isabelle: Because you didn’t ask.

Arthur: Wait what? Serious?? I thought it was a little crash?

Charles: It wasn’t. Lewis told me today during testing. He was THERE. He said the car was totaled. You got spun into a post. You were trapped in the car, Isabelle.

Lorenzo: What do you mean, trapped?!

Isabelle: I didn’t want to worry anyone. I’m fine now.

Charles: You said you were fine. You made it sound like you got a scratch and drove home.

Lorenzo: That’s not the point.

Charles:  You lied to us.

Isabelle: I didn’t lie. I said I had a concussion and bruises. And spent the night in the hospital. Which was all true. I said I was okay. Because I am.

Lorenzo: Isabelle, why didn’t you say anything?

Isabelle: Because I knew this would happen.

Isabelle:  Exactly this.

Isabelle:  You’d all get angry or guilt-trip me or turn it into something about you.

Charles: Of course we’re angry!

Arthur:  You scared us, Isabelle.

Lorenzo:  Do you think Maman could handle hearing you almost died?

Lorenzo: We are not going to tell her.

Lorenzo:  I’m serious.

Lorenzo:  It would crush her.

Lorenzo:  Better she thinks it was nothing.

Isabelle: So let me get this straight.

Isabelle:  You’re mad at me for not telling you…

Isabelle:  And now you’re also deciding for me that Maman shouldn’t know?

Isabelle:  Because you think she can’t handle it?

Lorenzo: Exactly.

Isabelle: Okay. Noted.

***

Raymond Vermeulen prided himself on knowing everything about Max Verstappen’s career — both on and off the track.

It wasn’t arrogance. It was necessity.

You didn’t manage Max Verstappen successfully by being two steps behind. 

You stayed ahead. You anticipated. You knew.

Which was why, when Jos Verstappen of all people leaned over during a quiet moment at a post-testing dinner and casually said: "Max is serious about a girl,"

—Raymond almost dropped his fork.

He blinked, slowly, suspiciously.

Jos didn’t do casual. Jos didn’t mention Max’s girlfriends unless it was a complaint. Normally, the subject was treated like some embarrassing injury you didn’t talk about in polite company.

Raymond cleared his throat, playing it cool. "Oh? New?"

Jos grunted. "No. Been a while."

Raymond narrowed his eyes. "And you’re... okay with this?"

Jos shrugged. Shrugged.

Like Max Verstappen — his pride, his legacy, his entire life project — dating someone was just fine and normal.

Raymond was officially in uncharted waters.

"Who is she?" he asked carefully.

Jos reached for his beer, nonchalant. "Isabelle Leclerc."

Raymond froze mid-sip of his wine.

Isabelle. Leclerc.

As in Charles Leclerc’s little sister.

As in Ferrari’s golden boy’s little sister.

As in political nightmare fuel if the media ever got hold of it.

"You're telling me Max is dating Charles Leclerc’s sister," Raymond said slowly, like he was trying to defuse a bomb.

Jos grunted again. "Mmh."

"And you’re fine with this?" Raymond pressed.

Jos actually — God help him — almost smiled. "She's good for him."

Raymond sat back in his chair, stunned.

Not just because Max was apparently neck-deep in a secret, long-term relationship.

 Not just because it was Isabelle bloody Leclerc.

 But because Jos — notoriously impossible to please, allergic to softness — actually liked her.

Jos approved.

Raymond processed that for a long moment.

The earth hadn’t split open. The sky wasn’t falling.

Miracles did happen, apparently.

"Well," he said finally, recovering some professionalism. "That’s... good."

Jos nodded, unbothered. "She makes him happy."

Raymond exhaled slowly. If Jos was using words like happy, it was serious. Monumentally serious.

And suddenly, Raymond understood something deeper:

This wasn’t a passing thing.

This wasn’t a fling.

This was real.

Max had gone and fallen in love — quietly, stubbornly, like he did everything else — and somehow, without anyone noticing, built himself a life outside the machine of Formula One.

Raymond reached for his phone under the table.

Because if the media ever got a sniff of this, he was going to need a very detailed contingency plan.

And maybe a drink.

Or several.

***

The office was quiet.

Soft light filtered through gauzy curtains.

A pot of chamomile tea sat untouched on the side table.

Isabelle sat curled into the corner of the couch, sleeves of her sweater pulled over her hands, staring at the stitches in the rug instead of at Simone.

Simone waited.

She always waited.

Finally, Isabelle exhaled a shaky breath.

"It’s so stupid," she said quietly. "I shouldn’t be this upset. I didn’t even get badly hurt."

Simone didn’t flinch at the deflection.

She just tilted her head slightly.

"You’re allowed to be upset, Isabelle. Something frightening happened to you."

Isabelle bit her lip, fingers tightening in her sleeves.

"I didn’t even want to tell them," she said. "My family, I mean. I knew how it would go. And it did."

Simone’s voice stayed soft. "Tell me what happened."

Isabelle shrugged stiffly. "I mentioned it. Just… dropped it into the family group chat. Like ripping off a band-aid. Thought maybe they’d be a little worried, and then we’d move on… " she admitted softly. 

Simone waited again.

Isabelle’s mouth twisted bitterly.  "Arthur and Charles kept asking if I was distracted or speeding—like it was somehow my fault."

Simone’s brows furrowed slightly.

“And then a few days later, Charles found out that it wasn’t just a little fender bender. And suddenly they were angry with me. Because I didn’t tell them how bad it was. But I did. I told them that I was…I told them I had a concussion and bruises…And then Lorenzo," Isabelle continued, voice tightening, "he said—he said he wasn’t going to tell Maman. Because it would 'crush' her."

She laughed, a thin, broken sound.

"Apparently, I’m a bigger problem for them if I exist hurt than if I just… pretend everything’s fine."

Simone stayed silent, letting the words hang in the air between them.

Isabelle blinked hard, willing herself not to cry.

"It’s always been like that since Papa died," she said eventually, quieter now. "Maman either sticks her head into the sand—pretends bad things aren’t happening—or she panics. Makes everything about her fear."

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, and she pulled her knees tighter to her chest.

"So I learned to make myself smaller. Easier. Less trouble."  She smiled bitterly. "Invisible, sometimes. That’s the safest way to survive it."

Simone leaned forward slightly, her voice still low, but firm now.

"Isabelle, what happened to you wasn't your fault. Not the accident. Not your family's reaction."

Isabelle closed her eyes.

"It feels like it is," she whispered.

"It isn’t," Simone said. "You are allowed to take up space. You are allowed to be hurt. You are allowed to need help, without carrying their feelings on your back."

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Daniel Ricciardo, Carlos Sainz Jr. and Lewis Hamilton)

Lando: okay Lando: hear me out

Oscar: this is already a bad start

Lewis: absolutely not

Daniel: proceed Daniel: i love bad ideas

Lando: what if Lando: instead of everyone panicking about charles finding out Lando: we just... Lando: tell him softly???

Carlos: what the fuck does "softly" mean

Lando: like, we ease him into it Lando: drop hints Lando: plant the idea Lando: subtle Lando: caring

Oscar: you're insane.

Lewis: he'll kill us all.

Daniel: ok but i kinda wanna see where he's going with this

Carlos: no Carlos: lando’s plans never end well

Lando: NO LISTEN Lando: like maybe Lando: i casually say Lando: "hey charles did you know belle’s been hanging out with max lately" Lando: and when he starts freaking out Lando: we just Lando: soothe him Lando: with like Lando: positive reinforcement.

Oscar: you think he's a puppy???

Lewis: lando. Lewis:  this is the worst plan anyone’s ever had.

Carlos: you’re going to get us murdered.

Daniel: actually i’m free next thursday if we wanna die then.

Oscar: i vote no. Oscar: hard no. Oscar: hardest no of my life.

Carlos: softly = we still die  Carlos: but maybe slower and more painful

Lando: NO NO Lando: like Lando: we sit him down Lando: give him snacks Lando: maybe a hug Lando: and then just... you know... gently mention that max is in love with his sister

Oscar: lando.  be serious.

Lando: I am serious

Lewis: this is the worst idea i've heard in a long time

Daniel: give him snacks???  what is he, a wild animal???

Oscar: you’re going to get us killed.

Lewis: softly telling charles is still telling charles.  he’s gonna go full Leclerc rage no matter what.

Daniel: AND THEN MAX IS GOING TO KILL US

Lando: ok but hear me out again Lando: what if we tell him Lando: and then IMMEDIATELY leave the country

Oscar: i'm already packing my bags

Carlos: dibs on Spain

Lewis: i'm going to pretend i don't know any of you

Daniel: same

Daniel: i’ll be in australia by the time charles processes step one.

[littlelamy]

hii, can i request something like Rafe being obsessed with reader's tiny waist? Like he loves how it feels to grab it with both hands and have them there because how it feels, always grabbing her by there.and loving when she put on crop tops and stuff like that😄

the first time rafe notices, really notices, he’s got his hands on your waist, thumbs stroking over the soft dip like he can’t help himself.

he hums low in his throat, pressing himself just a little closer, fingertips spanning the narrow curve, palms locking around you like he was meant to hold you there. “jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “your waist is so fucking tiny.”

heat rushes to your face, to your chest, making your stomach flutter. you roll your eyes but you don’t pull away. “you’ve mentioned that before.”

“have i?” he murmurs, distracted, eyes flicking down as his hands squeeze, firm and possessive. “doesn’t matter. can’t help it.”

he keeps finding reasons to touch you there—always. walking past you in the kitchen? hands on your waist, sliding slow as he passes. pulling you into his lap? fingers digging in, thumbs pressing into your stomach. kissing you breathless? his grip tightening, pulling you flush against him so he can feel the shape of you, the way you fit perfectly in his hands.

and when you wear crop tops? fuck, it drives him insane. he can’t keep his eyes off you, can’t stop the way his fingers twitch at his sides, itching to grab you, to tug you in close and feel the bare skin under his palms.

“you do this shit on purpose,” he accuses, voice rough as he stares, his gaze heavy-lidded and dark. you’re standing in front of the mirror, adjusting your top, and his hands find your waist from behind, pressing his chest against your back. he dips his head to murmur in your ear. “wearing shit like this, knowing what it does to me.”

“what does it do to you?” you ask, innocent, teasing.

he exhales sharply, fingers tightening. “makes me wanna put my hands here,” he murmurs, thumbs stroking over your skin, “and never fucking let go.”

his breath is warm against your neck, his grip unrelenting as he tugs you even closer. “makes me wanna hold you like this all the time,” he continues, voice gravelly, “pin you against something, press my fingers in deep and see just how small you feel under me.”

his words send a shiver down your spine, your breath catching as he dips his head lower, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just below your ear. “rafe—”

“nah,” he interrupts, shaking his head slightly. “you wear these little tops, let everyone see how perfect you are, but they don’t get to touch. only me.” his fingers dig in a little, possessive. “only i get to do this.”

he spins you around then, tilting your chin up so you meet his gaze, his blue eyes dark and burning with something dangerous, something obsessive. “say it,” he murmurs.

“only you,” you whisper, breathless.

his lips curl into a satisfied smirk, his hands never leaving your waist. “damn right.”

lamy's notes: i hope you liked it!

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx

credits for divider @jiyascepter

[mariasont]

hey girlie, first of all absolutely adore all of your hotchie fics no one writes him as well as you do!! second of all i am dying to read bimbo!assistant! x hotch smuuuutt (only if ur comfortable, pls ignore if not!!) i feel like that would be the only time hotch would have her completely and utterly speechless (idk why but i literally cannot get hotch w a breeding kink out of my goddamn mind!!!!!!) anyways hope ur having a fab day, and thank u for feeding us over the last few days 😘

Space Between Distraction & Indulgence - A.H

summary: bimbo!assistant!reader want’s aaron’s attention. aaron wants to finish his case notes. too bad for him, you always get what you want

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit stuff going on here, fingering, p in v, no condom (bc we trust hotch is responsible but you shouldn’t be), dirty talk, hotch is a boob man sorry not sorry, after care with a side of psychoanalysis bc he can’t help himself

wc: 6k (got a little carried away my b)

a/n: thank u sm for requesting ugh!!!! u all r going to give me a god complex if you keep talking about how i write hotch LOLOL i love u sm hope u like the fic!!

Saturdays with Aaron had a way of making time feel like something slippery and golden, something you could almost touch before it vanished between your fingers. The mornings stretched long and languid, a lazy kind of indulgence that should have felt endless, but somehow, with him, it never was.

You woke up late. Very late. The kind of late that made you blink at the clock in mild disbelief before flopping back against the pillows. And then there was the warmth. Not just the heat of the blankets, but something deeper, something winding low in your belly.

Oh. Right. The dream. You swallowed, biting your lip as if that might make the memory dissipate. It wasn't outright filthy, but it had been suggestive enough. Annoying. Frustrating. Embarrassing. It was the kind of thing that made you wish Aaron was still in bed.

He wasn't, of course. That would require Aaron Hotchner to do something reckless and irresponsible, like relax. If he wasn't keeping the country from total collapse, he was finding something equally as urgent to fix, probably buried in reports right now, coffee in hand, eyes scanning the page like national security depended on it. And maybe it did. You didn't know.

What you did know was that you'd been circling him all afternoon, orbiting like some needy little planet trapped in his gravitational pull, and he still hadn't acknowledged you. A small part of you, one you didn't want to name, had hoped he'd notice you by now. That he'd glance up, see you, reach for you. But he hadn't. And that was okay. Really. You weren't needy. You weren't desperate.

But you noticed him. You always noticed him. And this version of him, the weekend version, was particularly hard to ignore. The casual clothes, casual for him, anyway, stomped all over your ability to think straight (not that you had much to concentrate on in the first place).

The grey crewneck he had on stretched across his shoulders, molding to the shape of him like it had been made for him. His jeans, worn in all the right places, settled on his hips in a way that made you feel like a pervert just by looking.

Even his hair had you practically drooling. Not messy, of course — Aaron Hotchner didn't do messy — but it was softer than usual, a little mussed, like he'd dragged his fingers through it one too many times without bothering to fix it.

It made him look almost touchable, like someone who should have been stretched out next to you on the couch, letting you mess it up even more, not hunched over a pile of paperwork like the case files were going to disappear if he blinked.

His forearms flexed every time he turned a page, his muscles shifting subtly every time he moved. You didn't even realize how blatantly you were staring until his fingers skimmed up to his jaw, scratching absently at the stubble there. Because now all you could think about was how it would feel under your fingertips, under your lips, under — okay. Enough.

The magazine in your lap was technically open, fingers flipping through glossy pages filled with designer gowns and scandalous headlines. Normally, you'd be all over it, sipping coffee as you devoured the who wore what and who was caught with who. But today, you weren't really reading, you were just holding it, turning pages for the sake of it. Something to occupy your hands while you definitely didn't stare at Aaron.

He had started keeping these around after you mentioned, offhandedly, how much you loved them. You hadn't even meant it as a suggestion, but the next time you visited, there it was, sitting on the coffee table like it had always been there.

He hadn't spared you so much as a glance since you walked in, not even when you'd practically drifted past his desk, close enough that he should've felt you there. He had mumbled a good morning, sure, but his eyes never left the page, his attention locked onto whatever was in that file.

You sigh, loudly. Pointedly. The kind of exaggerated little huff that normally earns you at least a glance, maybe even a what's the matter, sweetheart? There was no reaction today. He just flipped another page, one hand smoothing over the text, the other tapping against the desk like you were completely invisible.

You toss the magazine onto the table, just a little too hard. Then you stretch out on the couch, shifting just enough that his button-down rides up, baring more of your thighs than should be considered decent. The air against your skin makes you hyperaware of what isn't there, only your favorite panties. The tiniest scrap of fabric between you and absolute obscenity. If he so much as glanced in your direction, he'd have the perfect view. But he doesn't.

You sigh again, softer this time, just enough to sound absentminded, like you're not trying to get his attention (even though you absolutely are). As you push yourself off the couch, you stretch a little, giving yourself an extra moment to watch him. You make your way toward him, steps slow, letting the hem of his shirt brush against the tops of your thighs as you move. His fingers flex against the page.

You settle against the edge of his desk, bracing yourself on your elbows, making a very intentional point of pressing your tits together. It's the kind of thing that should be subtle, just a natural consequence of your posture.

Months of Aaron have taught you more than just the way he takes his coffee or how he organizes his files. You've studied him, memorized him even. And one thing has become crystal clear:

He's absolutely a boob man.

You realized it gradually, the subtle stiffening of his posture whenever you leaned a little too close in the office, the way his fingers flexed when your blouse had just a bit too much give.

Then, when you started dating, it became even clearer. His hands never just grabbed, they claimed, like he was making up for all the times he couldn't touch.

His voice would go low, reverent, when he murmured, so pretty, sweetheart, his thumb brushing over your skin like he needed to feel it. And your bras, he had thoughts about those, much to your surprise. Which ones were his favorite. Which ones he hated because they got in the way.

But it wasn't until months later, when he had you spread out beneath him, his mouth hot and urgent against your skin, that he admitted it. His voice was rough, breathless, his grip tightening as he groaned, been trying so fucking hard not to look at these for years. And then, just to prove it, his mouth sealed over you like he had years to make up for.

"Do you need anything? Water? Coffee? Maybe lunch?"

His eyes lift — quick, practiced, almost indifferent.

Almost.

Because before they settle back down, they pause, just for a fraction of a second, right there. Right at the collar of his button-down, where the top buttons are hanging loose, where your skin is warm and soft and practically begging for attention.

But then, before you can revel in it, he's already looking back down. "No, I'm fine, sweetheart."

You bite your lip, actually contemplating throwing his stupid case file out the window. He's either knows what you're trying to accomplish and ignoring you on purpose or he's just that focused. You weren't sure which was worse.

You shove off the desk, but you don't step away. Instead, you step closer. Your hands find his shoulders first, sliding down to his chest as you lean into him, pressing against his back. The shift is immediate. He goes still, his spine going ramrod straight, like his brain has just caught up to what's happening.

Your shirt is paper-thin, your nipples are pressed right against him, and unless he's suddenly gone completely numb, he feels it.

You sink against him, letting your chin rest on his shoulder, breathing him in. Gods, he smells good. Clean, sharp, like something expensive.

You recognized it as the cologne you bought him. The one you picked, the one you dabbed on his wrist in the middle of a department store and grinned, telling him, This. This smells like you. This is the one.

Your fingers skim over his collar, your nails just barely catching against the heat of his skin.

"What are you working on?" You let the question drip from your lips, your voice all honey, sweet, but not innocent.

Aaron hums low in his throat. "Case notes."

"That's boring. Is there anything I can do to help? Your assistant is very willing to be of service."

His fingers pause and your stomach flips. But then, before you can savor it, he moves. His hand finds yours, lifting it with patience. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, featherlight, frustratingly  chaste, before setting your hand back down like you're some good little thing that's been successfully pacified. And then you catch it, the tiniest twitch of his lips.

"Thank you, honey, but I've got it under control."

You make a noise, half scoff, half petulant whine, and shift your chin against his shoulder, angling yourself just enough to shoot him a pointed glare.

"You always say that. What's the point of having such a capable assistant if you're not going to use her?"

"Hmm. So that's what you want? For me to use you?"

"I don't know. Is that an option?"

Aaron's laugh is low, the kind that rumbles through his chest without much warning. It's never loud, it doesn't have to be, but it still manages to send your stomach into a ridiculous free-fall.

"There's just some stuff I need to finish up."

You groan, letting your forehead drop to his shoulder, arms squeezing around him like you can physically hold his attention. Like you can will it away from the pages in front of him and back to you where it belongs.

"Is that your way of telling me I just have to sit here and be patient?"

Aaron's pen doesn't pause. "Mhm."

You huff. "And you think I'll be able to do that?"

His answer is immediate. Too immediate.

"You've survived this long," he says, and you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice. "I think you'll manage."

"Fine," you say after a moment, stepping around the chair before sinking into his lap, giving him plenty of time to stop you, but he doesn't. He never does.

You shift until you're settled, one leg draped over his, chest brushing his. His breath stutters — just a little, just enough to tell you that he feels you. His fingers flex against the desk, pressing harder into the wood, tension rolling through his back as he goes perfectly still beneath you, like he's waiting to see what you'll do next.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you hum, arms draping easily over his shoulders as you sink against him. Your cheek brushes his, lips just close enough that if he turned his head, just a little, you'd be right there. "You said you had to finish working. Don't let me stop you."

A slow inhale, a slight tilt of his head, then his pen moves again, like nothing's changed. Like you haven't changed anything.

You exhale against his skin, hiding your smirk in the crook of his neck, fingers idly tracing slow, featherlight circles along the nape of it.

He's humoring you, and that's fine.

You let him pretend for a while, content to exist in the space between distraction and indulgence. You shift in his lap, weight pressing into his just enough.

His body reacts before he does, muscles tightening, his breath slowing like he's thinking too hard about not reacting.

"Sit still."

"I am still," you reply, the words light on your tongue, but the slow curve of your hips tells another story.

"Sweetheart."

You lean in, close enough that your noses brush, your forehead pressing to his as your lips part ever so slightly. "What? I'm not doing anything."

Aaron's breath comes out sharp, ragged, the sound scraping its way from his throat like he's been holding onto it for too long.

His chest pushes against yours, every inhale pressing you closer, every exhale heating the space between you. He leans back, just enough to create the smallest sliver of distance.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, savoring the friction that sends a shudder through you, tightening every muscle in your body with anticipation. The feeling sparks through you, sharp and intoxicating, sending heat pooling in your stomach.

His gaze drops, heavy-lidded, to where your bodies fit together, the rise and fall of your breath syncing with his.

His hands land on your hips, thumbs pressing in, not enough to stop you, just enough to remind you he could if he wanted to. When his eyes meet yours again, there's no rush, no immediate reaction. You knew exactly what it meant and what usually followed, he was just waiting for the moment you tip the scales too far.

"Do you want to tell me what exactly it is you're trying to do?" he asks, his voice low, the kind of tone that makes you forget your own name for a second.

You push against him again, grinding just enough to feel the press of him, the heat of him, and god. Your fingers curl into his shirt, and suddenly, you can't remember what your original plan was.

You shift forward, your body molding to his, your breath fanning against his skin as your lips brush his ear.

"I'm just feel a little... overlooked." Your fingers tighten where they rest, nails digging in to make sure he feels it. "Is it so bad that I want your attention?"

His grip tightens, harder this time, his fingers digging into your hips with a kind of warning you'd be stupid to ignore. The heat of his palms seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt, scorching into your skin like a brand.

"You have my attention." You don't believe him. Not really. You press your lips into a pout, brow furrowing just slightly. "But if you keep moving like that, I might now be so nice about it."

Your hips shift, an instinctive little squirm, testing to see if you can push past his hold. You can't. "I can't help it."

"You can't help it?" he repeats, almost thoughtful, like he's turning the idea over in his mind. "I think you can. You just don't want to."

You want to argue, you really do, but nothing comes out, only a sharp inhale that never quite makes it into words. Because he's right. He knows he's right.

The little noise that escapes your throat is purely instinctual, frustrated but breathy, like your body is already conceding before your mind catches up.

"I told you to stop," he murmurs. He mirrors you, crowding in, his breath skimming your ear. His palm presses into the small of your back, slotting you back into place. "But you don't listen, do you?"

You shake your head without even meaning to, the deafening roar of your pulse making it impossible to think clearly.

"No, you don't," he murmurs, his tone dipping lower, turning darker, more intimate. His hands flex as if to remind you of the control he holds. Then his lips graze your jaw, his breath fanning over your skin. "You push. You test the boundaries. And then you pretend to be shocked when I hold you to them."

His fingers slide down, dragging over your thigh with an almost excruciating slowness. He pauses to squeeze there.

"First, you sprawled out on the couch —" his thumb sweeps over your skin, "like you didn't know exactly how that would look."

Your breath stutters, catches, knots itself into something tangled and messy as his hand moves, sliding higher, pressing firmer, stopping just shy of where the ache blooms.

His eyes darken, the heat behind them smoldering with something deep, something that settles like fire in the pit of your stomach.

"Then you leaned over my desk, practically shoving these —" His hand moves before the words fully land, cupping the curve of your breast. His thumb rolls over your nipple. "— right in my face."

Your breath catches, your hips lifting, your thighs parting like you're meant to be touched. Like you need him there. But he doesn't give in. He just moves lower, slow and taunting, until his palm covers the heat between your legs, pressing lightly over the thin fabric of your panties.

His fingers flex, testing. Feeling.

"And now this," he murmurs, and gods, his voice, his voice, is like a razor wrapped in velvet, smooth and cutting all at once. "You squirm and pout like you don't know exactly what you're doing. But I know better, don't I?"

Suddenly, you don't feel like you know what you're doing. Like you're the one pulling at a thread you don't quite understand, but it's already too late to stop.

A shiver rolls through you, bone-deep, leaving your muscles lax, your body melting into his like you were always meant to be here.

"I'm sorry," you murmur so quietly, you're not even sure if he hears it. "I just... I wanted you to notice me."

Aaron's hum is low, deep, almost amused. His thumb finds your jaw, sweeping along the curve of it as he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Oh, I noticed you. I always notice you. In fact, you're all I ever notice." His hand slips away from where you want it most. "But if this is the only way you know how to ask for my attention, sweetheart, then I think we have a problem."

His hands settle on your hips, demanding, guiding you over the hard line of his cock, forcing you to take the friction, to feel every inch of him through the layers still between you.

The friction is blinding, sending heat licking up your spine, setting every nerve in your body on fire. Your legs tremble, a sharp, choked sound escaping before you can stop it, and you clutch at his shoulders, nails sinking deep into muscle as pleasure coils tight and insistent in your belly.

"Aaron," his name slips from your lips, high and uneven, like it costs something to say it. Your head bows, forehead pressing into his shoulder, hands trembling against his chest. "I wasn't trying to be bad. I just... I didn't know what else to do."

"No, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You didn't think, did you? And now look where that's gotten you."

His words should sting, but they don't, not when his hands are so gentle, smoothing down your spine like he's soothing something raw inside you. And then his voice, warm and promising, settles over you, "But I'll take care of you now."

And gods, you need him to. He's so hard, the thick length of him pressing against you through denim and cotton, teasing, tormenting. Everything burns — your skin, your stomach, that deep, pulsing ache between your thighs. Your head swims, feverish, your mind caught between more and please and I can't take this. But he knows. Of course, he knows.

"Do you feel that?"

"Yes."

"Good. If you want to keep going, you'll take care of it. Go ahead."

Your hands move with the kind of urgency that betrays just how badly you need this, need him. Your fingers trail down, brushing over the tight muscles of his stomach, and it's almost enough to make you dizzy, just touching him, just knowing what's waiting for you beneath layers of fabric.

The button of his jeans fumbles beneath your fingers before finally popping open. And then you're pulling him free. He's thick in your hand, burning hot against your palm, and something about that, about feeling him like this, for you, makes something feral sink its teeth into you.

And then he finds you.

His fingers slip under your panties, gliding through the obscene slickness there, and you don't mean to react so violently, don't mean to moan so loud, but it rips out of you before you can stop it.

"Oh, honey," Aaron murmurs, almost thoughtful, like he's just now realizing the full extent of your undoing. "I didn't realize you'd gotten this worked up."

Like it's an observation. Like it's fascinating.

His fingers push, stretching you open, teasing just the right spot, and you jerk against him with a sharp, strangled moan. Your grip around him tightens, your strokes turning sloppy, uneven, desperate.

"Aaron —" His name tumbles out high and needy, your head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut.

"I didn't mean to —" Your voice shakes, a hitched little gasp tangled between syllables. "I just —" Your breath stutters, heat climbing, overwhelming. "I didn't know what to do."

"You don't have to know what to do." His fingers slow just enough to let you catch his breath as he murmurs. "You just have to let me take over. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

Your nod is frantic, almost mindless, as his words echo in your ears.

"Please."

His fingers thrust deeper, and the shock of it rips a gasp from your lips, straight into his kiss. It's messy, frantic, all clashing mouths and stolen air, your breaths coming too fast to match his, like you're afraid if you let him go for even a second, he'll pull away.

Your grip on him tightens without thinking, your fingers flexing around his cock, but the sensation barely registers now, drowned out by the wetness pooling between your thighs, the slick drag of his fingers against your walls.

You can't keep up. You're chasing something that feels just out of reach, your hands leaving his cock, fumbling for something solid, something real. They find his face, fingertips brushing over the rough stubble of his jaw, trying to find yourself in him, in the way he's ruining you.

You kiss him like you can tell him everything that way, like he might understand the ache better through lips and tongues and the way your body trembles under his hands.

And then — he stops. His fingers slip free, and the sound you make is a whine, a protest, your hips tilting, seeking, trying to drag him back in. But he doesn't move, doesn't give you what you need, just smirks against your lips like he enjoys watching you squirm.

"You're so impatient," he murmurs against your lips.

But before you can protest, before you can tell him that yes, yes, you am impatient, please just give it to me, his hands tighten on your hips. And then — oh.

He lifts you, positioning you just right, and then, lowers you down.

The head of his cock pushes inside, and your breath catches, lips parting in a broken gasp. The stretch is devastating, inch by inch forcing your body to open, to yield to him. He's so deep, impossibly deep, and for a second, you forget how to breathe, how to think, your only thought being how does he even fit?

It feels endless, your thighs shaking against his as he takes his time, forcing you to feel every slow, torturous inch. Your body clenches around him, your nails dragging over his scalp as you bury your face against his neck.

"Breathe," he murmurs, voice thick, lips grazing your temple. "That's it. Let me take care of you. You just have to let me in, sweetheart."

"Okay, okay," you whisper, voice shaky as you bury your face against his neck, arms wrapping tighter around him.

His other hand moves, dragging up your spine before wrapping around your waist. And then — he presses deeper.

The air leaves your lungs in a sharp, punched-out gasp. He doesn't stop, doesn't let you breathe, just sinks in, stretching you open until he's fully seated inside you. Until there's nowhere left to go.

"That's it," he groans, voice tight, his mouth ghosting along your jaw. "So tight. So warm. Fuck, sweetheart, you know this is what you were made for, don't you?"

You try to think of something, something teasing, something bratty, something that might tip him over the edge, but your body betrays you, trembling around him, squeezing down so tight you feel him shudder.

"God, you're tight," he mutters, his fingers pressing into your hips, hard enough to leave bruises. "I can feel every little tremble, every squeeze. You feel that, sweetheart? How perfectly you fit around me?"

"It's like you don't want to let me go. Is that what you want, honey? To keep me right here?"

Your body clenches down instinctively, like you're answering him without meaning to, and his breath catches for just a second before his lips curve against your skin. You nod, frantic, a little dazed, a little wrecked, and his chuckle is pure sin.

"Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

He pulls back just enough to create the kind of unbearable friction that makes your breath catch, your body tightening like a bowstring.

"Every little sound you make drives me insane." His breath drags over your cheek, his lips just shy of touching, like he's teasing himself as much as he is you. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"

You try to answer, you really do, but your lungs don't work properly anymore, your body focused on the pleasure threatening to snap at any second. Your fingertips tremble against his shoulders, your thighs quiver, and Aaron knows exactly what that means.

"That's it. I can feel you trembling, sweetheart. You're so close, aren't you?"

His words strike something deep, something primal, and the fire curling between your thighs roars in response. Your head tips back, your breath breaking apart as your hands scramble for purchase, fingers sliding to his face, thumbs brushing over the roughness of his jaw. You pull him into a kiss that's all hunger, all desperation, your lips parting to let him devour you.

He groans into your mouth, a sound that vibrates through your chest, and then his hips snap up into you. The stretch is suffocating, the sheer fullness of him sending sharp pulses of pleasure up your body with every deep thrust.

"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips. "You don't have to hold back. Just let go for me, sweetheart."

It crashes into you harder than you expected, knocking the breath straight from your lungs. Your moan catches halfway, tumbling out in pieces as your body convulses, clenches tight, gripping him in a way that makes him hiss through his teeth.

He thrusts deep, brutal, final, and then he's gone, his head dropping back as a groan tears from his chest.

He fills you in thick, pulsing waves, each pulse making your thighs tighten around him, making you gasp at how deep it settles. The feeling is overwhelming — the heat of him, the weight, the way his cock still twitches inside you, like he’s unwilling to let a single drop go to waste.

You're not sure where your body ends and his begins, your limbs heavy, useless, boneless as you slump against him. Your breath stutters, still uneven, every exhale pushing against his chest as the last waves of pleasure roll through you.

"You take every drop so fucking well," he murmurs. "Meant to keep you full."

His fingers press into your hips, just a little tighter, just enough to make you feel how deep he still is.

"Don’t move yet."

Your breath stutters, the words landing deep, something fluttering tight in your stomach.

"Just a little longer," he murmurs, his hands absently smoothing up and down your spine. His voice drops, lower, rougher — "I want to make sure it sticks."

You shudder, pressing closer, your face tucking against his neck as everything —the fullness, every drop of his cum —settles in.

Aaron exhales, his chest rising beneath you, and suddenly, he shifts. His grip on your hips soften and slide up, like he can feel the way you're trembling against him. 

"Breathe, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You can do that for me, can't you?"

You try, you really do, but when you inhale, it's a stuttering, gasping thing, barely controlled. Your thighs still shake, your body still throbs around him, and you can feel the way he exhales, like he enjoys this, enjoys feeling you like this, soft and trembling in his arms.

"Easy," he murmurs. One hand slides up your spine, cupping the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. "That was a lot."

You nod, or, at least, you think you do. Everything feels floaty, light, warm. Your head feels like it's filled with pink clouds. Your limbs feel soft, useless, like you're some well-loved doll that's been played with for hours.

He tilts your chin up, catching your gaze.

"You okay?" His brow furrows slightly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

You blink slowly at him, lips parting, trying to focus.

"Mhm," you hum, then pause, frowning just slightly. "Wait, no — hold on."

His jaw tenses immediately, but you reach up, poking his cheek with a weak, clumsy finger.

"You didn't kiss me," you mumble, like it's the most important fact in the universe. "You're supposed to kiss me after, 'cause, like, you love me and all that."

His head tilts, just barely shaking, like he's in mild disbelief of you. And okay, fine, maybe you do say a lot of dumb things. But this wasn't dumb. It was valid. It was scientifically proven that post-sex cuddles should include at least one (1) I love you and one (1) kiss, and you were simply holding him accountable.

"Of course I love you," he murmurs, like the answer is so obvious, so unquestionable, that it almost makes you feel silly for asking. And then he kisses you.

It's deep, drawn-out, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. 

You're still in his lap, still tangled in the ridiculous, oversized leather chair, but you don't feel like you're anywhere. Not in his apartment, not even in your own body. Just floating, existing in between his lips and yours.

When you finally pull back, it's not even voluntary — just the sad, unfortunate reality of needing air.

"Wow," you murmur, your fingers lazily brushing over his jaw.

"Wow?"

"Mhm." Your tongue darts out, sweeping over the kiss-swollen curve of your bottom lip, like you're trying to catch what's left of him there, trying to savor it. "Like... I feel very wow."

A smirk tugs at his lips, but his hands don't stop moving, don't stop tracing, don't stop feeling. His fingers smoothed absently over your hips, up your spine, his palms blending into your skin. Like he's checking for something. Like he's making sure you're here with him.

And for a second, you think he's about to kiss you again. He looks like he wants to, his gaze flickers to your lips, his hands flex just slightly, his body leans in just a hair. But then his gaze flickers, his lips part slightly as if he'd just remembered something.

"You said something earlier."

You blink again, brain lagging behind slightly as reality creeps back in, still floating somewhere in bliss. Which you felt was a more pressing topic than whatever he's about to say.

Your face scrunches up immediately, like maybe if you look cute enough, he'd drop it. 

"I said a lot of things earlier," you rush out, voice a little too high, a little too hasty, your hand flapping vaguely in the air. "So many things. A real stream of nonsense, actually. I was just saying words, you know, as one does —"

You shift slightly, suddenly painfully  aware of the position you're in, and he doesn't even blink.

"Aaron," you say, narrowing your eyes. "You're literally still inside me and you want to have a conversation right now?"

"Yes," he says simply, like of course he does, like this is completely reasonable, like you aren't still wrapped around him, skin warm and sticky from what you just did.

His brows furrow slightly, and his head tilts in that very specific way that means he's already pulling apart the words, unraveling them like a thread, and working through them with that brain of his before you can even begin to take it back. 

"You said you felt overlooked," he states plainly, like a fact, which you guessed it was. "If that was something you just said in the moment, we can drop it."

His eyes narrow, studying you like he already knows the answer. "But if you meant it, then I want to understand why."

Your mouth parts, ready to push out something easy, something light, something that won't lead to the very real, very terrifying act of actually admitting things.

He was serious. Not angry or annoyed. Just serious. And concerned.

You exhale, suddenly very invested in dragging your nails lightly over his chest, watching the way they disappear into the fabric of his shirt, how his muscles shift slightly beneath your touch.

"I mean... it's not a thing," you mumble, barely glancing up. "More like a thing-adjacent."

"Sweetheart." The firmness in his voice made your stomach flip. It's not a scolding or a warning, just his way of making you hear him. "I'm not interested in whether you think it's a thing or not. I'm interested in whether it's true."

"I mean, I guess... maybe a little."

His fingers flex, like he's taking that in. He nods once, slowly. "That makes sense."

Your brows furrow. "It does?"

"Yes," he states plainly, like it's obvious. "You pick up on subtle changes, even the ones I don't intend to project. And when I get hyper focused on something, I shut everything else out. Not just you. Everyone."

"It's a defense mechanism. A way to compartmentalize. It doesn't mean I don't notice you. It means my brain assigns the highest level of urgency to the task at hand, and everything else, everything outside of that, is temporarily shut out. When I do that, it makes sense that you would feel like I'm not paying attention to you," he continues. "Because in those moments I'm not."

Your breath catches. He says it so matter-of-factly, so plainly, that it almost doesn't sting at first, it just lands.

His grip tightens ever so slightly where his hands rest on your like he already knows how you're taking it.

"But that doesn't mean I don't want to be paying attention," he murmurs, fingers brushing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. "It doesn't mean you don't exist in the back of my mind, even when I'm caught up in something else."

Aaron leans in a fraction, his eyes holding yours.

"Do you know what I did last night after you fell asleep?" he asks.

You blink. "Uh... sleep?"

He smirks. "Eventually. But first, I checked the thermostat. You always get cold at night, even when you say you won't."

Your face warms. "That's just —,"

"And before I left for work last week, I moved your car closer to the building because I saw you left your umbrella at my place."

"I —,"

"And when I'm out of town, do you know what I do every morning?"

You swallow.

"No."

"I think about what you're having for breakfast," he murmurs. "Not consciously. It's not something I try to do. It just... happens."

"You always eat something sweet," he continues, his thumb brushing over your jaw. "It's usually a pastry or something covered in chocolate. Sometimes cake, if we're being honest."

Your scrunch your nose again and he smiles.

"So, tell me," he murmurs, tilting your chin up. "Does that sound like someone who overlooks you?"

Your lips part but nothing comes out. Your heart aches, not the bad kind, but the kind that makes your chest feel too small for everything inside it. Because he's right. He notices everything. Not in the big, showy romance-movie ways but in the little things. In ways that matter.

You inhale a little too hard, blinking quickly, but the stinging in your eyes isn't going anywhere.

Aaron sees it immediately. "Sweetheart."

You shake your head quickly, sniffling.

"I'm not crying," you announce, even though your voice cracks on the last word, which kind of ruins the effect.

He smirks. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," you say firmly, poking his chest. "I just, I feel very loved and now I have to process that."

"Okay," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Do you need time to process, or should I just assume you're going to be attached to me for the foreseeable future?"

"Oh no, you're definitely stuck with me," you declare. "Like, you might need to call someone if you ever actually want me to let go."

His smirk is instant. "You're saying I should alert the authorities?"

You nod sagely. "I mean, that would be the responsible thing to do. But by the time they arrive, I'll have already made a compelling argument about how you should just let it happen."

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I'm sure you would."

taglist: @readergf @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @crouchingapple @navia3000 @aaronlovesava @bakugocanstompme @pansexualhailstorm @averyhotchner @looking1016 @everythinglizzy @sky2nd @alexxavicry @spencerssatchel @candyd1es @storiesofsvu @pleasantgardenwitch @kodzukenmaa @hiireadstuff @dilflover-3 @spennciesslut @phoenix-le-danseur-de-pole @jstcln @just-here-to-read13 @c-losur3 @wondergal2001 @oliver-1270 @ssahotchbabe @savagemickey03 @justanotherbimboslxt @imoonkiss @estragos @khxna @de-duchess @raysmayhem-72 @piinksdoll @justyourusualash @whimsicalpolitical @kcch-ns @cool-light32 @reidfile @sugarbutterbailey @ssamorganhotchner @persephonestears @moonyxstars @spookyysinsanity @proxxyshouse @spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack @imsonotweird @jungchloe @she-wont-miss @duchesz @may-machin99 @historicallyweirdandqueer @in-the-kosmos @lcvealwayss @p13rc3-th3-m4tt13 @babyhoneybyhs @reire11

taglist is closed for now until i can figure out the best way to include more than 50 mentions :(