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anghimalaaynasapuso · 3 months ago

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DISCORD BOYFRIEND KÖNIG

sfw + nsfw. this is just an amalgamation of all my ideas

könig has never been one for putting his face on social media. even before the scars that pull at the skin of his cheek, reshaping his expression in ways he’s never fully grown used to, the idea of being seen, really seen, has never sat right with him. there’s a certain comfort in anonymity, in keeping the world at arm’s length. easier that way. safer.

that unease, paired with what some might consider his more nerdy interests, means he gravitates toward spaces like discord rather than the highly curated feeds of instagram or facebook. there, he doesn’t have to worry about photos or videos— just a username, and a presence in text.

his handle is simple: king 👑. a nod to the name he’s carried for so long, stripped of rank, stripped of weight.

even in the server where he’s most active, he keeps things vague, blending into discussions about games, military history, or whatever niche interest has caught his attention that week.

every now and then, he’ll let something slip— a mention of deployment, an offhand comment, disappearing for months at a time, only to return with a sudden burst of activity. some put the pieces together. most don’t. and könig prefers it that way. it’s easier to let them think he’s just another guy with spotty internet.

your first interaction is rather simple in retrospect.

he’s back after weeks of recon, shaking off the mission like dirt from his boots, easing into the familiarity of a gaming server he’s called home for years.

it’s not a small server, so new people come and go. he does his usual routine— an automated, slightly impersonal welcome but what he doesn’t expect is the sheer enthusiasm in return.

“hi!!!!”

he stares at the message for a second, counting the exclamation marks. three. four. five? a small smile tugs at his lips before he even realizes it.

it doesn’t take long before you’re at his metaphorical side, sending a friend request before the conversation even shifts from your college courses.

the older members tease him. something about his last deployment scrambling his head enough to take a newbie under his wing. he lets them talk. he doesn’t mind.

soon enough, you’re in his private messages, dramatically lamenting your latest loss in a game he’s only vaguely familiar with. könig listens— well, reads— as you rant, words spilling out at a rapid-fire pace, interspersed with keyboard smashing and increasingly incoherent frustration.

he’s not much for new releases, preferring to sink his teeth into a single game for months on end, grinding away until mastery is muscle memory. still-

one evening, without preamble, he sends you a link. his profile. in your game.

the response is immediate. ‘king!!! 🥺’ you type, followed by an onslaught of keyboard mashing that takes up half his screen.

he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. he wonders if you know how easy it is to make him grin like an idiot.

the calls are… an unexpected development.

könig doesn’t make a habit to join server calls. ever. it’s not even about anxiety, not really, just preference. too many voices, too much noise. he never expected to be comfortable enough with anyone to want to be in a call, let alone initiate one.

but when you start gaming together, it becomes a necessity. typing mid-match isn’t exactly efficient, and you’re the first to point that out.

“okay, listen, king, i am not about to lose another ranked match just because you take five years to type ‘behind you.’” he huffs, amused, but relents.

soon enough, calls become second nature— no longer tied to gaming, no longer requiring an excuse. you always ask first, polite thing that you are, and könig always agrees. sometimes it’s an unspoken invitation, a simple “call?” sent in the quiet hours of the night. sometimes he beats you to it, pressing the button before he can think too hard about it.

one time, it’s you who calls. he answers on the first ring.

“are you- wait.” you pause, listening. there’s a distinct, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the background. not footsteps, but something heavier, more controlled. “are you on a treadmill?”

“mm.” his voice is steady, unaffected. a quiet confirmation.

you gasp, and he can practically hear the amusement brewing in your tone. “oh my god! you actually work out? i thought you were lying.”

he snorts, breath hitching slightly as he adjusts his pace. “why would i lie about that?”

“i don’t know! you just- i mean, you sit at your desk all day, playing the same game for hours, and you’re always online at weird times-”

“you are describing yourself,” he points out.

“shut up.”

there’s a pause, and then, with the kind of mischief that only comes from knowing exactly how to push his buttons, you add, “prove it.”

he slows to a walk, swiping open his phone. a moment later, you receive a picture. him, flexing. the lighting is dim, but you can still make out the cut of his forearm, the solid shape of his bicep. just to humor you, he throws up a peace sign.

“not stolen from pinterest.”

you burst into laughter so sudden and bright that he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.

you learn what it means to miss könig pretty early on.

it happens suddenly. one day, he’s there, active as usual, sending the occasional meme, idling in voice chat even if he’s not talking. the next? radio silence. not even a ‘typing…’ indicator.

at first, you don’t think much of it. maybe he’s sleeping in. maybe he’s busy. time zones are weird. it’s fine.

but then a whole day passes. then another. you check his status— nothing. not offline, not do not disturb, just… gone.

curiosity turns into concern, and before you can think better of it, you ask in the server.

“hey, anyone heard from king?”

the response is casual. unbothered. “oh, dude’s probably deployed again.”

you blink. reread the message. “deployed?”

“yeah, king’s military.”

there’s no warning for the way that statement knocks the air from your lungs.

military? as in, real-life combat? as in, war zones and danger and actual life-or-death situations?

you stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to even say to that.

he doesn’t resurface for weeks.

you don’t realize how much you’ve come to rely on his presence until it’s gone. his absence is loud in the quiet moments of your day, in the spaces where a message from him would normally be.

you check the server out of habit, catching yourself before you can search his username. it’s stupid, you think. you barely know him. he’s just some guy from a discord server.

but the worry lingers.

and then, one day, just like that— he’s back.

his return is as unceremonious as his disappearance.

no dramatic entrance, no fanfare. just a simple “hello.”

you see it the moment he sends it. your stomach flips.

before you can stop yourself, you send a private message. “you’re alive.”

a moment passes. then— “yes.”

you frown. “you were gone for weeks.”

“i know.”

frustration bubbles up. “you could’ve said something.”

“i couldn’t.”

you hesitate, fingers tightening around your phone. you don’t know what you were expecting. an explanation? reassurance? but it’s clear you’re not getting one.

but then, a follow-up message. one that feels heavier, more careful. “i’m sorry.”

and just like that, the irritation dissolves.

it’s strange, the way things slip back into place after that.

he doesn’t talk about it, and you don’t ask. but something shifts. after that deployment, könig starts telling you when he’ll be gone. nothing in detail, really. just a simple, “i’ll be away for a bit.”

(it means everything.)

slowly, you get used to it. the rhythm of his presence and absence, the way your conversations pick up right where they left off, as if no time has passed at all.

it goes on for months. this… thing between the two of you. könig doesn’t hesitate to call it friendship, though he knows, knows, it’s something else entirely.

something with edges softer than companionship, something that lingers in the pauses between conversation, in the way you had whispered his real name under your breath when he revealed it to you.

he doesn’t rush to name it. doesn’t push. he lets it simmer until it feels inevitable.

in the end, it’s you who breaks first. technically. not that he’s keeping score. not that he would ever rub it in your face, especially when he was a mere day away from asking the very same thing.

it starts with a message. no preamble, no buildup. just a simple: hey, what are we?

könig sees it and reacts before thinking. presses the call button so fast his thumb practically smashes the screen. it rings once, twice—

“you didn’t even ask.” your voice comes through, half exasperated, half amused.

“didn’t want to give you time to unsend.” his own voice is steady, but his heart is anything but.

you huff. “bold assumption.”

“not really.”

a pause. he hears you shift, fabric rustling, the sound of you settling in. something warm and slow uncoils in his chest at the familiarity of it.

“so,” you start, hesitant. “what’s your answer?”

könig exhales, tipping his head back against his pillow. “do you want the truth?”

“obviously.”

he hums, considering. in reality, he’s known the truth for a while now. probably before you even realized it yourself.

“i like you,” he says, simple, sure. then, because he knows you, because he knows your deflections, your habit of teasing when you get nervous, he adds, “and i’m very aware you like me back.”

you sputter. “that’s a bold assumption-”

“not really,” he repeats, smug this time.

you groan, but you’re laughing, and it sends something bright flickering through him.

könig doesn’t ask for nudes. not once. he flirts, he teases, but never pushes. he knows your boundaries, respects them, never even hints at wanting more. if anything, he’s careful. too careful, sometimes. like he’s afraid of crossing a line you haven’t even drawn.

so when you finally send something, it’s your choice.

the first picture is tame. barely anything. it's a shot of your thighs, soft and warm in the low light of your room. nothing scandalous. nothing too revealing. but the second you hit send, your stomach twists with nerves.

könig sees it immediately. you watch the typing bubble appear, disappear, then appear again. and then— “fuck.”

you grin. “good?”

“you have no idea.”

it only escalates from there.

könig never requests more. but when you send it, when you want to send it, his reaction is worth it. he worships you through the screen, tells you how beautiful you are, how much he wishes he could touch you.

“pretty,” he texts once, attached to a voice message.

you press play. his breath is ragged, like he’s just run a mile. “pretty thing,” he repeats, voice tinged with something almost reverent. “you’re going to ruin me, love.”

the first time he sends you something, it takes him forever to work up to it.

you don’t ask for it. wouldn’t dream of pushing him into something he’s not comfortable with. könig isn’t shy, necessarily, but he’s private. you know that by now.

so when, out of nowhere, a picture pops up on your screen, your brain short-circuits.

it’s cropped carefully, but there’s no mistaking what you’re looking at— bare skin, broad shoulders, his stomach flexed just slightly.

“you like?” he texts after a minute.

you swallow hard. “yes.”

“good.” and then— “more?”

you bite your lip. “please.”

könig gets bolder after that.

he sends more. never too much, always teasing, always just enough to leave you wanting. sometimes it’s his hands, sometimes it’s his abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging just low enough to make your mouth water.

one night, he sends a voice message instead. you press play.

at first, all you hear is his breathing. then, slowly, softly— your name, whispered through a noise that makes heat bloom low in your stomach.

“wish you were here,” he murmurs. “wish you could see what you do to me.”

the actual nudes don’t take long. not ar all. you’re both desperate. buzzing. könig’s the one who caves first.

it starts with your text. 10 p.m., the hour where inhibitions slip through grasping fingers like sand.

“wanna see your cock so bad, könig…” you murmur to your propped phone, cheek pressed to your pillow, another one stuffed against your chest like it might replace the hollow ache between your ribs. a distraction. a poor substitute.

on the other side of the screen, he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. fingers tensing, then flexing, like he needs something to hold onto. “love-” your whine cuts through before he can even think. instinctive. needy. his stomach clenches. “okay, okay. as long as you're sure.”

his heart pounds as he opens his photos. he doesn’t exactly collect dick pics, but there are a few kept locked away, private albums, a passcode he suddenly fumbles to enter.

three minutes. that’s how long it takes to choose the best one. the right angle. the right lighting. enough to make your breath hitch when you see it.

he hits send before he can overthink it, then leans back, phone balanced on his thigh, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

your phone buzzes. the photo pops up. you blink, breath hitching sharp in your throat.

“oh my god.” the words spill out of you before you can even think to stop them. “könig…” you stare at the screen, gaze locked on the thick, heavy length of him. the way it curves slightly, resting against his thigh like it’s weighed down by its own sheer mass. your breath stutters.

“you're so fucking big.” it barely registers that you've said it aloud.

“yeah? you like it?

“like it?” you shoot back. “i want it inside me.”

his breath leaves him in one harsh exhale. he shifts, hips rolling involuntarily like he can feel your words on his skin.

“can i see you too?” he sounds so polite. and then, as if that wasn’t enough to twist the knife deeper— “please?”

your stomach flips. you bite your lip, already reaching for your phone camera, the need to show him everything burning through you like wildfire.

your breath comes shallow as you slip your hand lower, phone steady in the other. the need is a pulse under your skin, throbbing, insistent. you pull the covers back just enough, the cool air prickling against the heat between your thighs.

the camera catches everything. your slightly parted thighs, your swollen clit, the wetness gushing out of your hole. it feels like baring a secret you’ve never told anyone. you hesitate for half a second, heart racing, then hit send.

the second the message disappears from your screen, it hits you— you just sent that to him.

on his end, könig freezes. the photo loads slow, torturous, and when it finally pops up, he feels his whole body tense, blood rushing south so fast it’s dizzying. “f-fuck, i need to be inside of you-”

sex with könig, if you can even call it that, at first, sneaks up on you. you never thought you’d be the kind of person who got into this. sending texts that made your face burn, leaving voice messages you could barely listen back to without cringing. but with him, it’s different. easier. less embarrassing because it’s him.

still, going from nudes to actual phone sex takes some time.

“gonna sleep,” könig texts you once, attached to a blurry photo of his bed.

“alone?” you send back, teasing.

the typing bubble appears. then disappears. then— “obviously.”

you grin at your phone, satisfied. but then— “but i could use some company.”

you stare at the message longer than you’d like to admit.

in the past, you hadn't told him how many times you’d dreamt of him because you thought you'd scare him off, kept your mouth shut about the images that haunted you at night, of his hands pinning you down, his mouth at your throat.

didn't tell him that you had woken up panting, arousal between your thighs, könig’s name on your lips too many times. didn't tell him that you had pressed your hand against your clit during your calls, to the sound of his voice, to his laugh, to the quiet, wrecked groans he sometimes lets out when he stretches after a workout.

but you wanted to.

and tonight, you would.

the conversation turns slow. lazy. heavy with something unspoken.

“you sound tired,” könig murmurs, voice warm. he’s always like this late at night. soft, unhurried, like he’s sinking into the sound of you.

you swallow hard. your skin feels too hot, too tight. “i’m not.”

a pause. then, lower— “what is it, love?”

you hesitate, pressing your lips together. it’s too much. too embarrassing. but he knows something is different.

“talk to me. tell me what you’re thinking.”

you let out a shaky breath. “i had a dream about you.”

the silence stretches.

you can hear him inhale. you bite your lip. force yourself to continue. “i think about you. when i-” you stop. you can’t say it. can’t admit it.

könig exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself. “when you what?”

your stomach is a knot of nerves. but you want this. want him. so you take a breath, close your eyes. “when i touch myself.”

his breath stutters.

“fuck.” the word is almost a groan. your pulse hammers, blood rushing through your ear as heat pools in your stomach.

“könig,” you whisper.

he exhales, whispers his next words like a beg, “say it again.”

you swallow. “i touch myself to you.”

“i do too.”

your stomach flips. “what?”

“i-” he cuts himself off with a quiet curse, like he's frustrated with himself for hesitating. “i touch myself to you too.”

your breath catches. heat blooms in your chest, spreading down your spine. “könig-”

“all the time.” his voice is lower now, raw, like he's aching with it. “when i can't sleep. when you're on call with me, laughing, teasing me. when i wake up hard in the middle of the night and can’t stop thinking about stuffing you full.”

your body is burning again, despite the aftershocks still rolling through you. you're about to choke out a reply when you hear it— the rustle of fabric, the faint creak of bedsprings, the wet slide of skin on skin.

“are you-”

a sharp inhale. “yes.”

“let me hear you,” you whisper, thinking about his pretty, pretty cock. uncut, soft skin stretched over the flushed head, the way it would slide back when he’s fully hard, revealing the deep pink of his leaking tip. the veins that wind down the length, standing out against the pale skin

there's a pause, a hitch in his breath. then, slowly— “okay.”

there's a small rustle, könig adjusting himself on the bed. the faint sound of him pumping lotion on his hand. a quiet sigh. and then, a low grunt as the warmth of his palm wraps around his cock.

könig looks down at his hand, eyes half-lidded, hips bucking up in small thrusts. he imagines your pussy instead of his fist, hot and tight and so fucking warm, fluttering around his length as he pushes in, spearing you open with a cock too big for your little cunny.

he knows you’d cry for him, little gasps and hiccupped moans, squirming beneath him as he bullies his cock deeper, past that tight ring of muscle into the slick, warm clutch of your cunt.

“a-ah- fuck, ah-”

your breath stutters at the sounds, hips grinding against your palm. “wish i could see you.”

“on cam?”

you groan, squeezing your thighs around the pillow in-between your legs, grinding your clit against the material softly. “yes, please..”

fuck, you're so polite.

#könig #könig call of duty #könig x reader #call of duty #x reader #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #cod x reader #cod x y/n #könig cod #könig mw2 #konig x reader #konig cod #konig call of duty #konig mw2 #konig x you #konig x y/n #📌 könig

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jeonginsleftcheek · 3 months ago

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Dolly IV

~ part 4 of the Dolly series

pairing: lee know x afab!reader

genre: smut, fluff, horror/sci-fi

synopsis: the human body is the most fascinating thing and you know all about the intricate anatomy of it. ever so curious you purchase a human-looking doll and your life changes forever.

wc: 7.9k

warnings: death & dead bodies, reader is a mortician, mentions of needles and scalpels, sorry if there are any mistakes

nsfw warnings: multiple sex scenes, unprotected sex, blood play, knife play, creampies, spanking, oral (m)

~ divider by @bunnysrph

It's eerily quiet around you but that doesn't bother you. Not tonight, not ever. Sometimes the silence is comforting and helps you concentrate on the intricate work you do.

You've always been fascinated with death, ever since you were a child. You weren't scared of it, you welcomed it with your arms wide open and it was your father who exposed you to it since you were young.

It wasn't really on purpose, but having a funeral home inside your house and a curious child was not a good combination.

Your father was a good and warm man, offering a friendly tap on the shoulder and a few consoling words to grieving family members, the ones who sat in his office discussing details about funerals, their noses runny and eyes red from crying.

Not all of them were like that; some just sat there with a numb look on their face, a kind of silent sorrow etched inside their features while there were those that seemed completely emotionless.

You'd always lean behind the wall and listen to them discuss until your father would notice you and send you back to your room. The only room in the house that looked somewhat... alive.

Your father was pretty fascinated with death and any art that surrounded it, prints of Francisco Goya's black paintings adorned the walls in your house; Saturn Devouring his Son, Witches' Sabbath, Two Old Men, Judith and Holofernes, Two Old Ones Eating Soup, Atropos...

They captivated you in a way you couldn't put into words and sometimes they gave you torturous nightmares, but you weren't scared.

You welcomed the darkness into your heart completely; in fact you thrived off of it.

It was one quiet and calm evening when you tiptoed down to your basement. The moonlight cast a glow through the windows as your shadow passed by the paintings staring at you with their freakish eyes.

The door was ajar and you pushed it, the creaking sound cutting the silence of the dark night as your heart started beating in your ears.

There they were on the table. A person who had succumbed to Death itself.

Silently, you treaded towards the sheet-covered body but before your little hand could reach it, your father grabbed your wrist gently, scaring you out of your wits.

"What are you doing here, y/n? You know you shouldn't be here." he said, taking you away from your curiosities.

"I- I just wanted to see."

"I know, sweetheart but it's not the time yet. One day, hopefully, you will take over this business just like I took over from your grandfather. Now, go back to sleep."

"Okay." you nodded, albeit feeling a bit sullen that you didn't get to see the person under the sheet.

It's been years since that night, and now you were the one who offered consoling words and friendly pats on the shoulders of grieving family members.

Your father had succumbed to his illness, leaving you alone in this world, alone with all the darkness and death. Of course, you missed him dearly but he suffered so much in his last years that you were somewhat thankful to Death for taking him.

Wherever he was, you knew he was at peace and watching over you.

Taking over his business was the natural step for you, death was just a part of life, and preparing someone's loved one for their funeral felt honorable and you viewed the entire process as a kind of art. When you were old enough, your father started teaching you bits and pieces about preparation and the embalming process, and of course it was only natural for you to develop even more interest for it and get the needed education.

You worked as his assistant at first and when he got sick you became the caretaker and the mortician.

Of course, you couldn't be the one to prepare your father for his burial, it was too much as you watched him disappear more and more every day while he was sick and you wanted your last memory of him to be as peaceful as it can be.

It's been a few years since then, and you were now one of the most respected morticians in your small town. You kept to yourself mostly, only having one close friend since you were kids, Emily.

But you weren't lonely, you focused on your work and your hobbies, like reading, painting and writing poetry, all in the company of your fur baby, your cat named Shadow. You had rescued the elegant black cat off the street when she was just a small lost kitty and ever since then you became inseparable.

Though, even you weren't immune to the troubles of dating. Most of your partners were a bit put off by your work, to say the least, especially if they'd come around to your house which you had repainted black, the decoration was halloween all year around coupled with the creepy paintings on your walls and the fact that there are dead bodies in your basement wasn't really an aphrodisiac.

It was frustrating because you wished you could share your life with someone who'd be genuinely into the things that interest you.

That's why when you found yourself mindlessly scrolling through social media, an ad caught your eye.

Sex dolls.

You chuckled to yourself as you got more comfy under your blanket, Shadow cracking one eye open to look at you from where she was curled up.

You clicked on it.

One doll in particular pulled you in.

Minho, the dark dolly.

He was beautiful, his hair black and shaggy, falling over his eyes, his features were sharp and perfect, somewhat feline-like and his lips seemed sweet and plump.

You liked the outfit they chose for him, all black like you dressed 99% of the time completed with a choker around his neck.

He was perfect.

You scrolled around looking at the other dolls, they all seemed intriguing but Minho was the one you wanted the most.

Besides, some of them already sold so you decided not to wait and jumped on it, ordering yourself the dark dolly. And it didn't take long for him to be delivered to your house, in a big black box reminiscent of a casket. Shadow inspected the box immediately, sniffing and rubbing against it, she seemed to approve of it.

You opened it up eagerly, finally taking a look at your beautiful Minho and he was even more perfect in real life than all the pictures they had posted.

There was a letter inside the box and you opened it up.

Hello,

my name is Minho and I am your dark dolly.

I love cats, horror movies, yummy food and staying inside.

Please treat me with kindness, even though I like scary things, I have a soft soul so never forget to pat my head.

Hope you'll love me as much as I love you.

"I'm glad you love cats, otherwise I'd have to send you back." you joked, as Shadow put her paws on the box, sniffing around before meowing at you.

"You approve, I suppose?" you asked and your cat meowed once again so you were satisfied.

"I guess you do." you ripped off the rest of the bubble wrap, scaring your cat with your movements as she scurried away to her place on the sofa.

Your doll was dressed in a black button up shirt that was almost see-through, coupled with black leather pants and some fine shoes. He looked so alive, it would've been eerie if you weren't already used to looking at people lying down lifelessly before you.

You noticed a little note sticking out of his pocket so you pulled it out and opened it.

My kitten!

I got ready for our rendezvous.

I hope you like the outfit I chose and I hope you'll enjoy our first night together.

"Kitten, huh? Interesting." you smirked as you grabbed the manual, ready to read it from top to bottom but your curiosity got the better of you so you reached your hand to touch Minho.

"Oh." that definitely felt like human skin.

Something was wrong here and you felt it from the moment you laid eyes on his still body. But of course, you weren't afraid, in fact you were determined to find out the truth.

You read the entire manual carefully, going over it a few times, specifically the part where it said the doll can bruise.

How can the doll bruise if there's no blood inside its body?

"Hm." you threw the manual aside and finally lifted the doll out of its little casket, setting it down on the couch in the sitting position.

It took some time to adjust him but Shadow came to sniff Minho and rub against him, seemingly she liked him very much and you trusted your cat's intuition.

"Give me a moment." you said to the doll before running to get some stuff you needed from the basement.

"I'm sorry for this." you grimaced as you sat down next to Minho.

Just a little prick on the skin is what you needed so you grabbed his hand and brought it closer to you as you held the little needle in your other hand. Quickly, you pricked him and waited for a moment.

Nothing was happening so you sighed putting the needle on a tray you brought. You were just about to get up when you noticed it; a tiny droplet of blood oozing out of your doll's finger. With a gasp you stared at the red liquid.

Your mind was reeling and before you could stop yourself, you brought his finger to your lips, licking at the droplet, the metallic taste of blood was unmistakable. Your doll had real blood inside its body. Something about that frightened you, but that fear ignited a flame within you and you wrapped your lips around his finger, lightly sucking on it, the blood coming out slowly as you lapped at it.

"Oh. Looks like I'm not the only one enjoying this." Minho's eyes were shining and his pants were filling up, the button almost popping off.

He was big and usually you weren't this impatient but it's been some time. Your hand explored his muscular thigh, running up to cup his erection and you swore you could feel him twitch in your hand.

You scooted closer to him, hand tangling in his hair and it was surprisingly soft and it smelled of shampoo like he had just washed it. You leaned in to take a whiff before pressing kisses there all the way down to his cheeks. His soft skin under your lips felt heavenly and you were already getting addicted to him.

You pressed your lips into his softly, then pressed them again a bit harder as your hands roamed on his chest. He was muscle everywhere and you were fluttering on the inside, your arousal increasing the more you touched him.

A loud pop scared you as you jolted looking down to find the source. A small laugh escaped your lips when you realized that the button on his pants had actually popped off.

"Fine, you're eager." you chuckled, sliding his pants down, your eyes on his prominent bulge instantly. Your nimble fingers unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his broad shoulders and strong biceps that were visible in the tanktop he wore.

"Wait. I should undress too." you said and Shadow perked up from her spot before standing up and rushing out of the living room like she had understood what was about to happen.

You took your robe off, letting it fall on the floor, you were left only in the silky black nightgown so slowly you slid that off too, the material pooling around your feet.

Minho seemed to have some kind of reaction, at least his neck flushed a little and you were wondering how it does that. How is any of this real?

That didn't matter after you stripped him completely, your eyes admiring the work of art before you. Hands touching and lips exploring, you didn't care about how freaky all this was.

Somewhere along the way you lost your panties, so you straddled Minho's lap, your hands grabbing his face. He was absolutely stunning and your pussy clenched at the look in his eyes. It seemed like there was a fire inside them, a passion burning wild.

Your hand wrapped around his cock, big and heavy in your hand, making you whimper at the thought of it being inside you. You ran the throbbing tip against your wet folds before slowly sinking down on him.

The stretch was delicious as you took him in, wrapping your arms around his shoulders for support, your hands splayed on his muscular back. When you adjusted, you slowly started to move up and down on his length, the squelching sounds filling up the room as you dripped on him.

It seemed as if Minho was looking at you and you sped up, bouncing on him faster, your moans getting louder as you neared your high.

Your nails dug into his flesh as you exploded around him, your hand running down to cup his ass which made him cum too, the warm liquid filling you up and making your eyes roll back.

"Wow." you gasped. Only when you lifted up and circled the couch, you saw that his back had angry red scratch marks.

"Shit, I'm sorry." you leaned over to look at Minho's face.

He seemed to be smirking just a tiny bit?

"I hope it doesn't hurt." you said, not forgetting to pat and caress your dolly's head. You pressed a few small kisses on his cheek before leaving to get cleaned up.

When you came back, Minho was waiting for you in the same position so you cleaned him too and put some of his clothes back on, the pants definitely needed some mending.

"A sex doll?" Emily looked at you in disbelief, holding Shadow in her arms like a baby, moving the cat left and right.

"Yes, isn't he beautiful?" you smirked, patting Minho's head as he sat in your kitchen, company to you and your friend.

"I mean, he is. It's just a little creepy." she said and you gave her a pointed look which made her laugh. "But I shouldn't be surprised when it comes to you. He really looks human though." Emily added, coming closer to the doll as Shadow jumped out of her arms.

"Here's the thing. I pricked his finger the other day and he bled." you told her, adjusting on your chair as you picked up your cup of tea.

"He what? Now, that's creepy. Are you sure it was blood? Maybe it's some kind of trick?"

"Nope, it was definitely blood." you shook your head.

"Hm. Can you like open him up?" Emily asked, making you chuckle.

"Do you know how much I paid for him? I'm not about to cut him up, besides the manual said not to mutilate the doll."

"And why is that? Because they don't want you to know the doll's secrets? Just think about it." Emily shrugged. "Anyways, I have to go. Call me if you find anything out." she added, wiggling her brows.

You took a look at Minho, it hasn't even been a week since he was in your house, but he blended in perfectly with the rest of the decor, even when he was more than that. Shadow seemed to love him, always rubbing against his legs and sleeping on his lap. Animals had a sixth sense when it came to things like this so you trusted that you weren't in any danger. Still, you were so curious.

Come evening, you were in a mood.

There was music blasting from your speakers, the lights were all out except the dimmed moody ones and a few candles here and there. The tv was on too, a silent horror film playing on it. Outside, it was raining hard, almost drowning out any other sounds as big droplets kept hitting your window.

Shadow was tucked away in her room and you were wearing lingerie.

Minho was sat on your couch, you turned him to look directly at you as you downed a glass of wine before you started swinging your hips seductively.

The music took you over and you danced, forgetting about everything around you, including your companion Minho whose eyes were following every single movement, unbeknown to you.

"Oh!" you spun a little too fast, colliding with the side of the sofa and chuckling to yourself.

Your eyes fell to Minho, then the coffee table where you had left some cake and knife to cut it with. You bit on your lip as you made your way towards him slowly.

You picked up the knife, twirling the handle once, twice as you smirked at the dolly.

"Are you scared, doll?" you leaned towards him, your tits almost falling out of your skimpy bra as you pointed the knife at Minho.

He didn't seem to react at all.

"No? How about now?" you asked, leaning the knife on his cheek gently. "Or now?" you added, sliding it down his chest and abdomen slowly all the way towards the bulge that appeared in his boxers.

"Enjoying this? I'm glad." you smirked, putting the knife aside for a moment to unhook your bra and slide down your panties.

You undressed Minho too, spreading his legs a little and adjusting him before you turned your back to him.

"Like what you see?" you ran your hands up your hips to your waist as you looked back at him.

The reflection of the candlelight burned in his eyes as you slowly sat in his lap, his length filling your pussy up perfectly, your feet planted on the floor. A moan escaped your lips when you found purchase on his thighs, bracing yourself as you started to bounce on him. The sound of your ass slapping against his abdomen filled up the room and you threw your head back, enjoying the feeling of his tip brushing against your sweet spot.

"Ah! Fuck, Minho!" you moaned his name, feeling him twitch inside you instantly and you gasped as you came, lifting off of him and squirting all over his thighs. What a sweet mess.

"Oh." you moaned, taking him in once again as you sat down and started moving up and down, your thighs burning from exertion. You reached back to grab a handful of his ass, making the doll fill you up.

You leaned on him, your back flush against his chest as you grabbed his arms and wrapped them around you.

"I kinda wish you would come to life but at the same time I don't know if you'd like me. Right now, you have no choice. Isn't that kinda fucked up?" you looked up at Minho but there was no sign of reaction or movement. "Well, don't move. I'll be right back." you joked as you stood up.

You prepared a bath for the both of you, struggling a little to get him in but as soon as you did, you sat between his legs and relaxed in the warm water.

Shadow appeared in your bathroom, meowing at you.

"What is it?" you chuckled, leaning a little to the side to look at her.

Your cat's tail twitched a few times as she stared at Minho, releasing a few more meows before sitting down and continuing to stare at him. You looked back at your doll but he was chilling, looking straight ahead like he always does.

Eventually, Shadow gave up the staring and left the bathroom. Huh, that was weird, you thought but brushed it off as cat behavior.

After drying yourself and the dolly, you got dressed and tucked him in your bed. After years of sharing your bed only with your cat, it was nice to also have someone fill up the empty side of it. And Minho was warm and soft in a way, you had no idea how they made him like that but in the tired and lonely moments, you didn't care.

It's been almost a month since Minho entered your life and you shared almost every moment with him. He had watched you cook and clean, do your hobbies, play with your cat. But, you had yet to take him downstairs.

You weren't even sure if you wanted to. But you were dragging him around the house all the time like a kid drags their favorite teddy bear so you didn't see the harm in it.

Whenever a grieving family came to talk to you, Minho was tucked away in the safety of your room. Today, a particularly loud widow came in to cry to you about her husband who was now in your basement, waiting to be prepared for his funeral.

You reassured her he was in best hands and that you'll make him look as wonderful as you can, since the accident he passed away in had ruined his face.

You just needed to get some things from a few shops before starting, and as soon as the widow left you went to your room to see Minho.

"I'm going to town. I'll be back soon, honey." you chuckled, giving him a peck and a few pats on his soft hair.

You were done with shopping quickly and as the sun was setting you decided to walk across the main square and have a short stroll since you weren't carrying many things.

You saw a little crowd gathered there around someone so naturally curious, you made your way towards it.

An artist was sitting on a little stool, painting a portrait of one of the onlookers. You peered down to look at the canvas, hypnotized by the brush strokes and the movement of this person's hand.

Your eyes followed his arm to his face and your brows furrowed. He looked somewhat familiar. You were trying to think where you had seen him before but kept coming up blank.

"Do you want a portrait?" his voice broke you out of your thoughts.

"Ah, yes sure." you nodded and he started working on it immediately.

He was talented and quick and you kept observing him as he worked, still trying to think where he was familiar from.

"Here. Done." he smiled proudly and you chuckled.

"Thank you, it's really good." you took out your wallet. "Here." you gave him a 100, and his eyes widened slightly.

"Oh, thank you! T-this is a lot! Thank you so much!" he bowed a little as he took the bill from you.

"What's your name?" you asked.

"H-Hyunjin, miss." he looked a little panicked and you gave him a reassuring smile.

"Have I seen you somewhere?" you asked and he chuckled nervously, and you noticed a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"Maybe you've seen me paint here." he said but you still weren't convinced.

"Maybe. You come here often?"

"I'm trying to make some money to buy a gift for my lover." Hyunjin smiled fondly and you smiled back.

"That's sweet."

"Thank you. Your portrait." he said as you stood up.

"Oh, thanks for that again. Bye, Hyunjin." you said as you grabbed it.

"Bye, miss." he yelled behind you as you walked away.

Finally, you took Minho down to your basement. You put him in safe distance from all the chemicals as you got ready to begin your work.

Minho sat in the corner, his eyes twitching a few times as he stared at your skilful hands. You worked almost on autopilot as you have done this a hundred times, rinse and repeat.

It took a few hours but the man finally looked at peace, you had reconstructed his face as much as you could for an open casket, the embalming process taking up most of the time after that.

After putting the body away and cleaning everything up, your eyes fell to Minho and you friend's words rang inside your mind.

Maybe you could take a little peak inside him? You stood there contemplating, remembering that he did in fact bleed when you pricked him, so if you cut him it might be even messier. You didn't want to hurt him but as always, you were too curious for your own good.

Minutes later, your dolly was shirtless on your table, a scalpel in your hand. Never has your hand trembled but as you brought the blade closer to his skin, your fingers twitched ever so slightly. Your heart sped up as you took a deep breath, pressing the scalpel softly against the doll's skin.

Suddenly, he lifted his hand and grabbed your wrist, his eyes moving to look at you as you screamed, trying to step back but he held on tightly, taking a deep breath that sounded somewhat painful.

"Don't hurt me." he pleaded, his voice raspy as he took in shallow breaths.

You snatched your hand away, the scalpel clattering on the floor as your wide eyes took in the sight before you. Your dolly was alive.

"I always had this irrational fear that some day one of the dead bodies I was working on would wake up." you chuckled.

"I wasn't dead." he sat up slowly and you rushed to him, seeing he was dizzy.

"I know. You bled when I pricked your finger."

"By the way, that hurt." he gave you a look and you shrugged with a smirk.

"What about the part that came after it?" you asked breathlessly as Minho's eyes softened.

"That was more fun." he smirked, making you chuckle. "Can we go upstairs? The fumes are making me nauseous."

You helped Minho up, taking him to the kitchen where he drank four glasses of water quickly while you heated up dinner.

"So, you were aware of everything the entire time?" you asked and he nodded, his cheeks becoming rosy. "I figured as much. Something was fishy ever since you came here. I knew you were alive."

Shadow appeared in the kitchen, jumping up on Minho's lap immediately and he wrapped his arms around the cat, caressing her. She meowed and started purring as she pushed her head into his hand.

"She approved of you from day one."

"I'm glad she did."

"Here, eat and then we can talk." you said, as if this was the most normal thing ever.

"It's so nice to be able to move and be outside in the fresh air." Minho noted as the two of you decided to take a walk in the woods behind your house.

The woods were comforting always and even more beautiful now with all the autumn colors painting the leaves. It was a bit chilly but you dressed well, the fresh air was helping you clear your mind.

"I bet it is. So, what do you remember before being here with me?"

"I remember a lab. Tables like the ones in your basement, I remember I didn't look like this from the beginning. I also remember I could walk and move and talk before they put something inside us. We were plugged to something and suspended in water tanks. There was eight of us."

"Oh, I saw the others on the site! Do you remember them?"

"Yes, I do. We all had our cells before they put us in the tanks. Chan was made first. Then there was me, Changbin, Hyunjin, Jisung, Felix, Seungmin and lastly Jeongin." Minho explained.

"Wait, Hyunjin?" you suddenly remembered the artist you ran into.

"Yes, he liked to paint."

"I saw him today!"

"You saw Hyunjin?" Minho's eyes widened. "Like this? Alive?"

"Yeah. Do you think the others are somewhere around here too?"

"Could be. I really miss them. We tried, y/n. We tried to fight the company but there were too many of them and we were kept in such a controlled enviroment. They kept injecting something with these big needles, it would make us sleepy."

"Do you remember anything before the lab?"

"As much as I dig around my mind, I only remember the lab."

"What do you mean, you didn't look like this the in the beginning?" you asked after a quiet moment of taking in everything Minho had told you.

"Well, I don't wanna gross you out with gory details." he said and you laughed.

"Honey, I'm a mortician."

"Right, you poke around dead people." he smiled teasingly.

"What a way to put it." you chuckled.

"Well. If you must know, they added skin later."

"Oh... Oh. So, I'm guessing maybe you're not human? Or at least, not entirely?" you said.

"I have no idea." Minho shrugged with a sigh.

Your hand brushed his as the leaves crunched under your feet.

You took hold of his hand, noticing his shy smile and rosy cheeks as your fingers entwined.

"We'll figure it out."

It's been about two weeks since Minho woke up and you had no idea your dolly would be so shy.

He avoided talking about what he was actually made for and never mentioned you using him for your pleasure multiple times. Minho enjoyed cooking for you and playing with your cat as much as he enjoyed watching you work and being the one to hold you during cold nights.

It was safe. It was comforting. You had found someone who was genuinely interested in what you do. Even when he was a little annoying, asking question after question like a curious child, his shiny eyes staring at you closely as he breathed in your personal space and kept asking stuff like 'What are you doing now?', 'What is that?', 'Why are you putting it there?'.

It was adorable as much as it was irritating, and you loved it.

Outside, it rained hard as you sat on your window bench, reading quietly while Minho sat on the sofa, cuddling with Shadow.

You gave him time to get used to everything, but you were feeling kind of impatient at the same time. Minho was observant, he learned all your little movements, the tone of your voice, what your sighs meant. He loved all the little details that made you you.

So, he stood up and made his way to you which got your attention, and you looked up from your book just in time as he stood in front of you.

"Yes?"

"Can I kiss you?" he asked and your eyes widened.

"Of course." you smiled then, your face heating up.

Minho sat down close to you, gently grabbing your book from your hands and putting it aside before he touched your face softly. He leaned in and you waited with bathed breath for his lips to collide with yours.

It wasn't what you expected, fireworks and passion, it was more gentle, more profound. He kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered in this world.

"I'm sorry I made you wait. It's just, I'm scared that somehow I will go back to how I was before. And I don't want that to be in that... prison anymore. Being able to see and hear it all but being unable to react, it was terrifying and I still have nightmares about it." Minho confessed as you ran your hands through his soft hair.

"That's not gonna happen, okay?"

"How are you so sure that it won't?" Minho asked.

"Because... I love you and I'm not gonna let anything happen to you." you said, Minho's lips trembled as he searched your eyes before a sweet smile spread on his lips.

"I love you too, my kitten." he smirked before leaning in, this time giving you a more passionate kiss.

It didn't take long for the kiss to escalate as Minho pushed his tongue into your mouth, tasting you. Your hands tangled in his hair as his roamed your body, exploring your curves and dips like he had always wanted to.

He kneeled between your legs, his knee pressed against your core and you whimpered into his mouth as he smirked against yours.

"My sweet kitten, I've always wanted to take care of you." he looked at you, eyes darkened with lust as you gripped onto his strong arms, your hips moving on their own as you rubbed your clothed pussy against his knee.

"M-Minho." you whined, throwing your head back and his lips attached to your neck and collarbone, traveling down between your breasts as he left hungry kisses everywhere. His hands gripped your waist before sliding down to grab your ass and lift you up.

You squealed as he turned your body towards the window; the view outside was breathtaking, all the leaves twirling in the wind, the rain dragging them down and washing them away just as the sky darkened.

"Here?" you gasped and he chuckled.

"Everywhere." he whispered in your ear before lifting your little nightgown and revealing your lacy panties.

"Very sweet." Minho grabbed handfuls of your ass and you moaned, nails scratching at the bench you were just sitting on. His fingers slid on your folds, your arousal soaking through the lace as he kept touching you, giving you a few spanks with his other hand.

You moaned his name, pushing back into him, your body craving for more; you were so touch starved that you lost your mind immediately, melting into Minho and giving him total control over you.

He wanted you as much as you wanted him so he slid your panties down just enough to have access to your wet pussy as he slid his pants and boxers down at the same time.

"I promise I'll take it slow later. I just need to have you right now." he breathed out as you felt the tip of his hard cock press and slide against your folds.

"Take me, Minho, please!" you pushed back again and he spanked you quickly, making you whimper.

"Stay still, kitten." he purred as he slowly pushed in and the stretch was perfect, your pussy taking him in easily until he filled you up completely.

"You feel perfect around me." he groaned as he started moving slowly, his hands splayed on your ass as you pressed your forehead into one of the decorative pillows on your window, little gasps and moans escaping your lips.

"Ah!" you moaned loudly when he hit your spot, biting down on the pillow as Minho's hand tangled in your hair, lifting your head up slowly.

"Let me hear you, kitten." he said, fucking into you harder, the sounds of skin slapping skin making your ears warm up in embarrassment. You caught a glimpse of your reflection in the window, seeing the expression on Minho's face sent shivers down your spine, your pussy clenching around his cock.

You let go and started moaning loudly, and the louder you got the faster he fucked into you.

"Just like that." he whined and you gasped, cumming around his length, making him more slippery and wet as he held onto you.

It only took a few more erratic thrusts before Minho exploded inside you, his warm cum filling you up deliciously and making you cum once more at the feeling of it.

"Oh." he gasped as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly for a few moments. You finally turned around, grabbing his face and giving him a sloppy wet kiss.

"I love you." you smiled as he pulled you into a hug.

"I love you. I'm glad I came to you." he whispered.

"Me too."

The two of you were cuddled up with Shadow under a blanket, watching a horror movie per Minho's request when your doorbell rang.

"That must be Emily." you stood up quickly and Minho looked at you with a panicked look in his eyes.

"You sure she won't freak out?" he asked and you shook your head.

"No, she's literally seen everything with me." you chuckled as you went to open the door. Minho sat still on the couch, cuddling Shadow to calm his fast beating heart.

"Emily, I'd like you to meet someone." you pulled your best friend into the living room and she looked at Minho confusedly for a moment.

"Didn't we meet already?" she chuckled and Minho's lips fell open.

"She's not gonna faint is she?" he asked, making the both of you laugh.

"Not that I know of." Emily said with a shrug. "Look Minho, when you're friends with y/n for years, nothing really surprises you anymore. Plus, she told me in advance. Everything that happened and what you remember." she added as you served some tea for her.

"Minho sometimes has nightmares about the company." you added.

"Did you remember any more details?" Emily asked after taking a sip of tea.

"Not really. Just bits and pieces, it's more like feelings. Fear, dread, isolation. I especially hated when they experimented on us, the tables. I don't know what they did to us cause I couldn't move and look down but it hurt. The water tanks seemed to alleviate the pain though." Minho explained.

"Okay, now that is creepy." Emily said and you nodded.

"Did you manage to find anything on the site?" you asked her and she shook her head.

"I tried hacking it. It has top security on it, it's out of my skill range." Emily sighed. "I wish I could be of more help."

"Hey, you being here is enough for me." you grabbed her hand as she smiled.

"Oh, do you maybe know where the company is?" Emily suddenly remembered and Minho shut his eyes tightly, willing himself to think of the location.

"Ugh. I can't remember no matter how much I try. I don't remember traveling from there to your house." he looked at you.

"It's okay. We can try again another day." you said, caressing his back to calm him down.

It was all so suspicious and you were too interested in finding out more about where you dear dolly came from.

You were enjoying an afternoon nap when a loud clatter jolted you out of your dreams.

"What are you doing, Min?" you rubbed your eyes as you walked into the kitchen.

"Oh. I'm making dinner for us. It's been exactly five months since I came here so I wanted to do something special." he said, his cheeks rosy.

"Aw, you are so sweet." you melted instantly, making him chuckle shyly.

When you sat down to eat the delicious meal he prepared, you got to thinking.

You've never been so happy or felt so seen. Living with Minho, sharing the day and night with him came easy to you. Everything seemed more lively since he came into your life, even death became an afterthought when you spent time with Minho.

"Thank you for the wonderful dinner." you smiled.

"Of course." he stood up and you followed quickly, almost knocking your chair down.

"Wait here a sec." you told him before running off to your room. If he had made an effort with the main course, you were going to make effort with the dessert.

Minho decided to tidy up as he waited for you, his heart beating hard in anticipation. While you were sleeping, he saw the lacy set you had put out in your closet earlier and he was so excited to see you in it... or take it off of you.

"Min, come here!" you yelled from the room once you were ready and Minho all but tripped over his feet, the carpet and Shadow who was lounging in her spot before he came to you, looking as cool as a cucumber. He leaned on the wall and smirked at you.

"What do you think?" you asked, giving him a little twirl. The lingerie you wore left nothing to imagination.

"I think you look stunning." he said, somewhat breathlessly as his face heated up.

"You gonna do something about it?" you taunted and he made his way to you, his eyes filling up with lust.

His hands landed on your waist as he pulled you in, his lips pressing against yours. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders as you pressed your body as close as you could to his and his hands slid down to grab your ass.

You moaned into his mouth as he started massaging it, then giving it a few loving spanks.

"Fuck, let me take care of you, my love." you pushed him towards the night stand and Minho's eyes widened as you got down on your knees.

"Oh." he let out a quiet sound as you slid his pants and boxers down, not wanting to waste any more time. His cock was already hard and ready for you to play with and you were just too eager.

Your fingers wrapped around the base of his length as you leaned in closer, giving a few kitten licks to his tip, collecting the drops of pre cum on your tongue.

Minho breathed in sharply, his hands grabbing at the night stand behind him. You smirked, swirling your tongue around the tip, occasionally dipping it into his slit and trying to tease him as much as you could.

"Kitten." Minho moaned quietly, his hand tangling in your hair as you started sucking on the tip gently.

You were sure you couldn't take all of him but you were even more sure you were going to try anyways, so you slid down, taking more of his length in and trying to get used to it.

"You look so beautiful right now." Minho smirked, gripping your hair and holding you against him tightly. You moaned around him, sending vibrations through his body as you slid down more.

You bobbed your head up and down, wetting his cock with your spit and gagging around him multiple times and Minho couldn't help his desire as he slowly started to fuck into your warm mouth.

"Ah, y/n!" he groaned, accidentally pushing harder and making you gag. You slid off of him and he looked at you with panic in his eyes.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, his palm gentle against your cheek.

"No, I'm fine." you said, biting on your lip. "Just very needy right now."

"For what?" he smirked and you whined.

"You."

"Get on the bed, kitten." he said and you stood up immediately, lying down on the bed.

Minho climbed in after you, kneeling between your legs as he pushed your panties aside.

"This what you need?" he smirked, sliding the tip of his cock against your wet folds.

"Mm, yes." you moaned, already arching your back at the slightest touch.

"Hmm, I'm not convinced." he smirked.

"Please!" you whined desperately, making Minho chuckle.

"Okay." he said but you saw the mischievous glint in his eyes and you knew he was going to tease you some more.

He pushed in just the tip, fucking you slowly with it.

"Ah, Min!" you whined as he kept smirking, giving you a minimal amount of stimulation.

Your eyes teared up in frustration as Minho kept fucking you only with the tip, your pussy clenching and begging for more.

"Please, please!" you cried.

"More?" he teased, pushing a bit more in and staying still.

"All of it."

"As you wish darling." he said before pushing all of his length in and fucking you slowly.

You moaned as you wrapped your arms and legs around him and Minho held you close as he kept rocking his hips into you.

You reached bliss together, wrapped up in each other, completely content.

"Wait." you giggled as Minho started getting up so he can get a cloth to clean you up.

"What?" he asked and you pulled him closer, patting his head gently.

"Oh." he giggled cutely before standing up and almost running off to the bathroom.

While you laid there waiting for him, your phone started ringing.

"Ugh." you groaned and rolled over to grab it.

"Hello?"

"Miss l/n?"

"Yes, this is she." you sat up, thinking it was someone calling for your funeral services.

"We are calling regarding our dolly collection. We understand you have purchased our dark doll, Minho." the cold voice on the other end said.

"Yes, I have."

"We regret to inform you that the collection will be pulled back from the public and we will be taking all the dolls back to our company due to a malfunction. You will get your refund of course. We will come pick the doll up tomorrow morning." they said right as Minho came in.

"Okay, thank you for calling." you said politely before finishing the call.

"Who was that?" Minho asked.

"It was your company, apparently they are taking all the dolls back to the lab due to a malfunction."

"What? Please, don't let them take me! I can't go back there!" Minho looked angry and scared instantly.

"Oh they can come here. But they won't find anything. I have a plan, my love." you smirked.

You were not about to let anyone take away your happiness.

The doorbell rang at 9am sharp and you took a deep breath before opening the door.

There were six men in black suits and emotionless faces standing there and looking at you.

"We've come to pick the doll up."

Suddenly, you hiccuped and started crying.

"He is gone! My dolly is gone! I woke up this morning and looked for him everywhere. But there is no trace of him. I-I put him in my bed like always but he disappeared!" you cried and the men exchanged a look.

"Mind if we take a look around?" one of them asked.

"Please, go ahead." you let them in and they started snooping around immediately. Shadow hissed at them, running away as soon as one of the men came anywhere near her.

They were definitely dangerous.

"W-what kind of malfunction happened to the dolls?" you asked, blowing your nose in a napkin.

"We aren't allowed to discuss that." they answered.

"What's downstairs?" one of them asked.

"My preparation room. This is a funeral home." you said and they gave you suspicious looks.

"Can we take a look there?"

"Of course." you nodded and opened the door.

Then men looked around as you followed them, still crying silently and hiccuping a few more times.

"Well, he is not here. Don't worry about it, miss. You will still get your refund and the doll will be found." they finally gave up after checking every nook and cranny, or so they thought.

"Okay, thank you for coming." you said as they left.

You waited for them to get into their van and drive away before you ran back downstairs.

"They left!" you quickly opened one of the caskets and Minho sat up, taking a deep breath in.

"Gosh, I almost suffocated. I could hear them walking around here, it was so scary." he said as you grabbed his face gently.

"But they didn't find you." you smiled.

"No, thanks to my genius lover." he smiled back at you as you leaned in to kiss him.

"What do we do now?" he asked when you parted.

"We wait to get the refund. And then we'll see what our next step will be."

"Are you sure they won't come looking for me here again?" Minho sighed.

"They can try. But I won't let them take you away from me. I promise."

Minho wrapped his arms around you tightly, putting all his trust into your hands.

You knew you were running a risk as long as you stayed here, but there were preparations needed to be done before you could get away.

And you wanted to make sure there was no trace left for the wrong people to find you.

taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @porangporangmeong @laylasbunbunny @laughatdanger @jeonginslefthand @sapphirewaves @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @painterhyunjin @starlost-mochi-x @saintcosette @ooshyana @frehyun @scarlet789 @skzdust @schniti-is-in-the-house @eastjonowhere @sona1800 @channiesrightasscheek @justwonder113 @yvettemint @inaribu00 @httpdwaekki @possum-playground @ria-april @yn-x-them @mariahxrrera @0omillo0

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cressidagrey · 21 days ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 8: October 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes:

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...I think that's it?

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

Max wasn’t someone who forgot how to be an adult.

He was a World Champion. He kept a strict training regimen, remembered which hand luggage worked best for long-haul flights, and could navigate a grid penalty strategy like it was second nature. He wasn’t helpless—not at the track, not at home.

But still, there was something quietly astonishing about how easy his life had become since Isabelle moved in.

It started off small.

After the first race weekend they spent apart post-move, he came home expecting the usual chaos—half-unpacked suitcase, laundry to do, a fridge with maybe one sad yogurt and some questionable cheese.

Instead?

His suitcase was already unpacked. Laundry sorted and in the wash. There was a folded stack of clean gym clothes on the bed, and a small sticky note on the bathroom mirror in Isabelle’s tidy handwriting:

Welcome home. You did great. There’s soup in the fridge and the cats missed you.

He’d blinked at it for a solid minute before laughing quietly and thinking, Huh. That’s new.

But it didn’t stop there.

By the third race weekend, it had become a rhythm. The fridge was magically stocked with all the foods he craved after long travel days—cut mango, chocolate granola, oat milk, the fancy yogurt he’d once mentioned liking.

His sim racing gear? Charged and ready before he even thought to use it. A small corner of the closet had somehow become better organized than Red Bull’s race strategy board.

She started refilling his supplements without saying a word. She pre-scheduled his haircuts, left Post-Its on the mirror when he needed to sign something for the team, and quietly placed noise-canceling earplugs in his carry-on.

And she worked. Isabelle had a full-time job. Not a desk job where she could casually scroll through her phone or delegate her way through the day—she was an architect, doing interiors, managing clients, deadlines, contractors. Max had seen her calendar. It looked like someone had lost a game of Tetris.

And somehow—somehow—she still remembered to order new toothpaste before they ran out. Or add his vitamins to the grocery list. Or restock the snack drawer in his sim room without ever saying a word.

It wasn’t flashy. She didn’t make announcements about it. She just did it, quietly and efficiently, like she always had.

It wasn’t until Max found himself halfway through folding his laundry before realizing he hadn’t had to fold laundry in over a month that the realization hit him fully:

Isabelle had spent most of her life running in the background of other people’s chaos.

He’d seen it before, on the edges of Leclerc family race weekends. Isabelle, the sister who stayed back to make sure Arthur had the right tie packed, or that Charles had signed the right forms. The one who found a florist for Lorenzo thirty minutes before an event, or remembered which water bottle brand their mother liked for travel.

She had always been the quiet buffer.

The fixer.

The forgotten problem-solver.

And now… she was doing it for him.

Not because he expected it. He didn’t. He’d told her repeatedly he could handle himself. But Isabelle wasn’t someone who waited to be asked. She anticipated, gently rearranged the world around her people, and made their lives easier before they even noticed they were stressed.

He found her that night curled up on the sofa, hair damp from the shower, laptop open with her architectural renders glowing softly against her face. She was eating grapes and typing one-handed, her legs tucked under her like always.

“You know,” Max said, dropping onto the couch beside her, “I haven’t had to do a single thing since I got home.”

Isabelle didn’t look up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… I haven’t done laundry. My flights are in my calendar. My snack drawer is mysteriously refilled. I have socks again. And coffee. And peace.”

She blinked, paused her typing, and smiled. “It’s really not that much.”

“It is,” Max said gently. “You work ten hours a day and somehow still run this apartment like it’s an F1 garage. I don’t know how you do it.”

She shrugged a little, looking sheepish. “I like doing it. I like making things easier for the people I love.”

“Do your brothers ever thank you?”

She hesitated. “I don’t think they realize half of what I do,” she admitted drily.

Max nodded slowly. “Well, I notice. Every little thing. You don’t have to do it all, but when you do… I see it. And I’m grateful. Really.”

Her smile wavered just a little, like something fragile cracked open inside her chest.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I… I’m not used to hearing that.”

Max pulled her laptop from her lap, set it gently on the coffee table, and tugged her into his arms.

Max cupped her cheek, thumb brushing just under her eye. “I see it now. All of it. Every time you notice something before I do. Every time you put something away or refill something I didn’t even realize was empty. You’ve made this place feel like home.”

She smiled softly. “That’s what love is, isn’t it?”

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur: I’M SCREWED.

Lorenzo: Again?

Charles: What now?

Arthur: I FORGOT MY ANNIVERSARY.

Charles: …

Lorenzo: …

Charles: You absolute moron.

Lorenzo: You have ONE job.

Arthur: HELP ME.

Charles: Help you??? Maybe try remembering important dates next time?

Lorenzo: Yeah, I don’t really see how this is our problem.

Arthur: ISABELLE. SAVE ME.

Isabelle: What kind of dinner does she like?

Arthur: She likes Italian? And wine? And… romantic lighting?

Isabelle: …Do you know anything about your girlfriend?

Arthur: I KNOW I LOVE HER AND I DON’T WANT HER TO DUMP ME.

Isabelle: Right. I’ll take care of it.

Arthur: YOU’RE A HERO.

(20 minutes later)

Isabelle: You have a reservation at La Chèvre d'Or at 8 PM. I also ordered that perfume she keeps in her bag and had it gift-wrapped. It’ll be at your place in an hour.

Lorenzo: Oh, while you’re at it, what should I get my girlfriend for her birthday?

Isabelle: Jewelry. She’s been eyeing those gold earrings from Cartier.

Lorenzo: You’re actually a genius.

(Several hours later)

Isabelle: You’re welcome, by the way.

Arthur: Huh?

Lorenzo: For what?

***

Max was still buzzing with adrenaline when he finally stepped into his apartment, championship celebrations still ringing in his ears. The moment he closed the door behind him, silence settled over him like a warm blanket, the contrast almost jarring after the chaos of the paddock.

And then he saw her.

Isabelle was curled up on the couch, one of the cats nestled beside her, a book resting open in her lap. She must’ve heard him come in because she looked up immediately, her expression softening.

“Hey,” she said, setting the book aside. “How does it feel?”

Max huffed out a breath, toeing off his shoes and crossing the room in a few quick steps. “Like I need you,” he muttered, dropping onto the couch beside her and pulling her into his arms.

She let out a quiet laugh but didn’t resist, settling against his chest as his arms tightened around her. “That exhausting, huh?”

He buried his face in her shoulder. “So many people. So much noise. This is better.”

Her fingers threaded through his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “You did just win your third world title. Kind of a big deal.”

He smirked against her skin. “Mm. They wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Annoying, really,” she teased.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. The soft glow from the nearby lamp illuminated her features, her eyes filled with something quiet and fond.

“You should’ve been there,” he murmured, brushing his fingers along her jaw.

She sighed, shaking her head. “You know why I wasn’t.”

He did. She wasn’t ready for the cameras, the attention, the inevitable questions. And he would never push her into something she wasn’t comfortable with.

But fuck, he wished she had been there.

Still, she had waited up for him. She was here. That was enough.

His thumb traced slow circles over her hip as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You watched?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “You were incredible.”

His chest tightened at the quiet sincerity in her voice. He’d spent the entire night surrounded by people telling him how great he was, how historic his achievement was. But this—hearing it from her—meant more than any of it.

He let out a long breath, finally starting to feel the exhaustion creeping in. “Come to bed with me?”

She nodded, taking his hand as they stood. As they made their way toward the bedroom, one of the cats darted ahead of them, already claiming Max’s pillow.

Isabelle laughed. “Looks like you’re not the only champion in this house.”

Max just smiled, pulling her close again as they climbed into bed. “Doesn’t matter. I already have everything I want.”

They settled into bed, limbs tangled, warmth shared beneath soft blankets. The city was quiet outside the windows. The adrenaline was finally ebbing.

And then, just as the stillness settled, Isabelle spoke.

“You never ask,” she said quietly.

“Ask what?”

“Why I haven’t told them.”

She didn’t have to specify who them was.

Max exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. It wasn’t that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He had wondered—more than once—why she still kept their relationship a secret, why she hadn’t told her brothers, her mother, anyone. But he had never pushed.

“Do you want to tell them?” he asked carefully.

Isabelle was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, she looked up at him, her gaze steady.

“No.”

Max blinked. That wasn’t the answer he had been expecting.

She sighed, shifting so she was facing him fully. “It’s not because I’m ashamed of you. Or because I don’t care.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s because you’re important to me.”

His breath hitched slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting her continue.

“My whole life, I’ve felt like I had to fight to be noticed. To be heard. And with my family, it’s always been about Charles. About Arthur. About Lorenzo. I love them, but—sometimes, it feels like I’m just a shadow in their lives.” She swallowed. “I didn’t want you to be part of that. I didn’t want us to become something that gets brushed aside, just another footnote in their world.”

Max’s jaw tightened. He had seen the way her family overlooked her, how they spoke over her, how they forgot things that should have mattered. And now, hearing it from her directly, it made something inside him ache.

“So you kept us just for you,” he murmured.

She nodded. “Just for me.”

Max reached out, his fingers threading through hers. “I don’t mind,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “If you want to wait. Whatever you decide—I just want to be with you.”

She squeezed his hand, and he lifted it to press a kiss against her knuckles, his lips lingering there for a moment.

“I hope you know,” he added quietly, “that you’ll never be a shadow to me.”

A small, wobbly smile tugged at her lips, and she leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“I know,” she whispered.

Max let the words settle between them, his grip on Isabelle’s hand firm but gentle. He could feel the warmth of her fingers, the slight tremble she tried to hide. He had never truly understood what it felt like to be overlooked—his entire life had been under a spotlight, from karting to Formula 1. But Isabelle? She had spent years fading into the background of her own family’s story.

And yet, here she was, choosing to keep him separate from all of that. Not because she was hiding him, but because she wanted something that was only hers.

He squeezed her hand lightly. “You know,” he said, voice softer than usual, “I’d never let them brush you aside. If they knew about us.”

She let out a quiet breath, her eyes flickering down to where their hands were intertwined. “I know,” she admitted. “But that’s not what I’m afraid of.”

Max frowned. “Then what is it?”

She hesitated, then sat up a little straighter, pulling one knee up to her chest. “If I tell them about us,” she said slowly, “it changes things. Not just for me, but for you. For us.” She exhaled. “Suddenly, I won’t just be Isabelle anymore. I’ll be ‘Max Verstappen’s girlfriend.’ And to them, that will mean something.”

He stayed quiet, letting her put her thoughts into words.

“They’ll look at me differently. Maybe they’ll suddenly start paying attention, maybe they’ll act like I matter more just because you matter. And I don’t want that.” Her voice wavered slightly, but she pushed forward. “I don’t want their attention just because of who I’m with. I want them to see me.”

Max felt something twist in his chest. He had never thought of it like that. To him, she had always been important. But her family? They had overlooked her for so long, and she didn’t want their sudden interest to be because of him.

“You think they’d only start noticing you because of my name,” he said quietly.

Isabelle gave him a small, sad smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s only cared because of who you are.”

That stung. Because she was right. He had seen it time and time again—people wanting to be close to him because of what he could offer, not because of who he was. The idea that her own family might finally pay attention to her for the same reason made his jaw tighten.

“Belle.” He turned to face her fully, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I don’t care how long we keep this just between us. But don’t ever think for a second that I don’t see you. That I don’t love you for exactly who you are.”

Her breath caught, and he saw the way her eyes widened slightly. He hadn’t said it before—not like this. Maybe he should have waited for a different moment, something more planned, more perfect. But she deserved to hear it now.

She swallowed hard. “Max.”

“I mean it,” he said, his voice steady. “I love you, Isabelle. And it has nothing to do with your last name, or your family, or anything else. Just you.”

Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, she just looked at him—like she was trying to memorize him, like she was searching for any trace of hesitation. She wouldn’t find any.

Then, finally, she let out a shaky breath and leaned in, pressing her forehead against his. “I love you too,” she whispered, so soft he almost didn’t hear it.

But he did. And that was all that mattered.

***

The shift had started quietly.

Snide comments. Backhanded compliments. Passive exclusion from group meetings she used to lead. Isabelle’s project folders were “misplaced,” her samples “forgotten,” and her renderings were somehow always “accidentally deleted.”

But by now it was blatant.

Last week, she’d walked into the break room and found her concept sketches tossed into the trash beside half-eaten croissants.

Today, someone had keyed in over her CAD file—over it, not on a copy—and added a caption across the top of the screen in bold red text:

“Thanks, nepotism. We’ll take it from here.”

Isabelle stared at it for a long time, her stomach turning.

The worst part was that no one tried to hide it anymore.

When she glanced around the office, no one made eye contact. No one looked guilty. They just went on with their day like she was background noise.

Like she hadn’t worked twice as hard. Stayed twice as late. Fought for every inch of credibility.

Like Max’s penthouse had erased everything she’d ever done before it.

She backed away from her desk, air thick in her lungs, and walked straight to the glass-enclosed materials library. Closed the door. Pressed her back against it.

Breathed.

You live in peace, she reminded herself. You wake up next to Max. This doesn’t get to break you.

But it did hurt.

She didn’t cry—she wouldn’t give them that. But her throat ached with all the things she couldn’t say.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Okay I’m officially done. I just had the worst day and I need to get out of my own head.

Emilie: What happened?? Are you okay?

Isabelle: Just… work stuff. People not listening. Clients who think Pinterest means they’re architects now. And my colleague took credit for something I spent three weeks on.

Emilie: I will start swinging.

Isabelle: Please do. Preferably with one of those cartoonishly large handbags.

Emilie: Already packed one. Where are we going?

Isabelle: Let’s go shopping this afternoon? I still haven’t bought birthday presents for Charles and Arthur, and if I stay in this office any longer I’ll start crying over the wrong throw pillow.

Emilie: Say no more. I’ll pick you up in 30. You can buy emotionally motivated gifts and I can be your moral support/human espresso.

Isabelle: You’re my favorite person.

Emilie: I know. And I’m dragging you to get cake after. No arguments.

***

Alexandra had only come in to browse.

The gallery had been quiet all morning, the kind of rainy-day lull that left her restless, so she’d taken a walk, turned a corner, and ducked into a tucked-away boutique that specialized in little luxuries—silk scarves, handmade ceramics, niche perfumes. The kind of place you didn’t go to with intention, just curiosity.

She was halfway to a display of glass jewelry trays when she heard a familiar voice.

“Alex?”

She turned—and blinked.

“Emilie?”

The other woman—sleek dark coat, sunglasses perched in her hair, a woven tote filled with rolled linen and a jar of fig jam—smiled.

“I thought that was you,” Emilie said, her voice warm but always laced with sharpness, like she couldn’t quite switch off the part of her brain that was evaluating everyone in the room. “It’s been a while.”

Alexandra smiled. “Yeah, since the preview at the gallery. You were with that collector from Paris.”

“He’s still deciding between three paintings he can’t afford,” Emilie said dryly. “But I’m sure he’ll make a confident choice any day now.”

They both laughed.

And then Alexandra’s eyes shifted—to the person standing just behind Emilie, holding a pale blue shopping bag and smiling politely.

Next to her stood Isabelle.

And that—that was the part Alexandra didn’t quite expect.

Because Isabelle Leclerc, as Alexandra knew her, was quiet. Sweet, yes. Polite, yes. But always a little faded at the edges. Always deferring. Always on the outside, even when she was technically inside the room. Always smiling without saying much.

But here—standing next to Emilie, twirling a delicate silver ring between her fingers, visibly debating whether to buy it—Isabelle looked alive.

Her cheeks were pink. She was smiling, not the polite, folded sort of smile Alexandra knew, but something real. Something that reached her eyes. Her body language was open. Confident.

And Emilie was watching her like she’d personally fight anyone who dimmed that light again.

“Hi, Isabelle.”

“Hey, Alex. How are you?” Her voice was as warm as ever. Kind, even. That was the thing about Isabelle—she was never unkind. Always soft-spoken, always thoughtful. Alex couldn’t remember her ever being cold or rude.

And yet… she realized with a flicker of guilt, she didn’t know a single personal thing about her. Not really.

“I’m good,” Alexandra said, hesitating. She wasn’t sure how long to linger. But Emilie stepped aside slightly, making room, and something about the way she did it—reluctantly welcoming—made Alexandra stay.

“You two shopping for anything in particular?” she asked.

Isabelle tilted her head. “A birthday gift. Possibly. Unless I end up keeping it for myself.”

“She’s been buying presents for everyone but herself,” Emilie said dryly. “As per usual.”

“I’m selective,” Isabelle said mildly.

“No, you’re selfless,” Emilie corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Alexandra watched the exchange, slightly stunned. There was an ease between them, a quiet rhythm. They spoke in a way that implied history. Real closeness. It made Isabelle seem... whole, somehow. Grounded.

Alexandra suddenly felt like she’d only ever seen the outline of a person.

“You’re really good at presents,” she said after a pause. “Honestly, I was just thinking about what to get Charles, and I have no idea. You always find the perfect thing.”

Isabelle blinked in surprise. “Oh—thank you. I just try to think about what makes people feel like they’ve been seen.”

“She’s too good,” Emilie said. “It’s genuinely annoying. I once said I liked the color of a book cover and two months later it showed up wrapped in silk ribbon with a handwritten note and a matching bookmark.”

Isabelle flushed slightly. “You needed cheering up.”

“She’s the personal shopper of the entire Leclerc family,” Emilie said flatly, reaching for a small candle. “Has been since she was old enough to know how to wrap a box. Half the birthday gifts your boyfriend has ever given were probably vetted or bought by her.”

Alexandra blinked. “Really?”

Isabelle looked embarrassed. “Sometimes they ask for help.”

Emilie raised an eyebrow. “Isabelle picked out Arthur’s last three girlfriend gifts and Pascale’s Christmas gift for the last 10 years.”

Alexandra laughed, but something about Emilie’s tone lingered.

Not unkind. Just sharp enough to say: Yes, Isabelle is good. And yes, they take her for granted.

It was the sort of thing Alexandra might have thought herself—but would never have said out loud.

“I’m very good at keeping secrets,” Isabelle said lightly.

Alexandra felt something twist in her chest.

She hadn’t known that. She’d never thought to ask.

She’d always liked Isabelle. Truly. Isabelle was kind, warm, undemanding. But also... elusive. Hard to reach. Like there was a door half-closed between them, and Alexandra had never known how to knock.

The three of them wandered through the boutique a little longer. Isabelle offered two suggestions for Charles—one sleek, one sentimental—and Alexandra made a note of both.

And then, as they paused by a shelf of men’s shirts in soft cotton and subtle patterns, Isabelle’s hand brushed one.

Alexandra watched her hesitate over it—thoughtful, considering—before she gently placed it back.

“For Charles?” Alex asked, puzzled.

Isabelle looked over, surprised. “What? Oh—no. Just a nice cut. The collar’s clean.”

And for a flicker of a second, something tugged at Alexandra—some thread she couldn’t quite pull free.

There was something else here. Something under the surface. And now that she’d seen it—how Isabelle lit up beside Emilie, how open she seemed in the right company—Alex couldn’t unsee it.

She’d always thought Isabelle was just shy. Or private. Or soft in that way people could overlook.

Now she wondered if Isabelle was simply guarded.

And Alex, for the first time, found herself wondering what it would take to really know Isabelle Leclerc.

Because she was starting to think—quietly, uneasily—that her boyfriend’s sister was not at all the girl they all assumed she was.

***

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint Mleux & Charles Leclerc

Alexandra: Just ran into your sister. In a boutique in the 6th.

Charles: Oh yeah? What was she doing?

Alexandra: Shopping. Birthday presents, apparently. But Isabelle looked… different.

Charles: Different how?

Alexandra: Happy. Confident. Like… I don’t know. Not the version of her I usually see at family stuff. She was laughing. Really laughing.

Charles: She’s always laughing.

Alexandra: Not like this, Mon amour.

Alexandra: Do you think she’s seeing someone?

Charles: What?

Alexandra: I’m serious.

Charles: Yeah, no way.

Alexandra: Are you sure?

Charles: She would have mentioned it.

Charles: Trust me, it’s not happening.

Alexandra: So confident about that, huh?

Charles: I’d know if she had a boyfriend. And she doesn’t.

***

Instagram Stories -@/isabelleleclerc

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/f1chaosupdates GUYS WHY DID ISABELLE LECLERC POST A CAT SINCE WHEN DOES SHE HAVE A CAT???

[Attached: Isabelle's story — a photo of a cat’s paw]

@/paddocktheories: okay but like this cat looks suspiciously like it could be max verstappen’s cats sassy or jimmy reincarnated

@/wheresmygrid: STOP I THOUGHT THE SAME THING

@/gridgoblins: Wait wait wait what if it IS Sassy or Jimmy and she’s just at Max’s place 👀👀👀

@/redbullstan4life: This is literally a picture of a cat’s paw. It could belong to a thousand other cats. It doesn’t even need to be a Bengal!

@/charlesdefensesquad: isabelle posting a cat and everyone immediately connecting it to max’s cats is so funny. the girl can’t even post her own furniture without y’all screaming “VERSTAPPEN???”

@/gossipgridf1: i will be NORMAL about this… except no because that cat 100% looks like Jimmy or Sassy

@/monaco_mess: to be fair if i was secretly dating max verstappen i too would post soft pictures of his cats like a declaration of love

@/oscarstan22: everyone in the comments like 🕵️‍♀️ enhance 🕵️‍♀️ zoom 🕵️‍♀️ cross-reference sassy and jimmy’s stripe patterns

@/gofasterbaby: if it IS sassy or jimmy and isabelle is just chilling with them…. that’s basically a marriage announcement in Verstappen family terms

***

Oscar Piastri didn’t think grocery shopping could be stressful.

Until Monaco.

Until Monegasque grocery stores, specifically, which didn’t believe in helpful signage, organization, or—apparently—labels with pictures.

Oscar just wanted cheese.

That was it. Cheese. Maybe some pasta. Possibly bread if he was feeling adventurous.

But standing in the middle of a charmingly cramped French grocery store, blinking at six nearly identical wedges of something called tomme de brebis and a handwritten sign that might have been a threat—or a discount—he was beginning to spiral.

He’d committed to doing this errand without help. Without Google Translate. Without texting his girlfriend.

He was trying to be independent.

But now the shop owner was hovering, and Oscar had been standing in the cheese aisle for nine minutes, and he was starting to feel judged by a 72-year-old woman with a very intense stare.

And then—

“Do you need help?” a soft voice asked beside him.

Oscar blinked, turning to find a woman about his age, brown hair twisted back, a linen tote on one shoulder, expression kind.

“I’m sorry?”

She smiled, switching to English immediately. “You’ve been staring at the cheese like it owes you money. I figured you might be lost.”

Oscar exhaled in relief. “I am, actually. I don’t know what any of this is.”

She stepped forward and scanned the shelf. “That one’s sheep’s milk—really good, a bit nutty. That one’s stronger, aged, smells like feet but tastes amazing if you like that sort of thing.”

Oscar stared at her, impressed. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“I live around the corner,” she said. “And I’ve made every grocery mistake there is.”

He laughed, properly now. “Thanks. That helps a lot.”

She smiled again—polite, gentle, unassuming.

There was something… familiar about her.

Not in a hey-we’ve-met way. But in the I-know-that-face-from-somewhere way.

Soft brown hair, loosely braided. Pretty green eyes. Very Monaco. Very… vaguely connected to something in his brain.

Oscar hesitated. “Do I… know you?”

A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “Probably not. I mean—we’ve technically met. But you probably wouldn’t remember.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. And then—lightbulb.

“You look like—” He blinked. “Oh. Wait. You’re Charles’ sister.”

Her smile faltered for just a second. “Yes. Among other things.”

“Right,” he said, suddenly feeling awkward. “I didn’t recognize you outside the paddock.”

“It’s okay,” she said, grabbing a carton of eggs with practiced precision. “I usually disappear into the background there.”

“They didn’t have the peach one. So I got apricot instead,” Came a voice behind Isabelle.

Oscar looked up to see none other but Max Verstappen.

“Perfect,” Isabelle said brightly.

Oscar could just stare.

“Oscar,” Max greeted him like it was a normal day. Like he wasn’t currently grocery shopping with Charles Leclerc’s sister.

“…Hi,” Oscar managed, eyes pinging between them. “I—uh. Hey.”

Max moved to toss something else into Isabelle’s cart—like this was normal. Like they hadn’t just revealed themselves as Monaco’s most covert domestic power couple in front of the yogurt aisle.

“Groceries?” Max asked, like that was the confusing part of this moment.

“I—yeah,” Oscar said, holding up his sheep cheese wedge like it was a peace offering. “You guys are… together?”

Max looked over his shoulder. “Shopping?”

Oscar blinked. “No, I mean… like. Together.”

Isabelle flushed slightly but didn’t deny it. Just tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, “For a while now.”

Oscar stared. “Like. Secretly?”

Max shrugged. “Privately.”

“That’s the same thing,” Oscar said.

Max looked unbothered. “Is it?”

“I thought you two barely talked,” he said, still trying to catch up.

“We don’t. Publicly,” Max said.

Oscar opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Does Charles know?”

Max shot him a look that said absolutely not.

Isabelle just gave a small smile and added, “Please don’t tell him.”

Oscar held up both hands. “I’ve never kept a secret faster in my life.”

Max nodded approvingly. “Good.” Then, off handedly. “Lando knows. Danny does too.”

“Cool,” Oscar said. Then: “I’m gonna go… buy cheese and rethink everything I know.”

Max gave him a thumbs-up. “See you at the track.”

Oscar wandered away in stunned silence, still clutching his cheese like a lifeline, already trying to figure out how he of all people became the latest keeper of Verstappen-Leclerc classified information.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris and Daniel Ricciardo)

Oscar: I just ran into Max Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc in a grocery store.

Oscar: Help me.

Lando: oh yeah? how was monaco’s finest domestic couple?

Oscar: I thought I hallucinated it at first

Oscar: I looked up and Max was holding her jam

Oscar: and then he put it in her cart

Lando: 🥹 precious

Oscar: HE KNEW WHAT KIND OF JAM SHE LIKED LANDO—HE SAID “THEY DIDN’T HAVE THE PEACH, SO I GOT APRICOT” WHAT DOES THAT MEAN

Daniel: It means they’re in love and hiding it from Charles.

Lando: welcome to hell.

Oscar: How can Charles not know.

Lando: he’s oblivious. like truly, impressively blind

Oscar: When Charles finds out we are going to die. I’m not built for this. I was buying cheese. Cheese.

Oscar: Is it serious??

Lando: max let her redecorate his penthouse

Oscar: I hate it here. I just wanted cheese.

Daniel: And instead you got a lifetime of emotional responsibility. Congrats.

Oscar: How did you find out?

Lando: you remember when i broke max’s trophy? he let me bring home the replacement to help my guilty conscience, and guess who is living with him

Daniel: The hotel disaster. That was when I figured it out

Lando: ???????? Lando: What hotel disaster

Oscar: What happened??

Daniel: Zandvoort. Her brothers forgot to book her a hotel room.

Daniel: Straight up just didn’t even think about it.

Daniel: She landed. No room. No backup plan.

Daniel: Was about to sleep in the damn lobby before Max found out.

Lando: YOU’RE JOKING.

Oscar: THEY WHAT. Oscar: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

Daniel: Not done

Daniel: Next morning?

Daniel: They LEFT HER at the hotel.

Daniel: Like… packed up, went to the track, forgot she existed.

Lando: I’m gonna throw something

Lando: THEY JUST FORGOT HER????

Oscar: SHE IS THEIR SISTER Oscar: NOT A MISPLACED WALLET

Lando: i have two sisters if i did that my mum would reassemble me from scratch just to kill me again

Oscar: If I did that my mother would drag me by my ear to the cameras of Sky Sports and berate me live on air.

Oscar: What is WRONG with them

Daniel: Max was FUMING. So he asked me to pick her up.

Oscar: GOOD.

Oscar: No wonder they kept it secret

Oscar: If my girlfriend was treated by her family like that I’d go full vigilante too.

Daniel: 😂 welcome to the secret society of "We Would Kill For Isabelle Leclerc"

Oscar: Sign me up

Lando: same.

Lando: also Charles is dead to me now until further notice

Daniel: don’t worry

Daniel: karma’s real

Daniel: and Max is scarier than any big brother

***

Lando Norris was pretty sure Oscar Piastri was about to crack.

He could see it happening in real time—the hairline fracture of panic starting just behind Oscar’s eyes. One more question. One wrong look. And Oscar was going to blurt out everything.

Max. Isabelle. The groceries.

And the worst part? Charles was right there—calm as ever, sipping an espresso in the hotel lobby like he wasn’t a ticking time bomb of impending betrayal. Like he wasn’t five seconds away from having his entire reality rearranged.

Lando shifted in his seat, chewing on a straw wrapper so aggressively he was surprised it hadn’t disintegrated yet. His knee bounced up and down, a desperate outlet for the nerves clawing at his insides.

They hadn’t spoken in ten minutes.

It was too quiet. Too weird. Too dangerous.

Which, obviously, was when Carlos strolled into the lobby, clocked the tension immediately, and frowned.

“What’s going on here?” Carlos asked, grabbing a protein bar from the snack stand like he had all the time in the world. “Why do you two look like you’ve committed war crimes?”

Oscar opened his mouth—probably to lie terribly and make it worse.

Lando, being the (barely) more functional one, jumped in first.

“It’s just—Charles,” Lando blurted.

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “What about him?”

Lando leaned forward, instantly deadly serious. “Have you ever noticed how he treats Isabelle?”

Carlos blinked. “His sister?”

“Exactly,” Lando said, nodding like he was revealing a state secret.

Oscar made a faint strangled noise next to him, probably reconsidering his life choices.

Carlos unwrapped his protein bar slowly, suspicious. “I mean… he loves her?”

“Sure,” Lando said, wide-eyed. “But does he see her? Or does he just… expect her to float quietly in the background of his life like a nice decorative houseplant?”

Oscar buried his face in his hands. Good. He deserved that.

Carlos stared at them like they were the ones malfunctioning.

“Where is this coming from?” Carlos asked, suspicious.

“Just answer the question,” Lando said, channeling his inner investigative journalist. “Do you think he actually appreciates her?”

Carlos hesitated, tilting his head like he was actually giving it thought. “I think… he assumes she’s fine because she doesn’t complain much?”

“EXACTLY,” Lando said, throwing his hands in the air. “She doesn’t complain. That doesn’t mean she’s fine!”

Oscar groaned again, muttering into his hands.

Carlos took a slow bite of protein bar. “Is this about the hotel thing?”

Oscar’s head snapped up. “You know about the hotel thing?”

Carlos nodded. “Yeah, I heard she didn’t have a room. I figured it was a mix-up.”

Lando let out a high-pitched laugh. “They also left her at the hotel the next morning. Like a pair of emotionally unavailable golden retrievers.”

Carlos shrugged. “They didn’t mean to.”

“THAT’S WORSE,” Lando exploded. “You don’t just ‘accidentally’ forget your SISTER.”

Oscar nodded vigorously. “That’s literally child abandonment but for grown-ups.”

Carlos stared at them, bemused. “You two are acting very emotionally involved.”

“NOPE,” Lando said immediately, standing up so fast his chair skidded backward.

Oscar scrambled after him. “Not emotionally involved. Just very passionate about…sibling rights. And human decency.”

“And basic hospitality standards!” Lando added, pointing accusingly at the air.

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “You’re both incredibly weird today.”

Lando clapped him hard on the shoulder. “We’re always weird, mate. But seriously. Watch how Charles talks to her next time. It’ll ruin your day.”

Carlos just blinked, chewing thoughtfully.

Oscar grabbed Lando’s arm before he could say anything else truly unhinged. “Come on. We have… tires. Very important tires to look at.”

“Yeah. Tire research. Super urgent,” Lando agreed.

They power-walked out of the lobby, leaving Carlos watching them, baffled.

Carlos shook his head slowly, muttering to himself, “Okay, but seriously… why are they so weird about Isabelle?”

***

Max trudged through the front door, dropping his bag with a dull thud. Isabelle had been waiting for him, curled up on the couch with a book, but the moment she saw him, she sat up straight.

“You’re sick.” It wasn’t a question.

Max huffed out a breath. “I’m fine.”

Isabelle was already on her feet, walking toward him. “You’re pale.” She placed the back of her hand against his forehead, frowning. “And warm.”

“I was just on a plane.”

“You also sound stuffy.” She folded her arms. “Go to bed.”

“I just got home.”

“And I’d like to keep you alive long enough to enjoy it. Bed, Max.”

Max sighed but didn’t argue. He was too tired for that. Instead, he leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead before mumbling, “You’re bossy.”

“I’m effective.”

She watched as he trudged toward the bedroom, shaking her head. A moment later, she followed, scooping up Jimmy from his spot on the armchair. When she walked into the room, Max was already under the blankets, eyes half-lidded.

“Here,” she murmured, placing Jimmy beside him. The cat instantly curled up against his chest, purring loudly.

Max cracked a small smile, rubbing behind Jimmy’s ears. “You’re trying to bribe me with my own cat.”

“Whatever works.” She kissed his temple. “Sleep.”

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Sophie Kumpen

Isabelle: Hi Sophie! I hope you’re doing well! I need your help with something.

Sophie: Hello, dear! Of course, what do you need?

Isabelle: Max came home from the race and he’s definitely getting sick. He’s trying to act normal, but he looks exhausted and keeps sniffling.

Isabelle: I sent him straight to bed with a cat for company, but I wanted to make him something comforting. He once told me you used to make tomato soup for him when he was sick—would you mind sharing the recipe?

Sophie: Oh, poor thing. He never knows when to slow down.

Sophie: And of course! Here’s how I always made it:

Sauté onions and garlic in olive oil until soft.

Add chopped tomatoes (fresh is best, but canned works too!)

Pour in vegetable broth and a pinch of sugar—Max never noticed, but it makes all the difference!

Lots of basil, always extra for Max.

Simmer, blend, then stir in a little cream to make it smooth.

Serve with bread—he used to insist on dipping half a baguette in it!

Isabelle: This is perfect! Thank you so much.

Sophie: You’re very welcome, sweetheart. He’s going to love it.

Sophie: And if he’s still feeling bad tomorrow, make him tea with honey. That’s what I always did.

Isabelle: Noted! I’ll make sure he drinks it.

Sophie: You’re taking such good care of him. He’s lucky to have you.

Isabelle: I’m lucky to have him too. ❤️

***

By the time he woke up, the apartment smelled like tomatoes and garlic. Max blinked, slowly sitting up. Jimmy was still pressed against him, and Sassy had taken up residence at his feet. He groggily reached for his phone and saw a notification from Isabelle.

Isabelle: Texted your mom for her tomato soup recipe. You’re getting the Verstappen childhood classic.

Max stared at the message for a second before a slow, warm feeling spread through his chest. He pulled himself out of bed, padding toward the kitchen. Isabelle was stirring a pot on the stove, hair tied up, her phone sitting next to her with messages from his mom open on the screen.

She turned at the sound of his footsteps. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

Max leaned against the counter, taking in the sight of her making his childhood comfort food, and felt something deep and certain settle in his bones.

“I feel like I should marry you.”

Isabelle blinked, then huffed a laugh. “You have a fever.”

“I’m serious.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were pink. “Eat your soup, Verstappen.”

Max watched as Isabelle turned back to the stove, stirring the soup with careful, practiced movements. He could see the little notes his mother had sent still open on her phone—things like "Don't forget a little sugar to balance the acidity" and "Max always liked it with extra basil".

Something about it made his chest ache, but in a good way.

“Sit down,” Isabelle said without looking at him. “I’ll bring it over.”

Max didn’t argue. He knew better. Instead, he shuffled over to the dining table, rubbing a hand over his face. He still felt like hell, but the warm smell of tomato soup and the sight of Isabelle in their kitchen softened the edges of it.

A few minutes later, Isabelle placed a bowl in front of him, along with a plate of bread. She even cut the slices into smaller pieces, making it easier for him to eat.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Are you about to start feeding me, too?”

“If I have to.” She sat down across from him, resting her chin on her hand. “Go on. Try it.”

He took a spoonful, letting the warmth spread through him. It tasted exactly like how he remembered—rich, slightly sweet, the basil bringing a fresh note to it.

“Good?” Isabelle asked.

Max swallowed, nodding. “Perfect.”

She looked pleased with herself, tucking one knee up against her chest. “Your mom was really sweet about sending me the recipe. She told me to tell you that if you’re still feeling bad tomorrow, I should make you tea with honey.”

Max smirked. “You and my mom are conspiring now?”

“Obviously.” She smiled. “Someone has to keep you in check.”

He took another sip, watching her from across the table. “Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.

Isabelle just shrugged, brushing it off like it was nothing. “You take care of me all the time,” she said simply. “Why wouldn’t I do the same?”

Max didn’t have a good answer for that.

Instead, he reached across the table, curling his fingers around hers. Isabelle let him, her thumb brushing absently over his knuckles.

“If I ever win another world championship,” he said, voice a little rough, “just know it’ll be because of you and your soup.”

She laughed, squeezing his hand. “Good to know my cooking has that much power.”

Max just smiled, his fever making him feel a little loopy, a little sentimental.

He didn’t mind.

***

Max was a terrible patient.

Not in the dramatic, clingy, "I think I’m dying" kind of way. No—he was quiet, still, and deeply put out by the fact that his body dared to betray him for more than five seconds.

Which meant he was now cocooned in the middle of their bed, surrounded by three pillows, and the comforter pulled halfway up to his chin like a grumpy Victorian child home with the flu.

His nose was pink. His curls were a mess. And he was definitely running a fever.

Isabelle pressed the back of her hand to his forehead and shook her head fondly. “Still warm.”

Max blinked up at her, expression solemn and glassy-eyed. “I feel like someone hit me with a tyre gun.”

“Very specific,” she said, setting the thermometer aside and handing him another cup of ginger tea.

He took a slow sip. Then sighed. Then blinked at her again like something important had just occurred to him.

“We should get another cat,” he said hoarsely.

Isabelle paused. “Sorry?”

“A kitten,” he clarified, like it was obvious. “Small. Would follow me around.”

She tried—really tried—not to laugh.

Max Verstappen, three-time World Champion, currently wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and nursing a cold, was looking at her like he’d just solved a national crisis.

“You want a kitten,” Isabelle repeated.

He nodded solemnly, already settling back against the pillows. “It’d be good practice.”

“For what?” she asked, amused.

Max blinked at her again, slow and drowsy. “You know.”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

He looked at her, expression perfectly serious despite the fever. “A baby.”

Isabelle choked on her tea.

Max didn't flinch.

She stared at him for a full ten seconds. “You think adopting a kitten would be… baby practice?”

He nodded again, very sure of himself. “Feeding. Naps. Picking the name.”

“And the kitten would be our test run for parenthood?”

“Exactly.”

Isabelle smiled—gently, deeply—and brushed a hand over his curls, pushing the hair back from his forehead.

“You’re feverish,” she said softly.

He nodded. “But I’m also right.”

She leaned down, kissed his too-warm cheek. “We’ll talk about the kitten when your temperature is below thirty-nine.”

Max hummed. “Good. I think you'd be a good cat mom. And baby mom.”

Then he promptly fell asleep with one hand still loosely curled around hers.

And Isabelle—heart full, smile helpless—sat beside him and thought, yeah, maybe I would.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: Hey—how’s Max doing? Still being dramatic or has he entered the sleepy kitten phase of being sick?

Isabelle: Definitely the kitten phase.

Isabelle: Currently wrapped in a blanket burrito with Jimmy on his chest.

Isabelle: Looks like he’s been defeated by soup and his own body heat.

Victoria: Incredible.

Victoria: Has he started saying weird fever things yet?

Isabelle: …Depends what you consider “weird.”

Victoria: Uh-oh.

Victoria: Hit me.

Isabelle: He told me we should get another cat.

Isabelle: Which sounded normal-ish. Until he said it would be “good practice.”

Victoria: Practice for what?

Isabelle: A baby.

Victoria: A baby?

Isabelle: Yep. I laughed at first. But he was serious. Or fever-serious.

Isabelle: He looked at me like it wasn’t even a joke.

Victoria: …Do I get to be an aunt?

Victoria: Because I will cry.

Isabelle: He was feverish. It could have been the paracetamol talking.

Victoria: But you didn’t panic.

Isabelle: I melted. And then I panicked about melting.

Victoria: You want it.

Isabelle: I always have. I just never let myself imagine it.

Isabelle: And now suddenly he’s sick and talking about babies and I’m feeling things.

Victoria: Okay, well… since we’re being honest about baby feelings… You’ll get to practice sooner than you think.

Isabelle: What?

Victoria: I’m due in June.

Isabelle: WHAT.

Victoria: Surprise?

Isabelle: ARE YOU KIDDING ME

Victoria: Nope. Tiny Verstappen-Bluth incoming.

Isabelle: VIC.

Isabelle: You cannot just drop that in the middle of a conversation about your brother wanting a baby.

Victoria: I thought it was great timing!

Victoria: What’s better than your fever-delirious boyfriend mentioning fatherhood right before I tell you you’re about to be an aunt?

Isabelle: I’m crying.

Victoria: You’re going to be so good with them.

Victoria: And if you and Max do decide to start practicing sometime soon… well.

Victoria: Built-in cousin. You’re welcome.

Victoria: Get ready, Tante Belle.

Victoria: Big Verstappen family era incoming.

Isabelle: You’re all insane.

Isabelle: And I love you.

Victoria: Love you too.

***

Max heard the door slam—really slam—before he even saw her.

Not the usual soft click of someone slipping home after a long day. Not the tired shuffle of keys or the muted rustle of her bag hitting the floor. No, this was different. Sharp. Final. Frustrated.

He looked up from where he was half-dozing on the couch, immediately alert.

Isabelle stood by the door, hands clenched into fists, her chest rising and falling in short, uneven breaths. Her tote bag—usually treated carefully—was now abandoned at her feet, one strap twisted. She shoved her hands through her hair roughly, tugging it out of its neat twist, and paced a tight, angry line across the room.

Max stood without thinking.

"Bad day?" he asked quietly.

Isabelle laughed—a short, humorless sound—and shook her head, still pacing like she couldn't physically stay still.

"Bad?" she repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. "No, Max. It was a disaster."

He stayed silent, waiting, giving her the space she clearly needed to let it spill out.

"My boss dumped an entire project on me today. A major one. Because the senior architect left, and apparently—" she threw her hands up, exasperated, "—obviously it's my problem now. No heads-up. No discussion. Just, 'Congratulations, Isabelle, here's an entire portfolio of someone else's half-finished work. Good luck.'"

Max's jaw tightened. His hands itched to do something—fix it, protect her, something. But he stayed where he was, steady.

"And it gets better," Isabelle said, turning to face him, her green eyes sparking with a tired, furious fire he didn’t see often. "When I tried—politely, professionally—to point out that my current workload is already full, he told me to 'prioritize better.' And walked away. Just—walked. Like it wasn’t his problem."

She laughed again, but it cracked midway through. Her hands dropped to her sides helplessly.

Max exhaled slowly, moving toward her. "You know what I’m going to say."

She groaned, already knowing, already bracing. "Max—"

"You don't need this," he said firmly. "You're running yourself into the ground for people who don't even see you."

She closed her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms against them like she could block out the whole world.

"I like my job," she said, but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

Max stopped right in front of her, close enough that he could reach out—but he didn’t, not yet. He knew better. She wasn’t looking for comfort yet. She was still in the fight.

"Do you?" he asked, softer now. Not accusing. Just... careful. Gentle.

Isabelle’s shoulders slumped a little.

"You sure don’t look like someone who likes what they’re doing," Max added, his voice rougher, threading frustration and concern together. "You look like someone who’s trying to survive it."

The room was quiet for a beat, just the low hum of the evening city outside the windows.

Finally, she sagged forward, her forehead pressing into his chest like she physically couldn't hold herself upright anymore.

Max didn’t hesitate then. He wrapped his arms around her, firm and grounding, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head.

She let out a long, shaky breath, the tension bleeding out of her in slow, heavy drips.

"I just..." she started, her voice muffled against him. "I don’t know what to do."

Max closed his eyes, holding her tighter.

"You don’t have to have all the answers right now," he said quietly. "But you have options, Belle. You always do. You don’t have to stay somewhere that treats you like you’re disposable."

She let out a quiet, broken sound that made his chest ache.

He kissed her hair, slow and steady.

"You are not a stopgap. You're not a backup plan. You're not someone they can just lean on when it's convenient and forget about the rest of the time," he murmured against her. "You are brilliant. And you deserve people—and a job—that sees that."

She was silent for a long time, just breathing against him.

"I don't want to quit," she whispered eventually. "I don't want it to feel like they chased me out."

Max rubbed small circles over her back, patient. "Then don't. Fight them, if that's what you want. Prove them wrong. You’re strong enough."

He pulled back just enough to see her face, brushing her messy hair away from her cheeks. "But don’t stay just to prove a point if it’s breaking you in the process."

Her eyes were glassy but clear, staring up at him like she was trying to pull strength out of the way he looked at her.

"You’re not alone," he said simply. "You have me. Always."

For a moment, she just stood there, letting that settle between them.

Then she nodded—tiny, but certain—and leaned back into his chest.

Max smiled into her hair.

They stood like that for a long time, the city lights flickering quietly outside, the cats curling around their feet like they, too, understood that the whole world narrowed down to this.

Max holding her. Her letting herself be held.

And for now, that was enough. ****

The envelope looked expensive.

That was the first red flag.

Matte paper, gold foil edges, no return address on the front—just her full name printed in elegant, serif font.

Her full, full name. Because apparently her parents hadn’t been done after Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc, and so she and Arthur had ended up with similarly ridiculous, vaguely royal-sounding names.

Isabelle Amélie Thérèse Éléonore Leclerc.

There it was.

On the kind of envelope that looked like it came with obligations.

She hadn’t ordered anything. She hadn’t opened a new account.

She frowned as she sliced it open. She wasn’t expecting anything. Max paid the bills on the penthouse. Her own account was small, manageable, predictable. Her work was steady.

The card slipped out first. Heavy. Polished. Black.

Hitting the kitchen island.

Her name, again, embossed in silver.

But it wasn’t her account.

It was his.

Linked cardholder – Max Emilian Verstappen

She stared at it for a full minute. Long enough for the air to change. Long enough for every messy, unspoken thing she’d been trying not to feel to crawl back up her throat.

She swallowed.

They had had that conversation.

You quit your job. Become my incredibly spoiled, disgustingly pampered trophy wife. No more late nights, no more stress. Just you, spending my money and riding your horses.

She had said no. Because she was ambitious. Talented. Smart.

But the truth?

The truth was that she’d wondered.

What if she could be that person?

What if she’d be fine being that person?

His person.

The woman who did yoga at ten, had coffee by eleven, picked up their kids from school in designer flats and knew the best lunch spots in three countries.

The one who didn’t constantly doubt her place, didn’t flinch every time someone whispered "nepo baby" under their breath, didn’t fight to be taken seriously in rooms that were already decided before she entered them.

There was a part of her—a very small, very quiet part—that wondered what it would be like.

To let go.

To stop clawing for approval from people who didn’t care if she drowned.

To let herself be loved, wholly and visibly.

To marry Max.

To have his name. His children. His cats.

To be someone soft and kept and adored.

What if she didn’t want to fight so hard all the time?

What if a part of her—small, shameful, stubborn—wanted to be kept?

And now… this.

Not a proposal. Not a ring.

But a card.

With her name.

On his account.

A card that wives got.

That long-term partners with shared mortgages and Sunday routines and matching key fobs got.

A gesture that said: this life is yours too. You’re allowed to be at ease.

And it terrified her.

Because Max didn’t do anything halfway. He wasn’t careless with people. He didn’t toss around trust like confetti. He was sharp, observant, and maddeningly meticulous.

He was deliberate.

This wasn’t about convenience.

This was a line drawn. A stake in the ground.

A declaration.

And Isabelle?

She wasn’t sure she trusted herself not to disappear into it.

Not because Max would ask her to—but because it felt so good to be seen by someone who didn’t require her to earn it. To prove it. To perform.

Max knew her fears. Her fault lines. Her quiet cravings.

And instead of mocking them, he made room for them.

Which, somehow, made it worse.

She’d spent so long trying to prove she was more than someone’s sister. More than a background fixture.

But here she was.

Here she was feeling safer just being Max’s than she ever had trying to be anyone else’s.

Here she was, considering if being Belle Verstappen might actually make her happier than being Isabelle Leclerc ever had.

And wasn’t that the most terrifying thought of all?

***

“Hey,” Max called as he stepped inside, the door shutting with a familiar click behind him. “I grabbed those oat crackers you like—the ones with the seeds that taste like cardboard.”

He dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, his tone light, teasing.

No answer.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen and—

Stopped.

Isabelle was standing still. Very still. Right beside the counter, her body folded in on itself like she was trying to take up less space.

The envelope was open. The card—that card—lay face-up on the marble. Black. Sleek. Heavy. Her arms were crossed tightly across her chest, like she needed the pressure to keep herself grounded.

Max’s eyes flicked from the card to her face and back again.

And then he felt it—the shift.

The air in the room had changed. Gone quiet. Weighted.

He knew that look on her face.

He’d seen it before—on days when she came home from work braced for someone to doubt her, challenge her, chip away at her. It was the expression she wore when she felt like she was too much and not enough in the same breath.

“Oh,” Max said softly, carefully. “You got it.”

He didn’t say I meant to tell you in person. He didn’t say I’ve been watching you stretch yourself thin, giving more than anyone asks, and never— never— expecting to receive anything back.

She didn’t smile.

“Max,” she said, her voice low and unfamiliar, “what is this?”

She wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier. Anger was clean.

No—this was something else.

Fragile. Quiet. Like she'd been cracked open without warning.

He stepped toward her slowly. Like he was trying not to spook something delicate.

“It’s just…” he tried, “a card. For you. In case you ever need it.”

Her eyes—green, glossy, wide—didn’t leave his.

“You just handed me access to everything.”

He could’ve argued that. Could’ve said it’s not everything. But he didn’t lie to her, and this wasn’t about technicalities.

So instead, he said the truth.

“I handed you ease,” he said gently. “Because you never ask for it. Even when you need it most.”

He’d thought about that a lot.

That was why he’d had the card made.

Not because she needed it—not practically, not financially. Isabelle was capable in ways that astonished him daily. She ran her life on spreadsheets and discipline, all soft voice and steel spine.

But she’d been conditioned—by her family, by the world—to believe she had to earn everything. Love. Rest. Comfort. Even kindness.

So he’d done what he did best.

Planned ahead.

He’d spoken to his advisor. Had the account adjusted. Added her name. Put in the request quietly. Privately. No fanfare.

Not to control her.

But so that, if ever the moment came—

If she was tired, overwhelmed, caught without breath—

She’d have something already waiting.

No questions. No performance. Just trust.

But now, watching the way her fingers dug into her elbows, Max understood how even trust could feel like a trap when you’d never been given it freely.

“We just had a conversation about trophy wives,” she said suddenly. Her voice shook like she hated herself for even bringing it up.

He blinked. “Yes. And you said you didn’t want to be one.”

“What if I’d be fine with that life?” she said. “What if part of me wants it?”

His heart clenched. Not because she said it—but because he knew exactly what she meant.

“Then I’d tell you,” he said calmly, “if you ever want to be my trophy wife, just let me know. I’ll buy you a designer handbag and get very into being your arm candy.”

That earned him a look. A slight wobble in her mouth like she was trying not to smile, even while her throat worked against tears.

She let out an unsteady laugh that turned halfway into a sigh. “Max.”

“No pressure,” he said quickly, his voice low and warm now. “But if you ever wake up and decide you want that kind of life—that kind of ease—I’ll give it to you. Without question.”

“I don’t want to lose myself,” she whispered. “I don’t want to stop being… me.”

“You won’t,” Max said, voice steady. “I know who you are. And I’d never let you forget.”

Because she was the strongest person he’d ever known. She had survived a thousand quiet dismissals and overlooked brilliance. She’d clawed her way into a space she was never given, and never once asked for credit.

He wanted to say more. Wanted to tell her that he’d never met anyone who held herself so tightly together with so little help. That watching her try to hold back softness like it was weakness made his chest ache. That the thing she feared—disappearing—was impossible, because the moment she walked into a room, his world shifted.

She deserved to feel safe. And not just safe—but held.

But he didn’t say all that.

He just said what she needed.

“I didn’t give you this card to change you,” Max said. “I gave it to you so you’d never feel like you had to earn the right to feel safe.”

That word hung there between them. Heavy. Final. The real gift.

Not the money. Not the access.

Safety.

After a long, breathless silence, Isabelle reached out. Slowly. Carefully. She picked up the card with both hands like it might still burn her.

Held it in her palm. Looked at her name. His name. Their names. Together.

“Okay,” she said finally, voice soft, breaking open. “But you’re not allowed to joke when I buy toothpaste with it.”

He smiled—one of those rare, slow smiles he reserved just for her.

He stepped in and kissed her temple gently, grounding them both.

“Toothpaste, muffins, a yacht,” he murmured. “Whatever you need.”

She let out a wet laugh. “A yacht?”

“I’m just saying,” he said lightly, brushing his knuckles along her arm, “it’s good to have options.”

“I’m not buying a yacht, Max.”

“I know.” He paused. “But I wanted you to know you could.”

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captain-huggy-bear · 3 months ago

Text

Eyes on Me

Pairing: Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Luke being a whiny possessive baby, but actually this is all silly fluff and he's just a silly boy who wants all your attention.

Summary: Your relationship with Luke is as serious as it gets and your relationship with his family is as close as they come. Luke can't help but love it, even as he jealously wants all your attention especially whenever his brothers seem to hog it

Notes: Request for @toasttt11, I hope you enjoy it, I went a slightly different route with it but I hope its okay! 🥰

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

You never had a particularly close family. Your family was small, and while you loved them, your family was one of those more aloof types, not so emotional or as close as typical families. The type of family you worried about telling things to in case they made fun of you or told you off or simply didn't listen. A family where they gave presents that were relatively generic because they didn't really know each other. A family where cousins didn't regularly see each other. Luke's family was the complete opposite. Warm, welcoming and large, even his extended family of cousins and aunts and uncles were close. It was a whole different world, but it showed you what family could really look like and what it could feel like.

At first it had been intimidating. To come into this family unit where everyone was so close, where everyone talked and shared their thoughts and feelings without fear of judgement. Where gifts were thoughtful and meaningful and everyone knew what everyone had been up to lately and no one forgot a birthday. At first you'd been scared you simply wouldn't fit in, that you'd make mistakes, forget to do something, offend someone.

Luke had been insistent that you'd fit in perfectly and he'd been absolutely right. His parents loved you, Jim and Ellen immediately treating you like a daughter. Ellen was more excited to see you than her own sons at holidays, always rushing to be the first person to wrap you in a warm hug and bring you inside. Ellen regularly talked to you over the phone and sent you whatsapps to see how you were doing. Jim always had a word of wisdom or a reassuring wink on hand if the boys were getting rowdy and out of pocket. Then there was Jack and Quinn, Jack and Quinn who were the epitome of what brothers should be. They were the first to step in and help you if Luke wasn't around, the first to make fun of you light heartedly for something silly you'd done and the first to add you to your very own group chat with the brothers, Luke not invited, because often you used it to discuss what to buy the impossible to buy for boy. They made you feel settled in the family unit, they felt like real brothers to you, as much a part of your life as Luke was.

Luke was happy about it, of course he was. You were it for him, he was 99.9% certain he was going to marry you, the 0.1% being the off chance that you decided you didn't want to marry him. So naturally seeing you fall in so perfectly with his family, seeing you grow more and more comfortable, the closeness of your relationship with all of them it made him ache with warmth and affection. But, he hated sharing you. He couldn't help it. He'd always shared things with his brothers, clothes, jerseys, toys. Not because he had to, but because that's just what they did. But, you were the first thing in his life that he didn't want to share.

Even now, watching from the doorway of the lake house kitchen as you laugh with Jack and Quinn, there's a sense of jealousy that your attention isn't on him. It's stupid. He doesn't have any worries about you not loving him or preferring his brothers, but he can't help but want your attention on him, can't help but want you to smile and laugh at him, for his brothers to be background noise. It's cave-manish and stupid and he'd never admit to it because Jack and Quinn would make fun of him for the rest of his entire existence...but it's there.

"You're ridiculous, Jack. If you were a worm, Luke would not keep you in a terrarium. He'd throw you out a window, while screaming!" You laugh at Jack, shoving his shoulder as he glares you. He's been adamant for the past 3 minutes that his brother would care for him in sickness and in worm and while sweet, you both know that Luke hates insects, he absolutely hates anything wriggly and crawly, a worm is no exception. Even if that worm was his brother.

"No, no, see my brother loves me and he would keep me in a little terrarium until the day I or he dies and you would have to watch as he gave me all his attention!"

"I'd throw you out the window. Let some bird eat you." You smile as you say it, the bite not there. You both know you wouldn't but the offended gasp Jack lets out is enough to make it appealing to say.

"You wouldn't." Jack's blue eyes narrow on you and you stifle your laugh, arms crossing as you glance at Quinn who's shaking his head at the both of you refusing to get involved.

"You're right, I'd hand feed you to a bird."

"Quinn?!" Jack looks to his older brother, eyes wide like he expects him to intervene and put you on the naughty step or something equally as comical. Instead Quinn simply holds his hands up in surrender.

"I'm not getting involved. This is a ridiculous argument because we all know I'd be the one who'd end up taking care of you."

"Quinn has a point-" You stop yourself short as you feel strong arms wrap around your waist and pull you back against a warm chest. Luke's chin coming to rest on top of your head as he crushes you against him, his fingers slipping under your hoodie to rest on your waist.

"What you talking about?" It's mumbled into your hair, a quick kiss pressed there. He knows he's glowering at Jack and Quinn, mostly Jack. Jack who's gotten that teasing glint in his eyes at the realisation that Luke's scowl is because his girlfriend is focused on his brother, his stupid, pretty boy brother that all the girls seem to want. You are oblivious to this, leaning back into Luke like its second nature.

"How you would throw Jack to the birds if he turned into a worm."

"Mmm, true." His voice is short, shorter than normal and it makes your ears perk up as does the way he pulls you even tighter against him and a little bit further from his brothers like he's trying to pull you away. You wonder if maybe something had happened that's put him in a grumpy mood even as you look between Quinn and Jack who both seem to smirk at their brother standing behind you.

"Lukey, I'm your brother!" Even as Jack pretends to be offended he's grinning. His little brother is practically glaring at him, eyes just visible above your hair where he's burrowed his face.

"And?"

"Luke!" You turn in his arms, forcing him to look at you and for the first time you see the glower on his face, the sort of look you've seen only a handful of times. The same look you've seen him direct at men in bars who bother you, except this look is very much directed at Jack.

"What? I hate worms!"

"Mm, okay, what if I turned into a worm?" You pout up at him, wide eyes focused on him and he can't help but lose a bit of the glower because your attention is on him now and not on Jack.

Luke's hands find their way to your back pockets, pulling you close against him even as his brothers groan at the unnecessary PDA between their baby brother and his girlfriend.

"I'd keep you in my pocket wherever I went until I could find some scientist to turn you back." He smiles down at you sweetly, all traces of the former scowl removed now that his attention is on you and you brush some of his curls from his face as he does so. His smile only grows warmer at your attention, a sense of puffed up pride that he's got all your attention now, and his brothers have none of it.

From behind you you hear Jack whine, "Why am I thrown to the birds but sunshine over here is kept in your pocket?"

"She's my future wife?" You can't help the bashful sort of smile that overtakes your face and forces it to scrunch up and grow warm at his words. You hide your face in his chest, giddy at him calling you his future wife even when you're not even engaged and unlikely to be engaged any time soon given where you both are in life.

"Oh and I'm just chopped liver?" Jack doesn't even get a response, Luke's too busy staring at you, smiling down at you with lovesick little grin he gets. His hands are still in your back pockets and yours have migrated to hold him around the waist as you look up at him, chin leaning against his sternum.

"Talk to your boyfriend." You look over your shoulder at Jack, who's scowling at his brother like he's been betrayed. You suppose in a sense he has, seeing as Luke has decided you're more worthy of pocket worm privileges than his older brother is.

"Lukey, baby, you can't throw your brother to the birds."

"Why not?"

"Because he's your brother." He's pouting at you like a five year old and it really shouldn't be cute, it should be so annoying that he's acting like this but its not. It's cute, it's playful and you can't help but find everything Luke does endearing.

"But, he's taking all your attention away from me..." His voice is whiny, drawn out and annoyed as he frowns down at you, his hands pulling you even tighter to him like Jack might physically pull you away.

"Is that what this all about? Are you jealous of your brother?" You can hear Quinn and Jack sniggering at the background, you know they'll never let him live this down not until the day he dies.

"No..." Luke looks away from you, a bright red flush crawling up his neck, to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He can hear his brothers making fun of him, but he can't help it. He wants your attention all the time and he hates that Jack had it, even as much as he loves that Jack and you get along.

"Baby, Oh, baby...you know I only want you, right?" You cup his cheeks in your hands, tilting your head right back to look at him. He flushes further, cheeks so warm under your palms that you're a little worried he might grow lightheaded. Made only worse by your sweet voice and softness with him, "Jack's nowhere near as pretty as you."

You giggle at the offended, "Hey!" behind you. But, you know Luke needs to hear it, know he compares himself to his brothers even if he tries not too. He knows Jack has a reputation as the fan favourite with women, the pretty boy, but, God, Luke is so pretty to you.

"Really?" His grin that begins is the one you love most, where his teeth peek out and his cheeks dimple deeply. It crinkles his eyes and for anyone looking from the outside in it is so obvious he is absolutely in love with you, smitten, whipped, completely taken with you. If you were in an episode of Tom and Jerry his eyes would be hearts popping from his head.

"Mmm, no one is prettier than my future husband, honey." You're pandering to him and he knows that, he doesn't care though. Revels in it when you lean up on tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek, grins at Jack over your head like Jack even cares because Jack most certainly does not care that his brother's girlfriend doesn't find him that pretty. In fact, he's glad. How awkward with family dinners be if you did think Jack was prettier?

But, Jack draws the line at the PDA you're starting to display. He draws the line when Luke crashes his lips down on yours in what can only be described as an 'eating faces' sort of kiss, the sort where you're a little worried for each participants health and ability to breathe.

"Eww, c'mon Quinn, lets get out here. Ew." Jack grabs Quinn by the arm and pull him outside, but you're not really focusing on that, not when Luke is ushering you to a kitchen counter and up so that you can wrap your legs around his hips and kiss him easier.

Yeah, he's jealous sometimes that his brothers get along so well with you, but he knows that you're it for him and he's it for you. He doesn't mind feeling a little jealous, not when you remind him so thoroughly that you could care less about Jack or Quinn in anyway that isn't entirely brotherly.

#huggy bear writes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes/reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

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thedensworld · 5 months ago

Text

Gentle Daddy | C. Sc

Pairing: Scoups x reader

Genre: fluff, parent au

Summary: welcome aboard to the threenager stage of Seungcheol's son and how he parents him.

Seungcheol was seventeen when he met Chan, the youngest of their group. Was Chan a little brother? Yes. But at the start? Not quite. To Seungcheol, Chan was just another kid, someone he had to look after out of duty rather than choice.

As the oldest in their group, Seungcheol often became the subject of jokes about his strict ways. “Everyone, if you don’t wake up on three, I’ll give you 10 more laps of running,” Seungkwan teased, mimicking Seungcheol's commanding tone from their training days, complete with a mock-serious expression that drew laughter.

“Seungcheol hyung definitely needs someone gentle to balance that out,” Chan piped up with a cheeky grin. But before he could finish, Seungcheol raised an eyebrow and asked, “Balance what?”

Chan swallowed nervously, waving his hand dismissively as the others burst into laughter. “No, no, I was talking to myself,” he stammered.

But now, Seungcheol stood in a different scene, holding his three-year-old son, Wontae, on his arm during his birthday party. The house was filled with chatter and laughter, the kind only close friends could bring.

“Your interior is beautiful, Seungcheol. Come over and do mine next,” Jeonghan quipped, throwing a casual compliment with a hint of a request. Seungcheol rolled his eyes, scoffing.

“Appa did my room too!” Wontae beamed proudly at Jeonghan. Jeonghan’s features softened as he reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Your appa is very talented, isn’t he?”

Seungcheol discovered his passion for interior design when he was searching online for the perfect nursery layout for Wontae. But nothing he found could match the vision in his mind. After discussing it with you, he decided to take matters into his own hands. Trips to the hardware store turned into projects that filled his weekends: crafting custom cabinets, building desks, and designing coffee tables.

In preparation for the party, Seungcheol went all out—rearranging furniture, painting walls, and adding small decorative touches that showcased his new hobby.

“It’s almost as good as Mingyu’s house,” Jeonghan said with a mischievous smirk. Seungcheol chuckled, nodding in agreement. “I think taking care of others did that to me. Just like how Mingyu took care of everything for us back in the day.”

“I want to get down,” Wontae said, squirming in his father’s arms. Seungcheol gently set him down, watching with a smile as his son darted over to Wonwoo, who was showing him a video game on his phone.

“He’s going to be three, wow!” Jeonghan remarked, shaking his head in disbelief. “It feels like just yesterday when I first held him.”

“How is it like?” Jeonghan asked, a rare tone of seriousness in his voice.

Seungcheol sighed, his lips curving into a soft smile. “Go get married and have one yourself,” he said playfully.

“Jeonghan’s getting married?” Your voice chimed in as you returned from putting Wonna, your four-month-old daughter, to sleep. Both Seungcheol and Jeonghan turned toward you. Seungcheol’s eyes softened as he reached for your waist, pulling you gently into his side.

“Is she asleep?” he asked, concern blending with affection. You nodded, resting a hand on his chest.

“Don’t listen to him,” Jeonghan interjected, rolling his eyes but unable to hide the smile tugging at his lips.

“I feel really bad that you’re going through all of this right after giving birth, just for his birthday party,” Jeonghan joked, glancing around at the well-decorated room. The party was being held the day after Seungcheol’s birthday, even though Wontae’s actual birthday was next week.

“I told you, it’s for Wontae!” Seungcheol insisted, his tone defensive but playful.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Jeonghan, I gave birth four months ago. Besides, I’m grateful that Joshua and Mingyu helped with the food prep.” You nodded toward Joshua and Mingyu, who were now joined by Jihoon in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes and joking with each other.

Suddenly, a tiny voice interrupted the grown-up conversation. “Look what Uncle Hoshi got me! It’s a matching tiger onesie for me and Wonna!” Wontae announced proudly, holding up the tiny outfit with wide eyes full of excitement.

Seungcheol’s eyes flicked to Hoshi, who was now rolling on the floor, laughing at Wontae’s reaction. The older man couldn’t help but smirk, shaking his head.

You smiled and turned to Seungcheol. “I’ll go help him with his present,” you said, squeezing his arm before walking over to your son.

Jeonghan, still standing beside Seungcheol, gave him a knowing pat on the shoulder. “You know, it’s great you married Y/N. I never thought I’d see the day when the legendary Seungcheol, the training tyrant, would become the poster child for gentle parenting.”

Seungcheol scoffed, turning to Jeonghan with a mock glare. “A monster? Really? You’re one to talk,” he protested, crossing his arms but unable to suppress the grin threatening to break through.

Jeonghan just laughed, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m just stating the facts. Besides, we all know you wouldn’t be half as patient if it weren’t for her.”

Seungcheol glanced across the room where you were now helping Wontae into the tiger onesie, a soft smile crossing his face. The room buzzed with laughter and warmth, the chaos of their little family perfectly imperfect.

Seungcheol woke up a bit late this morning, the warm glow of the morning sun filtering through the curtains. A soft smile spread across his face as he took in the sight of his family already gathered at the dining table for breakfast. The sound of Wontae’s cheerful voice filled the room when he spotted his dad entering.

“Appa!” Wontae called out with excitement, his tiny hands waving eagerly. Seungcheol walked over and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Wontae’s head before his eyes found Wonna, cradled in your arms, contentedly finishing her second bottle of the day.

“Wonna Wonna~ did you sleep well, my princess?” Seungcheol cooed, his heart melting at the sight of his daughter’s chubby cheeks. Wonna wriggled in your embrace, her eyes lighting up as she recognized her father’s voice.

“You had breakfast, love?” Seungcheol’s gaze shifted to you, his tone laced with concern. You shook your head with a soft smile. “I was waiting for you.”

He grinned, taking Wonna gently from your arms. “I’ll play with Wonna for a bit. Go have your breakfast.”

You nodded, appreciating his thoughtful gesture, and sat down to enjoy breakfast with Wontae. After some quality playtime with Wonna and tucking her back into her crib for a nap, Seungcheol returned to the dining room. By then, Wontae had retreated to his bedroom, engrossed in the toys his uncles had gifted him.

“Wontae loves Mingyu’s gift,” Seungcheol said with a chuckle, recalling how his son had immediately fallen in love with the plush corgi toy Mingyu had brought him. It was amusing how Wontae adored anything Mingyu gave, no matter what it was.

You laughed as you finished your meal. “Of course he does. He’s your son, after all. It makes sense he’d have a special bond with Mingyu.”

Seungcheol joined in your laughter, the sound warm and genuine. “Thanks, love,” he said when you placed a steaming bowl of rice and soup in front of him.

“Is your head still dizzy?” you asked, sitting beside him to keep him company while he ate.

He sighed, a touch of guilt crossing his features. “Not as much, but I really need to cut down on my drinking.” A rueful smile followed. “I still don’t get how you don’t drink at all—not even a beer.”

You smiled, amused by his amazement. “The last time I drank was before I got pregnant with Wontae,” you reminded him. Seungcheol’s eyes widened as the memory came rushing back—it had been at Joshua’s birthday party.

“Right!” he said, letting out a soft chuckle at the recollection.

Before he could say more, Wontae’s voice rang out, echoing through the hallway. “Eomma! Come here!” He came running into the dining room, eyes sparkling with excitement as he tugged at your hand, eager for you to join him in his room.

“How about we stay here and keep Appa company while he finishes eating?” you suggested gently, but Wontae shook his head, determination written all over his little face.

“No! I want to show you my drawing!” he insisted, practically bouncing on his feet. “Uncle Chan gave me crayons, and there are so many colors! Even five different blues!”

You exchanged a knowing look with Seungcheol, your heart swelling at Wontae’s joy. “Alright, let’s see your masterpiece,” you said, getting up and giving Seungcheol a reassuring smile before following your son.

Five minutes later, you returned to the dining room, barely suppressing your laughter. Seungcheol had just finished eating and looked up, curiosity piqued by your expression.

“You should see what he’s done in there,” you said, eyes twinkling with amusement.

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What did he do this time?”

“You need to see it for yourself,” you urged, playfully nudging him in the direction of Wontae’s room. “I’ll take care of the dishes.”

With a grin, Seungcheol pushed back his chair, eager to see what kind of adventure awaited him in his son’s room.

Seungcheol opened Wontae's room and was greeted by the sight of his son enthusiastically coloring in his new book, using the crayons Chan had gifted him. The vibrant hues danced across the pages, a mix of scribbles and childlike shapes. Wontae’s eyes lit up when he noticed his father standing at the door. He bounded over, grabbing Seungcheol’s hand and pulling him toward his little art corner.

“Look, Appa! I drew a rock!” Wontae exclaimed, pride beaming from his small face.

Seungcheol’s eyes followed Wontae’s pointing finger until they landed on the wall. Oh my god. There, on the freshly painted surface, was a child’s drawing—a colorful depiction of what was presumably a rock, sketched in bold crayon strokes.

He froze, processing the situation. So this was why you had insisted he see it for himself. He could practically hear the smile in your voice when you said it.

“You drew on the wall?” he asked, keeping his voice as steady as possible.

Wontae nodded innocently. “But Eomma said it’s better to draw on the coloring book, so now I draw here. But sometimes it gets boring, Appa!”

Seungcheol felt a wave of relief wash over him. So you caught him and told him to stop. Thank god.

He closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath to quell the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Remember, Seungcheol, they don’t know better. They don’t understand how much work it is to paint a wall.

“Yes, your eomma is right. Drawing on your coloring book is best.” He sat down on the floor beside Wontae, the urge to scold replaced by the desire to guide. “Show me more of your drawings here.”

Wontae beamed at the invitation, plopping down next to his father and eagerly flipping through the pages of his coloring book. Seungcheol couldn’t help but smile as he watched his son’s eyes sparkle with excitement, oblivious to any worry or consequence.

Every time Seungcheol’s eyes strayed to the drawing on the wall, a chuckle escaped his lips. It was ridiculous! He wanted to be mad, really mad, but he just couldn’t muster it. “You know you shouldn’t draw on the wall, right?” he asked his son, carefully suppressing the instinct to say, “I just painted that! Why did you draw on it?!” in a booming voice that would only frighten the boy. He took a deep breath, holding back the frustration that threatened to spill out.

Wontae looked up at his father’s face, his eyes wide with curiosity as he noticed something unusual. “Why is your face red, Appa?” he asked, putting down his crayon and reaching up with his tiny hands to cup Seungcheol’s flushed cheeks. Seungcheol let out another soft chuckle, his anger melting further.

“You know Appa loves this house, right?” Seungcheol said, his tone remaining gentle and warm.

Wontae nodded, his little head bobbing earnestly.

“No one in this house draws on the walls because Appa worked hard to keep them nice and clean,” Seungcheol explained, still smiling softly despite the chaos inside him.

Wontae bit his lip, his eyes beginning to glisten with tears. “Are you mad at me for drawing on the wall?” His voice trembled as he spoke, and Seungcheol’s heart lurched. Panic surged through him—he was the one who felt like crying, not his son!

“I didn’t say I’m mad at you,” Seungcheol said quickly.

“But your face says it…” Wontae mumbled, the quiver in his voice growing more pronounced.

Oh no. Shit.

“Eommaaaa!” Wontae suddenly burst out, tears streaming down his cheeks as he ran toward you. Seungcheol’s eyes darted to the doorway where you were standing, suppressing a smile as you scooped up your tearful son into your arms.

“Why? What happened?” you asked Wontae in a whisper, stroking his back to soothe him.

“Your father wasn’t mad at you, was he?” you asked softly, glancing over at Seungcheol with a knowing smile. “Did he shout at you?” Wontae shook his head, hiccupping as he clung to your shoulder.

“No,” Wontae admitted, his sobs quieting as you continued to comfort him.

“He was just talking to you,” you reassured him, casting Seungcheol a gentle, supportive look.

Seungcheol groaned internally, a mix of confusion and self-reproach. He thought he’d nailed it—the gentle parenting that you both had worked so hard to practice. Yet here was his son, still able to sense the tension in his expression, and hurt by it despite the lack of yelling or scolding.

Seungcheol sighed, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels. “We’re on this stage now,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

You glanced at him, raising a brow. “What stage?”

“The threenager stage,” Seungcheol said, his tone carrying both exasperation and amusement. “I read about it somewhere. It’s when kids start acting like teenagers—rebelling, pushing boundaries, testing their parents’ patience. Wontae’s only three, but he already knows how to push all my buttons.”

You laughed softly, shifting Wontae in your arms as his sniffles subsided. “It’s not rebellion, Seungcheol. It’s curiosity. He’s learning, exploring his emotions, and figuring out how far he can go.”

“Exploring his emotions by drawing on my freshly painted wall?” Seungcheol deadpanned, though a small smile tugged at his lips. He wasn’t truly upset anymore—not when Wontae was looking up at him with wide, apologetic eyes.

“Exactly,” you teased, setting Wontae back down on the floor. “It’s frustrating, but it’s normal. And you handled it really well, by the way.”

Seungcheol tilted his head, raising a skeptical brow. “I did?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, giving him an encouraging smile. “You didn’t yell or scare him. You explained things calmly. That’s the kind of parenting that sticks with them, Seungcheol. He’ll remember this.”

Seungcheol glanced at Wontae, who had returned to his coloring book but kept sneaking shy glances at his father. He felt a wave of warmth wash over him, mingled with pride and relief. I can do this, he thought. Even when it’s tough, I can do this.

“Okay, buddy,” Seungcheol said, crouching down to Wontae’s level. “Let’s make a deal. No more drawing on the walls, okay? If you want to draw something big, we’ll find some paper or maybe a special board just for you. How does that sound?”

Wontae’s face lit up at the idea. “A special board? Really?”

“Really,” Seungcheol promised, ruffling his son’s hair. “But only if you promise no more wall art.”

“I promise, Appa!” Wontae beamed, holding up his pinky. Seungcheol chuckled and locked his pinky with his son’s, sealing the deal.

You watched the exchange with a fond smile, stepping closer to place a hand on Seungcheol’s shoulder. “See? You’re doing great.”

Seungcheol exhaled deeply, his smile widening. “Thanks, love. I guess I just need to remember to breathe. And to hide all the crayons.”

You both laughed softly, and for a moment, the chaos felt a little more manageable.

"One… Two… Three…" Seungcheol’s voice was steady as he counted while Chan, drenched in sweat, gritted his teeth to finish his push-up set. His arms trembled, and his face was etched with exhaustion, but he pushed through, determined to complete the punishment.

The door to the practice room swung open, and the rest of the group filed in, their faces a mix of confusion and amusement as they took in the scene. Seungcheol stood towering over Chan, arms crossed, while the youngest member struggled through the exercise. It was a far cry from what anyone had expected when they read Seungcheol's early-morning text asking Chan to come to the practice room an hour ahead of schedule.

"What’s going on here?" Joshua asked, barely hiding his amusement as he watched Chan squirm on the floor.

"Ten!" Seungcheol finished his count, clapping his hands in exaggerated applause. He smirked as Chan collapsed onto the floor, utterly spent. "That’s ten sets done—one hundred push-ups. Congratulations, Chan. That’s what you get for giving my son those crayons."

Chan’s pout was instant. "It’s not fair! It’s your son who drew on the wall. Why am I the one getting punished?" His voice was full of indignation, though it lacked the energy to be truly effective.

Mingyu burst into laughter, doubling over as realization dawned. "Wait, wait—Wontae drew all over the wall with the crayons Chan gave him? That’s hilarious!" He clutched his sides, nearly toppling over from laughing so hard.

Jeonghan, leaning casually against the doorframe, nodded in mock agreement. "Honestly, it makes sense. Seungcheol’s a gentle appa with Wontae—there’s no way he’d punish his precious son for something like this." He shot Chan a teasing grin. "But you? Yeah, I’d do the same if I were Seungcheol."

Chan groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his face. "This is so unfair!" he whined, his voice muffled. "I’m the innocent one here! Gentle appa is a fraud—he’s evil!"

Seungcheol couldn’t hold back his chuckle as he crouched down to look at Chan. "Gentle appa does exist," he said with a smirk, "but only for Wontae. You and your crayons? You’re a different story."

"See?" Jeonghan said, straightening up. "I told you. Seungcheol’s priorities are clear."

Chan sat up, still sulking. "Unfair. So unfair." He shot a glance at the others, hoping for sympathy, but all he got were amused grins and stifled laughter.

"Hey," Joshua added, chuckling softly, "at least now you know not to mess with Wontae’s creative genius—or his dad’s freshly painted walls."

Mingyu clapped Chan on the back, nearly knocking him over again. "Think of it as a lesson in self-sacrifice. You helped foster Wontae’s artistic side. That’s a win, right?"

Chan groaned louder, flopping onto the floor in defeat, while Seungcheol leaned against the wall with a triumphant grin. "Alright, everyone. Lesson’s over. Let’s get to practice before he starts crying for real."

"So unfair!"

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gaywineauntsstuff · 5 months ago

Text

Listen I love the ‘dicks being ostracized from his family and self destructs’ trope in fics however

I would like an inverse just once (I could write it but I want this fic to be good so I can enjoy it and I am not the greatest writer) where everyone blows up at him and flat out lays into him and he just goes… okay… if that’s how you feel?

Takes himself off of the patrol routes and rosters. He’s off the emergency calls and his ‘call for city wide emergency’ has been down graded to ‘call for world wide emergency’ he’s no longer on comms with oracle

He stops offering assistance to the other kids teams, doesn’t send info for investigation and doesn’t go within 100feet of Gotham.

Takes himself off the den-mother, baby sitter, trainer for all the younger teams lost that involve any and all bats

In the beginning he vacates his apartment and temporarily moves in with Donna in New York and things are good because of course they are. They’re Dick and Donna a world doesn’t exist where they aren’t okay.

And then his presence in New York leads to a lot of the og core five titans interacting and they realize that they miss each other like hell and start to work together more and more. Until news sites are like ‘teen titans grown up??’ ‘Original titans spotted doing hurricane aid in Florida!’

Because Dick loves his family but he knows when to bow out. And he chose the family he made in the new teen titans.

And then one day one of the bats track him down in nyc and breaks into what is now Dick and Donna’s apartment and are ready to argue that they need him back and need him there for a huge Gotham wide event.

And Dick says ‘sure okay let me get my stuff and we leave in half and hour’ as soon as the first sentence is out

No convincing or begging or asking for money (cough Jason cough)

Dick is patched into their comms and he’s working efficiently except he’s not… acting like himself.

He’s collaborating with whoever they tell him too, no problem, he’s discussing ideal plans and co-ops and teams and how to best get it under control.

But he’s talking to them the way he talks when he’s offering aid to teams he’s not a part of.

Like the hero version of an acquaintance and no one can call him out on it because he’s doing good work. Work that’s on par with his work before this whole fiasco. He explicitly isn’t letting their personal issues affect his work.

He’s speaking but not talking

And Bruce remembers this… he’s probably the only one who does because last time he was the only one included. The last time Dick acted like this is when he first visited Jason and him after he had been fired.

Whenever Bruce was in the room and Dick was forced to speak with him, the conversation never strayed past business casual especially around Jason.

Batman and Nightwing got into screaming matches

Bruce and Dick were strangers

And now they’re back to this, 7 kids later, a million ends of the world stopped, they’ve bled together, cried together and clung to each other in pure relief after they managed to clutch victory.

And Nightwing was treating Batman Inc like a new team stepping onto the scene.

Once they’ve secured everything and managed to keep Bruce from self destructing and making it worse. Dick just leaves and tells oracle that he’ll send over his debrief in 3-5 business days and it was nice working with them.

And then he’s gone

No cave, no manor, no Alfred, no med-bay because Dick doesn’t stay places he’s not welcome.

And after they all talk about that and how weird it was and Bruce reveals Dick did this before when he was Nightwing after Bruce fired, where Dick Grayson didn’t know Bruce Wayne.

And one of the kids asks when he broke and stopped the act and Bruce just says ‘the day he found out Jason died’

And the Batkids kinda freak bc what do you mean?? What is he only going to come back when someone dies? Thats not? There has to be another way?? And Bruce is like yeah no idea sorry (bc he’s helpful like that)

So then Steph the next day resolves to go visit him, Tim isn’t the only professional stalker. And she finds Dick and Donna’s apartment and well it’s daylight and she’s in civvies she’s if she climbs in through the window she might get reported to the NYPD and she doesn’t wanna get arrested or shot to door it is!

And so she goes and knocks and Dick opens the door and just lights up

Something something this is such a nice surprise something something it’s so good to see you.

Dick had taught Donna how to make some of his mother recipes when they were kids. So now whenever they’re together for a long time they cook together.

So Dick who is usually living in a cluttered apartment with no clean dishes and an exclusively grab and go food is now trying to force feed her some of his cooking.

Because he picked up the habit again since he’s the better cook between him and Donna.

And it’s delicious and he wants to catch up and hear everything that’s going on in her life, is she working with new people, dating anyone? How is her relationship with her mother etc etc.

It’s a nice day and she stays late and never confronts him on anything until she sees how long ago the sun set and she needs to get moving.

He hands her paper with his number and makes her promise not to give it to the others or she will lose access to it, he offers to help her on a conditional basis as nightwing but only her, she can call him about the rest if it’s an end of the world or they’re near death and need immediate aid.

And that’s like the fic because the key to winning nightwings assistance is like breathing (optional) but if you’re Dicks family you have to care or else. He’ll love you and help you, when you need it but he won’t tie his life up with yours, he’ll spend his time with people who value his opinion and the person behind the mask.

Anyway cue all the Batkids trying to do what Steph did and fail because they’re neurotic shits who think bonding involves doing casework together or a steak out.

(The next person to crack it is Damian, completely unintentionally he has a fight with Bruce and can’t ask him how the fuck he’s supposed to solve this equation in the new stupid way they’re teaching him no he can’t use the old method they’re supposed to show their work so he pulls up to Dick and Donna’s in a ratty ass hoodie like plz wtf do you mean you work top down explain Grayson- and dicks like awww no problem kid)

#dick grayson #batfam #AU #nightwing #batman #comics #bruce wayne #jason todd #tim drake #batfamily #damian wayne #the titans are family your honor #Dick Grayson and Donna Troy #they’re the besties #corporate wants to you point out the difference between these two photos #and it’s Donna Troy and Dick Grayson #it’s the same photo #titans

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solxamber · 2 months ago

Note

I loved the platonic Malleus helps Yuu get Idia fic and I was wondering if you could so something similar with Cater or Trey or Vil or Leona or Floyd? You can choose, anything like that would be amazing my liege.

you asked and i answered, i love this concept so much

Fae Courtship 101: Romance for Dummies || Floyd Leech

In your desperation to confess to Floyd, you made the grave mistake of recruiting Malleus for help—now the only thing you’re courting is death.

For reasons beyond mortal comprehension—beyond your own comprehension—you have fallen for Floyd Leech.

Floyd. Leech.

The man who treats personal space like a suggestion, bites people for fun, and once chased a first-year across campus while laughing like a slasher villain because he was “bored.”

The man who once tried to sell you to Azul in exchange for a really nice hat. The man who could, at any given moment, be contemplating something as simple as “what’s for lunch” or something as horrifyingly chaotic as “what if I threw the prefect off the third-floor balcony to see how they bounce?”

It’s a bad idea. Objectively, scientifically, in every single way, this is a mistake.

Grim and Deuce have been holding interventions. The ghosts of Ramshackle have been looking at you like they’re already preparing to welcome you into their ranks. You're rapidly losing the moral high ground in any discussion about Ace’s bad life choices.

But the heart wants what it wants. And unfortunately, yours wants to make terrible decisions.

Which brings you here, pacing alongside Malleus Draconia, crown prince of Briar Valley, king of ominous nighttime strolls, and your designated therapist for the evening.

“I just—I don’t get it, Malleus!” you wail, gesturing wildly as you stomp through the moonlit campus. “I should like normal people! People who don’t consider attempted murder to be a love language! I should have instincts!”

Malleus hums in thought. “Hm. Concerning.”

“Exactly!” You throw your hands up. “I should be running in the opposite direction! Instead, I’m over here, wondering if he’d bite me gently if I asked nicely!”

Malleus stops walking.

You stop too, looking over to see him gazing at you with a carefully neutral expression. There’s a brief silence. A beat. And then, slowly—gravely—he nods.

“Understood.”

You blink. “...Huh?”

He turns to you with the air of a man who has just accepted a sacred duty. “You have chosen a perilous path, Child of Man.”

You stare. “I—??"

“But fear not,” he continues, raising a hand to his chest in solemn promise. “I shall help you attain your romance.”

Silence.

A breeze rolls through the courtyard. A crow caws in the distance. Somewhere, Grim is experiencing a deep sense of foreboding.

“…You’re going to what?”

Malleus nods again, expression determined. “Leave it to me.”

You suddenly have so many regrets.

Grim looks at you the way a doctor looks at a patient about to flatline. Gravely. With pity. With deep concern for the irreversible damage.

"Okay, listen hench-human, I’ve let a lot of things slide, but this? This I gotta ask—do you hate life that much?"

You blink at him. "What?"

Grim waves his little paws dramatically. "First, you fall for Floyd of all people. That’s already a death wish. And now, you’re actually listening to Malleus for dating advice? What’s next? You gonna ask Kalim for tips on financial responsibility?!"

You open your mouth. Close it. You… okay, you really have no defense. But before you can say anything—

There’s a knock at the door.

And you don’t even have to guess who it is.

You open it to find Malleus standing there, his expression set in earnest determination. In his hands is a book that looks older than your grandmother. The kind of ancient tome that looks like it holds dark secrets, forbidden spells, possibly even a recipe for soup made from human souls.

Standing right next to him, grinning like a goblin, is Lilia.

You feel your soul leave your body.

"Ah, Child of Man," Malleus intones. "I have found it. The ultimate guide to fae courtship rituals. You shall use these techniques to win the heart of your eel."

"Oh, this is gonna be fun," Lilia cackles. "Do you know how long it's been since I’ve seen these methods in action? The devastation! The absolute carnage!"

You stare at them. You stare into the abyss. The abyss grins back.

Grim looks at you, his face a perfect picture of someone watching a loved one make the worst life decisions in real time.

"You’re really doin’ this, huh?"

…You sigh. "Yeah. I’m really doing this."

You are simply minding your own business, walking to class like a normal person, when you spot Floyd approaching from the other end of the hallway.

As always, you smile at him, because you have fully accepted your fate as a fool with horrible taste in men. You expect him to either grin back or threaten to suplex you for fun—classic Floyd things.

What you do not expect is the sudden sensation of a phantom hand shoving you forward.

And just like that, gravity wins.

You crash into Floyd with all the grace of a drunk goose, smacking into his chest with enough force to send both of you stumbling. Floyd barely moves (because he is built like a problem), but you rebound like a cartoon character, nearly falling over before his hands land heavily on your shoulders.

For a brief, dizzying moment, you stare at him.

Then, slowly, your brain remembers what just happened, and you whip around—

Only to see Malleus standing at the end of the hallway, looking extremely pleased with himself.

He gives you a smug, regal nod.

He is also holding a book titled "How to Romance for Dummies."

You are going to throw hands with a literal prince.

Before you can implode, Floyd’s grip on your shoulders tightens. You turn back to him, only to find him looking entirely too displeased about being your impromptu landing pad.

“Shriiiimpy,” he drawls, squinting at you like a judge in a courtroom drama. “What’s up with that, huh? Tryna tackle me first thing in the morning?”

“I—I tripped!” you stammer, trying to collect the shreds of your dignity. “I didn’t mean to crash into you, I swear!”

Floyd hums, unconvinced. Then, after a beat of consideration, he shrugs.

“Aaah, whatever.” His fingers dig just slightly into your shoulders, a slow grin stretching across his face. “You still ran into me, soooo… you owe me.”

You blink. “Wait. Owe you?”

“Mhm!” His grin widens, teeth sharp. “Now ya gotta hang out with me today.”

You blink again. Slowly. You could argue, but you have a sneaking suspicion that it won’t get you anywhere, and honestly? Maybe this is exactly the opening you need.

Maybe… Malleus isn’t that bad at this.

You take that last thought back immediately.

Because not even a day after that whole hallway fiasco, Malleus finds you again, pulls you aside with all the gravitas of an ancient ruler about to bestow divine wisdom, and insists that, in order to properly court Floyd, you must—

Compliment Floyd’s strength three times. At first, you thought, okay, easy enough, I can just tell him he’s strong and call it a day. But then—THEN—Malleus, in his infinite wisdom, handed you a quill and parchment and declared, “It must be in verse. Poetry carries the weight of true devotion.”

And now, here you are.

Standing in front of Floyd Leech. Holding a piece of paper with the most cringe-inducing attempt at poetry you've ever written in your life.

Floyd, to his credit, was already giggling the moment you approached with a look of sheer suffering. But when you clear your throat and attempt to actually read the thing—

"Oh mighty Floyd, with hands so bold—"

He just. Loses it.

Absolutely wheezing, doubling over, practically using you as a support beam to keep himself upright.

You glare at him and continue, determined to power through:

"A force unmatched, a tale retold—"

Floyd: "PFT—!!!"

He’s straight-up crying at this point. Tears. You swear you hear Jade laugh somewhere in the distance.

You don’t even make it to the third compliment. You just turn on your heel and walk away before your soul crumples in on itself like a dying star.

Malleus, watching from afar, sighs in clear disappointment. “You lack dedication,” he murmurs, shaking his head like an elder watching the youth fail at life.

You absolutely regret everything.

You don't know why you keep letting Malleus give you advice. Actually, no—that's a lie. You do know. It's because the second he heard you liked Floyd, his eyes lit up like he’d just been given a personal quest by the divine forces of romance, and now he refuses to rest until your love is secured.

Unfortunately, this means you are currently locked in yet another horrendous discussion about fae courting rituals.

"Scent-marking is a vital step in courtship," Malleus declares with the kind of grim authority that should be reserved for battlefields, not this. "He must recognize you as his."

You blink at him. "Oh, like giving him my hoodie or something?" That’s normal. That’s doable. That’s the kind of thing people do when they like each other, right? You’ve seen couples swap sweaters before. Maybe Malleus is finally onto something not-insane.

Malleus shakes his head gravely. "No. You must present him with something you have personally scented. Ideally, by rolling upon it."

Silence.

Rolling upon it.

You stare at him. He stares back. Completely serious.

You try to process what he’s just suggested. What he has just, with full sincerity, told you to do.

"Malleus."

"Yes?"

"You want me to roll around on an object like a dog and then give it to Floyd."

"Precisely."

You briefly consider just walking into the ocean.

It takes twenty full minutes to talk him down from this absolute lunacy and convince him that simply giving Floyd a sweater you’ve worn will do the job just fine. He looks at you the way a disappointed coach looks at a failing athlete.

"If you are not dedicated to the craft," he mutters, "you cannot expect great results."

You pretend you don’t hear him.

Fast forward to the next day, and you are sitting in class next to Floyd, who is draped over his desk in a deep and powerful boredom coma.

You pull out the sweater and awkwardly nudge it toward him.

"Here."

Floyd immediately perks up. Dangerously interested. He tilts his head, peering at the sweater like you’ve just handed him a rare treasure.

"Eh? What's this?"

"It's mine. You can have it," you say, trying to play it cool, despite the fact that your entire soul is trying to flee your body from embarrassment.

Floyd picks up the sweater and—without hesitation—presses his face into it.

You almost die. Right then and there. Instant expiration.

He leans back in his chair, grinning way too wide. "Heheh~ You smell nice, shrimpy~"

You barely manage to hold onto your composure. You are barely hanging on.

Malleus, watching from the hallway, narrows his eyes and mutters, "It is not the worst effort... but it lacks the impact of true commitment."

You ignore him. You ignore everything. You're just grateful that—for once—this wasn’t completely unhinged, and that Floyd somehow seems to like it.

"Nothing says romance like a meal made with your own two hands!" Lilia declares, slamming an ancient, definitely cursed cookbook onto the table.

You blink down at it. The title is in some language that makes your vision swim just looking at it. The edges are charred, the pages stained with substances you’re 70% sure are not food-safe, and Malleus—Malleus Draconia himself, looks a little unsure.

That should have been your first hint.

But you? A fool. An idiot. A desperate, love-struck buffoon? You press forward.

“Alright,” you sigh, rubbing your temples, already regretting this. “What ingredients do I need?”

Lilia beams, flipping to a page that looks like it came from an alchemist’s horror novel.

"Let's see! We’ll need:"

• Moonshade Truffle,

• A pinch of Sablethorn Dust,

• Three drops of Evernight Basilisk Extract,

• Seven Tears of a Joyful Banshee,

• And a Love-Smitten Fire Spirit’s Breath!

…

You stare.

"Lilia."

"Yes, beastie?"

"These sound like potion ingredients."

"Oh-ho!" Lilia chuckles, waving a hand. "You humans always get so caught up in technicalities. But what is cooking if not a kind of magic?"

…No. No, this is actual magic. You are not making a love potion, but this sure as hell sounds like one.

But, like the fool you are, you go along with it. You spend far too much money (your entire savings) at Azul’s Most Definitely Not a Scam Emporium for all of these ridiculous ingredients. He knows you’re up to something dumb. He does not care. He simply profits.

And now, here you are. In the Ramshackle kitchen. Grim watches from a safe distance behind a chair. Malleus stands off to the side with his arms crossed, looking like he is rethinking his life choices. And Lilia, that menace, is watching you mix the ingredients like a proud mentor.

Everything is going fine. Suspiciously fine.

And then—

"Alright, time to bake it!" Lilia claps his hands. "It says here to bake at 350 for 20 minutes!"

You nod. This is reasonable.

"However!" He flips the page. "In the olden days, we used a slightly different method."

Malleus frowns. Your stomach drops.

"Instead of 350 for 20 minutes…" Lilia hums. "It says here—750 for 10!"

…

"What."

"Don’t be shy! Give it a try!" Lilia gestures for you to do it.

Malleus shifts, looking like he wants to intervene. Grim is slowly backing out of the room. You ignore all of this.

Because you are an idiot.

You turn the oven to 750. You shove the pan inside. You watch in real-time as your dignity burns.

The oven makes a sound ovens should not make.

Something explodes. The smell is indescribable.

When you pull the pan out, it is a pile of pure, blackened charcoal.

You are horrified. Malleus looks concerned. Grim looks betrayed.

"Are ya tryin’ to kill me, Henchhuman?!" Grim yells. "I thought we were friends!"

But Lilia? Lilia is nodding approvingly.

"Ah," he sighs, nostalgic. "Just like how I remember it."

…This man should not be allowed in kitchens.

But you, an absolute buffoon, take the charred remains of your so-called courtship offering and bring it to Floyd anyway.

You find him in the cafeteria, dump the plate in front of him, and sit down. Defeated.

Floyd stares. Pokes it with a finger.

And then, he looks at you.

With pity.

"Shrimpy." His voice is gentle. You feel a chill of fear. "You goin' through hard times or somethin'?"

…

You die inside.

Your cooking was so bad that Floyd Leech—FLOYD LEECH—was feeling sympathy for you.

You have never known such shame.

You sit there, staring into the distance like a soldier who’s seen too much. A philosopher pondering the futility of existence. A person who has scent-marked a sweater and written poetry at the behest of a fae prince who thinks you’re simply not dedicated enough to the craft of love.

You are contemplating life, death, and the many, many decisions that have led you here.

And then, Jade sits beside you.

You don’t even flinch. You should. You should be wary. You should immediately launch yourself into the bushes and prepare to be interrogated in some terrifying eel version of psychological warfare. But you don’t. Because you have nothing left.

So you just turn your head slowly, look at him with the dull, hollow eyes of someone who’s really going through it.

Jade looks positively delighted.

"My, my," he says, in that syrupy, knowing voice of his. "What could possibly put you in such a state?"

You inhale. Exhale. Consider your options. Death is looking really attractive.

"I don’t want to talk about it."

Jade hums, obviously entertained, but then—then—he decides to make it worse.

"You know," he muses, "even Floyd has started to get concerned."

You blink.

"…Huh?"

"Oh, yes," he says, resting his chin on his hand, enjoying every second of this. "Between the odd gifts, the unusual behavior, and your general aura of suffering, even he has begun to notice. Which means you are being particularly obvious, because he rarely pays attention to anything that isn't entertaining."

You don’t even have the energy to be embarrassed.

"What’s your point?" you mutter.

Jade smiles like a predator about to land a final, devastating strike.

"You should simply tell him. Because this…?" He gestures vaguely at your soul-deep despair. "This is rather pitiful."

You stare.

You process.

And, somewhere in the depths of your heart, you realize he’s right.

You are in shambles.

Like, properly, horrifically, soul-crushingly in shambles. You’ve been through so much. You've spent weeks engaging in increasingly deranged behavior at the behest of a well-meaning yet hopelessly out-of-touch fae prince. You've endured ritual poetry readings, scent-marking disasters, and a culinary war crime that left you emotionally and financially bankrupt.

And now, standing in front of Floyd Leech—the very cause of your descent into insanity—you finally snap.

"I LIKE YOU!" you blurt, voice cracking like a cheap mirror. "I LIKE YOU AND I'VE BEEN ACTING LIKE A LUNATIC BECAUSE MALLEUS SAID I HAD TO FOLLOW FAE COURTSHIP RITUALS AND I—" your voice hiccups, borderline hysterical, "—I THINK I LOST A PIECE OF MY SOUL WHEN I TRIED TO BAKE THAT DAMN CAKE BUT IT'S FINE, BECAUSE APPARENTLY THAT'S JUST WHAT LOVE IS??? AND I DID IT ALL FOR YOU, FLOYD, BECAUSE I AM A DUMB IDIOT WHO LIKES YOU FOR SOME REASON."

You gasp for air, because this has been a lot.

And Floyd?

Floyd is laughing.

Not just a chuckle, either. No, this menace of a man is bent over, hands on his knees, actually wheezing with mirth as if you’ve just performed the comedy routine of the century. His shoulders shake. His teeth glint in the light. He looks absolutely delighted.

And you? You just stand there, a broken, hollow shell of a human being.

"You should’ve just told me, Shrimpy~!" he cackles, wiping a tear from his eye. "I like you too, y’know?"

...

There’s a moment of silence as your poor, battered brain struggles to process this information.

"WHAT."

Floyd grins, like you haven’t just endured weeks of psychological torment at the hands of a dragon prince. "I mean, you’re fun! You make me laugh, and I like squeezin’ ya. ‘Course I like ya!"

Before you can even begin to formulate a response, he lunges forward and grabs you in a hug so tight that your ribs beg for mercy. You are crushed, consumed, engulfed in the sheer force of his affection. Your spine may never recover, but at this point, what’s another injury to your dignity?

And honestly? You don’t care.

Because he likes you.

Floyd likes you back.

Which means—you realize, tears pricking your eyes in relief—you never have to perform another insane fae courtship ritual again.

No more humiliating poetry. No more dubious scent-marking. No more playing Russian roulette with your digestive system in the name of romance. You did it. You won.

And then Floyd leans down, cups your face, and kisses you.

It's a little rough, a little overwhelming, but you melt into it anyway, because Sevens, you earned this.

Somewhere in the distance, Malleus Draconia watches from the shadows.

Arms crossed, nodding sagely, he looks upon his greatest success.

"My expert techniques," he murmurs, pride swelling in his voice, "have secured my child of man their eel."

Behind him, Lilia wipes an imaginary tear.

"Beautiful," he sighs.

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #floyd leech x reader #floyd x reader #floyd leech x you #floyd #floyd leech #platonic malleus draconia x reader #platonic malleus x reader #platonic malleus #malleus x reader

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coralbae · 7 days ago

Text

road trips with the jjk men

minors and ageless blogs dni!!

characters: gojo, geto, nanami, toji, choso, sukuna

warnings: NSFW, not proofread, reckless driving (please don't be a bitch on the road)

Satoru Gojo

The car itself is luxury. Sleek and pristine with the best leather seats around, though that doesn't stop Gojo from binge eating the cheetos and m&ms that you bought at the gas station. Don’t worry though, his passenger princess never needs to clean up after him.

Speaking of passenger princesses, you’ll have your feet up on the dash as you feed the both of you your snack of choice, or you’ll have your pillow wedged between yourself and the window, napping peacefully next to him. If he gets too lonely without the sound of your voice though, he most definitely will wake you up just to hear you speak, even if it’s out of annoyance for waking you up but when he suggests a karaoke session with the built in app on the interface, you can’t bring yourself to stay mad - not when you have full control of the setlist.

Tucked and neatly folded in the back, is a blanket with an ugly cake print that’s reserved for backseat activities only. For reasons such as these, the windows have been tinted as dark as they can possibly be, lest anyone else pulled up next to you guys in the emergency bay tries to get a glimpse of who exactly owns the most sexy car on this road.

Suguru Geto

Takes you and the girls on 4x4 trails. The three of you are leaning out of the window and laughing as he drives his three favourite girls around, way too expertly and smooth for such a bumpy road. The fact that he gets to show off for you is a welcome bonus.

Geto will take you guys to the nicest beaches he can find, where the sand is soft and the water is blue, sparkly and clear and other happy families surround you. He’ll help you set up the beach umbrella and towels while the Mimiko and Nanako go for a swim, build a sand castle or bury each other in the sand, begging you to take a photo of whoever’s stuck, with just their head their sticking out and giggling in unison. When the girls are far enough from the two of you, but still within sight, you’ll ask Geto to help you apply sunscreen so that you don’t get sunburnt in your string bikini. He’s very thorough, making sure to massage it into all the places along your back that you couldn’t reach, as well as lower down and around your chest, just in case the sun’s rays make it through the fabric, if you catch my drift.

There’s never a dull moment on the road with the four of you. You’re usually playing I Spy, gossiping with the girls about school, or when the twins are fast asleep, cuddling their matching squishmallows, the two of you discuss the fact that there’s still one empty seat in the back, waiting to be filled sometime in the near future.

Kento Nanami

The two of you go on trips in your Volkswagen Westfalia, which he helped you modify and deck out exactly how you want because his life motto is happy wife, happy life. Listens to podcasts as you read, or puts on background music when the two of you want to talk. Rolls his sleeves up as he drives, definitely not because he likes how much you drool over his muscles that are still so big and juicy while relaxed.

Road trips for the two of you usually take a few days, as opposed to a day trip because his favourite moments are when he gets to disconnect from the busy city and just exist with you. You'll visit small country towns, where you each choose a trinket for the other, a tradition that you've shared since you discovered they you both really, really enjoy driving around and exploring the country.

Unlike the others, you and Nanami have not one, but two beds in your van because his lovely wife deserves more than a quick shag, all cramped up in the back of a car. The upper bunk never gets used for that anymore though, because first (and only) time you guys had sex up there, he spent most of it afraid that it would break with how hard you were riding him and the fact that you hit your head on the roof because how dare it be so low that you bumped your lovely head on it? At the caravan park, in the middle of the night and as your hands begin to wander, Nanami makes sure to shove your panties in your mouth to muffle your cries so that the two of you don't disturb the other campers, and worse, families that surround you while he fucks you into next week.

Toji Fushiguro

Definitely drives with one hand on top of the wheel. The other is probably on your thigh, and if the kids aren’t there, between them. If he gets too needy, he’ll park behind a bunch of bushes that barely conceal the two of you, making you get on all fours in the booth of the car as he fucks you on the side of the road, and when you turn your head to check if anyone’s coming, he pulls you by your hair so that you’re looking up at him instead.

He’ll fly to your destination, doing at least fifty above the speed limit, only slowing down when you smack him for turning too recklessly around a bend or if the kids are in the car. Groans when there's one too many road trains in front of the car for him to overtake.

If it’s a family road-trip, he eats half of the snacks, forcing Megumi and Tsumiki to share the snacks they chose that morning, because it’s the dad tax. They groan and whine and tell him that he should’ve just bought his own snacks back at the supermarket, but their complaints cease as soon as either of the kids spot the animals grazing on the grass at the farms that run parallel to the road, hands and noses pressed against the window as they stare in awe, unaware of the oil marks that they’ve left on the glass (much to their dad’s annoyance).

When Megumi pushes his buttons and asks, ‘are we there yet?’ for the fourth time in the span of twenty minutes, he pulls over into the emergency stop bays and the four of you sit there in awkward silence until Toji decides that the kid has been punished for long enough, sighing and getting back on the road while you glance back at the kids and try to hide your laugh, earning a pinch your thigh from your husband as he demands suggests that everyone plays the quiet game until he decices that it’s over.

Choso Kamo

Choso, out of the boys, is the only one who is willing to take turns driving. He's vigilant and careful but not afraid to honk if he comes across some idiot while cruising down the highway. The two of you will listen to your shared playlist, which has way too many songs for the actual duration for your trip, sometimes singing along or laughing at how the shuffling of the playlist gives you whiplash from the variety of the songs' genres.

When it's his turn to drive, if he sees a stretch of wildflowers, he always makes sure to pull over, telling you to wait for him as he carefully picks the prettiest ones as a gift for you. In return, you give him the sweetest kiss, or if you're feeling frisky, you'll bounce on his dick so hard that it rattles and tests the suspension of your car more than any bumpy road ever could. As the flowers never last long, you've started bringing your crafting kit to preserve your flowers in resin as Choso continues your drive with a red face and messy hair.

Among outdoor activities, the both of you love to go on a hike, or a walk in the bush. You collect any pretty leaves or (safe) mushrooms that you come across, preserving them once again for you to show off to your friends, or his brother once you return home. You guys can honestly probably open up some gallery or something somewhere down the line with all the preserved flora and fungi that you find. On your hikes, sometimes the two of you will take extended breaks where one you will find yourself on your knees, though it may be cut short, forcing you to quickly dust yourself off when you hear footsteps approaching.

Sukuna Ryomen

Drives with one elbow out the window, while the other is playing with your ponytail as you bob your head up and down along his dick. The first time you did that, he didn’t realise how much he was losing focus and got overtaken by about three cars, which pissed him off so hard that he pulled you off so he could catch up to when without any distractions (don’t worry, he uses cruise control now).

He loves to tailgate. Even at ridiculous speeds, this man knows no fear while you’re gripping the overhead handles until your knuckles are white and you’re screaming curses him. How does he calm you down? Not by slowing down, no. He makes you suck his dick, already hard and throbbing from when you were yelling at him. If you can’t see the road, you won’t know what he’s doing, right?

Expect lots of shitty jokes or comments when it gets too quiet or if you guys drive past any unique structures. Always announces the, ‘dead centre of town!’ when approaching the cemetery of each country town that you pass though as you try to hold in your laughter, because unlike him, you don’t want to go to hell when you die. Probably comments on the amount of animal carcasses you guys see along the way.

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hazelfoureyes · 1 year ago

Text

The Radio Demon Fucks a Human Sacrifice (part 4)

⟢ part1♡̶sidestory♡̶part2♡̶part3♡̶part4 ⟣

7k words of a fever dream, happy Sunday, sinners ✨💦 I really hope you like it 🥺💖

You were back, unexpectedly but welcomed nonetheless. But now Alastor finds himself in a new kind of hell. There was, unfortunately for him, no killing what he felt when he looked at you.

{Warnings/Promises: Smut, Ace spectrum Alastor x FemReader, Alastor has feelings, creampie is the best nighttime snack, Angel is always the good guy, cervix punishment, mating press, Alastor demon form, Antlers go brrrr, drinking to forget, drowning (in cum)((and emotions)), discussions of murder, Alastor gets horny for discussions of murder, kinda breed kink if you squint, I saw a fan image of a hazbin hotel pool and it’s been stuck in my head for days.}

MINORS DNI (ah! Eh! I — stop. I see you. You know I see you, right? Get outta here! 🚨)

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

You were quick to stifle your smile, seeing Alastor standing in front of you with his hand outstretched. Why were you smiling? You were dead. Brutally so. And, You were in hell. But the corners of your mouth kept tugging upward at the sight of the stupid fucking deer demon before you. His own wild smile, eyes half lidded as he looked at you like he knew you.

You took his hand, needing the help standing. He fingers slipped from your palm and came to rub the velvet skin of your—- ears? You smacked his hand away, taking a step back.

The look he gave you, confusion? You weren’t sure, his head cocked to the side, hand lingering a beat longer in the air. He took a step toward you and you took one back.

Alastor laughed, “Quite the welcome, dear.”

You narrowed your eyes, did he know? Did he know you dreamt of him so many nights? That you struggled daily to not see his face behind your eyelids, not hear his lilting voice in your ear?

“Long time no see, Alastor.” You didn’t mean to sound quite so bored when you said it, you weren’t really sure at all what was going on in your head. You didn’t expect to see him so soon, literally immediately upon your death. You didn’t have time to recalibrate the mixed up feelings you had created for yourself over this stranger.

You pined for months to see him again, trying so hard to push the memory of him as deep as you could. So deep, in fact, you found yourself tortured at night with fantasies of his company. Even during the day, your life was altered around him. You couldn’t listen to the radio, the odd static and reverb just forcing him back into your consciousness. You took long forest walks, thinking about hunters and deer. You wore that fucking robe for an embarrassingly long time, remembering being in another world entirely.

Alastor’s face fell, throat closing slightly as he thought he realized what was happening. You didn’t remember the time you’d spent with him. He had been enjoying lazy nights in his room and pleasurable times in the woods with a ghost. He took a step closer, maybe if he— maybe your body would remember? If you just smelled his bed, perhaps you’d stop acting so cold. If he could awaken the impressions he was sure he left on your soul, he could pick up where he left off. A comfortable companion. Kind eyes that only saw him. His name, sweet and low tumbling from your lips.

You hit the wall with your back, making distance from him. He hadn’t hurt you, but you couldn’t be sure what would happen now. Fantasies are no indication of a person’s real self. Your dream romps were just that— dreams. Fiction your mind produced to fill the gap in your life he somehow created in your short time together. Imagination fleshing out this unknown demon you couldn’t stop thinking about.

His hand fell. There was a second his smile dropped, brows knitted. It came and it went, “Well! I best go get Charlie. She is the official welcome committee of the Hazbin Hotel, after all. Follow me.” The door swung open, his long arm gesturing.

Charlie pulled you into a hug, bouncing between “Welcome back!” And “I am so, so sorry you died!” She held your hands in hers, “The hotel has gone through a lot since you left! I have so much to show you. While Alastor has your room b…” her voice carried on, but your mind stayed put. She did jazz hands at every sconce and door frame on the way to the lobby.

You had expected it, your death. You figured there was a 50/50 chance you didn’t make it out of that forest. But that didn’t make this moment any less surreal. You looked down at your body, yours but new. Your hands came to your head, fingers climbing up your skull until you found them. Two soft, tulip petal shaped ears. Were you going to be sick? The room began to spin. Charlie’s voice underwater. Was some detective going to knock on your parent’s door? Carrying a folder with your photo and bad news? Your eyes clenched at the image, your heart ballooning in your chest.

“Maybe she needs to take a rest,” his voice cut through the waters of your confusion, a spear straight to your psyche. His hand slipped up your arm, resting on your back. You shook your head, eyes blinking wildly.

“It’s fine. Please, Charlie, continue your tour.” You took an exaggerated step to your left, out from under his touch. You thought you heard him sigh. Why was he being so kind? The last time you spoke you were staring daggers at him while he carried on about doing exactly what he had promised.

Charlie excitedly presented the lobby to you, the bar, the library. Alastor walked a few feet behind you both, quiet, his shadow dancing down the hallway in front of you. It’s mouth flipping from grin to grimace and back as it watched you nod along to every detail Charlie felt you should know.

The newest addition to the hotel since you left, a large indoor pool on the second to top floor. You lingered there, watching the water reflect pink and red light from the floor to ceiling windows overlooking Pentagram City.

“Almost done! To the left is Dad’s studio. He comes and goes. Ya know, parent stuff.”

You tried to mask your concern for whatever damaged parent-child relationship she was referencing.

“And to the right is Alastor’s radio station.”

You glanced to the demon, standing near the wall, inspecting his nails. “I didn’t know he had a radio station. I just assumed-,” You shrugged, “He just sounded like that.”

Alastor felt his bottom lid of his left eye twitch involuntarily. Why were you speaking like he wasn’t there?

He bit his tongue, literally. He needed time to think, to plan how to handle this situation. Your death was early and therefore unexpected for him, too. Not nearly as surprising, though, as your loss of memory of him.

He knew though, maybe this was for the best. If you were here, if he could see you around the hotel, perhaps that desire to have you near would die down. His shadow shifted behind him before sinking into the floor. Yes, exactly. This was a good thing. His eyes glanced to you, to your little doe features, two ears and a tiny fluff of a tail. His jaw tightened, had you done it on purpose? What did it mean?

”Would you like to see it?” He didn’t recognize his own voice, because he hadn’t realized he was going to say it until it was done.

Yes. “No thank you.” You wanted to run face first into the wall. It felt like your ribs were twisting off your spine. One side lurched up—- touch him. He wants you, he felt so good. Get him alone. The other side pulling down—- fuck him. He owns you, he’s a demon. Stay away from him.

His ears turned back and down, folding into his skull. You tried to keep your face neutral as you stared back at him, breathing teetering on panting. Every time you looked at him you were in danger of spilling your guts.

“Well!” Charlie slid into the tense air between you two, nervous chuckles, “That makes sense! Because Al’s station is super off limits. So. Uhh where was I going with this.” She looked around, “Is the room ready, Al?”

He nodded, leading you both to the elevator and a few floors down.

“This floor is for our more precious residents. Not that every soul isn’t precious! But ya knooow,” she opened your door, “You’ve got Angel, Husk, Niffty, sometimes Cherri Bomb, and Alastor as neighbors!”

Yippee. You get to lie awake knowing the object of your fucked desire is just past an easily smashed wall.

There was a moment where you all three looked at each other. Charlie becoming more and more fidgety as the seconds ticked on.

“Sooo, We should let her rest, like you said, right Alastor?” Charlie began a dramatic walk to the bedroom door, taking big steps with high knees.

You needed to do this and let it be. “Actually, may I have a moment, Alastor?”

Always, Yes. “I suppose I have the time, my dear.” He twirled his microphone stand before settling it behind his back. Charlie wanted to ask you if you were sure, but the tension was rising again. She backed out of the room, pulling the door closed as she went.

Alone. Again. There was a feeling in the air, like you would either fuck or fight. Was it an animal thing? Or was it always there?

“I never got to thank you.”

His stomach turned, he couldn’t bear this again. Please, stop thanking him. Smile straining, struggling to keep it together, he nodded, “Whatever for?”

You had a strange feeling, a familiarity to the conversation. Ah, that was right. Would this end the same way as your dream? With you on your back? “You were — true to your word.” You fiddled with the comforter of the bed, avoiding looking at him. “You were gentle and you got me home safe and sound. I didn’t thank you. I was just so-,”

“Full of misplaced rage?” His head tilted to the left, eyebrows high.

“Just rage, would have been fine. It was an unfair situation that you helped get me out of.”

Alastor watched your face, only sadness to be found. Not a sight he took any pleasure in. “Well you should truly thank Angel Dust. He is the one who brought me to you, desperate to help you. Even offered me his soul! Not that it’s his to give.”

No one had told you. “Oh,” genuine surprise, “Thank you for that. Yeah, I have to thank him. I’d probably still be in Valentino’s—,” the light of the lamp beside the bed flickered, “studio.”

Looking at you, Alastor couldn’t decipher the feeling in his chest. Relief, sure. Shock, yes. But behind that, a strange tugging beneath his sternum. A pain, vague and nebulous floating over his chest. Why did you come back so soon? Why did you die so early? He wanted to ask you so many things, but if you didn’t retain any memory of your time with him, he doubted he would like the answers.

“I’m going to finish my mental breakdown now, thanks for the tour and uh, the information.” Scratching awkwardly at your arm, you went and opened the door. He paused a moment before moving. “I would like to see your radio station, sometime. If you’d want to show me.” He nodded and left. The room felt colder now, deader.

Your night went exactly how you anticipated, lying awake in the plush red blankets of your new home staring at the ceiling. You wondered if you slept, if you’d see him again. Thoughts of the overworld, family, connections. Little fits of rest came but nothing more than 30 minutes here and there.

Alastor paced his room until dawn, an animal in an unlocked cage. When you had appeared, dead and truly in hell, he thought you’d come to see him. He was embarrassed to even think it now, he had believed you wanted to be with him in earnest. As comfortable with his company as he was yours. He cradled his head, again he felt himself succumbing to the enjoyment of others. He had accepted it with you, more so than the rest, and now it was a weapon in your hands. He felt like an idiot. And he hated it. What a fool, to think you’d died to get home to him. A growl rising in his chest. Home. He desperately wanted to see Rosie, to vent the situation and find clarity. But the idea of leaving you alone in the hotel irked him. He couldn’t put his finger on why. Maybe you wouldn’t be here when he returned. He could always summon you with your connection to him, but he wanted you to be there, with him, of your own volition or he didn’t want it at all.

If you’d forgotten entirely, he had two courses of action. To start over, or to let it die.

He looked to his bed, remembering you lying there. Sleeping, peaceful, content. Safe. Alastor turned to the wall, knowing you lied just beyond the wallpaper and sheet rock in your own deathbed, alone. The out of place physical need for you was something he struggled with, but whatever feeling this was — far worse. You were his, yet he couldn’t have you. Couldn’t possess you in the ways he’d grown accustomed to the past year. Starting over felt tedious. But this wasn’t a feeling that would die, he knew that. He could feel that by how deep the roots of his despair sunk into his soul when you looked at him like a stranger.

He didn’t rest that night, and neither did you.

Maybe it was the deal, the connection between you and him, but no matter where you were in the hotel you could feel him. A sixth sense, his presence always on your radar. A small part of your brain power was always on him, focused on the idea of Alastor. You wandered the halls until the others woke, feeling that little string between the two of you. Taut, strong.

When you found Angel that first morning back, you took a seat beside him in the lobby.

“Alastor told me you are why I got help. From Valentino.” You tried your best to maintain eye contact, not getting distracted by his arms.

“Don’t mention it, sweetheart. I kinda did it for myself, I wouldn’t have been able to sleep again if I just let it happen. I’m a freak but I ain’t sick in the head like Val.” He locked his phone, turning to you, “So do you always start passin’ out mid-convo or does Charlie’s voice just do something to ya?”

You groaned, “Did she tell you that?”

“Well she panic-sang it, real worried about you. Did you get settled in yesterday?”

“I didn’t sleep, now that you mention it.” Angel laughed, taking you by surprise, “What?”

“Oh I’m sure you didn’t. Not with your co-star next door.” He winked, “I’m sure you’re happy to be here in the flesh.”

“Ugh I forgot about that. Did -,”

“Everyone see it? Yeah you’re a minor celebrity.” You took a throw pillow and screamed into it while he spoke, “But hey! At least you don’t gotta worry about crazy fans. Smiles will keep ‘em at bay.”

“Why would he do anything for me?” Pillow still over your face, you groaned, “I’m just a soul on his roster.”

“Ha I don’t think he treats just any soul the way he’s been treatin’ you. I think Husk would tell me.” Angel kicked his feet, “What a mental image! Does he have pubes? I feel like he does but they’re like, sharp? Like hostile somehow?”

Pillow down, “Ew, Angel! Hostile? How the fuck would I know?”

Angel stopped, wide eyed, “Oh is it a secret? Is that part of the deal?” A sinister giggle, “You can tell ole’ Angel Dust. We’re pals, remember? You technically owe me.” His many fingers poked at your sides, goading you.

You scrunched up your nose, swatting at his hands, “Angel, what are you talking about?”

His smile fell, now side eyeing you, he opened his mouth to ask you to stop playing coy when he heard you all those nights in Alastor’s room when Charlie burst into the lobby.

“I am so sorry! I didn’t tell you about the redemption activities!” She tossed papers onto the coffee table, “Alright, plan Stairway to Heaven!”

Angel sat back, bored the juicy gossip had to wait, your attention fully occupied by Charlie’s sketches.

Alastor watched you from the second floor balcony. Over the next few days he would always be watching, either from the shadows or out in the open. Looking at you, that carnal hunger was gone. He felt no overpowering desire to be surrounded by you. But, now and then, you’d make a small noise or sigh and he would feel a little twitch. A muscle memory reaction to you

Where the need to touch you had faded, he instead found an insatiable hunger to be near you. He had thought it would be better, you at the hotel. But it had become worse. The further you were, the more undone he felt. It baffled him. So, he stayed near. You were almost always within earshot or eye sight. If not, he at least knew where you were. He could focus on the hotel and his plans for Charlie only then.

You never looked at him, it was obviously on purpose. Even when he would take a seat beside you or across from you, you’d manage to glance everywhere but directly at Alastor. By the fourth day, he felt like he was going to snap. It was beginning to feel disrespectful.

That fourth night when you again couldn’t sleep, you found yourself at the edge of the pool. Did people in hell swim? You’d been there for nearly two hours and not a single sinner appeared. It was well past midnight, though.

The entire room was tinged pink, shadows a pretty red. The water itself looked like a sea of rose quartz. You didn’t have a bathing suit. You didn’t have anything now that you thought about it. Nevertheless, you slipped into the water and let yourself float from the edge.

What a familiar feeling, floating. The ceiling shimmered with the water’s ever-moving reflection. Mind reeling back to the green glow casting your shadow on the ceiling of Valentino’s studio. You closed your eyes, you were always sinking it seemed. Sinking out of consciousness, into a another dream, out of the woods and into the bedroom of your captivator. The only times you felt weightless— ah, right. Body held up by shadows, cameras rolling. Under him, beneath the stars, sleeping form disconnected from your mind. It was always with him. You wondered for a second if you could sleep like this. What would happen if you drowned. Could you drown?

The carpet soaked with every step you took, your body sopping wet, clothes heavy with pool water. You were dragging your bare feet to the elevator when you saw a light coming from the ajar door to Alastor’s radio studio.

He was looking over papers, monocle resting on his cheek. Alastor turned to you, taking note of your shoes in your hand and wet hair. Your ears were heavy with water, fine fur drooping with the weight. “You look like a drowned rat, my doe.”

“Don’t call me that,” you wiped your hair from your face, “I can’t sleep.”

You never struggled to sleep in his bed. “What did you do when you couldn’t sleep on earth?”

Your life already felt far in the rearview, either the effects of sleep exhaustion or your time in the underworld, “I slept… really well. Not a sleepless night I can remember.”

Alastor only hummed a response. Because all of your sleepless nights were here, with him.

“Why are you working?”

“Why are you swimming?”

“I just told you.” Your brows knitted, was this a conversation or a riddle.

Ever present smile beamed back at you, “Well then take a guess!”

You stared at him, sitting at his curved desk with all his switches and buttons. Papers here and there. Just smiling at you. “Cool, thanks for the waste of time.” You turned to leave when you heard a low sound coming from his chest.

“Why do you speak to me like that? Avoid me?” He stood, hair sharp and standing at attention, “What have I done to you to deserve your disgust?”

“Nothing! That’s-,” the problem, “I’m just tired. I don’t feel right, like I misplaced something. There’s a nagging feeling, maybe something I forgot in the overworld.”

Alastor closed the gap between you two, “I can assure you everything you need is here.”

You rolled your eyes, “Yeah. Of course.” Turning to leave, his clawed hand reached for your wrist. Pulling you back, your wet clothes were now soaking into his suit.

His free hand took your chin and made you look up at him. Alastor’s red and pink eyes stared into yours, grin wider than you remembered seeing it before. You fixed your gaze on the desk behind him. “Look at me.” His voice cracked with a static interference. Your eyes finally came to his, your hand now holding his wrist just below your chin. “Don’t you dare look away.” He saw it, a flash of recognition flit across your now wide eyes. There was a pulse of electricity to your core, your body remembering his voice, those words, like an activation phrase. How did he know? Your thighs rubbed together, feet barely touching the ground as he held you close.

When his lips crashed into yours, you melted for a moment. Your body relaxed into him, a small whine slipping from your mouth to his. But then something in you snapped back, remembering he was a stranger holding your leash. You pulled his hand from your face with ease as your feet came back to the ground. Tugging your wrist free, you opened your mouth to yell at him, nothing but heavy breathing came out. Again, he reduced you to speechlessness. You glanced at his face before turning; he looked wounded.

You thought you heard his shoes shuffling along the carpet as you rushed into the elevator. A bang, a thrash, echoing down the elevator shaft as you descended to your floor.

Did he think because you acquiesced to sex before, somewhat under the pressure of a worse fate, he could just kiss you anytime he wanted? Did he see you as a toy?

Maybe being a toy would be nice. Maybe a good fuck would let you finally sleep. He did hit all the right places, those shadowy appendages never letting a single need go ignored…

You slammed your door shut, angrily peeling off your clothes. No, you weren’t a possession. You weren’t an object to be taken off the shelf at his convenience. No matter how much your body ached for his clawed hands and thin waist, you wouldn’t lower yourself to being under him. Not metaphorically, therefore not physically. You curled onto your bed, naked, body humming for him. Sleep came in pieces, fractured moments of rest.

“You look like shit.” Angel greeted you when the sun finally rose and everyone mulled around the hotel. You waited until you were sure the lobby bar wouldn’t be empty, you didn’t want to run into him alone.

“How do you fucking sleep in this place? All night just screams and moans from the city.” You rested your cheek on the bar, “Husk, something with orange juice that’ll make me forget where I am, please.”

“The moans are my favorite. Speaking of moanin’ in the night-,” Angel was cut off.

“Get used to it. You sold your soul to a psychotic dick. Welcome to the club,” Husk’s tone was harsh, tilting into sardonic as he slid your drink to you.

With a huff, you sat up, “Don’t compare us. You sold your soul. I—,” you searched with your hands for the word, “was guilty of having a colossal cunt of an aunt.” A deep sip of your drink, “Fuck, he only got my soul because he made a deal with a different demon for it. Soul traded in like a used car. I’m the Kia Sorento of hell.”

Husk grumbled, “Yeah well, either way. Might as well get comfortable. We’re here for the long haul.”

Angel put a hand out to shut up Husk, scooting his stool closer to you, “So like— did Mister Wrong-Kinda-Horny have you killed?” His eyes went to your ears and back, “Is that why ya came back a little lady deer? Some kinda sex thing?”

You downed your drink and gestured to Husk to refill your glass, speaking to Angel without looking at him, “Why would he do that?

He grabbed your bar stool and swivelled you to face him, leaning in even closer, “Well, ya know…” his eyebrows raised up and down, ready to finally get the dirty details, “because ya-,”

“My little doe, just who I was looking for.” His sudden appearance startled all three of you. He was ready now, to pin down your fate. Were you going to stay at the hotel permanently or not? With his supervision or without?

“Why does everyone keep interruptin’ me?!” Angel slammed his hand on the bar.

On impulse, your own hand formed a first, “Stop calling me that!”

Alastor laughed, unhinged, a finger wiping a tear from his eye. Still, the attitude with which you spoke to him surprised him, “Oh? Why should I? You are a doe,” his microphone gestured to your head, “And your soul belongs to me. If I remember correctly, so does your body.” His eyes darkened, back bent as he came to your eye level, “But I always have video evidence if you’re unsure of the details.”

You lifted your glass and cocked your arm back to throw it but stopped. Alastor was grinning, something in his stare egging you on. He was loving this. Finally you were paying some attention to him. You were looking right at him.

Setting the glass back down, you left your stool and slipped past him, “Lucky for you, radio demon. It’s all you have anymore.” You had decided you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying his name.

Husk sunk beneath the bar, Alastor’s antlers expanding as his eyes became overtaken with black. Angel scrambled over the counter to join the cowering bartender. Alastor whipped around, spine cracking and stretching. You were in the elevator for another quick escape when you turned and saw him gaining on you, his mouth nearly unhinged, teeth sharp and numerous. His body contorted to get his truly demonic face in your eye line, back bending in half to drop his head down, “What did you say?” The air around him seemed to bend and shake, the hiss of a misaligned radio station biting at your skin.

Your finger was shaking as you pressed the ‘close door’ button repeatedly, wetting your lips you found your foothold in anger again, “Fuck you.”

You didn’t recognize the sounds you heard just past the hollow elevator doors. Something between a screech and a wail. Not a sound you’d heard any deer make before.

Shakey knees and legs melting to jelly barely carried you to your room. You collapsed against the door as soon as you entered, locking it. Not that it mattered, you knew that.

A knock shook the wood and made you yelp.

“It’s me!” You recognized Angel’s voice, “Let me in.”

He fell into your room, hair a mess and eyes wide, “I don’t know where he went but he left the hotel. Jesus Christ you have balls of steel.” He fixed his hair, adjusting his chest fluff, “Or are a total idiot.” He saw the tears swelling in your eyes, gears shifting immediately, “Oh shit, sorry. You okay?”

You shook your head no and crumbled to the floor, “I haven’t fucking slept more than three hours a night in like, five fucking days. I’m going crazy.”

“I don’t know why ya’ll are fightin’ but can’t Alastor help you out? Ya’ll are close, maybe a night in his bed will set you straight.”

Your tears streamed down your face, “Angel! What are you talking about?! You keep saying shit like we’re friends. The closest I’ve been to him was in my fucking wet dreams!” You curled into the fetal position on the carpet, exhausted, scared, confused. You’d never seen something as skin-crawling as his full demonic form. But a part of you was mesmerised by the transformation. A sick part of you, you decided.

Angel lied down beside you, facing you, eyes blinking. One of his hands wiped at your tears, “What exactly happened after you went home?”

You sniffled, “I couldn’t get him out of my head. I wore your robe. It smelled like you.”

He laughed, “I wondered where that thing went.”

“I started having these dreams, just—- really fucked dreams of him.”

Angel’s eyes narrowed, “fucked how?”

Your wanted to hide your face but didn’t have the energy to move your arms, “He fucked me in the woods like his life depended on it. Best sex of my life, in my own imagination. Naturally.”

Angel sat up, he didn’t know what to ask first, “best sex?? Sorry- no. Fuck, uh, you had dreams about fucking the Radio Demon? You two never… met up?”

You rolled onto your back, shaking your head, “If he could have visited me, he never did. Trust me, I looked for any sign.”

“Uh huuuuh.” Angel nodded, “Well. His extra weird attitude makes more sense. He’s been super creepy, always just popping’ outta shadows and shit. More than usual.”

Angel looked over you, crying softly on the floor. He considered telling you, but if Alastor hadn’t he figured it was best he stay out of it. Lest he be the one fleeing into elevators.

“Have ya considered actually fucking him?” Angel couldn’t believe he was recommending anyone fuck Alastor, but it seemed like maybe it’d actually do you good.

“Why would I do that?”

Angel looked annoyed, “Because you wanna fuck him?! Get it out of our system?”

“Yes and I sometimes wonder what it would be like to drive into oncoming traffic. We all have the call of the void. He—,” you thought about the kiss, “I feel like it’d just make it worse. I’d want more.”

Angel showed you his phone, “He’s apparently eating sinners in the doom district, so, it’s your call. But maybe a good bang would get you both to chill out.” He scrolled, “Fucking hell. The best sex, of your life? Have you not had much sex or-?”

You crawled up to your bed and plopped your now heavy body down, “Angel.”

“Do you have some weird kink? Is it just really big?”

“Angel!”

“Does he go full demon and his peni-,”

“ANGEL.”

He spun his head around to look at you, “I wanna respect your boundaries but I will actually die again if you don’t explain this shit to me.”

Settling back, you groaned, “I’ve never felt so needed before. He held onto me like he couldn’t breath unless I was under him. But you see him, you’ve been here. Does that sound like him?”

Angel sat beside you, “Honestly didn’t know he knew what sex was until you came here so” he leaned back, two arms holding him up, “You guys are pretty fucked up.” You nodded. “What did he say, when you told him about the dreams?”

“Didn’t really come up.” You rolled your eyes.

He patted your thigh, “Got it. You’re gonna owe me like, a metric shit ton of drugs.” Angel pushed off the bed, waving as he left, “I’ll see ya tomorrow!”

You sat up, staring curiously at where he had just been. Tomorrow? It was only 9am

Angel spent several hours in the lobby, pretending to read and socialize with residents. He jumped from the chaise lounge as soon as he saw Alastor walking into the hotel, “Hey uh, I know you know I think you’re a freaky fuck, but I wanna just say it sucks real bad and I’m sorry.” Alastor didn’t reply or even stop walking, Angel having to jog to keep pace.

“I mean, if my fuck buddy thought our bumpin’ uglies was all just dreams I’d be super fuckin’ bummed too.” Alastor became so still so quickly that Angel nearly fell over trying to stop his momentum. He waved his hand in front of Alastor’s face to make sure he was still conscious, “uhh anyone home in there?”

Alastor’s eyes flicked to dials, residents looking up warily as the power flickered and the space seemed to distort around them, “Explain, quickly.”

“She told me this mornin’! She thinks all those nights you were bangin’ her brains out — which, from one porn star to another, sounded top notch from my room — we’re just horny dreams. She’s all fucked in the head about it.”

Alastor melted into his shadow and slinked down the hall and up the walls, leaving Angel behind, “You all owe me!”

You heard footsteps suddenly advancing on you down the hall. Spinning around, your nose nearly brushed against his, Alastor’s face already down to your level.

He leaned in to you, his mouth hitting against your cheek, “I need to speak to you in my room, dear.” His voice was clearly not asking you.

Your blood ran cold, goosebumps dancing down your neck and arms. “Why would-,”

“Now.” His arms wrapped around your waist, you pushed him away and turned to walk off but stopped. You weren’t in the hallway anymore. A bedroom. With a haughty laugh you turned to spit venom at him for such a dirty trick.

As if expecting it, he cut you off, “They weren’t dreams, my doe. It was astral projection.” He took you by the shoulders and pointed your entire body at the forest scene melting into his room. Had it always been there? You couldn’t remember seeing it before, when you arrived in hell. Just him and his smile.

You felt the blush rise from your toes to your ear tips. Both hands came to your face, desperate to hide your existence from the situation.

You remembered that grassy clearing, the tree line. Peaking in and up, you saw the starry sky you spent so many nights moaning into.

“Why-,” your hands balled into fists, “didn’t you tell me?!” You turned to him, face red. You wanted to shove him, to hit him, but your mother taught you better than to lay hands on someone first. You finished fights, not started them.

Alastor smiled down at you, like he always did, “I thought you had no memory of our-,”

You cut off him off at the head, “visits.”

He laughed, “spirited visits.” Was that a pun? You groaned.

“I, I thought it was just make believe.” The gentle touches, the sweet names whispered into your skin, the way you could taste him even after you woke. The blush burned your cheeks.

Now that you knew, now that your eyes fell on him once again with recognition, he felt you’d actually answer him, “How did you die?”

The question took you by surprise, You thought it was obvious, “I tried to kill a hunter in the woods. Well, I did kill him. But he killed me, too.”

A genuine grin spread across his lips, a cackle, “You killed a man?!” You shouldn’t have been so proud, but he looked so impressed, “Tell me every detail. Who was he to you?” Alastor’s hands came to your arms. You remembered last night, pulse quickening, and walked to his bed. You took a seat on the end, sinking softly into the plush blankets. Your hand ran over the fabric.

“My employee’s father.” The fabric was soft, the threads tiny and tight.

Alastor took a seat beside you, legs crossed, “Oh? And why him?”

A hum, “He was a bad man.”

His hand picked up yours, bringing it to his mouth. There was that loss of blood to his brain, something you effortlessly did to him. “Who says?” His own heart picking up pace. You killed. Was it egotistical to think you inspired such a thing? Did you kill for him?

You watched your fingers tremble under his lips, “What?”

“Who says he was bad?”

Your eyes searched the room for an answer, “I think anyone would agree with me.”

His smile reached his eyes, “So you decided? He probably thought he was quite alright.” He turned your wrist over, mouth pressing to your pulse point. “Did you plan it?” Your scent was familiar but different now. Skin still just as soft. He felt himself salivate. Your spell just as strong in death.

A gulp, all of those walls you struggled to keep standing turned to dust against his smirk. A stranger, a lover. Effortlessly your body shifted into a new gear under his touch. “Yeah, for a week. I waited until I knew he was going to be there. Walked the paths, bought a knife.”

“A knife,” he practically purred, “A favorite. No gun?” He pulled your arm toward him, bringing your whole body into his.

“I wanted something more… personal.”

Alastor buckled slightly, cock jumping in his lap. “You were made to be my undoing. I am sure of it. A cruel joke from heaven to distract me.” His mouth found your neck next, little nips before he chose a place and latched, sucking a bruise easily seen by others.

“This is a really fucked conversation, Alastor.” Your body softened, a small sigh coming before you could consider being embarrassed.

“For a ‘fucked’ situation, my dear.” His nose traced along your jaw. “But one you’ll find I quite enjoy.” He placed your hand on his lap. Did he see the face you made? The stupid grin? Your hand squeezed lightly on the length you felt tenting his pants, earning a moan into your cheek. Real. He was real. In your hands, now. No dreams or projection. No fantasies. No little pink toy. “Bear with me, just a little more. You’ll find my … proclivity for such topics quite important for these kinds activities.”

“You’re sick.” You turned, nose to nose smiling still.

He hummed, his own smile spreading, “desperately so.” Your hand gently traced the shape of him through his pants, “Why did you kill him? As opposed to all the other bad men?”

A question you didn’t feel you could answer, “This topic is having the opposite effect on me…” you squeezed him again.

“Fair enough,” he pushed you back onto the bed, leg going over your body to straddle you, “Then tell me how you felt? A compromise.”

How did you feel? When you killed him? “I felt strong.” He repositioned himself between your legs, “I wasn’t scared. I knew I’d succeed or-,”

“Or?” His breathing now a barely strained pant. Say it. Say it and he’ll let himself go completely.

You focused on the canopy of his bed, a red wine color much like his own coat. “Or I’d end up here, with you.” His head fell, forehead resting on your stomach. You looked down to see his antlers larger than before, no longer cute little prongs. “Alastor?”

He wasn’t an idiot.

Maybe a little roundabout, but you chose him.

Red dribbled from his chin, mind going foggy as eyes went black. His hands rid you of your clothes with delicate cuts, your body lurched up the bed by wide palms.

You chose to come back.

Your hands came down to undo his pants and belt, seeing he probably couldn’t manage himself. As soon as he was free of his clothes, he was rutting into your thigh. “Alastor”, you took his face in both hands, dials flickers to dilated pupils as you got him to focus on you.

“My little doe.”

You came home.

His head came to rest just above yours, wide and sharp antlers just out of reach. His leaking cock finally found your core, Alastor groaning into the blankets to find you already so wet. Your hands gripped his arms, nails breaking skin in anticipation.

Lined up and impatient, he pushed up into you with unmeasured force. You bit onto the flesh of his shoulder, trying to keep yourself from screaming. In those dreamlike visits, he filled you so perfectly, body molding to him. But now, you were stuffed. With one thrust your cervix was bruised and tender. The tiniest pain bled into the eye-rolling pleasure of having him back in you. With heavy breaths he thrust into you with a need you couldn’t ever remember feeling before. He fucked you like he would die without your moans spilling across his chest.

And it was true, feeling your soft cunt clenching him so tightly was a need more than anything else. A ray of light at the bottom of the Mariana’s trench. Impossible, and undeserved. You were everything he wasn't good enough to have, wasn’t clean enough of conscience to hold. An angel clipping a wing to dip into hell, you killed to sink back into his arms. Even if you didn’t say it, not yet. He could feel it in you. He had left a deeper impression on your soul than perhaps you had his. You weren’t just his by way of a deal, you corrupted yourself to his level.

He looked down at you, your eyes already wet and unfocused, mouth hanging open as every breath turned into rhythmic moans. Your soul a fresh snowfall, your adoration for him a drop of blood. His eyes shut, mind focused on where you and him merged now. Friction pulling him forward to his climax.

Your body was trembling, his lower stomach rubbing against your already swollen clit. That soft button just past your entrance wasn’t just being pressed, it was smashed against your walls with his shaft. His head dragging past it. You wanted to speak, to express how good you felt, but your tongue was frozen in your mouth. Every inhale became a gasp, every exhale was now a moan. You felt his body tighten, thrusts become shallow as his large head refused to stray far from your womb. Silently, your hands tore into his shoulders as you gripped through your orgasm. The muscles in your jaw now locked. Your legs came to wrap around his hips and draw him in, thighs convulsing as his pace didn’t stop for you to recover.

With an unmistakable mating press, his cock buried itself in your pussy. Balls deep suddenly made more sense as a phrase. Your cervix stung as his body forced more room for itself in you. The way your walls spasmed around him felt debauched, your body starved for him. Hungry as he had been. Alastor felt your soft cunt drowning in his seed and he groaned into your hair. Already spilling out, he didn’t even consider unsheathing himself from you.

You struggled to slow your heart rate, vision blocked entirely with his own heaving chest. As he softened in you, so did his form. Body reconfiguring above you, antlers now small and uncharacteristically cute.

With regained red eyes, he looked at your face.

“Are you-,” he sighed, “Asleep.” Not a bad future after all, he mused. Watching you sleep.

He considered wiping you down before placing you beneath his blanket, but it seemed like such a waste. Your head on his pillow, he felt everything in his chest settle. Like a puzzle whose pieces were all right but just not flush, his own damned soul settled flat. Everything snuggly in place.

One of his large palms came to rest on your head, a familiar place for him now, “Sleep well, darling doe. I’ll be here when you wake.”

༻Masterlist༺

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult: @nonetheartist , fizzled-phoenix , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @fjorjestertealeaf , @pansexual-opera-house , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @roxxie-wolf , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @phobophobular , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @surusurusuru , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum , @ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1

🎞️ TRDFAHS VHS owners: @leathesimp , @alastors-staff, @howabouticallyou , @myrunawaysweets , @karmakillz , @serendipitous-fernweh , @universal-s1ut , @anuttellaa , @sillyb0nez , @nonamevenus , @fairyv-ice , @nitnat6245 , @alicehasdrowned , @alicebaskervilleposts , @jyoongim , @lunaramune , @christinebloodwrittings , @itszzmoon , @thekanrojimitsuri2 ,

@luna-usagi-chan

🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan

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