#so it looked like i was trying to just get out of it and he gor mad

[robinismywifesworld]

Ms. Manager (No Dating Rule!)

Saja boys x Female! Reader

Summary: Other men really need to stop hitting on you or they're gonna lose their minds.

Warning: Saja boys, possessive! saja boys, jealousy, yandere behaviour, oblivious! reader, dumb! reader, crybaby? reader, death (not reader or the saja boys), grammatical errors probably and incorrect spellings, english is not my first language, probably more.

Author's note: The first part reached over 3,000+ notes in just two days (I don't know if that's a good thing or not) but thank you nonetheless! This happens before the first part. This is not proofread lol

Part 1

Coming into the Korean pop music business as a group's manager wasn't exactly what you planned that would happen to you, it wasn't the job you dreamed of but it paid rent and the boys you were looking after weren't that bad, they were extremely clingy and a tad over protective for someone they appointed as their manager for 6 months. It was unexpected but the 5 boys seemed nice enough that immediately made you accept their offer as their manager, their looks were just bonuses.

Apparently, being their manager also requires you to bring them food (Baby said so) and while they offered to come with you, you disagreed because you didn't want to disrupt their dance practice. They gave you their money, of course.

So that's why you were currently in the supermarket, pushing the trolley as you tried to remember what it was that the boys liked to eat. It seemed only Baby loved the hot sauce after getting a free taste on one of the few times they came with you to the shops.

"You can buy what you want with the money too, pretty." they said before you walked off, handing you a butt load of money that wouldn't be able to fit in your wallet.

And that's what you did, throwing your favourite food after food inside the trolley with a giddy smile before stopping to think what your boys liked.

A tap on the shoulder interrupted you from your thoughts making you turn around to see an admittedly handsome man who seemed about your age, ginger hair, brown eyes and fair skin. He's a foreigner, that much was obvious. You blink in surprise and confusion, "Uh, hello? something wrong, sir?" You asked, voice laced with its usual softness and trying to speak in english.

The male cleared his throat, "Uh.." he was momentarily distracted by your looks and cute voice. "Uhm, ye-yes... I-" He cleared his throat again.

You raised an eyebrow, 'Is he alright?' you thought.

"I think you're really pretty and... I was wondering if you'd like to go on a date with me..." He finally says, cheeks tinted pink. British.

Your eyes widened, feeling your own cheeks heat up at his words and accent. This is the first time in years since someone had asked you out, someone this handsome and has a british accent! That's practically the sexiest accent in the world, at least that's what your friend said to you.

"Oh! My name is Brandon, I'm not from here and I just... I thought you very pretty and I'm rambling.." He stammered out, face reddening even more. "I don't know, I just- I wanted to try and have a friend... it doesn't have to be a date-date, just a friendl-"

You don't have an understanding of the whole english language but you definitely got the gist of that.

You interrupted him with a kind smile, "I accept!" You exclaim, trying to hide your excitement.

Brandon smiled back, "h-here... my number, call me? I mean w-we can meet tomorrow for that date.." He said as he handed me a piece of paper with his number that he wrote before walking towards me.

You gave him a nod and a small wave as he walked away with a skip.

You opened the door to the boy's dance rehearsal, carrying three bags of food (the two bags were for you). The boys stopped their practice and immediately went to fight each other on who could help you, practically pushing each other away before Abby grabbed the bags from your hand with a charming smile, "I'll handle them for you, pretty." He said as the rest scoffed.

"Thank you!" I smiled, "So how's practice going?"

Jinu sighs at the question, moving to stand beside you. You could practically smell him with how sweaty he is, no- you could smell all of their musky smell. "It's fine," He huffs, trying to cover up the fact that it was not doing well at all with how much the rest of the guys stressed him out a lot.

"I did tell you I could hire a dance instructor for you guys," I hum, trying to ignore their scent.

Baby rolls his eyes, "Don't. I don't want other people in here." He mutters. I don't want you talking to anybody else, especially if it's a guy.

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it," Romance reassures as he took the place on the other side of you. "Just watch us and look all beautiful for us... okay, Ms. Manager?" he adds with a flirty smile, placing a hand on your shoulder.

Mystery nods his head at what the heart shape haired male said.

I pout, "I just want to be useful, I am your manager after all..."

Abby chuckles, "you are useful, pretty girl. You're taking care of us right now, buying us all these food. You've been a good girl for us." He praised as Jinu hums in agreement.

Your cheeks heated up, they always seem to like mentioning everyday that you've been a good girl and it never stops to make your heart skip a beat.

Such a good girl, you like touching my muscles, don't you?

Thank you, pretty girl. I'm so proud of my good girl.

Don't stop doing that, it feels good... that's right, good girl.

The next day came by and you were giddy, all excited that the others couldn't help but notice it when you came by for another day of dance rehearsals.

Abby moved to flex his muscles, intentionally growing closer to you as the thin shirt made his abs more prominent. "What's got you all excited?" He questioned with a raised eyebrow as he looked down at your form.

"Well yesterday... a guy asked me out!" You exclaimed, "He was sooo handsome and he has this british accent that it just made my heart melt!" You place a hand on your chest for good measure.

The others stopped whatever it is they were doing to look at you, an unreadable expression plastered on their faces before Jinu gave you a small smile which was obviously fake but you didn't notice, practically buzzing with excitement.

"Is that so? I'm happy for you!" He says as he gave you a pat on the shoulder.

"We're actually going at this restaurant in town tonight and I'm gonna be wearing the prettiest dress," You giggle as Mystery grits his teeth in annoyance, trying to stop himself from barking angrily at whoever's taking you out.

They can't believe you had the nerve to just go on dates with some nobody, you were their manager so that practically means you're theirs. So that pretty dress you own is reserved for their eyes only. Who cares if that guy has an accent? They know they're much better than whatever nobody you found on the streets.

The day rolls by, the Saja boys couldn't focus on whatever dance routine they had to do because they have one goal in mind;

getting rid of the bastard who had the audacity to steal their pretty girl.

It was easy trying to find the guy you were going on a date with because you told them his description and where you were meeting, oblivious to their plans. They know you wouldn't accuse them of doing something because you were dumb like that and they love it.

Jinu was dressed as a waiter that they ganged up on to steal his clothes and his soul while the rest waited outside in a dark alleyway. You were still at your apartment, getting all dolled up for this ugly nobody who could never compare to their majestic beauty.

How did you ever find this piece of shit handsome?

The raven haired male plastered on a fake smile as he approached Brandon who looked nervous and sweaty, Jinu was glad he came here extra early. "Hello, sir. I just wanted to inform you that a pretty, young lady is waiting for you outside." he said in perfect english as the ginger male looked up at him in surprise before nodding his head to stand up, following after him.

Brandon looked confused as he was led to a dark and secluded place, he looks around. "Uh, where-" he turns to face Jinu and lets out a gasp, seeing 5 pairs of glowing eyes- yellow embers with orange slits that are razor-thin- glaring down at him from the shadows.

The brit lets out a nervous chuckle, stepping back. "I-is this a joke, mate? It's not really funny..." He mutters before his back felt the dirty and cold stone wall.

"You really thought you could take her... from me? from us?" one of them growls as they moved closer to him.

"Don't bother screaming for help, no one's here but us." another whispers tauntingly before they all simultaneously pounced at the male who let out a scream with other people none the wiser.

"I- I got stood up..." You whimper, having just gone to the restaurant and waited for hours for the guy but he never game. "I waited for him but he didn't come..."

You were in their house, practically dashing over to them in tears. They bit back the smile as you melted into a puddle in Jinu's arms who coo-ed and rubbed your back gently as you cried.

"A-and I was all dressed up too... h-he's such a jerk!" You sobbed, hiding your pretty face in his chest.

"It's gonna be okay, [Your name]" Abby moves towards you, fingers moving to take your chin, tilting your head to look at him so that they could see your pretty face even with the make up running down due to your tears.

Romance gave you a smile, "Besides, you've got us. You don't need some other guy to go on a date with, we're here for you." He said softly. "Oh look, you're ruining your make up now... but don't worry, you're still the prettiest girl in the world."

Mystery nods, "And... being on some date with a nobody would only deter you from your job as our manager... who's gonna take care of us now if you're gonna go off going on a date.." he mumbled, trying to act all upset.

You sniffle, "y-you're right... I- I'm suppose to be your manager... you guys are my priority." you mumbled as you wipe your tears away but the crying never stopped.

They all smirked, unknown to you. That's right. They are your priority and no one else.

"So you better not be getting into some dates again," Baby reprimands with an annoyed huff.

Because you're ours, pretty girl.

[usertala]

my bank account is your bank account

synopsis: you didn't use his card to pay

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Zayne

He worked hard to be a cardiac surgeon just to treat your heart condition—what makes you think his money is where he draws the line? He’d just finished his second surgery today, a CABG that took 6 hours, and the first thing he sees on his phone is a text message from you.

“Hey, Zayne. Do you prefer spicy or not spicy soup? I’m at the store to buy the ingredients!”

He smiles, already imagining you waiting for him while cooking.

He replies, “Spicy is fine, I placed my card on the back of your phone. Be safe.”

Just as he placed the phone down, it beeps again from your text.

“It’s fine, I bought my card with me. And it’s just groceries, I can handle it.”

His brow furrows as he noisily types to call your phone, “I gave it to you with the intention that you’ll use it whenever you need. It doesn’t matter if it’s just groceri—”

“Okay! Okay, I’ll use it, alright? Since you insist, I’m buying these expensive lotions I’d been eyeing on.”

He sighs, “If you’re gonna buy those lotions, the least you can do is buy me those hard candy, that blueberry cheesecake we always buy, and those lollipo—”

“I’m getting you ONE pack of candies.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Caleb

This man would be crashing out if he can’t provide for you. He even gets upset when you don’t need his help in getting things from the top shelf. Here he was with a smug smile on his face while handing you his card,

“Use it whenever you need to, pips. Rest assured it won’t ever maxed out.”

That smirk was so irritating that you wanted to wipe it off his face.

“Mhm? Why do I need to? I get payed just fine! And it’s not like other people don’t pay for me.”

“Huh?”

God, that dumbfounded look was just so satisfying to see. Of course, with Caleb paying for whatever you need almost all his life, you weren’t gonna turn down his offer.

He flicks your forehead, “You don’t even need other people’s money. And they don’t treat you always! Just use mine and you can use it endlessly.”

He’s looking at you with his signature puppy eyes and you know you just lost.

Sighing, you take his card, “Fine, and I better not hear any complaints from you.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Sylus

You knew this man doesn’t care even if you spent billions of his money—he literally let you spend more than 10 million a few days after you met. It’s not like you had a problem with spending his money (you don’t); it’s just nice to tease him every now and then, even if it backfires on you most of the time.

You were in the middle of a date when you decided to mess with him.

“Sy, does it taste good?”

He hums, “It tastes quite nice. You always pick the right places, sweetie.”

You smile, “Of course! Since I’m paying, it should be worth it.”

He freezes mid-bite and places his spoon down, “Are you now? If I may say, the soup was quite salty, the pasta lacked flavor, and the tiramisu was just an abomination.”

You smack his arm, “Hey! You said it was nice!”

He smirks, “I’ll pay for it, sweetie, since it wasn’t worth it,” already reaching for his wallet.

Why do you even try?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Rafayel

“Baby, do you think this looks nice?” You gave your phone to Rafayel so he can see the sweater that you wanted. He shrugs, “It’s cute, perfect for rainy days.” You smile, proceeding to check out the sweater, “It’s 115 dollars, it’ll be delivered by next week!” He slowly turns his head, “Next week?" “Yeah!”

He slowly walks toward you and grabs you by the shoulders, “Cutie, did you already pay for it?”

You nod, “Yeah, why? Did you want one too?”

His shoulders slumped as he dramatically flings his arm around, “What?! Since when did you pay for your things? I’m transferring that money to your card.”

You lightly punch his shoulder, “Ayel! There’s no need, I have my own money.”

He raises his eyebrow, “And? I’m still wiring you that money.”

You try to argue, but he’s already tip-tapping away on his phone.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Xavier

“Xavi, what do you want for dinner?” You climbed on the couch and laid on his lap while fumbling on your phone. He shrugs, “Anything is fine.” You poke his cheek, “I’m too lazy to cook, do you want takeout?” He ponders for a moment, “Takeout is fine, I can cook too.” He says, already standing up to head to the kitchen when you quickly sit up, “Takeout it is!”

“How much is it?” He grabs your hand to play with the sleeves of your sweater. “It’s fine, I already payed for it!” His hand stops, and he slowly looks at you. His brows furrow and his lips form into a pout, without saying anything, he smooshes your face in his hands. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what, Xavi?”

He smiles. “Don’t do that again."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

[harrysfolklore]

grid dad - mv1

summary: max decides accidentally adopts the 2025 rookies and his life becomes chaos

folkie radio: HERE IT IS!! i thought it was super late to post this but you guys wanted it so i finished it! i hope you like it

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by maxverstappen1, olliebearman and 198,635 others

yourinstagram hosted our rookie dinner tonight because someone had to adopt these kids before the season starts 😂 @/maxverstappen1 trying to teach them the racing line around our dinner table while I'm just making sure they're all fed properly. good luck this season boys! ❤️

tagged: maxverstappen1, olliebearman, isackhadjar, kimi.antonelli, gabrielbortoleto_, jackdoohan

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username1 OMFG THIS ???

username2 max casually having all the kids over help me

maxverstappen1 They're already asking when they can come back for dinner 🤦‍♂️

username3 MY HEART 😭 mama yn and papa max adopting all the rookies i can't

username4 the way he's actually becoming the dad of the grid at 27 💀

username5 max going from youngest driver to grid dad is the character development we love to see

kimi.antonelli best pasta i've ever had outside of italy!! grazie mille

lando this is so unfair, where was my rookie dinner in 2019??

username6 STOP this is the wholesomeness we needed before melbourne 🥹

username7 giving me flashbacks to when seb used to adopt the younger drivers

isackhadjar thanks racing mum and dad 😌🏎️

jackdoohan catch me sneaking back in for leftovers tomorrow 👀

alex_albon @/georgerussell63 remember when we just got a RedBull and good luck text?

username8 NOT THE 2019 ROOKIES GETTING JEALOUS

username9 max really just adopted them all ??? hello!!

olliebearman thank you for everything! ready for the season now 💪

gabrielbortoleto_ such an amazing evening! grateful for the advice and the food was 🔥

username10 THE 2025 ROOKIES ARE SO LOVED

f1 The Class of 2025 getting the VIP treatment 🤩

liked by username1, username2 and 15,037 others

f1updates Max Verstappen reveals the 2025 rookies have become regular visitors at his home after his girlfriend invited them for a pre-season dinner

"Yeah, it's quite funny actually. My girlfriend invited them all over and now they just keep showing up. Antonelli's always asking for her pasta recipe, Bearman raids our fridge like it's his own house... Doohan's basically moved into our guest room at this point."

"It's nice though, they're good kids. They ask a lot of questions about racing, but mostly we just hang out. YN loves it, she's always making sure they're eating properly and stuff. I think she'll be screenshotting their race results like a proud mom"

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username1 NOT MAX BECOMING A GRID DAD AT 27

username2 the way he pretends to be annoyed but we know he loves it 🥺

username3 ollie living his best life raiding their fridge i'm crying

username3 kimi antonelli getting that family support AND pasta recipes? unstoppable

username4 max and yn collecting f1 children like pokemon and we're here for it

username5 the way he's actually proud of them 🥺 dad max era

username6 most unexpected wholesome f1 moment of 2025 already

username7 remember when max was the youngest driver? now look at him being grid dad

username8 WHY IS THIS SO CUTE LIKE THOSE ARE HIS KIDS

username9 i just know yn will be cheering for them at every race like a proud mom

username10 WHAT IF I CRY RN

liked by yourinstagram, jackdoohan and 1,094,483 others

maxverstappen1 Ready for Melbourne. Had a good winter break

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username1 2025 WDC ALREADY

kimi.antonelli thanks for the setup tips dad 😎

yourinstagram our kids are so talented 🥹

username2 HELP THE ROOKIES JUST INVADED THEIR HOUSE AND NEVER LEFT 😭

username3 not antonelli calling him dad i'm deceased

olliebearman fifa rematch when we're back? still saying you cheated

jackdoohan THANKS MUM AND DAD

isackhadjar best preseason prep ever 🙌

username4 the way this isn't even weird anymore, just max and his 5 adopted children

gabrielbortoleto_ those pancakes changed my life ngl

lando this is getting ridiculous, i'm moving in too

username5 yn collecting f1 sons every time max turns his back

username6 THIS IS THE WHOLESOME CONTENT WE DESERVE

username7 horner somewhere punching the air watching max parent the entire rookie class

username8 LANDO IS STILL COMPLAINING HELP

username9 the fifa tournaments at their house must be INTENSE

username10 THOSE ARE MAX'S SONS

username11 he really posted a picture with his girlfriend and pictures of their grid kids 😭 IM YELLING

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liked by maxverstappen1, lilymhe and 202,483 others

yourinstagram race day! good luck to my boyfriend and our... five adopted children 😂 still wondering how this happened but wouldn't have it any other way. make mama proud boys! ❤️ @/maxverstappen1 @/kimi.antonelli @/olliebearman @/jackdoohan @/isackhadjar @/gabrielbortoleto_

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username1 IM CRYING THOSE ARE THEIR CHILDREN

username2 the ducklings !!!

maxverstappen1 They're asking if we can have pizza night after the race 🤦‍♂️

kimi.antonelli grazie racing mom!

olliebearman promise not to crash dad's car 😇

jackdoohan home race AND family support, let's go!

isackhadjar thanks mom 🥹

gabrielbortoleto_ best racing parents ever ❤️

lando petition to be adopted too?

username3 NOT THEM ACTUALLY CALLING THEM MOM AND DAD NOW

username4 the way this started as a dinner and ended with 5 new family members

username5 ollie promising not to crash "dad's" car HELP ME 💀

username6 yn really said "i have 5 children now"

username7 mercedes wondering why their rookie keeps disappearing to verstappen family dinners

username8 the most wholesome timeline we never knew we needed

username9 verstappen family collection: ✅ max ✅ yn ✅ 5 rookies ✅ probably lando soon

username10 imagine telling someone in 2015 that rookie max would become f1's dad

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f1shitpost MAX'S FACE WHEN THEY TOOK KIMI. THAT'S HIS SON

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username1 the way max's face went 😦 -> 😳 -> 🥺

username2 they're interrupting their father-son time

username3 HEEEEEEELP THIS IS TOO FUNNY

username4 mercedes pr trying to prevent the adoption papers from being signed

username5 the way he immediately went to isack after this

username6 help why is this the most wholesome thing ever 😭

username7 the other rookies watching like "one of us, one of us"

username8 YN IS PROBABLY YELLING AT THIS

username9 he's taking the dad role way too seriously

username10 THATS A FATHER

liked by maxverstappen1, yourinstagram and 498,055 others

isackhadjar Not the way I wanted my first F1 race to go... but that's racing sometimes. Learning from it and moving forward. Thanks Max & YN for the emergency comfort dinner and pep talk (the cake was fire). Having the best support system helps a lot ❤️ On to the next one!

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username1 STOOOOOP THIS IS SO SWEET

username2 mom and dad to the rescue

yourinstagram always here for you sweetie! you'll come back stronger next weekend

maxverstappen1 Good weekend until the issue. We'll look at the data tomorrow 💪

kimi.antonelli next one will be better bro!

olliebearman you did great mate! also yn's cake fixes everything trust me

lando this family thing is getting out of hand... (yn can i have cake too?)

username3 NOT THE COMFORT DINNER FROM RACING PARENTS 😭

username4 yn really said "my son dnf'd? emergency cake needed"

username5 YN CALLING HIM SWEETIE AND MAX SAYING THEY'RE GOING TO REVIEW THE DATA? MY HEART THOSE ARE HIS PARENTS

username6 the way they all immediately gathered for support dinner 🥺

username7 verstappen family therapeutic cake session: activated

username8 my boy got the best racing parents fr 😌

username9 max analyzing data while yn bakes comfort food, perfect parenting

username10 most wholesome post-DNF recovery ever

username11 yn's cake solving all f1 problems one slice at a time

username12 lando still trying to get adopted in the comments HELP

liked by yourinstagram, maxverstappen1 and 509,755 others

olliebearman P8!!! First F1 points in the bag! 🙌 Found this note in my driver room this morning and it gave me the extra push. Thanks @/maxverstappen1 and @/yourinstagram for being the best racing parents and sneaking into Hass to leave it 😂 Also mega racing from my bros today!Great weekend ❤️

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username1 AHHHH FIRST OLLIEPOINTS

username2 UMMM THIS IS SO SWEET??

yourinstagram SO PROUD OF YOU! 🥳 (also don't tell how we got into the garage)

maxverstappen1 Good job kid 💪 Now about that overtake attempt on lap 32...

kimi.antonelli my bro killing it! (but seriously how did they get past haas security)

isackhadjar crushing it bro! save me some celebration cake

gabrielbortoleto_ first of many points! 🙌 (yn's ninja skills are scary ngl)

username3 YN AND MAX SNEAKING HAAS TO LEAVE PARENT NOTES I'M DYING 😭

username4 the most supportive illegal garage entry ever

username5 THEY REALLY BROKE INTO HAAS FOR THEIR SON I CAN'T

username6 most dedicated racing parents award goes to...

username7 the note is actually so sweet though 🥺

username8 verstappen family really said "security who?"

username9 IM SOBBING THOSE REALLY ARE THEIR KIDSSSS

username10 I LOVE THIS LORE SM

liked by maxverstappen1, kimi.antonelli and 301,054 others

yourinstagram WHAT A DAY! 🎊 super proud of dad for the win (as always) but seeing three of our kids score points?? mom's heart can't take it 😭❤️@/kimi.antonelli P6, @/isackhadjar P8, and @/olliebearman P10 - YOU'RE ALL DOING AMAZING! @/jackdoohan and @/gabrielbortoleto_ your time is coming soon babies! now time to stuff everyone with celebration sushi

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username1 I LOVE THIS SO MUCH

username2 MAX AND HIS KIDDOS

maxverstappen1 They're fighting over the last california roll as we speak 🤦‍♂️

kimi.antonelli best racing family ever 🫶 (i won the sushi battle btw)

olliebearman thanks mom!! also kimi definitely cheated for that roll

isackhadjar perfect day with the family ❤️

jackdoohan next race is mine! (save me some sushi pls)

gabrielbortoleto_ points loading... also who filmed kimi's sushi heist

lando this family content is getting out of hand (but can i come for sushi?)

alex_albon mate why wasn't there family sushi in my day 😫

username3 NOT YN CALLING THE WIN "DAD" AND THE POINTS "OUR KIDS" 😭

username4 the way she's actually more excited about the rookies than max's win help

username5 verstappen family sushi war is sending me 💀

username6 yn collecting champion boyfriend and point-scoring children

username7 toto sharing custody with max and yn wasn't on my 2025 bingo card

username8 jack and gabriel getting the "your time is coming babies" treatment 🥺

username9 isack really secured points AND family dinner we love to see it

username10 THE VERSTAPPEN FAMILY IS SO TALENTED

username11 lando trying to get adopted in the comments AGAIN 😭

liked by yourinstagram, olliebearman and 976,387 others

maxverstappen1 When you're on a two week break from F1 and want a nice time at home with your girlfriend but your 5 adopted kids refuse to leave the house... 🤦‍♂️ At least they're getting better at FIFA (still not better than me though)

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username1 IM DYING

username2 THIS IS SO REAL

yourinstagram you love it really 😘 (also kimi and gabe are banned from my kitchen after that pasta incident)

kimi.antonelli this is our house too now, no take backs

olliebearman jack's been hogging the sim for 2 hours, this is favoritism

jackdoohan not my fault i'm fastest

isackhadjar your couch is just really comfortable okay

gabrielbortoleto_ the pasta wasn't THAT bad...

lando might join the invasion tomorrow 👀

charles_leclerc mate your house is literally turning into a rookie daycare

username3 HELP THEY'VE LITERALLY JUST MOVED IN 😭

username4 max pretending to be annoyed while actually loving it: a series

username5 the pasta incident?? we need details 👀

username6 yn collecting children while max pretends to protest

username7 BEST THING ABOUT THE 2025 SEASON

username8 breaking: 5 f1 rookies stage permanent occupation of verstappen residence

username9 ollie really said "this is our house" the confidence 😭

username10 most expensive f1 daycare service

username11 "the pasta wasn't THAT bad" WHAT DID THEY DO

username12 max's villain to dad arc is actually complete

username13 yn somewhere: finally, i have all the children 😌

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f1gossip Spotted: Fighting for dad's attention again... Kimi and Gabriel arguing over who gets Max's feedback before the race 😭

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username1 the way max is actually trying to listen to both of them at once 😭

username2 yn in the back like "my children are embarrassing me again"

username3 HELP WHY ARE THEY ACTUALLY FIGHTING LIKE SIBLINGS

username4 THOSE ARE HIS KIDS FR

username5 kimi really said forget mercedes i need dad's opinion first

username6 ollie watching this like "amateurs, i already got my feedback during lunch"

username7 yn collecting more chaotic children by the minute

username8 I BET LANDO IS STILL JEALOUS OF THIS

username9 jack somewhere taking notes on how to get feedback without the fight

username10 the way max is actually giving equal attention to both 😭 dad skills on point

username11 toto watching his rookie choose max's feedback over merc engineers

username12 gabe really speed walking to beat kimi to max HELP

username13 remember when max was the youngest driver? now he's managing kid fights

username14 the way yn is just accepting this chaos now

liked by maxverstappen1, jackdoohan and 409,386 others

yourinstagram this isn't goodbye, it's just a new chapter ❤️ So proud of how you're handling this @/jackdoohan. you're still our kid and this house is still your home (yes, even the sim room 😉). the racing world hasn't seen the last of you, and until then, you've got your whole family behind you. love you lots sweetheart 🫶 also @/francolapinto welcome to the family, dinner's at 7!

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username1 THIS IS SO SWEET OMG

username2 SHE SAID THATS OUR KID FOREVER

maxverstappen1 The sim is always open for you. We've got work to do 💪

jackdoohan love you mom ❤️ thanks for everything

olliebearman our brother forever 🫶 (also i'm still slower than you in the sim)

kimi.antonelli family sticks together no matter what

isackhadjar we've got your back bro!

gabrielbortoleto_ you're stuck with us forever

francolapinto thank you for the welcome! (slightly nervous about joining this family 😅)

lando proper family you've got there. i still feel excluded

username3 NOT ME CRYING AT YN'S MOM ENERGY 😭

username4 "you're still our kid" I'M NOT OKAY

username5 yn really said "my kid lost his seat but not his family"

username6 jack still having his racing family is everything

username7 franco getting adopted before he even starts HELP

username8 most supportive racing family award goes to...

username9 "yes, even the sim room" knowing that's where he spends most time 🥺

username10 this family really sticks together no matter what

username11 franco about to learn what it means to join this family

username12 "dinner's at 7" yn adopting the replacement immediately

username13 the way they're making sure he knows nothing changes

username14 most wholesome f1 family doesn't exi-

username15 franco watching these comments like "what am i getting into"

username16 this isn't a racing family anymore it's a FAMILY family 🥺

liked by yourinstagram, maxverstappen1 and 601,287 others

isackhadjar when @/olliebearman leaves his phone behind so max can take a pic with his actual favorite kid 😌

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username1 HELPPP ME

username2 MAX SELFIE ALERT

olliebearman DELETE THIS RIGHT NOW. also we all know I'M the favorite ��

yourinstagram both of you are grounded.

maxverstappen1 Neither of you are the favorite. It's kimi.

kimi.antonelli AS IT SHOULD BE 😌

gabrielbortoleto_ this family meeting is about to get spicy...

lando still trying to figure out how max ended up with 6 children and i'm not one of them

username3 MAX ADMITTING THAT KIMI IS HIS FAVORITE JUST LIKE THAT HEEEEEEELP

username4 THE FAVORITE CHILD DRAMA I'M CRYING 😭

username5 yn having to parent a favorite child fight was not on my 2025 bingo card

username6 ollie somewhere sprinting back to get his phone

username7 max choosing chaos by saying kimi is the favorite HELP

username8 kimi really won the favorite child battle without even trying

username9 yn about to give the "i love all my children equally" speech

username10 isack really started a civil war with one post

username11 yn somewhere preparing the "we don't have favorites" lecture

username12 gabi just getting the popcorn ready for the drama

liked by francolapinto, maxverstappen1 and 401,376 others

yourinstagram last but definitely not least of our 2025 rookies making his debut! @/francolapinto you've worked so hard for this moment sweetheart ❤️ the whole family is so proud already. jack left you his lucky charm (yes I saw that), the boys have been sharing all their rookie race tips, and dad's already got your data analyzed. now go show them what you've got! also stop being nervous about family dinners, you're stuck with us now

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username1 MELTING AGAIN

username2 THEY JUST TOOK FRANCO TOO

francolapinto thanks mom 🥺❤️ (the note made me cry btw)

maxverstappen1 Remember what we discussed about turn 1. You've got this 💪

jackdoohan lucky charm worked for me, now it's your turn mate

olliebearman youngest sibling energy let's go 🔥

kimi.antonelli show them how it's done franco!

isackhadjar family's newest rookie about to kill it

lando this family keeps growing and i'm still not in it

username3 max and yn collecting another child: complete

username4 "stop being nervous about family dinners" WHY IS THIS SO CUTE

username5 franco went from replacement to beloved youngest child so fast

username6 yn's mom powers activated immediately for the new rookie

username7 newest verstappen family member making his debut

username8 all the siblings sharing rookie tips is actually so sweet

username9 jack supporting his replacement like a true big brother 😭

username10 "dad's already got your data analyzed" most supportive racing parents

username11 max is really a softie for this kids fr

username12 lando still trying to get adopted in the comments HELP

username13 most wholesome grid family keeps expanding

liked by lando, maxverstappen1 and 578,394 others

gabrielbortoleto_ Some Spain prep in the sim 💪 Getting those lines perfect for next week.

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username1 HELP IS THAT MAX'S SIM ROOM??? THE HELMET IN THE BACK 😭

username2 the way he's just casually posting from max's house like it's normal

username3 this man really said "sim prep" like we can't see max's entire setup 💀

username4 they've actually never left that house have they

lando you guys really never leave do you

username5 LANDO IS JEALOUS WE CAN TELL

yourinstagram dinner's at 7 sweetie 🫶

maxverstappen1 I still live here too you know 🤦‍♂️

username6 bro posted from casa verstappen like we wouldn't notice

username7 "the sim" sir that's your dad's gaming room

kimi.antonelli It's my turn with the sim

username8 NOT THEM FIGHTING OVER THE SIM

username9 they really just live there now and think we don't know

username10 at this point do they even have their own houses

username11 yn somewhere baking more cookies for her permanent residents

username12 not even trying to hide that they've moved in permanently 😭

liked by maxverstappen1, kimi.antonelli and 605,976 others

yourinstagram MY BOYS!!! 😭❤️ @/kimi.antonelli getting his first podium AND @/maxverstappen1 right there to celebrate with him - mom's heart is exploding! so proud of both of you! (and yes I cried, a lot) also all the other kids running to the podium to celebrate their brother's first podium? this family i swear

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username1 IM SOBBING

username2 THIS FATHER AND SON

maxverstappen1 Super proud today 👏👏

kimi.antonelli thanks mom and dad 🥺❤️ (yn you didn't have to cry THAT much though)

olliebearman my turn next! also kimi you owe us dinner now

gabrielbortoleto_ podium celebration was worth the paddock pass violation

isackhadjar nothing can stop us from celebrating family wins

username3 MAX THE PROUD DAD

username4 yn crying more than kimi at his first podium is peak mom energy

username5 the way all the siblings broke paddock rules to celebrate

username6 security watching 4 f1 drivers sprint to their brother's podium

username7 toto watching his driver celebrate with the competition family again

username8 yn really crying like it's her biological son's first podium 😭

username9 THE WAY THEY ALL RUSHED TO CELEBRATE WITH HIM

username10 most chaotic podium celebration

username11 them breaking rules just to celebrate together is everything

username12 from max's rival team to max's son real quick

username13 most wholesome father-son podium in f1 history

liked by maxverstappen1, yourinstagram and 1,029,588 others

lando since max and yn won't let me join the family, i'm stealing some of the kids. taking these three to the f1 movie premiere while their dad's stuck in simulator duties

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username1 HEEEEELP

username2 I LOVE LANDO SM

yourinstagram take care of my babies! 🥺 and make sure they don't stay up too late, they have duties tomorrow! also ollie needs his allergy meds and gabe gets cranky if he doesn't eat every 3 hours and franco gets nervous in crowds so keep him close! text me when you land! ❤️

maxverstappen1 Bring them back in one piece Norris

olliebearman WE'RE NOT BABIES (but yes i packed my meds)

gabrielbortoleto_ already hungry tbh

francolapinto sticking to lando like glue don't worry mom

kimi.antonelli this is favoritism, why wasn't i invited 😤

username3 YN'S MOM INSTRUCTIONS IN THE COMMENTS 😭

username4 lando really kidnapped 3 verstappen kids

username5 yn listing care instructions like they're toddlers HELP

username6 max stuck in sim while lando takes his kids out

username7 "ollie needs his allergy meds" WHY IS THIS SO FUNNY

username8 lando finally got into the family through uncle status

username9 "gabe gets cranky if he doesn't eat every 3 hours" EXPOSED

username10 THE ROOKIES + LANDO I LOVE THEM SO MUCH

username12 most expensive babysitting job in monaco

username13 lando finally found his way into the family 😭

liked by username1, username2 and 10,986 others

f1gossip SPOTTED: Max Verstappen and YN finally getting alone time on their yacht in St. Tropez!

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username1 THE ROOKIES ACTUALLY LET THEM HAVE A VACATION ALONE??? 😱

username2 breaking news: f1's busiest parents get a break

username3 somewhere in monaco 6 drivers are probably burning down the house

username4 first documented evidence of max and yn without children in 2025

username4 checking ig stories to make sure the house is still standing

username5 the kids finally let mom and dad have a date 😭

username6 I KNOW THE ROOKIES ARE CRYING BC THEY DIDN'T TAKE THEM

username7 most shocking f1 2025 news: verstappen parents spotted without children

username8 guarantee yn is still texting them every hour to check in

username9 max and yn experiencing peace and quiet for first time this year

username10 casa verstappen probably in chaos while parents are away

username11 who's taking bets on how long before one of them calls

username12 lando somewhere offering emergency uncle services

username13 giving it 24 hours before they rush home to check on their children 😭

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liked by maxverstappen1, isackhadjar and 613,029 others

yourinstagram 48 hours of actual peace and quiet with @/maxverstappen1. no sim schedule, no driver coaching, no chaos... just us (already missing our chaos though 🥺)

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username1 MY PARENTS ACTUALLY

username2 they really left all the rookies at home help

kimi.antonelli mom please come back the kitchen is... concerning

kimi.antonelli unrelated but how do you get pasta off the ceiling

olliebearman franco tried cooking, it didn't end well

gabrielbortoleto_ this is betrayal

jackdoohan guys stop snitching on each other in the comments 🤦‍♂️ but also yn the washing machine is making weird noises

francolapinto didn't start the kitchen situation, that was ollie. also we miss you 🥺

maxverstappen1 We're never going home, the kids can find a new foster home

username3 THE KIDS FALLING APART WITHOUT THEM AFTER 2 DAYS

username4 six f1 drivers vs basic household tasks: a saga

username5 "how do you get pasta off the ceiling" HELP

username6 they really can't survive 48 hours without mom and dad

username7 max and yn enjoying peace while their house burns down

username8 GET BACK TO THE KIDS

username9 them snitching on each other in the comments 😭

username10 yn reading these comments while booking next flight home

username11 professional athletes vs washing machine: washing machine winning

username12 "franco tried cooking" immediate evacuation needed

username13 max really said we're never going back 😭

username14 yn's notifications just: HELP HELP HELP HELP

liked by yourinstagram, lando and 1,094,593 others

maxverstappen1 Back to usual programming... Google search: how to kick 6 Formula 1 drivers out of my house? (Asking for a friend)

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username1 HELP MEEE

username2 THATS THEIR DAD

kimi.antonelli you'd miss us after 5 minutes

olliebearman we pay rent in entertainment

gabrielbortoleto_ you literally adopted us first

isackhadjar too late we have keys now

francolapinto who else would eat all your food?

jackdoohan you love us and you know it

lando make it 7 i'm coming over

yourinstagram babe you were literally just showing their baby photos to horner yesterday

username3 YN EXPOSING MAX SHOWING OFF BABY PHOTOS 😭

username4 "we pay rent in entertainment" they really do though

username5 max pretending he doesn't love the chaos

username6 man went from world champion to full time dad real quick

username7 "too late we have keys now" HELP 💀

username8 max's retirement plan: adopting every rookie

username9 yn exposing max's proud dad moments in the comments

username10 max acting like he doesn't love being everyone's dad

username11 man really adopted half the grid and is pretending to regret it

username12 FRANCO WITH NINO IM CRYING

liked by username1, username2 and 15,974 others

f1updates SPOTTED: Ollie Bearman caught sneaking into Red Bull garage to steal energy drinks... again. Dad's drinks hit different apparently

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username1 naur why he sneaking around like his dad doesn't LITERALLY DRIVE FOR THEM 😭

username2 caught in 4k trying to steal from his own family's garage HELP

username3 not him acting like a whole spy for some red bull

username4 the way he could've just asked max but chose crime instead

username5 he just wanted to see his dad

username6 THEY REALLY CANT STAY AWAY FROM MAX

username7 the way he's literally part of the family but still sneaking around

username8 times ollie's been caught stealing rb drinks: 27

username9 max's child getting caught robbing his workplace is peak 2025

username10 he wanted the family discount but forgot to ask first 💀

username11 max come get ur kid he's stealing from work again

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liked by olliebearman, maxverstappen1 and 1,344,982 others

f1 Stefano's dinner for the drivers ! ❤️

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username1 the seating arrangements exposing the family favorites 💀

username2 kimi really secured the spot next to dad

username3 ollie at the other end like a disowned child HELP

username4 max keeping the good kids close and sending ollie to timeout with oscar

username5 kimi won the favorite child competition and it shows

username6 the favoritism is real and we have photo evidence

username7 ollie being exiled to the other end for crimes against red bull garage

username8 max keeping his well behaved children close and ollie in australian timeout

username9 kimi strategically claiming the favorite child spot

username10 ollie watching kimi get the prime spot: 🧍‍♂️

username11 the three good children got front row seats

username12 consequences of stealing red bull: banishment to oscar's end

username13 seating chart exposing family dynamics

lando at least ollie has oscar to console him 💀

olliebearman THIS IS LITERALLY BULLYING

kimi.antonelli earned my spot fair and square 😌

yourinstagram maybe if someone hadn't been caught stealing from the garage...

maxverstappen1 Good children get good seats 🤷‍♂️

oscarpiastri don't worry @/olliebearman we'll start our own family

f1world 24 hours after defending Bortoleto in press conference, Max Verstappen helps Gabriel in quali. Bortoleto makes Q3 for the first time thanks to Max giving him tows on track. Proud dad energy radiating from Red Bull garage 👀

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username1 journalist really made max activate super dad mode

username2 NOT HIM LITERALLY GOING TO HELP AFTER THAT PRESS CONFERENCE 💀

username3 THATS MAX'S SON FR

username4 max said talk shit about my kids and watch what happens

username5 man took "and i took that personally" to another level

username6 journalist accidentally unleashed father verstappen

username7 max really said watch me fix this real quick

username8 HELP HE LITERALLY WENT TO PROVE THEM WRONG

username9 max choosing violence via parent mode

username10 journalist opened their mouth and max chose dad revenge

username11 fastest parent response time in f1 history

username12 max: and here's what my children can do actually

username13 "disappointing? let me show you something"

username14 man took criticism of his kids personally and did something about it

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liked by maxverstappen1, isackhadjar and 603,597 others

yourinstagram mixed emotions kind of day... but mostly just proud ❤️ our little family had its first racing incident (they're fine, already hugged it out before even leaving the track) and... GABE GOT HIS FIRST POINTS! P8! 🎉

the way maxie went straight from his DNF to watching gabe's race from our garage... my heart 😭 mow time for celebration dinner (yes kimi, you're still invited, stop texting asking if you're grounded)

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username1 MY FAVORITE FAMILY

username2 THEY'RE EVERYTHING TO ME ACTUALLY

maxverstappen1 Never missing a kid's first points even if i have to watch from the garage

gabrielbortoleto_ best racing parents ever 🥺❤️

kimi.antonelli thanks for not grounding me mom

isackhadjar family dinner about to be wild

olliebearman gabe finally joining the points club 🎉

username3 NOT KIMI ASKING IF HE'S GROUNDED 😭

username4 max dnf'ing and still being proud dad we love to see it

username5 the way they're actually parenting these grown men

username6 "stop texting asking if you're grounded" I'M CRYING

username7 max watching from garage after dnf is peak dad behavior

username8 most wholesome f1 family fr

username9 their parenting energy is too powerful

username10 gabe getting his first points on family drama day

username11 max going from dnf to proud dad mode instantly

username12 tried for drama, got wholesome family content instead

liked by yourinstagram, kimi.antonelli and 1,274,599 others

maxverstappen1 We might have racing incidents, but these 6 are still my kids (even though they keep crashing my romantic dinners, stealing my drinks, and never letting me have alone time with my girlfriend) 🤷‍♂️❤️ Proud of everyone today. Yes, even you @/kimi.antonelli, stop sending apology memes now

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username1 SOFT MAXIEEEE

username2 im crying so bad

kimi.antonelli 🥺 sends another apology meme

olliebearman we crash dinners out of love

gabrielbortoleto_ best day with best family ❤️

isackhadjar you love us really

francolapinto we make life interesting admit it

jackdoohan family chaos is our brand

lando still waiting for my adoption papers

yourinstgarm OUR KIDS FOREVER 🥺

username3 "stop sending apology memes" HELP

username4 complaining about no alone time while enabling it

username5 kimi sending apology memes is killing me

username6 man really adopted 6 drivers and acts surprised they're around

username7 "we crash dinners out of love" I'M CRYING

username8 pretending to want peace while collecting children

username9 days since max last complained about his chaos: 0 days since he enabled it: also 0

username10 THOSE ARE HIS BIOLOGICAL CHILDREN

username11 man gave everyone keys then acts shocked they show up

username12 "these 6 are my kids" THE ACCEPTANCE STAGE

[no-144444]

hey girl!

I LOVEEEE your writing, you're so talented! i was wondering if you could do a grid post where either the reader, or the driver starts crying during an argument? I'd just love to see how it would play out!

thanks ml :))))

crying during an argument

꩜ featuring: the entire grid, zhou guanyu, paul aron, jack doohan.

꩜ a/n: thank you for requesting and thank you for reading! I loved this idea and lmk if yall want a part 2 to any of them bc i have some ideas... :) also heads up, this is 14k words... my b i got carried away :p

mclaren

Oscar Piastri 

Oscar didn’t cry often. Special events required crying; terrible crashes where he genuinely felt scared for his life, his dog dying, missing his sisters’ graduations. 

And apparently this. 

You were ranting, not even raising your voice, just frustrated. You were so damn understanding too, so aware of the fact that it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t control his schedule. You just missed him. You just wanted him there for one of the biggest nights of your life, and he couldn’t be there. 

He felt the emotion building in his throat, foreign and clunky. Uncontrollable. He tried to swallow it down, but he just made this weird choked sound, and he felt the tears on his cheeks. 

You’d somehow sensed it, like you did with everything else about him. Always, after every race, every tough day, every great day, you always knew just what he needed. You stopped talking. You whipped your head around, and you were already in front of him with wide eyes and more patience than he thought he probably deserved.  

A soft hand on his shoulder, a tentative breath. “Oscar?” You practically whispered. He nodded, wiping his tears away, only for more to appear seconds later. “Oscar, it’s ok, I’m sorry,” you whispered, your hand reaching up and running through his hair, coaxing him to lean into you. He did. He dropped his head to your shoulder, his tears soaking your shirt. You didn’t seem to care. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, not entirely sure what he was apologising for. You shook your head as he fisted your shirt, trying to hold onto something so he wouldn’t fully fall apart.

Your voice came soft and soothing. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” you tightened your grip on his waist. “Please don’t apologise.” 

“I just-“ hiccup- “I feel bad,” God, he sounded like a child to himself. You didn’t judge. “I want to be there so bad.”

“It’s alright Osc,” you hushed. “It’s okay. I know you support me,” you said it against his temple like a prayer, and it made him want to believe you. “I know you love me.”

He nodded, pulling his face out of its solace in the crook of your neck. “Okay,” he nodded, breathless. Your eyes were wide, but trusting. Truthful. “Okay.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar cry many times, mostly because he didn’t like to. He knew now, if he needed to, he could come to you. 

Lando Norris  

It was a dumb argument. Somewhere in your brain, you knew that. 

But it’s hard to remember that when you’re that angry, and that frustrated. 

You shouldn’t have shouted. You shouldn’t have stopped looking at him. You shouldn’t have let him go quiet. There were a lot of things you shouldn’t have done. 

He listened as best he could, truly. He wanted to solve the problem, to make it better, to make being with him easier. He can’t control his schedule though. He can’t control where he’ll be day by day. He can’t leave at a moment's notice. He has people who rely on him, too many people who rely on him. It weighs on him, and somehow, it’s started to weigh on you. You’ve become a background character in your own partner's life, and you couldn’t take it anymore. He feels like more of a roommate than a boyfriend, and he’s hardly ever home. He wanted to fix it, but when so many parts of your life are out of your control, you start to feel helpless. You start to believe the things people say online, the ones online telling him he should just break up with you since he only gets to see you twice a year. The ones who tell him he’s not a good boyfriend. The ones who remind him of his failings, and all the second chances you’ve given him without even thinking about it. 

He teared up and just left. The bedroom door locked behind him before you’d even notice he’d fucking left. 

Then the guilt settled, right down in your stomach, so deep you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You cupped a hand over your mouth, like it would reverse all the things you’d said. Like it could take it back. It couldn’t. You couldn’t. 

Time passed as you stared at that fucking door, debating about what you’d even do if you went in there. You didn’t know, but you knew you had to make it right. 

You knocked against the wood. “Lan,” your voice was breaking. “I’m so sorry,” you leaned your head against the door. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Slowly, you heard footsteps, and the door opened. He looked cosy, but the sad kind of cosy. The kind of cosy he looked when he was overwhelmed. 

He cleared his throat. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that,” his usual sentiment lacked any conviction, but there was a soft kind of humour in his words. “She’s a genius.”

You shook your head, that guilt clawing at you from the inside out. “I’m not sure I am,” you chuckled out, but it lacked any kind of humour. “I’m sorry,” you looked up at him, his red-rimmed eyes, his soft expression, his sunken shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He shrugged. “Probably not,” he let out a breath. “But I’ve said a lot worse, and you’ve given me another chance every time without thinking about it,” he admitted. “And I think we’re both exhausted.” 

“You’re too nice to me-”

“You’re not nice enough to yourself,” he corrected, wrapping his hand around your waist and pulling you into his chest. “I just needed a minute, I’m sorry I left.”

“I think we both needed a minute,” you admitted, that warm feeling in your chest somehow choking out the feeling of guilt. “I’m sorry again Lan.”

“Thank you,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “We’ll work through it. We always do.”

mercedes:

George Russell 

George argued like he drove; completely controlled until he wasn’t. He liked to think he could keep his cool, that an argument with his girlfriend wouldn’t shake him so much when he could make split-second decisions while driving 300km/ h. He couldn’t. Every word coming out of your mouth seemed to rattle him, make him falter, make him lose his mind. 

He didn’t realise he was crying. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t being overwhelmed. He was frustrated. He wanted to be what you needed, he wanted to be there for you, he wanted to always be able to drop everything for you, but he couldn’t. Yes, it was his dream to drive, but sometimes, it left a sour taste in his mouth on the nights you texted him sad and lonely, or exhausted and in need of affection. It made him feel… ashamed. He wanted to be the perfect fiance, be there for you more than anyone else. He couldn’t. And it made him feel like shit. 

“George,” your voice pulled him out of his shame-spiral, and he felt your hand on his cheek, wiping away the wetness. “Breathe,” you demanded, your voice full of fear and eyes wide. “You’re going to have a panic attack, George, breathe.”

He did as you asked, grounding himself with his hands on your hips, squeezing your shirt in time with his breaths like you’d made him do several times before. He focused on your eyes. Exploring the colours he knew so well, reminding himself that an argument is just an argument, and you were just frustrated, he was just frustrated. You’d both lie down together tonight, he’d kiss your shoulder, and you’d pretend to hate the way his hand sneaks up your shirt. You’d still be there. You’d still love him. 

He nodded. “I’m alright,” he sighed out, the tension finally breaking. You didn’t look convinced, you never did during one of these. “I’m alright,” he spoke slower again, reassuring you. 

You nodded, then pressed your face into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” you let out, soft and small. Like you were scared he'd fall away if you didn’t hold onto him. 

“I’m sorry I can’t be there,” he whispered, a humorless chuckle in his lips. “You’re always there to support me and I can’t fucking be there for you. Ever.” He spat out the last word like he was embarrassed, or disgusted with himself. 

You looked up and pressed your lips to his. He kissed you back like it could maybe make up for it. Like he could show you how much he cared, how much he wanted to be there. “George,” you were breathless, he tried to kiss you again, and you stopped him. “You’re always there for me,” you smiled softly, the kind of smile that made him see into the future, wrinkles and kids, everything he wanted. “Even when you’re a million miles away, you’re always checking up on me. You care so much it scares my friends sometimes,” you chuckled and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “I’m just…” you couldn’t finish your sentence, you didn’t even know how you felt. 

“I know,” he whispered, his forehead against yours. He always knew when it came to you. 

Andrea Kimi Antonelli

Kimi hated arguments. He hated making you upset, hated not knowing what to say. 

“You can’t say shit like that Kimi, it’s not fair,” you scoffed, fluffing the pillows of your couch. Moving in together had been tumultuous. You both loved it, but it was a long process to figure out the balance between being together all the time, and not ripping the heads off each other. He’d said something stupid, some off-handed comment that made you see red. He sat on the couch as you rage-cleaned the apartment, ranting all the way. He felt too much like a child for his liking, sitting on the couch as you scolded him. 

Kimi was an emotional person, and you’d only had so many arguments in your relationship. He hated seeing you upset, and knowing it was his fault just started a guilt pit in his mind, picking apart every single thing he did that upset you. 

“I think I just need some time alone,” you sighed, putting down the towel in your hand. “I’m going to go for a walk-“

“Don’t go!” He shot up, the emotion building behind his eyes as panic surged through his chest. You couldn’t leave, not like this. He grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you against his chest. “Please don’t leave, talk to me, scream at me, just don’t leave. Please.” His eyes were wide and pleading, and his grip was practically bruising. 

You’d never seen him like this. Begging. Pleading. Like if he didn’t convince you to stay, you’d never come back. You cupped his cheek, the beginnings of tears falling from his eyes as he tried to blink them away. “Kim,” your voice was soft. “I’m not leaving,” you assured him, stroking his cheek as he kept his eyes fixed on your face. “I’m right here.” You took his hand and placed it on your waist, showing him you weren’t leaving. 

“I hate it when people leave,” he admitted, breathless. “I don’t-“ hiccup “-want you to leave,” he closed his eyes. “I never want you to leave,” he pressed his forehead against yours, like it could somehow stop you from running. 

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “I’m not leaving, Kim,” you shook your head. 

He tightened his grip on your waist. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was just tired, I didn’t mean it-“ 

“I know,” you nodded, voice full of warmth and understanding. He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he took it all the same. “You don’t have an angry bone in your body Kimi, I know you didn’t mean it,” you chuckled, and he felt lucky to ever hear the sound. “It just… upset me.”

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t,” you cooed, and his frown relaxed. “Again, I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body either. It just… it was what it was. And it’s done now.” 

Forgiveness, it had never tasted so sweet. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you,” he repeated, on his lips like a chant. 

williams:

Alex Albon

It’s haunting how strange Alex looks when he cries. That’s what he thinks anyway. He’s almost sure you think it too. He’s just so used to not being upset, that he really doesn’t know what to do with himself when he is. You were there for him, through everything. Through RedBull. You’ve seen him cry. You’ve seen him rise up from it, rise up to Williams, rise up to P5 being a genuine result, a constant result. He’s proud, of course, but there’s always that voice in the back of his head that sounds surprisingly like Will Buxton, telling him that he’s a problem. 

Even in his relationships. Even in your relationship. 

That’s what this stemmed from. He didn’t feel good enough. He shut you out again. He didn’t text for a full week. 

“Alex, you can’t just not text me for a week, alright?” You were exhausted, exasperated, and downright pissed. Frankly, you had every reason to be. He was in the wrong, he knew that, but he just couldn’t help feeling slightly justified. He would’ve caused a fight either way, especially when he got like that. “I want to hear from you, the good, the bad, the ugly, the mundane! I don’t care once it’s coming from you,” your words were raw with emotion, and it almost shocked him. He sometimes forgot the fact that he made a difference in people’s lives. 

He didn’t feel the tears falling until one landed on his shirt, and he almost thought it was somehow raining inside. “I know,” his voice broke despite himself. “I’m sorry.”

Your head whipped around and you were beside himin seconds. “Alex,” you whispered out, his name coming out like a secret. “It’s okay,” you wrapped an arm around his neck, your heart breaking as you felt him hiccup against you, trying against his better judgement to stop himself from crying. “You can cry.”

And he did. He wrapped his arms around your back and pulled you into his lap, and cried into your shirt. He didn’t know what to do after carrying this… hurt, for so long. But for some reason being beside you, having you hold him, it didn’t seem so heavy. 

“What’s wrong?” You whispered once his crying has subsided. Your expression was full of care, of understanding, of love. He wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. 

He shrugged. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes there’s this voice in my head that, no matter what I do, tells me I should still be more,” he admitted, and immediately, he felt out in the open, and not necessarily in a bad way. You nodded your head, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

It took you a few seconds to formulate a response, but it didn’t make him panic like he’d thought it would in the millions of times he’d gone over this very scenario in his head. Your hand smoothed up and down his arm, and he knew you cared. You wouldn’t run away. 

“Thank you for telling me,” you smiled softly. “And I always want you to talk to me about these things, because I’m here for you,” you took a deep breath. “I’m going to say something that I know you won’t like, and that’s how you know I genuinely believe it. Alex, I think you should see someone again,” you placed a soft hand on his cheek as he stiffened. “Not right now, maybe not even in the next few months, but I think it would be good for you. I can love you as much as I can, and do, and evidently, I can’t make it go away. Race results don’t make it go away. Progress doesn’t make it go away. Nothing is going to make it happy, and if I’m understanding right, you can’t just turn it off,” you pressed your lips to his cheek again. “I think seeing someone would help.” 

He felt like you’d opened his eyes. You were right, nothing would make it go away, other than him. For the first time in his life, he was happy about an argument. 

Carlos Sainz

When he argued, he got quiet. Whether he meant to or not, he did. So there was nothing out of the ordinary when it seemed like you were talking to yourself as you listed out the problems. You didn’t want to go to a race when you knew a certain other girlfriend would be there, because she made you feel like shit. Carlos didn’t seem to understand that, and he fought you on it. He called you selfish. You walked off. This was part two of the argument, what you called the reconciliation, but Carlos was silent as he leaned against the counter, his back to you. 

“You’re not even fucking listening, are you?” You scoffed, feeling more than dejected. “I don’t know why I try,” you mumbled, starting to walk away again, but a strong hand gripped your waist and pulled you into his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered out. He hadn’t paid much attention before, when you’d said you didn’t want to go. He just felt rejected, and he ignored your reasoning. He stopped listening. He didn’t know it was because of the group chat you had been added to and humiliated by a girl you thought was your friend. He would’ve never fought you on it. He would’ve just agreed and moved on, asking you to come to the next one. “I didn’t listen, I’m sorry.”

“Carlos-” you reached up and cupped his face in your hands. “What’s wrong? I-I’m sorry-”

He sighed, that hole of guilt in his heart aching with every word out of your mouth. Of course you’d start worrying about him. You should get angry, but of course, you chose to be soft, to care, to love. Sometimes he wished he could do that. He wished he could think like that, instead of going straight for an argument. “You don’t need to apologise,” he shook his head, his big brown eyes dropping with tears as you tenderly wiped them away. “I’m in the wrong,” he reminded you, almost as if he thought you forgot. Maybe you had. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, and I’m sorry I started an argument,” he sniffled. “I love you,” he pressed a kiss to your shocked cheek. “I love you so much, mi cariño.”

“Car,” you were wordless, not even sure how to react. “It’s alright,” you answered, your eyes focused on him, only him. “It was a mistake.”

His heart ached. The world didn’t deserve you, your friends didn’t deserve you, he didn’t deserve you. You should scream. You should tell him to shove his apology up his ass. But you don’t. You chose to forgive him. 

He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but you kissed him like he did, and he couldn’t really complain from there. 

redbull racing:

Max Verstappen 

Max probably wasn’t the best person to go to about emotions, and you knew that. Not only was he emotionally stunted, he was also Dutch, a nationality famous for being blunt. 

But you thought he would see your side and agree. He didn’t. He spent a half hour lecturing you on why your mother was justified in what she said to you. You just agreed, it wasn’t worth the energy to fight with him, he was always so fucking logical. He couldn’t just appeal to the illogical side of you, he couldn’t let you just be upset. He had to solve the problem, he had to explain why the problem wasn’t a problem, he had to make you feel like a helpless kid. 

You finished getting ready for dinner in silence. No music playing. No fun dancing he pretended to hate watching (and sometimes joining you for). No bright smile when your hair looked how you wanted it to, or your outfit came together exactly how you’d wanted it to. Just a flat line on your lips. Just a dull gaze in your eyes. He, on the other hand, was completely entranced by you. You looked stunning in that dress, with your hair done the way you had it.

“Ready to go?” You asked him, not even trying to bait him into putting your heels on you. Another thing pretended to hate, but secretly loved. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, watching you with a sense of curiosity and confusion. “Are you alright?” He asked, trying to snake a hand around your waist, but you just walked on. 

“I’m okay,” you nodded, but there was a stiffness in your actions and words. “Just tired.”

He decided to put it to bed for now, just enjoy the night together, and check back in with you in a while. 

You ditched him the second you got on the yacht. Alexandra was there, so you practically ran to her, and Max loitered around the drinks table with Charles. 

“Alex is mad at me,” he admitted. 

“I think Y/n’s upset with me too,” he admitted. He could blame the loosening of his tongue on the gin in his drink, but he knew it was because of his growing anxiety about the situation. You rarely fought, and it rarely went on this long. 

“What did you do?” Charles knocked back the rest of his drink and Max took him in for the first time that night. He looked practically disheveled. A broken man in front of him, because he had an argument with his girlfriend. 

“Nothing really, she had an argument with her mom over something stupid, and I told her to get over herself. I have arguments with my folks all the time,” he shrugged, and Charles looked at him like he’d committed several war crimes. 

Charles’s jaw dropped even further when he realised Max wasn’t joking. “Are you fucking crazy?” He demanded. “Do you want her to break up with you?”

Now it was Max’s turn to think Charles was crazy. “Obviously not? I love her.”

“You sure?” He scoffed. “If I said that to Alex, I think she’d break up with me-”

“The fragility of your relationship has nothing to do with mine,” he interpreted because he’d finally realised what he sounded like. God, he’d been a fucking asshole, no wonder you were upset. 

You slinked into the bedroom with your head low and a tired expression on your face. You slotted into bed beside him, but you didn’t shock him with your feet against his, frozen against warmth. You didn’t turn to him. You didn’t show him the funny tiktoks you’d found that day. He felt something in his heart squeeze. 

You turned out the light without a kiss, and the air in the room filled with the atmosphere of a heavy silence, and he genuinely yearned to reach out for you. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed. 

You waited 30 minutes. Max was a good sleeper, and heavy sleeper. You could get away with sleeping on the couch for one night, not because you wanted to hurt him, but because you genuinely couldn’t sleep next to him after he told you to get a grip. 

Slowly, you climbed out of bed, pillow in hand. 

Something pulled you back. A hand. His hand. 

A sniffle. “Stay,” he whispered into the darkness of the room. “Please stay. I know what I said was shitty and wrong, and you can hate me all you want, but please stay.”

You halted in the darkness, his words carrying more weight than you thought he probably meant them to. “I don’t hate you Max,” you answered. “I’ll never hate you.”

“You can, if it means you’ll stay,” he admitted, his voice breaking. You climbed back into bed slowly, but he felt that hole in his chest, the one that had been there since the day his father left him at a petrol station, close up just a little more. The way it always did when he was near you. You climbed into his arms, feeling small droplets of water against your shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

You breathed out. “Alright,” you nodded. “Thank you for apologising.” He practically held his breath. What the fuck was he doing crying when he was one the in the wrong? He could hear his dad now, telling him to stop crying, telling him to grow up, telling him- 

“You can cry, y’know,” you whispered. “I like it better when you trust me. Like when we dance or when you put on my heels. You’re less nonchalant than usual. Makes me feel like you really care about me,” you admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Makes me feel like you like me enough to trust me.”

He closed his eyes, tight. Of course you’d say the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing anyone had ever said to him and act like you’re the one inconveniencing him. “I trust you,” he whispered. 

And that was the first time you’d ever seen Max cry. 

Yuki Tsunoda

Fathers were funny in the way they showed their love. You understood that Yuki probably didn’t have the healthiest relationship with his, especially based on the way he practically shunned him when he came out of the car, another disappointing Sunday. You knew it was already weighing on him with a simple glance. 

He clearly couldn’t. He complained the whole way back to the hotel, all throughout dinner, and even on the short walk back to your hotel rooms. 

And you couldn’t take it anymore. Yuki was trying his damnedest in one of the shittest cars on the grid, and the only reason it looked so bad for him was the fact that he had Max 4-Time-World-Champion-one-of-the-greatest-of-the-modern-era Verstappen as a teammate. 

“He’s trying. How can that not be enough for you? He’s trying,” you shook your head at her before bidding his wife a good night, and walking into your own suite. Yuki had no idea what to do, but his father just brushed by him coldly, his mother behind him offering a sympathetic smile. He felt twelve again, sandwiched between two things he wanted equally. He wanted his father’s approval, he wanted his dad to just say he was proud, just once. And he wanted your support. He liked that you stood up for him, that you were willing to, but it wasn’t that simple. The majority of things never were. 

He didn’t even know what to say. It happened in slow-motion. He couldn’t stop it, just watch the chaos unfold and have to deal with the aftermath. He just stormed in and demanded. “What the fuck was that?!” 

“Yuki, the way he was talking about you, it was disgusting,” you answered, shocked at his confusion. 

“You just disrespected my father, Y/n, you’ve just fucked the both of us,” he scoffed. He paced the floor, his eyes wide, panic surging through him. Tension filled the room, oozing from every corner. “He’s going to hate you now.” He knew it probably wasn’t the best thing to say, but he needed you to understand the level of disrespect, and how his father would hold that grudge. 

You shrugged, unbothered, as you pulled your earrings out. Though he could tell, from the stiff and rigid nature of your movements, it bothered you. “Let him hate me,” you sighed. “I’m trying to support you, and hearing about every tiny thing you did wrong isn’t going to make you feel any better, just worse. He needed to shut up.” 

He groaned in frustration, his head falling into his hands. Despite the way he wanted to keep his composure, he could feel it crumbling under the weight of the day. He sniffled and looked up again, willing himself not to cry. He failed, and the first tear fell. 

You stared at him through the mirror, your eyes locked in on him. You slowly turned around and stood when you saw him. “Yuki,” you breathed out, pulling him into a hug. “I’m sorry,” you cooed. “I made it worse, and I know that. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, emotion breaking his voice. “I just- I wanted today to be good. Not like every other fucking race this year. I wanted it to be worth it. Worth their sacrifice. Worth your sacrifices. And it’s not,” he sighed. “I just step into that car feeling like a failure.”

“I know,” you nodded as his hands circled your waist. “But you’re not, baby, you’re not a failure. Christian is. Helmut is. You’re just taking the brunt of the weight because they’re too small to admit their mistakes,” you soothed. He wondered how he’d ever gotten so lucky. “And you’d never fail me.”

Something about the way you said it made him believe you, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t go to bed feeling like a failure. 

vcarb:

Liam Lawson

He hated crying. He hated how it made him feel. He hated how it made other people feel. You hated arguing just as much. 

The fact that both these things were happening simultaneously was entirely your fault.

He knew you wanted to meet his parents, he really did. You were just busy. The life of a software engineer was busy. You couldn’t change that, even if you wanted to, which you did. You would’ve been there, at that restaurant on 43rd, that gorgeous Italian place you two frequented when you were in New York. Yet you stood him up for a late-night coding session with your team because the contract you were working on was taking longer than expected, and you were contractually obligated to keep on working until you could get as close to done. His texts were just… miserable. 

Hey baby, where are you?  (18:04)

We’re going to start without you, alright? I’m sure you’re just late (please don’t be too late my dad is already teasing me about you not being real :)) (18:35)

Y/n, where are you? (18:47)

Are you alright?  (18:59)

Please text me I’m getting worried. (19:34)

Fucks sake Y/n. I just checked your location. Really? 

Work is more important than this? Than me?  (19:57)

Congratulations my parents are pissed and I’ve been doing fucking recon all night. I thought you’d actually make it this time. I thought you put the time aside. I thought you fucking cared.  (20:07) 

Don’t text me. I don’t want to talk to you until tomorrow. (21:49) 

I’m staying in my parents' hotel. (21:50) 

He was crying on the streets of New York like some bad romcom. He felt pathetic, in more ways than one. How was it that he could fuck everything up, all over again. He trusted you. He relied on you. He was so sure you’d show up for him like you’d done so many times before, and you just didn’t. His parents felt disrespected, fuck, he felt disrespected. He’d planned out the entire dinner, picked a place you loved, briefed his parents on you as a person so they could ask questions, briefed you on them, so you’d have just as many questions. 

And you didn’t show.

You walked towards his hotel, shame hanging off you so clearly, you were sure anyone who could see you would know. Fuck, you stood up Liam’s parents. Brilliant first impression, you thought to yourself. You knew him well enough to know that after a night like this, even when you fucked him off so badly, him still wanted you to try. He’d messed up enough for you to know this routine, though you didn’t think it would go as it did regularly. You’d missed dinner with his parents. Possibly the worst first impression you could ever make, especially when you truly planned on marrying him. You loved him, so bad it hurt sometimes. 

You dialled his number. You couldn’t wait the 18 minute walk to apologise. You just hoped he’d pick up. 

He picked up on the fifth ring. 

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed out. “I’m a fucking piece of shit, and you deserve so much better and I’m mortified that I missed it, I’m so sorry Liam.” You waited with bated breath as he just breathed on the line. He was quiet for a minute, so still you thought he almost hung up. 

“I can see you,” he answered. You raised an eyebrow, and looked around, seeing a figure that looked a lot like Liam, just across the stream between you. 

“What-? Liam-” you started, hearing the thickness of his voice. He’d been crying. The knife twisted in your heart, and you had only yourself to blame. 

“Across the water,” he finished. “You look beautiful,” he smiled through his tears. “So fucking pretty.”

Again, that knife got deeper. Of course he’d compliment you even after what you’d done. Of course, because that’s the kind of man he was. Caring. Loving. So fucking sweet it hurt your teeth sometimes. You let out a small humourless chuckle. “You’re too sweet to me.”

“You fucked up tonight,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair as he stared at you from across the water. “Figured a compliment might soften the blow.”

“You don’t need to soften the blow, I was an asshole. I deserve the full consequences,” you breathed out. “I’m so sorry Liam. I’m genuinely so embarrassed and fucking… ashamed. I’m such a fucking idiot,” you played with the ring on your middle finger. He’d given it to you after he noticed that you liked to fidget while you spoke. That's what he did, he noticed. 

He let out a teary laugh. “Yeah, you were an asshole,” he agreed, nodding his head. The words felt foreign in his mouth. He hated saying shit like that, but objectively it was true. You were the asshole in the situation. “But I fucking love you,” he let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “And for some reason spending a night we could spend together, alone, makes me sick to my stomach. I want to fall asleep next to you and I want to wake up beside you tomorrow before I fuck off to wherever,” he admitted, his vulnerability pulling at every single string of your heart. “And I fucking love you so much I spent all of tonight convincing my parents I got the date wrong. So you owe me.” 

You breath caught in your throat at that. Of course he did. Always protecting you. Always caring too much. “Liam, you didn’t have to do that. You should tell them-”

“Just come over here,” his voice was pleading, like he wasn’t above begging for you. “Please,” he added at the end. 

Against your better judgement, you walked straight through the shallowest part of the stream, ruining your dress from the knees down, and running right into his arms. “I’ll make it up to you,” you whispered against his lips as he kissed you like he hadn’t seen you for months, not days. 

“You fucking better,” he chuckled, wiping away the last of his tears as he pulled away. 

Isack Hadjar

Isack had vowed to himself he wouldn’t cry until the end of the season. Was it the healthiest thing on planet earth? No, very much not, but he seemed set on the idea, so you let him. You were just ready to be there if it fell apart, and he needed some comfort. 

He did pretty well, up until it started. You came home, quiet. You weren’t humming in the kitchen as you made a snack, you weren’t asking him about his day, it was like you were there physically, but not mentally. And it didn’t change. He’d thought it had been a once-off, but no, the next day you pushed him further and further away, and he had no idea why. You’d always been the better communicator out of the two of you, hell, you’d taught Isack everything he knew about communicating effectively. So getting radio silence from you was not only unusual, it was worrying. He left for the double header, thinking you were just mad and needed time to process it, and then you’d talk. You didn’t. You texted him a few times, small messages wishing luck, or congratulations on a good result, but your regular messages about your day were gone, much like your hours-long facetime calls. He didn’t let it bother him. He gave you space. He didn’t lose his cool, because he knew you loved him, and he loved you. That wouldn’t change.

He walked into the living room with a confused expression when he found you sitting on the couch, the apartment looking more barren than when he’d left. It hit him. His heart stopped in his chest and he dropped his bag. No. He thought. This isn’t real, she’s pranking me, she’s just mad at me, she’s just-

“Isack,” your voice was steady, but anyone could see the way you were breaking inside. “We need to talk.”

Those dreaded words. He nodded and gulped back the emotion building in his throat as he sat beside you, his eyes trained to you like you’d disappear if he looked away for a split-second. Maybe you would. He didn’t reach out and hold your hand or grab your thigh like he usually would, he didn’t know if he was allowed. He held his breath. “What’s wrong?” he asked, all the care in the world in his voice. 

You sighed. “I can’t do this anymore,” you admitted out loud for the first time. For months you’d been going over every scenario in your head, trying to work through every possible fix, and none of it left you satisfied. You couldn’t just be someone’s WAG, even if that someone was Isack. You needed a boyfriend who could show up for you, always. And Isack never could. And the worst part was, it was never his fault. He always wanted to, tried to support you from oceans away, sent you message after message, and you’d see how disappointed he was once you came back and you had to recount the whole night to him. He cared so deeply, but it just wasn’t enough. You needed someone to be there, mind, body, and soul. Not in a racecar halfway across the world. “I love you,” you sniffled, a stray tear falling down your face. “But this isn’t working for me anymore. I need someone who’s here, someone who can be there for me all the time. And it’s not your fault. You’ve been nothing but the best to me,” you choked up, unable to continue as more tears fell down your face. He wanted so desperately to reach out and wipe them away, promise you he could be there, that he would be there, but that was unrealistic. He couldn’t be there, no matter how badly he wanted to be, and intentions and text messages after the fact are never as good as actually showing up. He couldn’t give you that. He understood. “You’re so kind,” your voice was barely above a whisper. “And caring, and loving. I just… I need something else right now.” 

You finally looked up and saw his face, tear-stained but accepting. He nodded. “That’s alright,” he whispered, though every syllable killed him. “You deserve someone who can be there for you,” there was a small smile on those lips you knew so well, and it hit you that it might be the last time you ever see him in person, you were sure you'd end up seeing him on your TV screen, even long after today, probably winning world championships. Time stopped for a moment and you let yourself remember what it meant to be with Isack, just one last time. “And I’m so sorry I cannot give that to you,” he sighed out a teary, angry sigh. “It is one of my great failings,” he sniffled, but brought a hand up to your cheek and wiped a tear away. “Maybe one day we’ll find each other again?” he asked, his voice hopeful. 

“Maybe,” you nodded, but you both knew this was the end of the two of you. 

You left the apartment after that. You didn’t look back. You saw him, years on, watching the sport you fell in love with because of the boy you fell in love with, with your family. Your husband and your children loved car number 6, and you didn’t have the heart to tell them you loved it for a different reason. He won world championships, like you always knew he would. He never got married, he just raced. He sent you Christmas cards and thank yous that you hid and cherished forever, because you never really forget your first love. 

Years on, you told your granddaughter about the boy with the hazel eyes and fighting spirit, and how some nights, you wished you’d stayed with him. She told you that you should’ve. You told her she was wiser than you were at her age. 

Maybe she was right. Maybe you should’ve held on a little bit longer. 

ferrari:

Charles LeClerc

Charles notoriously hated fighting. He had no idea what the point was, because he’d just apologise, kiss you, and want everything to go back to normal. That worked for him. He came from a family that didn’t yell, a family so tightly woven together through something so deeply upsetting, that shouting was never an option. He came from a family that took care of each other, no matter what it cost them. Loyalty. Strength in numbers. Unconditional love. 

You didn’t. You came from a family that made their children compete for love, made you hate your siblings and them hate you in return, and a family that boarded all that up with their perfect image. 

He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have pushed if he did. He wouldn’t have gone behind your back and set up the dinner if he realised it was like this, on your birthday no less. 

Those carefully disguised jabs from your mothers, those deliberately placed smirks and sniggers from your siblings and their stuck-up partners, those blatant comments from your father, he saw how they all weighed you down slowly. Over the course of a dinner, he saw you turn from the extroverted, kind, and sweet girl he’d fallen for, to the small, picked-on, and scared child you’d been for half your life. The side of yourself you’d never shared with anyone. The side of yourself you promised you’d never have to. He saw how your eyes watered before you got up to go to the bathroom, another snarky comment about your career choice being ‘unique’, like you weren’t literally changing people’s life with your work. He shook his head as he watched you leave. 

“You are all terrible,” the words came out of his mouth before he meant them to, his eyes low as he looked at the table around him. He’d already said it, why not dig the grave deeper? “Get out of my house, now.” 

There was a tense stillness that followed. Knives stopped. Chatter died down. Anger pulsed through his veins. 

“Pardon?” your father asked, an incredulous smile on his face. He acted as if he didn’t hear Charles, and if he was a better man who wanted to keep a relationship with your family, he would’ve apologised and told everyone to continue eating. He wasn’t a better man, not when it came to you. He would do anything to protect you. He would go to any length to make you happy. He’d do anything if it meant he wouldn’t have to see you with that heartbreaking pout and cloudy eyes. 

“I said, get out of my house,” he repeated, standing from the table. “I don’t want to see you here again.” He walked over to the door and opened it wide, waiting for them to step outside. They looked at him dumbfounded. Like he wasn’t being serious. Like he wasn’t seconds away from grabbing your brother, who’d made an awful comment on how you were ‘parading yourself around the paddock like an instagram whore’, when he didn’t understand or know how long it took Charles to convince you to come with him. When he didn’t see the hours you’d spent before walking into that paddock, pacing your hotel room, and nearly backing out at the last minute, but you forced yourself to because you wanted to be there for him. 

“W-what’s going on?” you asked, walking out of the bathroom, the tension palpable. 

Your father turned to you. “Brilliant question, what is going on?” he demanded, his tone laced with anger. You flinched. Charles knew that was it. 

“They’re leaving,” he said, never raising his voice, never arguing. Just assertive and simple. “Say goodbye.”

The fear in your eyes broke his heart. Had this really been how you’d grown up? You looked around the room, panicked. “Charles, they’re not done their-”

“No, we are,” your sister bit out, standing up with her husband beside her. “Thanks for the hospitality, Bunny,” she practically spat at you. You just flinched, those beautiful eyes filling with fresh tears. He wanted nothing more than to go to you, hold you, promise you he was sorry, swear he’ll never let it happen again. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make sure they left. 

“Meg, come on, I’m sorry-” you reached for her, but she slapped your hand away. Like it didn’t even matter. Like you were less than her. Charles couldn’t stop himself. He crossed the room and grabbed her wrist, holding it tight. She gasped. You grabbed his arm and tried to get him to let go, begging in his ear gently, but he had this unbreakable focus and precision. He wanted to scare her, scare them all. He needed to show that you were untouchable now, that he wasn’t going to let this shit slide. By the way your mother’s eyes widened, he guessed she got the gist. 

“What did you just do?” he questioned, the terrifying calmness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. She didn’t answer. “Apologise, then leave.” 

She mumbled out something, and Charles let her go. It wasn’t that he actually cared about her apology, it was about scaring them. She shuffled out the door with her bitch of a husband behind her, your brother following, shouting about a lawsuit. Your parents were last to go, their eyes on Charles the entire time as you just watched them leave, feeling eight years old again. If you had it in you, you probably would’ve begged them to stay, just because dealing with their teasing is better than the opposite. Silence. For months at a time. Even when you were in the same house. Even when you were a child. 

Your hand was wrapped so tightly around Charles arm, he didn’t even notice the pressure until you released it. Your eyes were clouded over, you were shaking, and you just walked over to the table and started cleaning up dishes. 

“Y/n-” he started. 

“Don’t,” you breathed out, your voice uneven and broken. It squeezed his heart. “Just don’t, Charles.” He held you clean up the table in silence. He dried the dishes after you washed them and he tried to push that terrified look in your eyes out of his mind, but it kept coming back. Your realisation of them leaving, the way you were trying to apologise, and the way you tried to stop him. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled, stopping in his tracks as his eyes watered. You just kept washing the dishes. Mindful, like it was a ritual, holding onto it like it was the only thing stopping you from crumbling. “Y/n, please,” he begged, reaching over and turning the tap off. “Talk to me.”

You looked up, a tear already flowing down your cheek. You dried your hands on a towel, then wiped your cheek. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, hsi voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.” 

You nodded, tears falling onto his shirt silently. “I know. You didn’t know. It’s alright,” you whispered, that heartbreaking frown on your lips against his neck. “It just sucks.”

“Was it always like that?” he asked in a broken whisper. You didn’t respond, and that was answer enough. He choked back a tear. “It’ll never be like that here, I promise. I swear.” 

You nodded. You believed him. Charles made you feel safe. Sure, he made a mistake tonight, but he was already making up for it. 

He loved you. That was worth a shitty night.

Lewis Hamilton

The apartment was ground zero for an explosion of toys, arts and crafts, and Lewis was sure there was some mashed up food in there somewhere. And it was quiet. Too quiet. A newborn, two toddlers and a five year old meant there was constant noise, but none tonight. He raised an eyebrow as he expertly stepped through a broken lego set, and moved towards the kids bedrooms. 

No one in the nursery, not unusual, since the most time Millie spent there was sleeping. 

No one in the boys room, again, also not unusual at this time of night, they usually stayed up with you until about 8, then when he got home, they’d go down without a fight. 

No one in Emmy’s room, so they were in your room. 

He opened the door as quietly as he possibly could, and found three children sprawled out on the bed, already asleep, and Millie asleep in her crib. He smiled fondly, tucking them in, kissing Millie on the forehead. Moments like these made those shitty days in the car bearable. Just knowing he had his own little fan club back home, made getting into the car just that bit easier. 

The light from the bathroom spilled out from under the door, and he froze when he heard a tiny choked sob. He softly opened the door, worry furrowing his brow as you came into view. Red-rimmed eyes, hand over your mouth to stop the sobs from waking the kids, exhausted eyes. His heart ached and he pressed a cautious hand on your shoulder, just a simple ‘I’m here’. 

You whipped around and fell into his chest, everything you’d been holding in for weeks finally coming out. Then you did something unexpected, you pushed him away. 

You stood up, wiped your eyes, and went back out to the main room, and you started cleaning. He closed the bedroom door and followed you out, a confused brow raised. “Baby?” he questioned. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing Lewis,” you spat, picking up toys, as tears fell like you didn’t even notice them. “Nothing’s wrong.” His heart ached. What could possibly be this wrong? Why would you be calling him by his first name? 

“Clearly something’s wrong,” he started, approaching you slowly. You stilled and stared, finally looking at him. Ferrari shirt and some jeans, necklaces and rings, hair done perfectly. It made you hate him. He got to go out and live his life every single day, every single weekend, while you were stuck in an apartment in a country hundreds of miles away from your family and friends, and you were just expected to deal. Deal with a newborn. Deal with your toddlers. Deal with the actual important things in your life while he gets to go race, and still be the favourite parent. God, you fucking hated him for it. You weren’t sure when it started. You weren’t sure if it was just your regular case of postpartum depression, or if you genuinely hated his guts, but either way, you didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want him to touch you. You didn’t want him. 

Seeing him standing in your living room filled you with so much rage, you actually didn’t know what to do with yourself.  “Just fuck off Lewis,” you scoffed, resuming picking up the toys. “Go on the sim or something, leave me alone.” 

“Y/n,” his voice was stern, serious. “What’s wrong?” He tried again. 

And you broke. Even though you didn’t want to. Even though you’d been holding it together since Millie was born. You dropped the toys to the floor with a loud crash, and you sobbed. Openly. Angrily. 

You let yourself rage. You didn’t think about the other people. You didn’t think about the kids asleep inside. You didn’t think about the fact that you’d end up saying things you regretted, because you didn’t care. You just wanted him to hurt, to understand your hurt, and you didn’t know how else to show it. “Fuck you Lewis,” you sniffled. “You’re never here!” you shouted, thanking your past self that you soundproofed the apartment years ago, so hopefully, the kids wouldn’t wake up. “You’re never fucking here. You leave me, all the fucking time. You don’t parent our kids, ever. I do. Every fucking day. Every drop-off, every mess, every spillage, every argument, every fucking day. And I don’t get a moment to myself. Because I have four fucking kids relying on me, alone. Their father is never fucking here. And every time I remember that, I think back to your vows to me, as your wife,” you choked out, sobbing as you shouted. You didn’t even feel like a person anymore, just a mom. Not a functioning human with thoughts and opinions, and needs, and wants. “You promised you’d never leave me.” 

He stood there, dumbstruck. He had no idea. Of course you didn’t, you’re never here, a voice in his head shot back. “Baby, I’d never leave you-”

“You already have, Lewis. Clearly you have,” you sighed, letting your arms cross over your chest. “I just… I need to go home.” 

“You are home, baby,” his voice which was once soothing, sounded so fucking patronising now. You gritted your teeth. 

“I want to go back to my home. With my family, and my friends,” you bit out. “I’m bringing the kids with me. You can visit us there.” 

Fuck, that was heavy. You both felt that settle in the room, tension filling the air. He didn’t realise he was crying until it dropped down onto his shirt. “Y/n, you can’t just leave-”

“You do it every damn weekend,” you offered an angry smile. “I hope you’re satisfied by the end of the season, because if you don’t choose our family and me over your career, I’ll be filing for a divorce.” 

And the ultimatum was set. Fuck, he probably would’ve fallen over if he wasn’t already leaning against the wall. You didn’t notice. You just continued picking up the toys and putting them away. He felt bile rise in his throat. 

Zhou Guanyu

Zhou cried, he was just like that. But, he’d never cried because of you. This had rattled him. He’d never expected you to be so… mean. He knew you didn’t mean it, emotions were high anyway and this was just the cherry on top of a shit week. 

You knocked on the door, guilt heavy in your stomach like a bowling ball. “Zhou,” your voice was soft. He held his breath. “Zhou I'm so sorry,” you started choking up yourself. “Fuck,” you mumbled. “I’m being mean to you and I’m the one fucking crying,” you sniffled, leaning against the door. “I’m an asshole.” He felt your weight against the door, and heard the desperation in your voice. He just… wasn’t ready to respond yet. He didn’t have anything to say to you. 

You took another deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said that, I-I’m sorry,” God, you felt so small. Taking Zhou down just because you were stressed? Snapping at him like he wouldn’t do anything for you? Like he didn’t love you so much it hurts? You were disgusted with yourself. You honestly thought you didn’t deserve forgiveness. “I was stressed, and I know, that’s not an excuse. I just don’t know how to fucking deal with it. When everyone is breathing down my neck, a-and you’re just trying to love me with, with your fucking love languages and I love it. I swear I do, I don’t ever w-want it to fucking stop, I just… it gets c-crowded in my h-head,” you admitted, hiccups interrupting your explanation. You’d never been good at this, at love. But you were willing to try for Zhou, because you loved him so much you felt like you couldn’t breathe without him. You let out another sob. He felt the tears falling down his cheeks. “I just don’t know what to do with myself sometimes. I’m so bad at this, I just… I’m so scared you’re going to wake up one day and realise that I’m not worth the trouble. And I-I push you away because I already love you so much that losing you w-would break me,” you held in a sob. “And I’m so sorry Zhou. You deserve so much better than that.” You knocked your head against the door lightly, like it could somehow fix the turmoil in your brain. It didn’t. 

He sniffled from the other side of the door and it twisted the guilt in your stomach. The door unlocked. You stepped back. Zhou stood in front of you, looking just as broken as you were. 

No words were exchanged. He didn’t shout or demand an apology. He did the most Zhou-thing he could’ve done. He forgave you. He hugged you. He kissed you. He promised you he’d stand by you when you felt like this. 

He chose to be kind, because of course he did. He was your Zhou. 

haas:

Ollie Bearman 

He was fucked. Literally, and metaphorically, he was fucked. 

Seriously, he’d just fucked someone. And he’d just realised it wasn’t you. After the fact. After it was over. 

Dodging calls wasn’t like Ollie. Dodging texts wasn’t like Ollie. But, he’d changed a lot since moving up to F1. He was colder. Less goofy. Less… himself. He walked around like he cared what people thought now, which you guessed he must’ve. You saw it in the way he carried himself. You saw it in the light in his eyes, or lack-there-of. 

And you were seeing it in person, right now. He stood in front of you, eyes wide and teary, excuses pouring from his mouth like those tyre strategies he used to rattle off. 

“It was a mistake,” he sniffled. “And I’m so sorry.” He let his head drop, eyes falling to the floor. He couldn’t face it, face you. This was the biggest mistake of his life, and he was a Haas driver. He thought back to those nights where you’d hold him when he got like this. Whether it was results or pressure or stress, you always cared. You hugged him and kissed him and told him everything would be alright. Well, right now, he wished you would. He knew you wouldn’t, knew he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t stop him from hoping.

“Alright,” you shrugged, no tone, no hurt, nothing. His head snapped back up, eyes filling with hope. “Pack your shit.” 

His world stopped. “Y/n-” 

“Fuck you Ollie, I don’t care. I don’t trust you. I can’t love someone I don’t trust,” you laid it out perfectly. Simple. Easy. He broke your trust, so he didn’t have you anymore. “Begging won’t change anything. Just leave with your dignity.” 

And even if he didn’t want to, he did. He left with that pit of guilt in his stomach, knowing he made the biggest mistake of his entire life. 

Esteban Ocon

Esteban was quiet. You were tense. Your apartment was usually full of laughter and light. It was silent that night. The sun had set on the beautiful city of Geneva, and the chill crept in from the cracked window, or just the cold shoulder your boyfriend was giving you. The bed felt cold. He felt cold. You thought back and noticed how those sweet routine moments you’d cherished for years had slowly started to dwindle in recent months. He wouldn’t join you for a shower anymore. He didn’t bother teasing you while you did your makeup or skincare. He didn’t dance with you in the kitchen anymore. He spoke more French, a language you didn’t quite understand (though in recent months you’d been learning it, for him). He focused on work. 

Your heart broke slowly as it hit you. He fell out of love. 

“Just say it,” you whispered into the darkness of your shared bedroom. His hands weren’t around your hips like they used to be. His face wasn’t buried in your hair as he slept soundly. No, he stayed to his side of the bed like you had the plague. 

“Say what?” he huffed, tired voice and eyes turning over to meet your eyes. “It’s 2am Y/n.” 

You stared at him for a moment, and you knew she knew what you were saying. He knew exactly what you were saying, he was just too pussy to do it himself. “You’re seriously going to make me say it?” you scoffed. He shook his head in annoyance and looked at you expectantly. He was a small man. He was pathetic. That's what you reminded yourself as you spoke. Maybe your voice would shake, but at least you spoke. “You’re not in love with me anymore,” your voice sounded so small it was almost like you didn’t recognize it.

He was quiet for a moment, then he broke. Eyes weeping, chest heaving, fully sobbing. You stared in shock. Never in your three years together had he ever done that. Never had he fully broken down in front of you. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I never meant for this to happen.”

And you hated yourself for being right. Of course he fell out of love with you, everyone always did. “Yeah,” you shrugged, sitting up. “I know you didn’t.” There wasn’t much enthusiasm behind your words, but I think anyone could’ve excused you for that. You didn’t reach out for him. You didn’t comfort him. You didn’t care to. Who was he to be crying when he was the one at fault? You’d been the perfect girlfriend, perfect support system, perfect fucking WAG, and he fell out of love. That was his failing, not yours. You told yourself, but it had started to feel like there was something wrong with you. This kept happening. You’d give yourself to someone completely, and they wouldn’t care anymore.

He grabbed your wrist before you could leave the bed. “You’re going to find someone who loves you like I should’ve.”

Fuck, if that didn’t break you more. 

aston martin:

Fernando Alonso

Arguments weren’t uncommon in any relationship. People disagree, it’s just humans being humans. But these disagreements were showing up more often, cutting into you a bit more, his words became more harsh. You knew he didn't mean to, but he hurt you. He made you feel like a child, with the way he talked down to you, like you were too fucking stupid to understand the complex inner-workings of his brain. 

It made you feel less-than, and you fucking hated that. It made you feel like you weren’t in a partnership, but a mentorship, and you hated that too. He used language that he knew would hurt you, childish, adolescent, a baby. Like you couldn’t understand just how bad life can get because you were 28 instead of his wise age of 43. 

So you were quiet. You stayed quiet, shrunk yourself to fit in better. You didn’t take back when his friends made awful comments, you spent more time to yourself, you stopped wanting to come to races, you stopped wanting to dress up and go out, you stopped wanting things. Race weekends passed in a still kind of tension, one that he didn’t seem to notice. He did. He saw every time you made yourself smaller for him. Every time you gave up something you wanted for him. Every time you kept your mouth shut for him. And it broke him. Why would you think he wanted you to be any different? Why would you change yourself for him? Why would he let it go on so long? 

So he sat down at the table one day, dinner in front of him, you to his left, and he broke down. It was all too much. The pressure from the sport, the silence in the house, the shrinkage of the only thing good left in his world, you. 

You gasped. “Fernando,” you reached out and cupped his cheek, panic filling your eyes. “What’s wrong?” You asked, your food forgotten as you leaned in closer to him. So caring, so kind. It twisted the knife into his heart, but he was always good at persevering. 

He shook his head, a sad smile reaching his lips. “You deserve better than me, than this,” he spoke softly and your heart dropped into your stomach. He couldn’t make you miserable a minute longer. He couldn’t watch you shrink. “I think we have to take a step back,” The fear in your eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life, but he knew he needed to do this. He had to set you free, you had to live your life free of him. He pushed your hand off his cheek. “I’m not interested anymore. I want you gone.” 

That was all it took. That panic and fear melted away into something darker. Resentment. Anger. Hatred. It killed him to watch, but he knew it was the right thing, even if it felt like his world was falling apart. 

Lance Stroll

“Just- shut up!” he groaned, his hands flying around the room uncontrolled. It was quiet for a moment, you were quiet for a moment. Just standing there, still, either in shock or rage, he couldn’t tell. He just knew nothing good could come of this argument since the minute he started it, and he still started it. “I just… I need a minute.” His voice broke and that unforgettable burning sensation began in the back of his throat. You stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his back, soothingly rubbing up and down. He could tell you were still upset, still mad, still raging. But you chose to put it aside for a moment, and calm him down. Fuck, he didn’t deserve you. 

You sighed, laying your head on his shoulder and leaning into him. “Lance, you can’t start an argument and leave it once it gets hard, or I get angry. It’s not fair,” you whispered out, your exasperation clear in your tone. “It’s not fair.”

He knew you were right, knew he should apologise, knew he should say something. He didn’t. He just nodded, trying desperately to hold himself together as he felt everything in him beg to be let out. You huffed. “Lance, you can cry, we just need to keep talking after. You have to stay here. Trust me enough to let me comfort you. If you don’t trust me I genuinely don’t understand why we’re still together,” you admitted, your voice raw and tired. You couldn’t do this dance again, you needed him to commit. Feel the fear, and do it anyway. Trust. Love. 

He nodded again, stronger this time. He took another shallow breath, and he turned to you. She has you. He told himself. She loves you, this isn’t going to scare her away. 

And he let himself go. 

sauber:

Nico Hulkenberg 

He missed it, even though he’d flown all night. Exhaustion had settled itself in his bones long before he reached his front door, and still, he continued. 

But he missed it. 

That’s what she would remember. Her dad wasn’t there for her birthday. He didn’t get there in time. 

You were waiting in the living room. It was 5am. Too early to get the day started but also too late to go back to sleep. You told yourself you should go for a walk, start breakfast, get ahead on your work, but something anchored you to the couch, watching the sun rise on Monaco. The harbour shone in the sunlight, making it as beautiful as the time you first saw it. When he brought you here for the first time, all those years ago. You sat on a boat beside him, a new exciting talent in the world of F1, a jittery 20-something guy you’d met through mutual friends. Someone had said to you that even then, he looked at you like he saw something else. A future, a loving home, a family. And they were right. You chuckled, remembering those moments where he’d come home to you after a shitty weekend, and he’d just melt into you. Not leave your side for three days. It made you laugh. 

“I missed it,” he whispered into the expanse of the dark living room, just brightening up in the new day's light. He didn’t approach you. He didn’t know if he was allowed. “I fucking missed it.” You stood up and walked over to him, hearing the wobble in his voice. It cracked your heart, just like every question from your daughter had, during the day. You wrapped your arms around his neck. You should be mad. You should shout.

“She’s four,” you whispered. “She loves you more than anything. Children are more forgiving than adults. Don’t miss the next one,” you advised with a soft smile on your lips. He squeezed you tighter, the beginning of tears falling onto your hoodie. “You’re not a bad father,” you reminded him, instilling in him that he wouldn’t become his worst fear. “You’re a lot of things Nico, and a bad father will never be one of them.”

He shook his head in the crook of your neck. “I don’t deserve you two.” 

Now it was your turn to shake your head. “You do,” you smiled. “We love you so much Nico.” 

Gabriel Borteleto

He wasn’t prepared, he didn’t think about it, he just said it, he didn’t realise the implications, didn’t notice the way you stiffened. 

Now his apartment was empty. It was his apartment, as he’d so unkindly shouted during that godforsaken argument. It all came back to him clearly, the housing, the tears, his unwillingness to stop. He hadn’t meant to drive you away, he just… he needed you to understand. Understand the pressure. Understand the disappointment. Understand how he felt like he was failing every single time he jumped into that car. But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Even when you left, he sent you message after message, calling you selfish. Making you out to be the problem, as if you weren’t the only thing holding him up. 

The pounding in his head didn’t cease throughout the day. You’d told him to at least wait a day before talking to you, or else you’d never hear him out. It was torture. Counting the minutes down as the time slowly ticked by, never quite close enough for his liking. Then 8pm rolled around, and he was dialling your number as fast as he could. You picked up on the fifth ring. 

He spoke first, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.” He held his breath. He wasn’t expecting you to forgive him immediately. He wasn’t really expecting you to forgive him at all. He was expecting to get scolded, to get told just how bad he’d hurt you.��

“Alright,” you shrugged, indifference crept into your tone and it made his blood freeze, his whole body shivering with a scary sense of dread. You didn’t care. Not anymore. Not now. He’d pushed you too far. He’d done it. He’d fucked it. He leant against the bathroom door, a sob ripping out of his throat as the burning sensation of his unshed tears began. You sighed. He held his breath again. “Gabi, what do you want me to say?”

You might as well have stamped on his heart. God, he wanted to scream. Anything that shows you fucking care? He thought. Anything that makes me think this is salvageable? “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Just… something. This has to be worth saving, we have to be worth saving.” He choked out through angry tears. Why weren’t you fighting? Why weren’t you angry? Why didn’t you care? 

“Is it worth saving?” you asked him, and his world tipped on its side. Of course it is. Was his immediate response. He loved you. You loved him. It made sense. You groaned. “We fight all the fucking time, Gabi. You’re not happy, I’m not happy. We haven’t been for a long time.” 

He thought back to those fights and those nights you both spent angry. By morning the problem would be forgotten and you’d make up right? You’d kiss his cheek and make him a coffee, he’d give you some half-assed apology but you’d accept anyway. That’s the way it was, and he never wanted it to change. Maybe she wants it to change, a voice in his head spoke up. She’s getting the short end of the stick. His heart dropped to his stomach when he realised he’d been ignoring all the animosity from you. The burnt coffees. The glares. The subtle and slow retreat back into yourself. He coughed. “It is for me,” He had to fight for you, promise you he’d change. “I’ll change, I swear. I love you.” 

“I don’t need you to change. I need to change. I need other things, and you can’t give me them. I’m sorry Gabi, but we’re over.”

alpine:

Pierre Gasly

He hated arguing, really he did. He was just good at it. Weirdly good. Like, he’d been told to become a lawyer on more occasions than one. But he hated arguing with you. And he hated when he took it too far. 

You wouldn’t understand. He’d said.

What, like I’m not smart enough now? You were livid, and rightfully so. 

I like taking care of you, is that so hard to understand?! He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he had. He just didn’t understand why it was such a big deal, it was just money, a simple thing he had more than enough of, and he wanted to spend it on you. You weren’t having it. 

It’s not being taken care of Pierre, it makes me feel gross, like I’m using you or something. And you could use that money to do so much good in someone’s life, God! You were just being kind, but he was frustrated. He just wanted to do something nice and you’d blown it out of proportion. It was a dress. A fucking 5,000$ dress. It made you sick to just look at the price tag, but he didn’t feel the same. That kind of money was cheap change to him. 

You’re being dramatic, it’s s dress, I just wanted to congratulate you. You got a promotion, it was a big deal. He was proud. 

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful Pierre, but flowers would have sufficed. 

And he snapped. He said things he didn’t mean, and you left. You went back home, leaving him in Austria with a race weekend to finish. You told him to sort his shit out. You told him to think before he speaks. God, he’d been thinking of you since you left. He called your phone. 

You didn’t pick up the first time. Or the second. Or the third. 

Ten times. Then you responded. You picked up the damn phone on his lucky number ten. 

“Pierre,” you yawned. “Isn’t it late over there?” you whispered into the phone like you’d wake someone if you weren’t quiet enough. You wouldn’t, you were alone in your hotel room, still sorting out your shit from the argument. 

“I missed you already,” he admitted, the first tears falling down his cheeks. He sniffled. “I’m such an idiot sometimes.” 

You chuckled. “Yeah, you are.” He chuckled too. Quiet conversation filled both your hotel rooms as you both drifted back off to sleep. You didn’t talk about the fight. You didn’t talk about how he was crying. You just… talked. About your busy schedules, how you were running out of foundation, and how tired he was. Boring things. The in-between things. Monotony. Regular, normal life. 

He loved every second of it. 

Franco Colapinto 

His body ran cold when he looked at the time. 2am. You still weren’t home. He’d pretended it didn’t bother him long enough, he had to text you. Or call you. Make you come home. 

He wasn’t a stranger to fucking up, especially with you. He knew what he did was shitty. He knew he should’ve tried harder, worked harder to be there, but duty calls sometimes, and fuck, he has to answer whether he wants to or not. He called your number, his hands shaking. 

Pick up. He begged. Pick up, please. 

You picked up on the sixth ring. “Franco?” your voice was tense. Like he was annoying you. He didn’t care, he was just happy you were responding to him. Relief surged through his body like a fucking lightning bolt, and suddenly he could breathe again. “Why are you calling me?” You were sick of this, of him, of being a secondary priority. You didn’t even want to fucking fight anymore, you just wanted peace, a boyfriend would could be there, who could show up. 

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice quiet. Timid. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he sounded scared. He was. He felt sick to his stomach that you were walking around Spielberg all alone. You left the hotel 4 hours ago. 4 hours of him burning a hole in the floor pacing the room, 4 hours of genuine fear that it might all be over, 4 hours of shit. Pure and utter shit. He was scared, alright? Fucking terrified. He wanted you back, in the hotel, in his arms, in his bed. He wanted you home, to him. He wanted to make sure he was still home. You were quiet for a moment, debating on whether to tell him. “Come on mi cielo, just… come back,” he let a small sob out, his voice just above a whisper. 

You stopped in your tracks. You’d seen him cry a handful of times at most. Over family stuff. Over results. But never was it over you. You didn’t think this had pushed him that far, didn’t think it would. He was so… unbreakable sometimes, you forgot he was just as fragile as you were. He hurt and bled the same, and of course he wouldn’t want you walking out in the dark in a foreign town with your location off, ignoring him. Of course not. “I’m on my way back now, I’ll be there soon.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut and held back a relieved sob. He nodded. “Great,” he choked out. “I’ll be here.” 

Jack Doohan 

It was important to you, he understood. He saw the way your eyes lit up when you spoke about it. He basked in that light, he planned beside you. 

Blood is thicker than water. His father’s mantra rang out through his head, taunting him. He’d been the one to fucking say it and the hurt on your face told him everything he needed to know. Not that he hadn’t known it before, he had. He knew you wanted him there more than anything, he knew how much it would mean for him to get on a plane and meet your family. Yet, he flaked. For some fucking family holiday he didn’t even want to go on. But you cried when he left, and you asked him to practically never come back, and even though he felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest, he boarded that plane like he didn’t have another choice. He saw that he did now. He saw the right choice. 

Mick saw the changes in Jack. He saw the untouched food, the sluggish walk, the lack of interest. He texted you and got no response and he knew what it meant. 

Dinner was too loud, so Jack sought refuge with the sand and the water. His bracelet, the bracelet you gave him was threaded through his fingers as he watched the waves roll out. He was too deep in thought to see Mick sitting beside him. 

“What did you do?” he asked, his voice soft, though it startled him all the same. He jumped and turned to him, a slow smile made its way onto his lips, a chuckle leaving Mick’s. “She’s gone for good?”

That smile disappeared quickly. Jack looked back out at the ocean in front of him, so vast and wide. “I fucked it up,” he admitted, his heart aching with every word. “I left her for this.” He gestured to the area around him, but Mick got the gist. He sighed and clapped a hand on his friend's back. 

“Did you talk to her?” 

“She doesn’t want to hear from me,” he shook his head. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, he had. You genuinely didn’t want to hear from him. Emotion bubbled deep in his throat, but he tried to swallow it down regardless. He didn’t care if it’d choke him, he didn’t want it. Emotion admits more than words ever would. If he let himself break down he’d be admitting it was over. He wasn’t ready for it to be over. He wasn’t ready to kiss those moments with you goodbye. The way you smiled at him, the way you’d tease him over anything you could, just because you loved it when he’d finally tease back. He couldn’t say goodbye to those nights when you’d stay up until dawn, just talking, making promises about a future you two weren’t guaranteed. He wouldn’t leave those memories of you telling him you loved him in a box in the back of his mind. 

He hadn’t realised he’d been crying. Well, there it was. 

Over. 

Paul Aron

“You can’t fucking do this! You can’t leave for weeks at a time and not talk to me Paul, for fuck’s sake!” you groaned, your eyes wild and angry. It had been like this for 40 minutes, a back and forth that wouldn’t end no matter how much you both wanted it to. He wouldn’t see your side, and you couldn’t see his. He didn’t really have a justification for his actions, just empty promises, and you were sick to death of those. Your hands raked over your face, and you sighed, your eyes meeting his. “Either sort your shit out, or break up with me Paul, because those really seem like our only options right now.” You already knew you were crossing a line, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You just had to say it. 

He could’ve pretended that didn’t feel like a punch to the gut, but you knew him too well. You knew the second you said it too, because you stilled. His face faltered, his body twitched and jerked in a weird way. He wanted to recover, to pretend it was normal, act like it didn’t happen maybe. He couldn’t. Not when it was you on the line. Not when you were talking about a universe where he couldn’t come home to you every night and have you kiss his head or let him kiss you silly. 

You walked over and wrapped your arms around him. Your face was serious but tender and he cupped your cheek. The low light made him look like an angel, a crying angel, but an angel all the same. “Paul, I’m sorry,” you whispered, tender but timid. Like you were scared you’d make it worse. “I’m tired and you’re tired, and you’ve just had a huge weekend, and we just need… we need each other, right?” you offered and he just nodded, too shocked to really comprehend what was going on. “Let’s just head to bed, yeah?” 

He nodded, then dipped his head down and kissed you like it was the last time, like he was trying to put all the love and care and passion he had for you into the kiss. Like that would make you understand him. To an extent, it did. 

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

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[maruflix]

r/AmITheAsshole u/THEsajaboy • 17 hours ago

My manager said I’m “unprofessional” and all I can think about is how I want her all for myself. AITA?

feat. saja boys (jinu-centric)　　⎯⎯　wc. 1.5k

content: female reader, manager!reader, fluff, slight crack, gets kinda dark at the end, possessive jinu, no beta we die like me after finding out that lee byung-hun is the voice of gwi-ma

note. goofy ass...

I (400, M) have a really cute manager and I kinda like her. Sometimes I tease her to get her attention (you know, like all men do) but yesterday, she tells me that I’m unprofessional and I piss her off :(

“Jinu! What did I say about posting Instagram stories without going through me first?!”

Abby is quick to scramble away from the scene of the crime, taking his phone with him. Baby, who’s looking for something to drink, quietly closes the fridge and speed-walks to the living room.

No one wants to be in your line of sight when you’re angry, demon or not.

Meanwhile, the source of all your headache is slumped over the kitchen table lazily, scrolling his phone with one hand. His other hand is deep in a bowl of popcorn as he munches away without a care in the world.

“Jinu!” Slamming your hand on the table, Jinu finally angles his head to look at you.

“Oh, hey, manager.” He smiles dazzlingly. “What did I do now?”

You exhale in frustration, knowing that Jinu loves to press your buttons. “Who’s on your Close Friends list?”

Jinu tilts his head. “There’s only one person. Guess.”

“I’m really not in the mood to play games.”

“Aww, come on~”

Instead of trying to talk with a man with the personality of a seven year old, you opt to do this the easy way: you snatch Jinu’s phone and checks his Instagram settings, sighing in relief when you see only one person in his Close Friends list:

You.

“Very funny. As if you don’t annoy me enough in the real world already, you just had to insert yourself into my online life too.” Grumbling in annoyance, you deleted his dumb story as an extra measure before handing it back to him. “Why would you post a photo of me and caption it with ‘smash’?!”

“Because...” Jinu slings an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him with one swift motion, “I would...?”

That answer must’ve not been good enough because Jinu earns himself a hard smack on the arm.

“You’re the most unprofessional idol I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with! If you piss me off one more time, I swear—!”

She’s indeed very competent at her job and she takes things very seriously. That’s part of why I like her... and also why I like to tease her. I just want her to be able to let loose and take it easy instead of always worrying about numbers and charts and promos. For the record, we actually have a pretty good relationship.

“Damn it!”

The Saja Boys didn’t even look up from their telenovela, already used to your outbursts by now.

“What now?” Jinu deadpans, “Did they cancel the feature?”

“No, worse.” You sigh, “Golden is so damn catchy.”

The boys’ head slowly turns to your direction.

“You saved it on your Spotify playlist, didn’t you?!” Jinu points, gasping in horror.

“I-” Hiding your phone behind your back, you stand up under the critical eyes of the Saja Boys, “What I do in my free time is none of your concern!”

“Have you saved Soda Pop on your playlist, have you or have you not?” Jinu narrows his eyes, crawling from the sofa to the chair where you’re sitting.

You quickly turn your attention back to your phone and clicked the plus button.

“There! I have! Of course I have!”

“Traitor!”

“It’s not what it looks like!”

.

.

.

But it is, because the next time Jinu discovers your traitorous ways is when he catches you humming a ‘We're goin' up, up, up..’ in the living room sofa as you scroll that week’s stats.

“Traitor, stop humming that song now!”

Jinu’s tickling your sides mercilessly, making you scream.

“I can’t believe we have a traitor amongst our midst!” Your laughter is infectious because he’s also smiling now. However, what you did still annoyed him and so he will punish you for that.

You try to roll away and shove him but he quickly moves on top of you, holding you in a vice-like grip as he continues his assault on your sides. You and your little arms are no match for him.

“Jinu! Ahahaha! Sto-hahaha! Ji-ahahaha!”

Upon seeing tears running down your cheeks, Jinu finally decides to take pity on you and stop his tickling. The two of you are huffing now, trying to catch your breath. None of you are moving from your position.

“Asshole,” you huff, but your eyes are smiling. “You’re so annoying.”

Jinu leans down, “But you like me annoying.” he grins, savoring the way your cheeks glow scarlet and your eyebrows furrow at your inability to make a comeback.

When you’re no longer able to fight, you choose flight.

You break away from Jinu’s grasp to stand up but your leg gets tangled with his. “Crap!”

Jinu pulls you before your back hits the edge of the table and you crash, instead, on his sturdy chest. When you look up, Jinu is smirking down at you. He doesn’t say anything, yet he doesn’t let you go. It’s like there’s a magnetic pull between the two of you. The way Jinu looks at you intently has your breath hitching.

‘Is he going to..’

You know this is not right, but you can’t move when his grip on your body keeps tightening. You can practically smell his cologne now, his eyes never leaving you even when he angles his head and your lips part—

Abby and Baby burst through the door with pizza boxes and a big bag of energy drinks, unaware of what just went down in the living room sofa.

“What are you two doing?” Abby questions, eyeing the two of you in suspicion.

“It’s not what it looks like!”

Jinu narrows his eyes when you scramble away from his lap. Damn it. And he was so close.

Lately I feel like I get jealous a lot. I even scare myself during those moments because I get so inexplicably angry when I see her with other men. I feel like I want to monopolize her.

“Abby, the shirt stays on!”

Jinu sighs quietly when the music comes to a screeching stop. Next to him, Mystery slumps to the ground. He doesn’t blame him; they’ve been trying to shoot a ‘dance practice’ video for over an hour now.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s a passive skill.” Abby grins sheepishly, walking over to you, who’s sitting crosslegged on the floor. “Are you sure, though? Surely the fans appreciate some.. service.” Abby squats down to your height and flexes proudly, the layer of sweat on his muscles glistening.

You look away, suddenly feeling flustered. “I swear..”

Jinu raises an eyebrow at this.

“Ha! I knew our manager also appreciates some of... this!”

His flexing only causes you to blush even more. Sure, you’ve also managed other boy groups before, but all of them are the cute, respectful type who calls you ‘noona’ and looks up to you with puppy-dog eyes.

The Saja Boys, though? They’re in a league of their own.

The ice cold water bottle to your burning cheek is a lifesaver. You turn to see Romance, looking at you unblinkingly.

His goofy face makes you laugh. “Thanks. Sure is hot in here.”

Before you can finish drinking, Jinu is already by your side, seizing your arm and dragging you with him.

“Whoa- wait!”

When the two of you is outside, Jinu stops. Truth be told, he also doesn’t know why he reacted like that.

“Jinu? What’s gotten into you?”

What has gotten into him, indeed? All he knows is when you look at someone else, his heart churns. When you get flustered and it’s not because of him, something dark writhes inside him.

The Saja Boys are his comrades, but if they get in his way, he’ll—

“Jinu! It hurts!”

Your yelp breaks his train of thoughts. He quickly lets go of your arm. “S-sorry.”

“What’s wrong? You’re scaring me!”

Jinu just stares at you, his jealousy growing even deeper when he remembers you smiling and laughing with the other members.

Someday, when you see his true colors, are you going to leave him?

“Jinu!”

Your grip on his shoulders is secure, anchoring him back down to reality. Jinu looks at you and smile. “I guess I feel left out when I see you getting along with everybody..”

“What? Jinu...”

“I know I’m a handful. You probably hate working with me, and—”

You pull him into a hug. Although you scold him a lot, you don’t want him to misunderstand your feelings: he’s a great guy and you like him. Sure, you think he’s an all-around cocky guy and that ego of his can be knocked down a notch, but... to think that someone like Jinu can also feel self-conscious...

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jinu. I can never hate you.”

Jinu smiles, slipping his arms around your waist to hug you back. Has he been approaching this with the wrong tactic? The gears in his brain are turning, thinking of ways to bind you to him.

All the while, his demon mark gleams silently.

I think she likes me but she wants to take things slow because she’s still unsure of her feelings. The problem is, I’m not a patient man and I want to have her all to myself ASAP. I can’t risk her having second thoughts. What can I say? I love her so much, so it should be normal, right? So what do you think?

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 36: October 2024 - Part 3

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, mention of the loss of a parent.

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

Belle had always known that Lorenzo loved Charlotte.

You didn’t need to be particularly observant to catch it — not when he looked at her like she was sunlight bottled into human form. He was quieter about it than most, but in a way that only made it more obvious: the way he listened, the way he waited, the way his eyes found her even in a crowded room. Not infatuation. Not flair. Just… certainty.

So when Lorenzo asked if he could stop by for coffee, she hadn’t expected it to be anything dramatic.

But then he sat at her kitchen table — still in his work clothes, his tie half-loosened, hands wrapped too tightly around the mug she’d handed him — and didn’t speak for almost five full minutes.

That’s how she knew something was up.

She didn’t press.

Not yet.

She just waited.

Lorenzo had always been the sort of person who unfolded in his own time, like a letter written in longhand — slow, thoughtful, deliberate.

Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “I think I want to propose.”

Belle blinked. Once. Twice.

Then smiled softly. “You think?”

“I know,” he said. “I do. I’ve known. For a while. I just…”

He looked down at his mug.

“I want it to be right.”

Belle rested her chin in her palm and watched her oldest brother. He looked—nervous. Earnest in a way she hadn’t seen in a long time. Maybe since they were kids, before life got complicated and painful and messy.

“And what does right look like to you?”

“That’s the problem,” Lorenzo said, huffing a laugh. “I don’t know. I just keep getting in my own head. She deserves something special. Not flashy. Not over the top. Just… her.”

Belle smiled wider, something warm unfolding in her chest.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s build it.”

Lorenzo looked up, surprised. “You’ll help?”

“Of course I’ll help,” she said. “You’re my brother. She’s your person. This is literally my favorite kind of project.”

“But don’t you have enough on your plate?”

Belle gestured around the room, where baby things sat half-unpacked in calm, expectant chaos. “Max is currently on a mission to figure out how to swaddle a stuffed animal. I think I can spare a little time.”

He laughed, properly this time, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

“Alright then,” she said, reaching for a notepad. “Talk to me. What are the non-negotiables?”

Lorenzo leaned back, thinking. “Nothing public. Nothing performative. And something that includes her family, somehow — she’s close to them. But also something quiet. Intimate.”

Belle nodded. “Sentimental. Classic. Maybe something outdoors? A picnic? Or a dinner somewhere that matters to you both?”

“There’s a lake house,” he said slowly. “Her grandparents used to take her there when she was a kid. We’ve been a few times, and she always looks… peaceful there.”

Belle’s heart softened.

“There,” she said. “That’s the place. That’s the moment.”

Lorenzo looked like he was still trying to catch up to the fact that she was doing this with him — no teasing, no commentary, just belief.

“Belle,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him — her oldest brother, who had been too busy or too far removed to see her as anything other than Charles and Arthur’s quiet shadow. But right now, he was here. Asking her. Because he trusted her.

“You’re going to do this right,” she said. “Because it’s not about perfect words or some cinematic moment. It’s about her. And you already know how to love her. You just need to show her that in a way she’ll remember.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly. “You’d be a terrifying wedding planner.”

“I’m saving that energy for Emilian’s first birthday,” Belle said dryly. “There will be a live band and possibly jungle animals.”

He laughed again, eyes a little glassy now. “God, you’re going to be a good mum.”

Belle smiled down at the notepad, heart full.

“And you,” she said, writing down lake house, sunset, something honest, “are going to be a husband.”

****

They were on the couch, tangled together in the quiet kind of way that felt like routine now. Max’s head was resting on Belle’s belly, his hand absently tracing slow circles over the stretch of skin beneath her shirt, like he was trying to memorize every inch before December came.

Belle had one hand in his hair. The other held her planner, open but forgotten on the coffee table.

“He kicked again,” Max murmured, pressing a kiss just above her navel.

Belle smiled, her heart aching in that full, quiet way that still caught her off guard sometimes. “He’s been kicking all day,” she said. “Probably hates how I folded over during that client call.”

Max snorted. “He already has opinions. Verstappen genes.”

She rolled her eyes, fond. “God help us.”

They fell into silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. Outside, Monaco glowed—blue and gold and still.

Then Max said, softly, “We’ve got the triple header coming up.”

Belle nodded. “I know.”

“Austin, then Mexico, then Brazil.”

“I know.”

“I want you to come.”

Belle looked down at him.

Max sat up slowly, brushing a hand through his hair. “If you feel up to it,” he added. “If it’s safe. I just… I know it’s the last one before—before you can’t really travel anymore. And I don’t want to go three races without you if we can help it.”

His voice was quiet. Honest.

Belle let her hand rest on the slope of her belly. Their son kicked again—just once, like punctuation.

“I was thinking the same thing,” she said softly. “I don’t want to miss this part. After Brazil, I’ll stay home. Nest. Wait. After that, I won’t be able to travel long haul. Not safely, anyway. I just… I want to be there with you. One last time.”

Max’s expression shifted—surprise giving way to something deeper. Something tender.

“You’d really be okay with all that travel?” he asked. “Three races in three weeks?”

She nodded. “I already talked to my OB. I’ll be 34 weeks by Brazil. She said if I’m careful, and I rest, and we don’t take risks, it’s fine. After that, no more flights. But until then…”

Max reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

“I’d love that,” he said softly. “I miss you when you’re not there.”

Belle smiled. “You have GP.”

Max smirked. “GP doesn’t sneak me cookies or remind me to drink water. Or kiss me before every quali.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “You want kisses before quali?”

“Obviously. It’s good luck.”

She laughed and leaned in, pressing one to his temple.

“Then it’s settled,” she said. “Three races. Three cities. Then we come home. And wait.”

Max smiled. It was a tired kind of smile, edged in awe. “He’ll be here so soon.”

Belle nodded. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

“It will,” Max said. Then, after a beat: “Are you sure, though? It’s a lot of travel. Long flights. Weird hotel beds.”

“I’ll bring my pillow fortress,” Belle teased, nudging him with her foot. “And snacks. And compression socks. I’ll be fine.”

Max leaned over, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Then her collarbone. Then her belly. “Okay,” he murmured. “Then we’ll do this together.”

Belle closed her eyes. Felt the hum of his voice against her skin. And the tiny flutter of their son, responding like he knew.

Together.

Until they weren’t two anymore.

But three.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: So… I have some news. Charlotte said yes 💍😊

Arthur: WHAT?????? WAIT YOU PROPOSED????

Charles: BRO. What do you mean “said yes”??? WHEN??? HOW??? WHERE???

Arthur: Wait Belle knew didn’t she SHE TOTALLY KNEW

Belle: 👀

Charles: UNREAL. I TELL YOU EVERYTHING. AND YOU STAYED QUIET FOR THIS???

Belle: It wasn’t my news to tell! 😇 Also… I helped pick the ring. And the spot. And the picnic menu.

Arthur: I KNEW IT THE BASKET IN YOUR BACKSEAT LAST WEEK YOU SAID IT WAS FOR A “CLIENT MEETING”!!!

Lorenzo: It was a meeting. With my future wife 😌

Charles: Okay but for real—congratulations. You both deserve all the happiness. Still mad you didn’t tell us though.

Belle: 🥹 I was under strict brother-sister confidentiality. But I’m so happy for you, Enzo. Truly.

Arthur: Can we plan the bachelor party?? Please??

Charles: No. I know you. Absolutely not.

Arthur: 😤

Lorenzo: Thanks, all of you. Belle, especially. I couldn’t have pulled it off without you.

Belle: Anytime. Now go be nauseatingly in love.

***

Pascale hadn’t even set her wine glass down when Lorenzo said, “Charlotte and I are engaged.”

There was a beat of silence—sharp, almost theatrical—and then the room burst into overlapping exclamations.

Arthur stood up to hug him, nearly knocking over the bowl of olives. Charles thumped Lorenzo on the back like they were still teenagers. Even Alexandra, who was usually more reserved around the Leclerc chaos, was smiling wide, clutching Charlotte’s hands and asking a thousand questions.

Pascale pressed both hands to her heart, eyes wet. “Oh, my darling—felicitations!” She turned to Charlotte, enveloping her in a tight hug. “You are already family, but now it’s official. I am so, so happy.”

Belle watched it all unfold with a soft smile, Max’s hand resting on her knee under the table. She was genuinely happy for Lorenzo. 

But when Pascale dabbed her eyes and said, “Oh, we have to start planning,” Belle felt the old, familiar weight settle in her chest.

“Summer wedding?” Arthur asked. “Italy?”

“Too hot in July,” Charlotte said, laughing. “We were thinking September.”

“Belle should help you with everything,” Pascale added warmly. “She always has the best taste.”

Belle opened her mouth, closed it again.

“She already has,” Lorenzo said quickly, rescuing her. “She helped plan the proposal. Honestly, it was perfect.”

Charles raised his glass. “To love. And to Belle being a better event planner than all of us combined.”

They all drank. Belle sipped at her water, but she couldn’t quite keep the smile on her face when Pascale turned to her and said, with teasing affection, “Well, I expect an invite this time.”

The joke slipped out easily.

The silence that followed was harder.

Max’s fingers subtly curled around Belle’s under the table. “What do you mean?”

Pascale looked at Belle. “You know. The last wedding. The one none of us were invited to.”

“Maman,” she said quietly.

“No, I’m not trying to be rude, I just…” She trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “We found out from the press, Belle.”

Belle exhaled. “You forgot my birthday, remember? All of you,” Belle said sharply. 

“I turned 25. And you were all too busy with Charles winning Monaco.”

“Belle,” Pascale said gently, “we didn’t mean—”

“But you did,” Belle interrupted, and her voice wasn’t cold. It was tired. Bone-deep tired. “You never mean it.”

The table was quiet now. Even Arthur wasn’t fidgeting.

Belle glanced down at her plate. Then back up. Her gaze flicked to each of them—her brothers, her mother, Charlotte and Alexandra.

“Max and I got married on a Tuesday morning. At Monaco City Hall. We didn’t want the press. Didn’t want a spectacle.”

Pascale’s face crumpled. “But we should’ve been there.”

“No,” Belle said, with finality. “You really shouldn’t have.”

She folded her napkin slowly, carefully, like it would help her hold back the years she hadn’t said anything.

“Because in that moment, I didn’t want to wonder if any of you thought I was enough. I didn’t want to hear one more backhanded joke about how I decorate houses for Instagram. Or how I was the ‘soft’ Leclerc. Or how I should be grateful for being in the room.”

Max stayed silent beside her, but his hand remained warm on her knee, steady, grounding.

“I wanted to be surrounded by people who saw me. Who remembered me. Who didn’t compare me to Charles or Arthur or Lorenzo. Who didn’t make me feel like a placeholder in my own life.”

She turned toward her mother. “So no, you weren’t invited. Because it wasn’t about you. Or about what a wedding should look like. It was about what felt safe.”

“Belle,” Pascale began, reaching for her, “we didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” Belle cut in. “You’ve spent years not meaning to. Not meaning to forget. Not meaning to brush me off. Not meaning to act like my work is just expensive Pinterest. Like I’m the background character in someone else’s success story.”

Pascale’s expression shifted, like someone trying to balance shame and defensiveness and failing at both.

“When Max and I got married,” Belle continued, her voice lower now, steadier, “we had everyone there who mattered. People who saw me. Who remembered me. Who didn’t need a headline to decide I was important.”

Max’s hand tightened around hers under the table, silent but solid.

“It wasn’t a grand wedding. There was no string quartet, no designer gown. Emilie somehow managed to get my favourite flowers and cake. And it was the best day of my life.”

She looked at her mother.

“And I didn’t invite you. Not because I wanted to hurt you. But because, in that moment, I couldn’t handle the way you made me feel. Like nothing I did would ever be enough. Like even that day would be compared to someone else’s. Like I’d be asked why I didn’t wait. Or why the photos weren’t professional.”

Pascale looked stricken.

“I didn’t want to feel like an afterthought at my own wedding,” Belle finished, quietly. “So I didn’t invite the people who made me feel like one.”

Silence.

Lorenzo swallowed hard. Arthur looked like he might cry. Charles… looked wrecked.

And Pascale, for once, said nothing at all.

Belle pushed her chair back gently, the scrape of wood on tile loud in the quiet.

“I’m going to check on dessert,” she said, standing. “Max, come with?”

He rose immediately. ***

The kitchen was warm and low-lit, all copper tones and quiet clatter. Belle moved automatically, opening drawers, checking the oven—like she hadn’t just dropped every hard, buried truth onto the dinner table like a thunderclap.

Max followed, quietly closing the door behind them.

For a second, neither of them spoke. She reached for plates with trembling hands.

“Belle.”

“I’m fine,” she said. Too fast. Too flat.

He crossed the room in three steps, gently placing his hands on her hips. “You don’t have to be.”

Belle inhaled like she was bracing for another wave, but when it didn’t come, she sagged slightly into him, just enough that he felt it.

“I didn’t mean to make it a scene,” she murmured, voice frayed at the edges.

“You didn’t make a scene,” Max said. “You told the truth.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared at the cake tin on the counter like it might disappear if she focused hard enough.

“I’m just surprised you said all that out loud,” he added gently.

Belle let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a breath. “So am I.”

He rubbed small circles into her back. “They needed to hear it.”

“She won’t change.”

“Maybe not right away,” Max allowed. “But tonight… that landed. They were quiet, Belle. Your mother looked like she got hit with a brick.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” she muttered, though she didn’t pull away.

Max lowered his head, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I mean it. You gave them a wake-up call they couldn’t brush off. That takes guts.”

She was silent for a long beat. Then: “I didn’t want to cry in front of them.”

“You didn’t. You stood up for yourself.”

Belle turned slightly to look at him. “Did I come off like an asshole?”

Max smiled, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. “No. You came off like someone who’s tired of being invisible.”

Belle exhaled. “I wasn’t trying to hurt her.”

“I know,” he said. “And deep down, I think she does too. But she needed to feel it. You gave her the truth. What she does with it is up to her.”

Belle leaned into his chest fully now, the tension finally starting to seep out of her limbs. “I just… I don’t want our son to ever feel that way. Like he has to earn being seen.”

Max wrapped his arms around her and kissed her temple. “He won’t. Not with you as his mother.”

She let out another breath, steadier this time. “God. Dessert feels so stupid now.”

Max tilted his head. “It’s chocolate tart. Nothing about that is ever stupid.”

She laughed, soft and tired. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you,” he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek, “are the bravest person I know.”

***

The moment Belle disappeared through the kitchen door with Max, the silence she left behind clung to the room like smoke.

No one spoke.

Charlotte gently touched Lorenzo’s arm, but he barely registered it.

He turned to his mother, voice low. “Do you realize what you just did?”

Pascale blinked at him, eyes still wide. “Lorenzo—”

“No.” He shook his head, biting back the anger rising in his throat. “You don’t get to play innocent now, Maman. You made a joke about not being invited to her wedding, and you didn’t think once about why you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt her,” Pascale said, voice trembling. “It was meant to be lighthearted.”

“And that’s the problem.” Lorenzo’s voice hardened. 

Pascale blinked at her oldest son. “Lorenzo—”

“No,” he said, calm but sharp. “Don’t deflect.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were. Like you always do. Like we all do. And I’ve let it slide for years. We all have. Because it’s Belle, and she never kicks up a fuss, right?”

He leaned forward, fingers pressed against the edge of the table like he needed something solid to hold him down.

“But she remembers.” His voice dropped, hard with the weight of truth. “She remembers everything you brush off. Every joke about her job. Every time we prioritized a podium over a person. Every thing we forgot because we were too caught up in what one of us was doing on the track.”

Pascale’s eyes were glassy. “I didn’t mean to hurt her—”

“That’s the problem,” Lorenzo snapped, sharper than anyone in the room had ever heard him. “You keep saying that. You never mean to. But it happens anyway. And because she doesn’t fight you on it, you think it didn’t cut.”

Arthur looked down. Even Charles didn’t try to interrupt.

“She helped me plan my proposal, Maman. Thought of every detail, reminded me to tell Charlotte’s parents first—she did it all with a smile. And not once did she bring up her wedding. Not once.”

He sat back slowly, tone dipping into something quieter. “She didn’t even want a wedding with us. You understand how much that says?”

Pascale had a hand pressed to her lips now.

“She didn’t invite you to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe with you. Not loved. Not supported. Safe. Do you know how devastating that is?”

Pascale blinked hard, and for once, she didn’t have anything to say.

“And you know what?” Lorenzo added. “That’s on you. Not her. She found someone who sees her. Who values her. Who protects her, because he understands what it feels like to be treated like you’re never quite enough.”

Lorenzo’s tone turned more bitter than he meant it to. “God, Max Verstappen treats her better than any of us ever have. And we’re her blood.”

Pascale shook her head, tears finally spilling over. “I didn’t mean—”

“But you did,” Lorenzo echoed Belle’s words, soft but resolute. “And I’m done pretending you didn’t.”

He stood, placed a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.

“I’m going to help with dessert,” he said quietly.  He looked around the table, gaze landing on his mother last. “You can sit with what Belle said for a while.”

And without waiting for a response, he walked away.

***

Belle’s hands stayed on the countertop, gripping the edge a little tighter than necessary. Her breath was steady, but only because she’d fought for every inch of calm since leaving the dining room. Max hovered nearby, silently setting out the plates for dessert. He hadn’t said a word—just let her have her silence, the same way he always had when she needed to recalibrate.

Then she heard the second pair of footsteps.

Lorenzo.

“Belle,” he said gently, and that was all it took for her throat to go tight again.

She turned slowly, blinking fast. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—tonight was supposed to be about you. And I—God, I just—ruined it.”

He stared at her for a moment. Then let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh and crossed the kitchen in two strides.

“Petite sœur,” he said softly, wrapping her into a hug so immediate and so warm that it nearly undid her.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmured into her hair. “Don’t ever say that.”

Belle shook her head against his shoulder. “But I took the spotlight—”

“No. You spoke your truth. Finally. That’s not stealing attention. That’s surviving.” He pulled back slightly, hands still on her shoulders, anchoring her. “And frankly? Someone needed to say it. It should’ve been me. Years ago.”

Her eyes welled again. “I didn’t want to make it about me.”

“It wasn’t about you,” he said. “It was about all of us. And what we didn’t see. What we didn’t do.” His voice softened. “And for what it’s worth? I’ve never been prouder of you.”

Belle blinked at him, stunned.

“I meant it when I said you helped make the proposal perfect. And tonight? You gave me the best gift you could have—your honesty.”

She leaned her forehead against his. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” Lorenzo whispered. “And I love you. Even if you made Charles nearly cry during dinner.”

Belle laughed, a wet, breathless sound. “He’ll recover.”

“Barely,” Max called from the counter without turning around. “Pretty sure he is still emotionally buffering.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: I just emotionally nuked a family dinner. Max says it was brave. I think I might throw up. (Also, Charles looked like someone kicked his puppy.)

Emilie: WHAT. WHAT DID YOU DO. Please tell me it was deserved and you finally snapped. I’ve been manifesting it for a year.

Belle: Lorenzo announced his engagement. Pascale made a joke about not being invited to my wedding. So I told them why.

Emilie: Holy. Shit.

Emilie: You didn’t just light a match. You set that table ablaze. I am SO proud of you.

Belle: I didn’t mean to make it about me. It just came out. All of it. Every forgotten birthday. Every time they dismissed my work. I told her she wasn’t invited because she made me feel like an afterthought.

Emilie: GOOD. She needed to hear it. You’ve spent your whole life trying to be palatable. Quiet. Easy. But you are not an afterthought. And it’s not your job to shrink so they’re comfortable.

Belle: Max has been perfect, obviously. Didn’t say a word while I was talking. Just stayed next to me. Held my hand. Told me later I didn’t make a scene—I told the truth. That they were finally quiet because it landed.

Emilie: That man. That man would build you a cathedral out of reclaimed stone and lavender if you asked.

Belle: I’d settle for the chocolate tart he just plated.

Emilie: I’m proud of you. So proud. I hope you know how big this is. You stood up for yourself and didn’t apologize for it. You chose yourself.

Belle: I think I finally did. And I think—for the first time in a long time—I don’t feel guilty about it.

Emilie: Damn right you don’t. Also I need Charles' face in that moment. Please. A voice note reenactment. I beg.

Belle: He looked like someone told him Ferrari ran out of red paint.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Max: Just got back from dinner at Belle’s family’s place. It was… Intense.

Sophie: Oh? What happened? Are you okay?

Max: I’m fine. Belle’s a bit wrung out. Her brother Lorenzo got engaged. Announced it at dinner. Everyone was celebrating. Pascale made some joke about expecting an invite this time.

Sophie: Oh no.

Max: Yeah. Belle told them why they weren’t invited to our wedding. In front of everyone. Calm. Clear. Brutal.

Sophie: Good for her.

Max: She told them they forgot her birthday. That they treat her like she’s nothing. Said she only invited people who remembered her. I’ve never seen her do that before. Not with them.

Sophie: She finally snapped.

Max: Yeah. But it wasn’t dramatic. It was worse. It was honest. Tired. She just laid it out—like she wasn’t going to carry their excuses anymore.

Max: And her mother. God. She looked shocked. Like she couldn’t believe Belle didn’t feel loved.

Sophie: Because people like that don’t notice until it’s too late. They don’t think they have to change because they’re the mother.

Max: Exactly. She kept saying “I didn’t mean to.” And Belle just said, “But you did.”

Sophie: Oof. That girl has been swallowing it all for years, hasn’t she?

Max: All of it. Her work. Her feelings. Being ignored. She told them the reason she married me without them was because she didn’t feel safe. And I think it finally hit them. Maybe. Hopefully.

Max: But I don’t understand her mother. How do you look at someone like Belle and not see her? She’s brilliant. She’s kind. She feels everything. And they made her feel like she didn’t matter.

Sophie: Because some people only love the version of you they can control. And Belle? She’s soft, yes—but she’s also steel. That scares people who only know how to hold love with conditions.

Max: I didn’t even have to say anything. She did it all on her own. And then she turned to me in the kitchen and asked if she came off like an asshole.

Sophie: Oh, sweetheart.

Max: I told her no. She came off like someone who’s tired of being invisible.

Sophie: I’m proud of her. And proud of you. She needed someone who would stand beside her while she took her voice back. And that’s exactly what you did.

Max: I don’t get it, Mama. How can you have a daughter like Belle and make her feel like she has to earn your love?

Sophie: Because some people only know how to love the loud ones. The gold medals. The press conferences. The obvious successes. Not the quiet girl who builds beauty and doesn’t ask for applause.

Sophie: But you see her. And that matters more than anything.

Max: She told me she didn’t want our son to ever feel like that. Like he has to earn being seen.

Sophie: He won’t. Because his father will show him what love looks like. And his mother will teach him how to build a home out of strength and gentleness.

Max: I hope so. I just hate that it ever made her feel small.

Sophie: That’s because you love her. And you, my boy, are nothing like her mother.

Max: Good. Because she deserves better.

Sophie: She has better now. She has you.

***

Victoria hadn’t meant to stay long.

She’d only stopped by to drop off a scarf she’d picked up for her mother in Amsterdam. But Sophie had made tea, and the afternoon light was soft, and somehow they’d ended up on the couch with lemon biscuits between them and a conversation that turned, inevitably, to Belle.

Specifically, the Leclercs.

Max had told Sophie the whole story via text—blunt, half-capitalized, frustrated in a way he rarely got—but Victoria hadn’t realized how much had happened until Sophie quietly said, “Pascale made a joke about expecting an invite next time,” and stirred her tea like she was imagining stirring something else instead.

Victoria blinked. “She joked about not being invited?”

Sophie hummed. Calm. Neutral. Terrifying.

Victoria sat back a little.

Because she knew that sound. She’d heard it as a teenager when Jos yelled and stomped and slammed doors—and Sophie just got quiet. When Jos was a hurricane and Sophie was the pressure drop right before the sky cracked in two.

Everyone thought Jos Verstappen was the scary one. And he was, in his own way. But Jos exploded, and Sophie? Sophie waited. Sophie watched. Sophie didn’t lose control—she took it. And there was something so much more lethal in that.

“She said it with a laugh, apparently,” Sophie went on, still stirring. “Right after Belle helped plan the proposal. Said she expected an invite to this one.”

Victoria blinked again. “Oh, wow.”

“Mm.”

“She said that in front of everyone?”

“In front of Belle. At the table.”

Victoria felt something flicker in her chest. A cold edge of anger on Belle’s behalf. “What did Belle say?”

“She told them the truth,” Sophie said softly. “That she got married surrounded by people who remembered her birthday. That she didn’t want backhanded comments at her own wedding. That she didn’t feel safe with her own family.”

Victoria’s jaw tightened. “And Pascale?”

“Tried to say she didn’t mean to hurt her.” Sophie finally set the spoon down, slow and deliberate. “I suppose that’s supposed to count for something.”

There was a long silence then—thicker than the steam curling from the kettle, heavier than any of the words still hanging between them.

Victoria had grown up around volatility. Her father’s temper was legendary, a weather system that built and broke and sometimes came back with no warning at all. But Sophie—Sophie Verstappen was a different kind of terrifying. Jos exploded. Sophie observed. Calculated. Waited. And when she struck, it was always surgical.

Jos could knock you over like a thunderclap. Sophie could gut you with a whisper.

And right now, Victoria could see it: that slow, icy rage simmering just beneath her mother’s carefully neutral face.

“She told them,” Sophie said finally, “that she didn’t invite them to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe. Not unloved. Not forgotten. Unsafe.”

Victoria swallowed. “Yeah.”

“I have half a mind to call Pascale and tell her exactly what I think of her.”

Victoria blinked. Sophie never said things like that. She didn’t make threats. She made decisions.

“She’s pregnant,” Sophie added, quieter now. “And still had to stand there and explain why her family made her feel like a placeholder in her own life.”

“I have watched Belle love that family with her whole heart,” Sophie said, and now her voice had an edge. “I have watched her shrink herself so they wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. I’ve watched her pretend she doesn’t care that they forget her. That they talk over her. That they diminish everything she is.”

The kettle clicked off, but neither of them moved.

“She was raised to believe love is conditional,” Sophie said, not looking at her. “That it comes after achievements. Or for being quiet. Or for not asking for too much.”

Victoria felt something lodge in her chest.

“She has spent her whole life shrinking to fit into their idea of family,” Sophie continued, her voice steady and lethal. “And they still managed to ignore her.”

Victoria swallowed.

“And then she gets married—to my son—and not one of them is there. And not because she wanted to hurt them, but because she didn’t feel safe with them.” Sophie’s expression didn’t change, but her tone dropped low. “That’s not something you laugh about over dinner.”

Victoria sat very still.

Because that was the thing about Sophie Verstappen. You never saw her fury coming. She didn’t yell. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t rant or throw things or storm out. She just… waited. Like gravity. Like consequence. And then she spoke with that glacial softness that made you feel every syllable like it might cut.

Victoria suddenly felt like she was sixteen again and had missed curfew by three hours.

“I’m so mad for her,” she said after a pause. “Belle.”

Sophie nodded. “So am I.”

“She deserves better.”

“She has better,” Sophie said. And that time, there was warmth in it. Fierce. Unshakable. “She has Max. And she has us.”

“You like her,” Victoria said, surprised by the softness that slipped into her own voice.

“I love her,” Sophie corrected. “I don’t care how she came into this family. I don’t care what her last name is. Belle is mine now.”

Victoria blinked fast. “God. Okay. You’re mad.”

Sophie looked at her, eyes dark and razor-sharp. “No, Victoria. I’m focused.”

And Victoria—who had seen Jos Verstappen angry enough to make grown men shrink back—felt a shiver run down her spine. Because Jos might yell. He might throw chairs and punch walls.

But Sophie? Sophie waited until your guard was down and then made sure you never forgot the consequences.

Victoria took a sip of her tea when Sophie finally poured it. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “I thought you learned that lesson in 2011.”

Victoria laughed, a little breathless. “Fair.” Then paused. “Do you think they even realize how lucky they are to still be in her life?”

Sophie gave her a look that said no, not yet.

But they would.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: i just left mom’s pretty sure she’s going to have words with your mother in law like. capital W. Italics. Possibly in multiple languages

Max: …oh no what kind of “words”

Victoria: the terrifying kind you know how dad yells? mom doesn’t yell. she plans

Max: okay but like what kind of planning are we talking tea-and-a-pointed-sentence planning or scorched-earth-PR-nightmare planning

Victoria: you know the answer to that she was calm. TOO calm. like she’s already made a list and put a neat little check box next to “remind pascale she’s on thin ice”

Max: oh god

Victoria: on the bright side if belle didn’t feel protected before she definitely has a battle unit behind her now

Max: she does she always did but still maybe warn me if mom starts practicing her diplomatic voice that one always ends in casualties

Victoria: consider this your official warning if Mom puts on pearls and offers to “drop by for a coffee,” RUN

***

Instagram DMs: @sophiekumpen → @charles_leclerc

Sophie: Bonjour, Charles. Would you mind sending me your mother’s number?

Charles:Bonjour… of course. Is everything alright?

Sophie: Everything is fine. I just think she and I should have a little chat. Mother to mother.

Charles: ... Is this about dinner?

Sophie: Among other things. Don’t worry. I’m always very polite. Even when I’m deeply unimpressed.

Charles: ...I’ll send the number. Should I warn her?

Sophie: If you like. Though I find surprise tends to make people more honest. 😊

Charles: Noted.

Sophie: Merci. And Charles? Be kind to your sister. She’s braver than most of you realize.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: Sophie Kumpen just DMed me asking for Maman’s number.

Arthur: wait what. as in Max’s mum????

Lorenzo: …what did she say?

Charles: She said she wants to “have a little chat.” “Mother to mother.” Also said she’s “always polite. Even when deeply unimpressed.”

Arthur: holy shit

Lorenzo: That’s… terrifying. She’s the quiet kind of scary.

Charles: Right?? Jos is like a storm. You see him coming. Sophie is the earthquake under your feet.

Arthur: did you give her the number???

Charles: Yes?? What was I supposed to do?? She said “merci” and then told me to be kind to Belle because she’s braver than any of us know. I was emotionally held hostage.

Lorenzo: She’s not wrong. Belle is braver than any of us. We just didn’t see it.

Arthur: we should’ve. we should’ve made her feel like she didn’t need to be brave around us.

Charles: Well. Now we wait for the Sophie Effect.

Lorenzo: Maman’s not ready.

Arthur: nobody’s ready.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie :Good Morning, Belle! I’m in Monaco on Thursday. Would you like to have lunch?

Belle: Yes. That sounds great. Please. Wherever suits you. (Unless you want to come to ours, I’ll make something.)

Sophie: I’ll let you choose. I just want to see you. 12:30?

Belle: Perfect. I’ll make a reservation. Thank you for asking. I’ve really been wanting to talk to you.

Sophie: As have I. I’ll see you Thursday, sweetheart. Bring that beautiful baby bump. And don’t you dare worry about anything else.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Belle: Did you know your mother is in Monaco on Thursday?!

Max: …no? I had no idea. Why? What’s happening? Is she okay?

Belle: She just texted and asked if I wanted to get lunch. No drama. Just lunch. She was very sweet.

Max: That’s good?? I mean, she loves you. I’m just confused why I didn’t know 😅

Belle: Maybe she didn’t want you to stress about it.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: The day has come. The talk is upon us. Mom’s going to be in Monaco on Thursday.

Victoria: oh. oh no. is this about Pascale?

Max: She asked Belle to lunch. Alone. So I am expecting her to verbally annihilate Pascale for breakfast.

Victoria: SHE’S GOING TO EAT HER ALIVE IN A TAILORED COAT AND PEARL EARRINGS

Max: I’m honestly more afraid for Pascale than I was for Dad that one time

Victoria: she’s going to do the quiet voice

Max: the lethal quiet voice the "I’m not angry, I’m disappointed and also morally superior" tone

Victoria: may God have mercy on Pascale’s soul (because mom won’t)

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Max: Heads up. My mum is going to be in Monaco on Thursday.

Charles: Oh no.

Max:

I’m 95% sure this is about Sunday.

And your mother.

Charles:

Ah. She asked me for her phone number but clearly she has decided that she needs to talk to her in person… 

Max: Yeah. She knows what happened at dinner. I didn’t tell her everything, but I didn’t need to. She’s connected enough dots to be… not thrilled.

Charles: How bad are we talking?

Max: Sophie-bad. Not Jos yelling bad—worse. The calm kind of bad. The “I will destroy you with facts and a smile” kind of bad.

Charles: …she’s going to kill Maman.

Max: She’s not going to kill her. She’s going to sit across from her in linen trousers and a silk scarf and say things that sound perfectly polite and make your mother spiral for weeks.

Charles: Oh god.

Max: Belle has no idea. And I would prefer to keep it that way.

Charles: Understood. I’ll warn the others. (Should we call Lorenzo?? He’s the diplomat.)

Max:

If Sophie wants to talk, Lorenzo couldn’t broker peace if he tried.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: 🚨 Update: Sophie Verstappen is going to be in Monaco on Thursday. It’s not a social visit. It’s a Sophie visit. Max warned me. She knows what happened at dinner. Apparently Max didn’t even tell her everything—but she figured it out. She’s not happy.

Arthur: Okay but what does that mean exactly??

Lorenzo: It means she’s coming in tailored trousers and quiet fury and is about to emotionally dismantle Maman using three polite sentences and an herbal tea.

Arthur: …should we warn Maman??

Charles: That’s what I said.

Lorenzo: If we tell her, she’ll try to control the situation and that’ll make it worse.

Arthur: So we just… let her walk into the Sophie Trap??

Charles: We let Max handle it. He asked us not to say anything to Belle. She has no idea.

Lorenzo: She deserves a break, anyway. Honestly, Sophie giving Maman a long-overdue reality check might be the best gift Belle could get.

Arthur: She’s going to obliterate Maman, isn’t she. . 

Charles: Max literally said: “She’s going to sit across from her in linen trousers and a silk scarf and say things that sound perfectly polite and make your mother spiral for weeks.”

Lorenzo: …well.

Arthur: Should we do something?

Charles: Max said not to. I quote: “If Sophie wants to talk, Lorenzo couldn’t broker peace if he tried.”

Lorenzo: Rude, but fair.

Arthur: I vote we hide.

***

Sophie hadn’t come to Monaco to start a fight. She didn’t need to.

People like Pascale Leclerc didn’t respond to raised voices. They responded to subtle shifts in temperature. Gentle truths. Icy clarity.

Sophie’s heels clicked softly against the stone path leading to Pascale Leclerc’s door, the rhythm even, precise. She’d chosen her outfit deliberately: clean ivory trousers, a soft blue blouse, hair pinned back. No jewelry except for her watch. Everything about her appearance said calm, collected, reasonable.

And that, of course, was the point.

Jos could intimidate with volume. Sophie did it with silence, with poise, with a steel-edged smile that didn’t need to raise its voice to be heard.

The door opened.

Pascale blinked at her, startled and still in her dressing robe, a coffee cup in hand.

“Sophie?”

“Bonjour, Pascale,” Sophie said, smooth as ever. “I hope I’m not intruding. I was in Monaco and thought we could catch up.”

“Oh, I—of course, come in.”

Inside, everything was as Sophie expected. Elegant. Neutral. Impersonal.

She took a seat in the sitting room, hands resting lightly in her lap as Pascale flitted to the kitchen to prepare espresso. Sophie’s eyes wandered—not snooping, just observant. Pictures of the Leclerc children lined the mantel. Arthur, Charles, Lorenzo—big frames, central placements. Belle was there too, but off to the side. Cropped in. Slightly tilted behind a decorative candle holder.

That told her everything she needed to know.

Pascale returned with the espresso cups and handed one over with a tentative smile. “Sugar?”

“Always,” Sophie replied.

There was a moment of polite silence.

“I’m not here because something’s wrong,” Sophie said calmly. “I’m here because something has been wrong for a very long time. And I think you need to hear it from someone who isn’t your daughter. I heard about Sunday finner”

Pascale blinked. “From Belle?”

“From my son.” Sophie’s gaze didn’t waver. “Belle doesn’t complain. She survives.”

Pascale flinched. “I didn’t mean to upset her—”

Sophie tilted her head, eyes cool. “You didn’t mean to. That’s always the excuse, isn’t it? You’ve built your whole motherhood on the idea that intention erases harm. It doesn’t.”

Pascale didn’t answer.

“You didn’t mean to forget her birthday. You didn’t mean to dismiss her work. You didn’t mean to make a joke about not being invited to her wedding when you didn’t even ask why you weren’t invited in the first place.”

Pascale went quiet.

Sophie continued, voice calm and exact. “You didn’t mean to hurt her. But you did. Over and over. Because you assumed she’d take it. That she’d understand. That she’d be fine.”

Sophie set down her cup and folded her hands neatly. Her voice didn’t sharpen, but it grew firmer. “I have two children. Max and Victoria.”

Pascale nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“They’re just about two years apart. He was born in 1997. She arrived in 1999. They were loud. Competitive. Wild.” A fond smile tugged at Sophie’s lips. “Very much siblings.”

Pascale exhaled. “They’re close in age too, you know. All three of them. Charles was born in 1997. Belle in ’99. Arthur in 2000. They were always… together. Loud. Chaotic. There is no manual for parenting children so tightly packed.”

Sophie let the silence breathe before adding, “And yet somehow, I managed not to forget my daughter.”

Pascale flinched.

“I love both of my children. Equally. Differently. Fiercely. And not once have I ever made Victoria feel like she mattered less than Max. Even when he started winning karting trophies. Even when the spotlight was on him and him alone. I could’ve let him take up all the space. He’s Max Verstappen—how easy would that have been? One child chasing world titles, the other left in the background.”

Sophie folded her hands delicately around her coffee cup.

“I know what it’s like to sit at a dinner table and choose to ask my daughter how her week was. I know what it’s like to remember her birthday even when Max has a race. I know what it’s like to see them both as whole people—equally deserving of being seen, even when the world tries to make it about just one.”

She let that sit between them. Let it sting.

“I don’t think you meant to forget Belle,” Sophie said, her voice soft now. “But you did. For years.”

“I know I haven’t always handled things well,” Pascale said. “Charles’ career took so much of everything. Time. Energy. Attention. And Belle never demanded anything. Not like the boys.”

“That’s the thing about girls like Belle,” Sophie said. “They don’t demand—they just quietly disappear. Until one day, they don’t come back.” Sophie leaned forward slightly. “You didn’t just forget your daughter. You erased her. Slowly. Kindly. With a smile. The kind of maternal neglect you can hide behind birthday cards and a roast chicken.”

Tears pricked in Pascale’s eyes. Sophie didn’t flinch.

“Belle is more than Charles’ sister. More than a Leclerc. She’s a woman. A professional. A wife. A soon-to-be mother. And you made her feel like the understudy in a family performance that never had room for her.”

A pause.

“She didn’t invite you to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe. That’s not an oversight, Pascale. That’s a statement. And she was right to make it.”

That landed.

“She didn’t marry Max because of who he is on the grid,” Sophie went on. “She married him because he saw her. Because he made her feel like she mattered. Because he never asked her to shrink.”

A long pause.

“She loves you, Pascale. That’s obvious. It’s why it hurt so much. It’s why she stayed quiet for so long. But she’s not going to beg anymore. And you don’t get forever to fix this.”

“I’ve watched Max fall in love exactly once,” Sophie said softly. “And it was with her. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at her.”

That stopped Pascale. She said nothing.

“Do you understand what that means, Pascale?” Sophie asked. “Max is not an easy man. He’s brilliant, yes. But he is intense. Demanding. He grew up in a house where love was conditional, where you earned praise by winning. And then Belle—your daughter—walked into his life, and everything changed.”

“She softened him,” Sophie continued. “Not by shrinking herself, not by appeasing him. But by loving him exactly as he is. By never making him feel like he was too much. She steadies him. Sees the parts of him he doesn’t let anyone else see. And because of her, he’s gentler. Happier. Kinder.”

A beat.

She met Pascale’s eyes. “Do you know how rare that is? Do you know how much it means to me, as his mother, that the person he chose makes him feel safe?”

Pascale looked down at her hands.

“She is so good for my son,” Sophie said. “She sees him as Max, not a trophy. And he sees her—really sees her. Your daughter. Your brilliant, kind, fiercely steady daughter.”

She picked up her phone and slipped it into her coat pocket. “You may not get many more chances to prove you see her too.”

Pascale rose slowly, still blinking.

Sophie reached the door, paused, and turned. “It’s not too late, Pascale. But it’s getting close.”

And with that, she left. Silent, measured, devastating. Like a queen who didn’t need a crown to be feared.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur:ok but like who’s going to check on Maman

Charles:not me.

Arthur:not me. Enzo, you’re up. 

Lorenzo:you’re both cowards. you’ve driven at monaco in the rain and you’re scared of a 60-year-old woman in linen this is above my paygrade

Charles: this is above everyone’s paygrade

Lorenzo:i’m not a diplomat. i can’t emotionally reparent maman.

Lorenzo: if i don’t text back in 20 mins assume the worst and tell Charlotte i loved her

Arthur: Also… maybe don’t bring up Belle for a bit.

Lorenzo: She already said, “I was trying my best.” I didn’t know what to say.

Arthur: Maybe: “Then your best wasn’t good enough”? 😬

Charles: Jesus Christ. Do not say that.

***

Belle was already seated at their usual table at Le Petit Marché by the time Sophie arrived—linen blouse perfectly pressed, sunglasses still perched on her head like she’d walked out of a silent film set in Saint-Tropez.

“Bonjour, sweetheart,” Sophie said, leaning down to kiss both her cheeks before taking the seat across from her.  “You look glowing.”

Belle laughed, a little breathless. “I look puffy.”

“You look lovely,” Sophie corrected, settling across from her. She flagged down the waiter with a tilt of her chin. “Still sparkling water?”

Belle nodded. “You remember.”

“I remember everything,” Sophie said lightly, but her eyes lingered on Belle for a second too long to be casual.

They ordered—salads, tartines, nothing too heavy—and by the time the drinks arrived, Belle had finally let herself exhale.

It was easy, being with Sophie. It always had been.

Max’s mother had never made her feel like she needed to be louder, or smaller, or clever in a way that didn’t come naturally. Sophie simply saw her, and for Belle, that was still something of a quiet miracle.

They talked about everything and nothing. It was only when their plates had been cleared and coffee had been brought that Sophie said, in her most casual tone, “And how are you doing? Truly?”

Belle blinked. “I’m… okay.”

Sophie tilted her head.

“Some days are harder than others,” Belle admitted. “But Max makes them better. Always.”

Sophie stirred her coffee once, twice, then set her spoon down with precision. “He’s different with you, you know.”

Belle smiled, ducking her head. “I know.”

“I’ve watched that boy drive through everything—noise, pressure, fire. And still, you’re the first person who made him slow down.” Sophie’s gaze softened. “It’s beautiful. And it scares him.”

Belle was still smiling when she looked up and saw Sophie watching her. Not assessing. Not judging. Just… looking.

“I had coffee with your mother this morning,” Sophie said, tone gentle but deliberate.

Belle blinked. “You did?”

“I did. She didn’t know I was coming. I like the element of surprise.”

Belle set her fork down carefully. “Was she…”

“Wrecked? Defensive? A little of both.” Sophie shrugged. “But I said what I needed to say.”

Belle was silent, unsure if she wanted to ask what that entailed.

Sophie didn’t make her. “I told her that I have a son who drives a Formula One car. And a daughter who has spent most of her life in his shadow. Just like you.”

Belle’s throat tightened.

“But I didn’t forget my daughter,” Sophie continued, voice calm and precise. “I didn’t ask her to shrink so her brother could shine. I didn’t treat her love as smaller just because it wasn’t in a headline. And I certainly didn’t make her feel like the supporting character in her own life.”

Belle looked down at her water glass. Her eyes stung.

“I told her,” Sophie went on, “that my son saw your worth immediately. From the first moment. ”

Belle swallowed, hard. “Sophie…”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Sophie said. “It was overdue.”

“She loves you, I think,” Sophie said. “But love without effort is just sentiment. And you deserve more than sentiment.”

“Thank you,” Belle whispered.“I’m really glad you’re here,” Belle said softly.

Sophie smiled and reached across the table, brushing a piece of hair from Belle’s cheek. “You are my daughter now. I will always show up.”

Belle blinked fast. “If I cry in this café, Max is going to blame you.”

“He already does,” Sophie said breezily. “Now then we’re going shopping. I saw a pair of flats that are very you, and you’re not leaving without them.”

 Which meant Belle left the afternoon with a pair of maternity jeans so well-tailored she could cry, a cashmere cardigan in the softest dove grey, and a little knit hat for the baby that Sophie claimed she couldn’t walk past without buying.

“I spoil the people I love,” she said, like it was obvious.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Charles: Your mother’s intervention has resulted in our mother questioning all her life choices.

Max:Good. She should.

Charles: She’s been sitting on the balcony for an hour Just… staring at the sea Like she’s in an existential French film. Alexandra brought her tea and she whispered "Am I a bad mother?"

Max: Sophie works fast. And thoroughly.

Charles: She didn’t even raise her voice.

Max: She never does. That’s how you know it’s serious.

Charles: Do you think she’s available for hire? We could send her to FIA meetings.

Max: I’ll ask.

Charles: No but seriously I think it got through to her. She hasn’t deflected once today. She’s just… quiet.

Max: That’s progress.

Charles: She’s still herself, don’t worry. She asked if Belle wanted a proper wedding And Arthur started choking on his juice.

Max: Tell your mother our wedding was already perfect. No upgrades needed.

Charles: Tell your mother she might be the only person who’s ever successfully made our mother reflect. It’s like watching a glacier move.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: And has your mother-in-law survived Mom? 👀

Max:

She’s still breathing. But I think she’s in a mild existential crisis.

Victoria: Mild?

Max: She spent twenty minutes staring at the ocean in silence. Then apparently asked Charles if she’s been a bad mother. Then actually listened when he answered.

Victoria: Oh damn. Mom really unleashed the linen-trousered therapy nuke.

Max: She just sipped her espresso and dismantled a whole family system. Belle doesn’t know the half of it.

Victoria: She doesn’t need to. Mom did what moms are supposed to do: Protect their daughters.

Max: I know. And Belle’s glowing today. She had lunch with her and came back with a cardigan, a hat for the baby, and suspiciously expensive flats.

Victoria: That’s the Sophie Kumpen Experience™ Phase 1: espresso. Phase 2: emotional reparenting. Phase 3: light shopping spree.

Max: Tell me you’re related without telling me you’re related.

Victoria: Tell Belle I said she’s now Mom’s favorite. Also tell Pascale not to test her again unless she wants a sequel.

***

The room felt softer this time.

There was no cold weight in her chest, no sense of armor laced tight under her ribs. Belle still sat close to Max, still had one hand resting over her bump, but for once, it wasn’t to brace herself. It was just—her hand. On her stomach. Because their son had been active all morning, and she could feel the light nudges that reminded her, constantly, of the new chapter ahead.

Camille gave everyone the same calm nod as she sat. “Thank you for being here again.”

They all murmured polite hellos. Belle caught her brothers’ expressions—Charles quiet but attentive, Arthur slightly wary, Lorenzo composed as ever. Max, steady and grounded next to her, nodded at Camille. She always liked how seriously he took this.

But it was Pascale who surprised her.

Her mother looked tired—but not defensive. Not braced. She looked… resolved. There were faint lines beneath her eyes, the kind that come from crying. Her hair was pinned back neatly. Her hands folded in her lap. Belle didn’t recognize this version of her. And somehow, that made it harder.

“Before we begin,” Camille said gently, “Pascale mentioned she had something she’d like to say.”

Belle tensed automatically. Max’s pinky brushed hers in silent reassurance.

Pascale looked at her daughter.

“I owe you an apology,” she said quietly.

The words landed like a stone in the water. Clear. Heavy. Real.

Belle didn’t speak.

“I didn’t come here today to justify anything,” Pascale said. “I’ve spent too long doing that. Dismissing things. Telling myself that good intentions were enough.” She exhaled. “They weren’t.”

The silence in the room wasn’t awkward. It was reverent.

“I’ve been thinking a lot this week,” Pascale continued. “About you, Belle. About how many birthdays I missed. How many quiet accomplishments I treated like background noise. I thought I was being fair. Letting everyone find their own way. But I see now—I see that I didn’t give you the same space I gave the boys.”

Belle’s throat tightened.

Pascale looked down, voice softer. “I told myself that because you didn’t complain, you were okay. That you were independent. That you didn’t need as much.” Her voice cracked. “But you did. Of course you did. And I wasn’t there.”

There was a moment—brief, flickering—where Belle’s heart stuttered. She tried to breathe through it.

“I was a good mother to Charles,” Pascale said. “And Arthur. And Lorenzo. But I wasn’t a good mother to you. And I want to say that out loud. I need you to hear it. No excuses. Just truth.”

A beat. Then another.

“And I am so proud of the woman you became anyway.”

That broke something in Belle. She didn’t cry—but the tears burned hot in her chest, where all the old silences used to live.

Pascale looked up, eyes glassy. “Your work is brilliant. Your marriage is strong. And this baby—this baby is so lucky. Because he’ll be raised by someone who knows how to see people. Truly see them.”

Belle exhaled shakily.

“I want to earn my place again,” Pascale said. “Not as your mother by name. But as someone who supports you. Who shows up. Who listens, even when it’s uncomfortable.”

Max stayed quiet beside her. Charles had his hand loosely over his mouth. Arthur blinked hard. Lorenzo watched his mother like he was seeing her clearly for the first time.

Belle’s voice was small. “It hurt.”

“I know,” Pascale whispered. “And I’m sorry.”

[shokocide]

POWER PLAY - GOJO SATORU

summary. Gojo Satoru’s used to getting everything he wants—until his company hires you, the shy assistant who’s all glitter, gloss and charm. But the more he tries to stay professional, the harder it gets… in more ways than one.

word count. 9.3k (not 10k wow)

content. mdni fem!bimbo! reader, ceo! gojo, gojo crashing out for multiple reasons, down bad simp gojo, heavy tension, teasing, jealousy, pet names, smut, multiple scenes, fingering, oral (m and f rec.), p in v, office sex, desk sex, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare

author's note. inspired by this by my leslover @deathofacupid i'm sorry this took so long imy hardcore my angel

The wine’s expensive, but not because he’s trying to impress her.

He just likes the taste.

The restaurant is sleek, candlelit, with soft jazz humming in the background. It’s the kind of place that whispers luxury, not screams it — understated elegance, a lot like his watch. Or his suit. Or the car he pulled up in.

The girl across from him is… nice. Pretty in that polished, social-media kind of way. Knows which fork to use, laughs at the right moments, has a thousand-watt smile and legs he noticed the second she slid into the booth.

For the first time in a long time, Gojo thinks: maybe.

Maybe this could go somewhere.

She sips her wine, sets the glass down, and leans in just enough for the scent of vanilla to drift his way. Her voice is smooth, easy. “So, what’s it like, running an empire?”

He smiles, a little self-deprecating. “Exhausting.”

She laughs. “Bet it pays well, though.”

A harmless joke, maybe. But something cold flickers at the edge of his ribs.

He hums, brushing it off.

But then she tilts her head, lashes fluttering just so. “I mean… you must be, like, what? Eight figures? Nine?”

There it is.

His smile doesn’t falter, but something in his chest withers.

He takes a slow sip of his wine. Lets the silence stretch for a beat too long.

Eight figures. Nine.

She’s still looking at him, expectant. Playful.

He should be used to this by now. Hell, he is. But it still stings. Every damn time.

“I stopped counting,” he says lightly, setting his glass down.

She laughs again, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “That’s such a rich guy answer.”

And just like that, the candlelight feels too warm, the wine too bitter. The space between them grows miles wide.

Gojo leans back in his seat, fingers drumming lightly on the tablecloth. He already knows there won’t be a second date. No nightcap. No exchanged texts or cheeky goodnights.

And when he finally slips into the backseat of his car an hour later, staring blankly out the tinted window at the blur of city lights, a single thought loops in his head like a broken record:

Maybe this just isn’t in the cards for me.

Not the connection. Not the late-night calls. Not the stupid domestic shit he secretly wants — tangled legs on a couch, coffee in chipped mugs, someone who sees him.

He huffs a soft laugh, more bitter than amused.

Gojo Satoru has everything.

And somehow, he feels like he has nothing.

-

“What did you just say?”

Gojo doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The sheer weight behind the words is enough to make the room still.

Nanami adjusts his glasses, like he hasn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb in the middle of Gojo’s morning.

“The quarterly reports,” he repeats flatly, “were emailed to Zenin Holdings.”

A pause.

“And the Osaka merger documents,” he adds. “Along with internal notes referring to their CEO as—” he consults his tablet, “—‘an off-brand Ken doll.’”

Gojo presses a hand to his temple, like he’s physically holding in the migraine.

“Who?” he grits out.

Nanami doesn’t blink. “The new recruit.”

Another silence stretches.

Then Gojo lowers his hand. “Bring them to my office.”

Nanami nods once, and without another word, leaves the room.

-

You’re not sure why you were summoned.

You clutch your little pastel folder to your chest like it might protect you, knees squeezed together as you sit—perch, really—on the plush chair outside the glass doors of the executive office.

The receptionist gave you a look. You’re not sure what kind of look. It felt kind of judge-y. Or maybe pitying?

Then, the doors open.

“You can go in,” Nanami says, voice flat as ever.

You blink up at him, eyes wide. “Oh! Okay. Um. Am I—” You pause, then smile nervously. “Am I in trouble?”

He doesn’t answer.

That’s fine. Totally fine.

You step into the office with careful little steps, the kind of walk that says please don’t fire me before I finish paying off my student loans.

Inside, the man behind the desk looks up.

White hair. Stupidly pretty face. Cerulean eyes that flick over you like you’re a puzzle that somehow assembled itself upside-down.

He’s not smiling.

You don’t meet his eyes—not for more than a second—just dip your head as you approach his desk.

“I—um. I was told to… to report here?”

Your voice is so quiet he almost misses it.

He leans back in his chair, elbow on the armrest, thumb brushing his jaw. “You’re the new recruit?”

You nod once, too fast. “Y-Yes. I mean, I think so. That’s what Mr. Nanami said, at least. He said—um, he said this is my new position now.”

You step fully into the office, holding a pink folder like it might bite you. You’re wearing a cream sweater that looks two sizes too soft and a plaid skirt that’s about four inches too short for HR standards. Your ID badge is flipped backward. Your heels click awkwardly against the tile.

And he suddenly understands how people end up doing very, very stupid things for women.

You stand there, shifting your weight from one heel to the other, clutching your folder like it’s a lifeline.

“And you are…?”

You whisper your name so faintly he has to repeat it aloud just to be sure.

“Right.” He pauses. “Well, take a seat.”

You hesitate for a second too long before perching on the very edge of the chair across from him—back stiff, eyes focused on the edge of his desk.

Gojo leans back in his chair. He’s quiet for a beat too long.

Then “So,” he says, tone deceptively mild. “Tell me. Why did Zenin Holdings get our quarterly reports?”

You freeze.

“I—I didn’t know they weren’t supposed to?” you offer, blinking up at him.

He blinks back. Slowly.

You chew your lip in thought. “They were in the CC list… and I thought that meant they were part of the, um… quarterly club?”

“The what.”

“The quarterly club?” you repeat, voice smaller now. “Y’know. People who… get quarter stuff.”

You trail off, wilting under the weight of his silence.

Gojo stares at you. Hard. Trying—trying—to remember that you are a human being. With feelings. With softness. With a little clip shaped like a bunny holding back your hair. His eye twitches.

“And the Osaka merger notes?” he asks slowly, enunciating each word like it might hurt.

Your expression brightens slightly, like you've just remembered something important. “Oh! Yeah, I added a couple of personal notes to that file! Like, color commentary. For context.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Color commentary.”

He almost sighs. This is who HR sent? The one who forwarded classified financial statements to a competitor because their logo “looked kind of familiar”?

But then you shift slightly, fidgeting with the hem of your skirt, and he catches a glimpse of that anxious expression. The way you bite the inside of your cheek. Like you're waiting to be yelled at. Like you already know you’ve messed up and can’t even figure out how to explain yourself.

And, god help him, something about that makes his chest ache.

Gojo closes his eyes briefly. He’s going to need to do breathing exercises. Maybe call Shoko and have her prescribe something illegal.

You smile again. It’s like watching sunlight struggle through a stormcloud. “Was that bad?”

He exhales.

He should fire you. Realistically, that’s the correct response. A sane man would do it.

But when he opens his eyes, you're still standing there—wide-eyed, a little nervous, but so terribly, painfully earnest.

And his heart does that stupid little lurch again.

“No,” he mutters finally. “Not bad.”

You brighten instantly. “Oh, yay! I was worried—”

“But,” he cuts in, holding up a hand, “you’re going to be working directly under me from now on.”

Your brows lift. “Really? Oh my gosh, that sounds so fancy!”

“It’s not,” he lies smoothly.

He’s already planning which desk you’ll sit at in his office. Already making a mental note to have HR triple-check your email access. Already dreading what happens when you accidentally reply-all to a company-wide memo.

You give a delighted little bounce, clearly thrilled by the promotion.

Gojo’s not even mad anymore.

He’s confused. He’s concerned. He’s possibly having a stroke.

And he’s completely, utterly fucked.

-

It starts with the printer.

You stand in front of it for ten minutes straight, staring like it personally wronged you. Gojo passes by, slows, then stops entirely when he sees you poking the touchscreen with a single perfectly-manicured finger.

“…Need help?”

You turn, lip caught between your teeth. “I think it’s jammed.”

He crouches down, opens the tray, and immediately pulls out a crumpled sheet that’s very clearly been inserted upside down.

“Oh,” you murmur, eyes wide with awe. “You’re so smart.”

He straightens slowly. “Right.”

Then there’s the time he catches you on your way to send a very important file.

You wave at him, cheerful. “Hi, Mr. Gojo! I’m going to fax that thing you said.”

“Email,” he corrects gently, already bracing himself.

“Oh—right! Email. I meant that.”

(You did not.)

Still, when you do manage to send the right file—to the correct company this time—he gives you an exaggerated look of impressed approval.

“Nice job,” he says. “Look at you.”

You beam. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he says, completely serious. “You’re crushing it.”

He swears your cheeks actually flush. Like you’re the one who just got complimented for launching a satellite into orbit instead of… attaching a PDF.

Another time, he asks you to bring him a hard copy of the quarterly budget report.

You come back ten minutes later with a full-color printout of a Pinterest banana bread recipe.

You fidget when he just blinks down at the paper, eyes wide. “I, um… I might’ve labeled it wrong on my desktop.”

He hands it back. “Looks delicious.”

Despite everything—everything—he just can’t seem to get frustrated with you. Your voice is always soft when you speak to him, full of tentative politeness like you’re worried he might bite (he won’t—unless asked). You apologize earnestly for every tiny mistake, so genuinely mortified each time that he ends up reassuring you.

And when you do get something right—God help him—he reacts like you’ve cured polio.

“That’s perfect,” he tells you one afternoon, glancing at a neatly stapled stack of documents you’ve triple-checked for typos. “You nailed it.”

You blink up at him, mouth parted just a little. “…Really?”

“Mmhm. Proud of you.”

You go quiet. Blush furiously. Practically flee the room.

Gojo grins at the door after it clicks shut behind you.

He’s doomed.

Absolutely doomed.

-

“Do you need to stand there like that?” the exec snaps, arms crossed. “That machine isn’t rocket science.”

You blink, startled. “O-oh… I’m just— I’m trying to find the—um, the collate button?”

“It’s literally right there,” he scoffs, jabbing a finger at the screen. “God, how did you even get hired?”

You flinch like you’ve been struck. Eyes down, voice small. “I—I’m sorry…”

And that’s exactly when Gojo shows up.

You don’t even see him coming. One second the air is stiff with tension, the next it’s cut clean by the sound of his voice—smooth, pleasant, deceptively light:

“Everything okay over here?”

The exec stiffens. “Sir. I was just—”

“I saw,” Gojo says simply, stepping in beside you. He doesn’t even look at the guy—his gaze is already on you, sharp and assessing.

“You alright?”

You nod quickly. “Mhm. Sorry. I was just confused—”

“No need to apologize,” he says, almost too softly. “That’s what training is for.”

Then he finally looks up—at the exec—and there’s something in his eyes that wipes the smug off the latter’s face immediately.

“Unless,” he adds with a tilted smile, “you’re suggesting I made a mistake hiring her?”

Silence.

The exec stammers. “Of course not, sir. I—”

“Good,” Gojo says. “Then don’t talk to her like that again.”

The exec makes a quick, flustered exit. Gojo turns back to you, and his whole demeanor changes—softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You nod again, a little stunned. “…I didn’t mean to make trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he assures you. “Some people just forget how to be decent.”

And then—because you’re fidgeting and biting your lip and looking far too much like you’re going to cry—he gently takes the stack of papers from your arms.

“C’mere,” he says. “I’ll help you.”

You trail after him, still pink in the cheeks, still utterly confused by the way his hand just barely grazes the small of your back as he guides you to his office.

(You don’t know it yet, but Gojo has already scheduled a little "chat" with HR.)

-

He checks his watch for the third time that morning.

9:47 AM.

You were supposed to be here by 9:00.

Gojo exhales, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair, irritation simmering just beneath his skin. Meetings have been pushed, calls delayed. He’s not even sure why he’s this impatient—he has other assistants, more capable ones at that. But none of them stumble into his office with sleepy eyes and whispered apologies like you do.

And like clockwork, the door swings open with a quiet creak.

You enter in a flurry—breathless, hair slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed with panic. The top two buttons of your blouse are undone, likely forgotten in the rush, and your skirt is just slightly askew. Your chest rises and falls in frantic rhythm, lips parted as you gasp, “I’m so, so sorry I’m late—”

Satoru turns in his chair, ready to scold. Ready to lecture you into next week.

But the words die in his throat.

His gaze drops.

The loose fabric of your blouse shifts with each heavy breath, revealing just enough skin to make his jaw tighten. The delicate slope of your collarbone, the curve of your breasts pressing faintly against the silk. One deep breath away from completely derailing his morning.

You don’t notice the way his posture stiffens. Or the way his grip on the armrest turns white-knuckled.

He stands slowly.

Silent.

You freeze when he starts walking toward you, every step measured. His voice, when it comes, is quieter than you expect. Lower.

“Why are you late?”

You blink up at him, confused by the shift in tone. The air around him feels… heavier somehow. You fidget, your voice soft, guilty. “I—I overslept. My alarm didn’t go off and then the train was late and I didn’t mean to—”

He stops in front of you, towering over you. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—warm, expensive, intoxicating.

You glance up nervously, throat bobbing.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper again, lips trembling in the tiniest pout. You’re not even aware of how you sound, how you look. Not aware of the storm building behind his gaze.

And that is the worst part.

Because you don’t know what you’re doing to him.

You never do.

Gojo inhales sharply, jaw clenched. He watches the way your fingers twist in the hem of your cardigan like you’re expecting to be punished.

But instead of snapping, instead of chastising you like he knows he should, he closes his eyes for a second, forcing down the heat licking at his spine.

“...Don’t let it happen again,” he says at last, voice hoarse.

You nod quickly—eager to please, still breathless, completely unaware that he’s already running through several very unprofessional thoughts involving those undone buttons and his desk.

He turns away before he can say something stupid. Or worse—do something worse.

“Go grab your coffee,” he mutters. “You’ll need it.”

Because he sure as hell does.

-

Gojo thinks he’s composed. Polished. Unshakeable. He built an empire from the ground up, commands boardrooms with a single glance, and has executives stuttering when they see his name on a meeting invite. And yet—you.

You waltz into his office in pink heels, with a notepad that’s more doodles than notes and a voice so breathy it makes his vision blur. You don’t even mean to drive him insane, he knows that. That’s the worst part. You’re just sweet. Oblivious. Soft in ways that make his dick ache.

Like today. You’re sitting on the edge of his desk, babbling on the phone about a nail appointment while absentmindedly reapplying your lip gloss—shiny, sticky, strawberry-scented. He watches the wand glide over your bottom lip like it's a slow-motion scene from a movie no one else gets to see. He’s staring. Unblinking. Dying.

And when you leave, heels clicking, skirt swaying, you forget the gloss. He doesn’t even hesitate. Just picks it up and rolls it between his fingers, stares at it. It smells like strawberries. You smell like strawberries. His head hits the back of his chair. He’s so fucked.

It happens again and again. You lean over his desk to show him your “cute calendar” for the month—full of glittery stickers and hearts—and your cleavage is right there. Right. There. He knocks his coffee into his lap and doesn’t even flinch. Just stares at you while it soaks through his slacks, wondering if this is how men go insane.

And then in the elevator. Five minutes. Just the two of you. You don’t even notice the silence thick with tension. You’re talking about your new lip liner. He’s clutching the railing behind him like it’s keeping him tethered to Earth. If you’d looked at him, you’d have seen the vein in his neck pulsing like a warning sign.

But nothing—nothing—compares to the time you shyly step into his office and whisper, “I finished typing the reports, sir.”

He doesn’t breathe for a full ten seconds. Just stares at you like you just moaned it instead of murmured it. Sir. Sir.

He shifts in his seat. Crosses his legs. Forces a smile. “Good,” he manages to say, voice tight.

You beam, oblivious. “Thank you, sir!”

He books a week off.

For “stress.”

-

His voice is calm. Measured. Smooth as silk over the phone speaker as he discusses quarterly projections with someone powerful on the other end. It should be just another meeting—another conversation where he dazzles and dominates, where the board eats out of the palm of his hand.

But you're sitting beside him. So it’s not just another meeting.

You’re perched on the edge of his long leather couch, notepad in hand, eyes wide and glossy with focus—or something like it. You’re wearing that tight little pastel skirt again, the one that always hikes up when you sit, riding dangerously high on your thighs. He’s not looking. He’s not. He can’t.

You chew on the tip of your pen. Take little notes in bubbly handwriting that looks more like diary scribbles than minutes. Your perfume curls around him like sugar—sweet and sticky and heavy.

He swallows thickly and forces his voice to stay even.

“Yes, I saw the numbers from Q1. I’m more concerned about the international—”

Your pen clatters to the ground.

You let out a tiny “Oops!” and bend down to retrieve it.

And he sees it.

The hem of your skirt lifts, slow and innocent. And beneath? A delicate peek of pink lace. Just a flash. Barely anything. But enough. Far too much.

His throat goes dry mid-sentence.

“—international… ah—i-interest projections,” he chokes, dragging a hand down his face like that’ll fix the heat flooding it. On the other end of the call, someone asks a question. He doesn’t hear it.

You sit back up like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just flash your lace panties in front of a man on the verge of damnation.

You turn to him with a soft, clueless smile. “Did you want me to jot that last part down, sir?”

He makes a sound. It's somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.

“…Y-Yeah,” he rasps, gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles go white. “Write it down, sweetheart.”

He ends the call early. Tells them he has a migraine.

And when you leave, swaying your hips and humming under your breath, he sits there in silence. Staring at the door.

He needs a second. Maybe a sedative. Maybe a priest.

-

The next few days are… strange.

You don’t do anything differently. Not really. You still show up on time, still take notes in pink ink and heart your i’s. Still trail after him in those little skirts and heels that click sweetly on the marble floors. But now?

Now you catch him looking.

At first, you thought it was your imagination—just a trick of the lights in his big glass-walled office. But then there was that meeting where you leaned over to grab a file from across the table, and his pen slipped right out of his hand.

The way he stared at it on the floor for a solid five seconds before muttering, “I’ll grab it later,” like it had personally wronged him.

Or how his jaw flexes every time you call him “sir.”

And maybe, maybe you're not as airheaded as everyone thinks. Maybe you notice the way his breath stutters when you get a little too close. The way his fingers twitch when yours brush his as you hand him his coffee. The way he clears his throat, sharp and low, whenever you pout a little at the copier machine and ask, “Sir, can you help me? I think I broke it again…”

He’s unraveling. Quietly, pathetically. And now you know it.

So one afternoon, when it’s just you two in the office, you decide to test a theory. You're by his desk, sorting through a stack of documents, when your pen slips from your fingers. Again.

This time, you don't rush to pick it up. This time, you bend at the waist slowly, keeping your knees straight, skirt riding up with every inch.

You hear it—barely—a sharp inhale through his teeth. The creak of leather as he shifts in his chair.

And when you straighten up, all innocent, pen in hand and a small “Got it!” on your lips, you glance back at him.

His eyes are locked on his screen. His jaw is tense. His ears are red.

“Something wrong, sir?” you ask softly.

His hand flexes on the mouse. “No,” he says, too quickly. “Just… keep working.”

You turn back around, letting a little smile play on your lips as you resume sorting. And behind you, you swear you hear him exhale like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

-

The office is quiet. Still.

It’s late—past nine—and everyone’s gone home. The usual buzz of ringing phones and fast-clicking heels has faded into silence, replaced by the distant hum of the city through the tinted glass.

You zip your purse, your reflection faint in the darkened windows, and start toward the elevators when you pass by his office.

There's a light. A thin sliver glowing beneath the heavy door.

You pause. He usually leaves before you—always gone in a blur of cologne and tailored coats, muttering about dinner meetings or conference calls. But tonight?

You don’t even think to knock. You just twist the handle gently and step inside.

He’s on the couch. Jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened. His head’s tipped back, long legs spread lazily, one arm resting across the back of the couch. But it’s his face that stops you—brows knit, lips parted slightly, tension carved into every sharp line of his expression.

“Sir?” you ask, voice soft.

His eyes snap open instantly.

He blinks once. Twice. Like he’s still anchoring himself to the present. Then he straightens slightly, clearing his throat. “You’re still here?” His voice is rough—raspy, like he hasn’t spoken in a while. Like maybe he’s been sitting there, alone in the dark, trying to exhale something that refuses to leave his chest.

“I was just leaving,” you say, stepping in hesitantly. “I saw the light. Thought something was wrong…”

His gaze drags over you, slow and unreadable. You’re still in your little work outfit—tight pencil skirt, soft pink cardigan buttoned just enough, gloss fading but still catching the light.

Something shifts behind his eyes. Not predatory, not quite. Just tired. Tightly wound. Like he's been holding his breath for days and didn't realize it until now.

You take another step in, voice gentler. “Are you okay?”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, low and humorless. “That’s a loaded question.”

You offer a tiny smile, unsure. “Can I… get you anything? Water?”

He leans back again, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. “I’m alright. Just… stressed.”

You take a small step closer. Your heels click against the floor, the sound delicate and deliberate in the thick silence of his office. “Stressed?” you echo, like it’s a foreign concept. “Is it work stuff?”

He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s always work stuff.”

You hesitate. Then, softly—“I could help you.”

His head tilts just slightly. “Help me?”

“Mhm,” you nod, all sweet sincerity. “Like, if there’s something that’d make you feel better…” You give him a soft little shrug, voice light. “I’m good at taking direction. And I always try my best. Especially for you, sir.”

It cuts to silence.

Except it isn’t really silent—just muffled. Wet sounds echo low between your bodies, broken only by the soft catch of your breath and the rougher gasps he keeps trying—and failing—to hold in.

You’re on your knees in front of him.

The carpet’s rough under your skin, but you barely notice. All your attention is on him—on the way he looks half-wrecked, head tipped up like he’s praying for strength he doesn’t have.

His shirt’s half-open, wrinkled and clinging to his chest. His tie’s slung loose around his neck. His belt is unbuckled, slacks shoved just low enough to free his cock, flushed and heavy against your tongue. You’ve got one hand wrapped gently around the base, just to keep him steady, and the rest of him is disappearing into your mouth—slow and warm and dripping with spit.

He’s so hard it hurts. His thighs are tensed under your palms, twitching every time you suck just a little deeper, every time you swirl your tongue just right. His knuckles have gone white where he’s gripping the edge of the desk behind him, and the only reason he hasn’t fucked into your throat yet is because he’s too stunned to move.

One hand’s in your hair. Not tight—barely there, fingers trembling where they tangle in your strands. Like he’s scared to hold you too hard. Like he doesn’t trust himself not to snap.

Because you look up at him with those pretty, shiny eyes—sweet and obedient, mouth stretched around his cock like it’s nothing, like you were made to take it. Every time your lips slide down, you hum like it makes you happy. Like you’re just trying to make him feel good. Like you really think this is helping.

But it’s not just good. It’s fucking devastating.

“F-fuck,” he chokes out, voice thick and raw, eyes squeezing shut like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His hips twitch and he immediately pulls back, like he’s punishing himself for even thinking about pushing deeper. “You—god, you have no idea what you’re doing to me…”

You pull back with a soft, wet pop. Your lips are swollen and slick, gloss long gone, spit clinging to your chin. And still—you look up at him like you don’t understand why he’s shaking. Why his voice is breaking. Why his jaw’s so tight.

You blink slowly, lashes fluttering. Your voice comes out light. “But… I thought I was helping, sir.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment Gojo knows he’s fucked.

Because you’re too sweet, too soft, too good—kneeling on the floor with your mouth still open like you're waiting for permission to keep going. And he doesn’t want to just ruin you.

He wants to worship you while he does it.

His whole body goes still.

Like that last sentence knocked the breath out of him. Like the sight of you—so sweet, so sincere, kneeling between his spread legs with spit on your lips—is too much.

Gojo’s chest heaves, one hand still barely resting in your hair. The other drapes uselessly over the back of the couch, knuckles twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He looks down at you. Really looks—at your flushed cheeks, your glassy eyes, the gloss long gone from your lips. You’re still stroking him, slow and gentle, mouth parted just enough like you’re ready to take him again the second he says so.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he mutters, voice rough.

You tilt your head, blinking up at him. “I was just trying to make you feel better…”

And that’s what shatters him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hand tightening slightly in your hair. Not rough. Just… grounded. Like he needs you now—needs the feel of you to keep from falling apart.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he admits, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “This exact thing. You. On your knees. Pretty little mouth full of me. Acting like you don’t even realize what it’s doing to me.”

When he opens his eyes again, they’re glassy. Wild.

“I think about it all the time, you know? In meetings. At dinner. Late at night in my apartment—fucking my fist wishing it was you.”

Your breath hitches at that. He notices.

And when he strokes your cheek—soft, reverent, thumb brushing over your spit-slick lower lip—you don’t flinch. You just lean into it, eyes wide, mouth still open a little.

“God, baby…” he whispers. “Look at you. You don’t even realize how fucking perfect you are, do you?”

Then, low and commanding, “C’mon. Open up again for me.”

You do. Instantly. No hesitation.

He groans, head falling back against the couch cushion, hips lifting just slightly as you take him back into your mouth—slow, deliberate, deeper this time.

He’s panting now. One hand in your hair, the other gripping the couch so hard the leather creaks under his fingers.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice broken. “Just like that. Let me use your mouth, sweetheart. Let me fuckin’—” He cuts himself off with a ragged gasp when your tongue flicks along the underside of his cock just right.

He tries not to buck his hips.

Tries not to grab your head.

Tries not to lose it completely.

But it’s no use. Not when you look so soft. So obedient. So eager to take everything he gives you.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this isn’t just a one-time thing. Not after this. He’s never letting you go.

You can feel it in the way his thighs tense under your palms. In how his hand tightens just a little too much in your hair, like he’s trying not to pull you down—trying to be good.

But his self-control’s shot to hell.

You hollow your cheeks and ease forward just an inch more. His head snaps back. A long, broken moan spills out of him, and his other hand—still clinging to the edge of the couch—moves to cradle your cheek, palm shaking.

“Wait—baby, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You look up at him. Eyes wide. Unfazed. Lips stretched around him, spit running down your chin. You hum softly—sweet and encouraging, like you want it.

That’s what does it.

Gojo groans deep in his chest, hips twitching once before he locks them still, his hand trembling where it cups your face. He comes hard, spilling onto your tongue, body shuddering like he’s been pulled out of orbit. And you don’t move—don’t flinch—just swallow quietly, blinking up at him like you’ve never done anything so natural in your life.

He’s panting when it’s over. Gasping like he ran a mile, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. His hand slips from your hair and drags gently down the side of your neck, tender and dazed.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re unreal.”

You pull back slowly, mouth slick, lips swollen and pink. There's still a bit of him clinging to your bottom lip—and when you wipe it away with your thumb and suck it off absentmindedly, he makes a soft, wrecked sound in the back of his throat.

“Did I help?” you ask softly, like you’re not already his religion.

And suddenly he’s moving.

In one smooth, needy motion, Gojo leans forward, grabs you under your arms, and pulls you right into his lap. The whole shift is effortless—like you weigh nothing, like you belong there. Your knees settle on either side of his thighs, your hands instinctively resting on his chest.

He’s still breathing hard. Hair messy, tie hanging askew. But his hands are steady now, warm as they cup your hips and hold you close. His head rests against your shoulder for a second, like he just needs to feel you.

“Too well,” he murmurs. “You helped too fucking well.”

One hand lifts to cup the side of your face again. He strokes your cheek with his thumb, gaze softening like he’s trying to memorize everything—your flushed skin, your shiny lips, the way you’re still straddling him like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“You’re so good for me,” he says. Quiet. Honest.

You smile, just barely. “I like being good for you.”

And it clicks for him then. That he’s completely gone. That he’d do anything to keep you like this—sweet, soft, his.

“Let me take care of you now,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You were perfect.”

His mouth brushes your jaw, your cheek, your lips—soft, reverent kisses. Nothing rushed. Just quiet, lingering gratitude, like he’s trying to say everything he doesn’t have words for yet.

He holds you there, warm in his lap, and for once in his life, Gojo Satoru feels like he has nothing else to run to.

-

It starts small.

A glance that lingers too long. The way his eyes flick down to your mouth whenever you talk. The way his voice goes soft��low and fond—when he calls you into his office now.

“Got a minute, sweetheart?”

He always says it like it’s nothing. Like his heart isn’t skipping a beat every time you look up at him with wide eyes.

But then there’s the night he catches you frowning at the copier.

Your arms are crossed, bottom lip caught between your teeth, standing in front of the machine like it just insulted your entire bloodline.

He rounds the corner, sees the blinking error light, and immediately slows his steps.

“Need help?” he asks, lips twitching.

You huff. “It keeps saying ‘paper jam,’ but there’s no paper. I looked!”

Gojo steps in without hesitation, one hand brushing your back as he leans close—so close—to peer into the machine with you.

“Let me help you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice warm.

You freeze a little when he says it like that. Soft. Patient. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to come untangle your messes.

He opens the side panel, reaches in, and—sure enough—pulls out a crumpled little piece of paper stuck way in the back. You blink.

“Oh.”

He grins, glancing down at you. “You’re cute when you try to problem-solve.”

You open your mouth to protest, but before you can say a word, he leans down and kisses you. Soft, slow, sure. Right there in the hallway, lights buzzing faintly overhead.

It doesn’t last long—just a breathless few seconds—but when he pulls back, he’s smiling like you hung the stars.

“See? You do your best,” he says. “And I take care of the rest.”

Another day, another meeting.

You're seated beside him, nervously flipping through a stack of documents. The printouts don’t make much sense—some budget chart you barely understand—but you try to follow along, nodding like you get it.

Gojo notices. Of course he does.

He leans over, voice low near your ear. “That page’s upside down, baby.”

You blink down. Oh. It is.

Your face goes hot instantly. But he just grins, tugs it gently from your hands, and flips it around before setting it neatly back on the table.

Then he grabs your pen and starts jotting little notes in the margins to help. Bullet points. Simplified terms. Asterisks with arrows pointing to key numbers.

You stare at the page.

He nudges your knee under the table, gentle. “I got you.”

Sometimes he kisses you without warning. When you bring him coffee. When you trip over your words in a meeting and look at him like you’re going to cry. When you smile too hard at something stupid and he just can’t help himself.

There’s a moment in the break room—mid-laugh, holding a napkin in your hand—when he walks in, sees you like that, and kisses you so suddenly the coffee cup almost falls from your fingers.

He just pulls you in. Mouth hot and insistent. One hand curling around your waist like he needs you closer.

You gasp against him, wide-eyed, but don’t pull away. You never do.

When he breaks the kiss, he leans his forehead against yours, breathing hard. Eyes glassy.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Couldn’t help it.”

But he’s not sorry. Not even a little.

And when he walks you out at the end of the night—past the quiet desks, the dark windows—he always makes sure your purse is zipped, your coat is buttoned, your phone’s in your hand.

“You good?” he asks, gentle. “Need me to call you a car?”

“I’m okay,” you say every time, small and sweet.

But he still walks you to the elevator, still touches your back as the doors close, still watches them until the numbers tick down and you're out of sight.

Because Gojo Satoru is in love. So in love.

And it’s getting harder every day to pretend he’s not.

-

You hand him the report in silence, nervous fingers lingering just a second too long on the paper. He takes it, brows lifted—expecting to have to fix something, as usual.

But he doesn’t say a word. Just scans the first page, then the second.

Then stillness.

He looks up, something unreadable in his eyes. “You did this?”

You nod slowly. “I… think I got it right.”

He flips back to the beginning. Reads again. His lips part, and he exhales a quiet laugh—disbelieving.

“Yeah. You did.” A pause. “You got everything right.”

Your breath catches.

He pushes back from his desk, legs spreading slightly in his chair, eyes still locked on you. “C’mere.”

You walk around the desk slowly. His chair rolls back a little, his hands landing on your hips to guide you between his legs. His voice is low, almost amused.

“You’ve been trying to get this right for weeks.”

“I know,” you say quietly, blinking up at him.

“You’ve been trying so hard,” he murmurs, thumb brushing under your chin. “And I’ve been so fucking patient.”

Before you can ask what that means, he pulls you in, kissing you soft and deep, tongue sliding into your mouth with slow intent. It’s not rushed. It’s not demanding. It’s like he’s savoring you.

Then, a whisper against your lips, “Up on the desk, sweetheart.”

You hesitate. His hands lift you easily, setting you on the polished edge, your skirt already sliding up as he nudges your knees apart.

You breathe his name, quiet. He smiles, eyes flicking to your thighs, then back to your face.

“You always try so hard for me,” he murmurs, fingers brushing up your bare leg. “I should’ve done this sooner.”

He leans in and kisses your inner thigh. Just once. Then again, higher this time, warm breath brushing close. You’re already squirming when his fingers hook into your underwear, dragging it down slow.

His hands hold your thighs open, firm but not rough. And when he leans in and finally licks—flat and slow, from bottom to top—you gasp.

He hums against you, like you taste better than he imagined.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your clit as he speaks. “Wearing that little skirt. Acting all innocent.”

His tongue moves again—firmer now, more focused, mouth wet and hot, tongue dragging circles around your clit until your back’s arching off the desk.

One of his hands drifts to your stomach, holding you down gently while he keeps going.

He doesn’t stop. Just sucks your clit slow and deep, then flicks it with the tip of his tongue until your thighs clamp around his shoulders.

“Oh my god—sir—”

He groans at the sound of your voice, fingers digging just slightly into your skin. He licks deeper, messier now, tongue dipping into you before dragging back up, mouth slick with you.

You grip his hair, eyes fluttering. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he groans when you do it—low and hungry, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you.

Every time your hips jerk, he steadies you with a quiet, “Shh, I got you.”

And when you finally come—quiet but shaking, breath punched out of your lungs—he holds you still and keeps licking until your thighs are trembling from the aftershocks.

Only then does he pull back, mouth shiny, pupils blown.

When you finally go still, he stays there a beat longer. Just breathing against your skin. Then he leans up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks at you.

No smirk. No smug comment.

Just “You did good.”

Then a pause, before he adds, softer—

“So good I might keep you here for a while.”

-

The conference room is all glass and polish, afternoon sunlight spilling over the sleek table, casting reflections on every chrome edge. You’re seated near the far end, soft blouse tucked neatly into your skirt, lips glossed, notebook open—trying to look like you understand the graphs being passed around.

You’re perched between two other departments. People you don’t usually work with.

That’s when one of them—a guy from Finance, tall, tan, and way too smug—leans toward you with a charming little grin.

“I don’t think we’ve met yet,” he says low, like this meeting is a cocktail hour. “You new?”

You glance up, a little startled. “Oh—kinda. I’ve been here a couple months…”

He looks you up and down, eyes lingering a second too long. “They must’ve been keeping you hidden.”

You laugh nervously. Just a tiny sound. Then glance across the table.

Gojo’s already watching you.

Expression unreadable. Elbow propped on the armrest, long fingers brushing his lips, like he’s bored but you know better. His other hand is clenched in his lap, the silver of his ring glinting as it curls tighter.

He says nothing.

Just tracks the way that guy keeps leaning closer. The way his shoulder nearly brushes yours. The way you keep tucking your hair behind your ear.

“You work directly under Gojo?” the guy asks, lips quirking.

“Mhm,” you nod, keeping your tone light. “Just admin stuff.”

“Admin,” he echoes with a smirk. “You sure don’t look like admin.”

Gojo’s head tilts, slowly. “Something you’d like to say about my assistant?” His voice is calm. Light.

But something sharp lives underneath it.

The guy laughs, brushing it off. “Just saying, sir. You’ve got an eye for talent.”

A few people chuckle under their breath.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking back to your notes, burning with embarrassment.

Gojo doesn’t laugh.

He just smiles. That small, dangerous kind of smile. “Mm. That I do.”

The meeting moves on—but he doesn’t.

You can feel the weight of his stare for the rest of it. Every time you fidget, every time you speak up with that soft, hesitant voice of yours, his eyes flick to you like he’s trying to memorize the sound.

It’s late afternoon when your desk phone rings.

You jump a little. The office is quiet now—most people wrapping up their day, the halls thinning out.

You pick it up. “H-Hello?”

“Come to my office.”

That’s all he says. No tone. No explanation. Just that low, clipped command—and then the line clicks dead.

Your heart stutters.

You smooth your skirt nervously, touch up your gloss with shaking fingers, then knock on his office door.

No answer.

So you step inside.

The room’s dim, lit only by the golden wash of the setting sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Gojo’s at his desk, sprawled back in his leather chair.

Jacket tossed aside, sleeves rolled. His tie’s hanging loose around his neck, top buttons undone. Hair a little messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times.

He looks you over slowly. Not speaking. Just dragging his gaze down your body and back up again, the tension crawling up your spine with every second of silence.

You shift, swallowing. “You… asked for me, sir?”

A slow smirk touches his lips.

“Mm. I did.”

He doesn’t invite you to sit.

He just watches you stand there—nervous and fidgety, wringing your hands in front of his desk.

“I wanted to ask,” he says lazily, “how that meeting went for you.”

You blink. “It was… okay?”

“‘Okay’,” he echoes, still smirking. “That guy from Finance seemed real interested in you.”

Your stomach flips.

“Oh, um—he was just being friendly—”

Gojo hums. Stands up.

You freeze as he rounds the desk, walking toward you slowly. Unhurried. Like he already knows you won’t run.

“He called you pretty,” he says, voice softer now. “Right in front of me.”

You look down. “I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t flirt back or anything—”

“I know you didn’t, sweetheart,” he murmurs, reaching you at last.

His fingers find your chin, tilting it up gently.

“I saw you. Saw how good you were. All polite and quiet. Just letting him talk like that.”

You nod, lips parted, breath catching.

His thumb strokes along your jaw.

You barely have time to ask what this is about before he crowds in, gently guiding you backward until your hips bump the edge of his desk. He doesn’t push—he never has to. Just waits, hands resting on your waist, thumbs stroking small circles until you sit for him.

The silence stretches as he steps between your legs. He’s still for a moment, eyes drifting down your body—slow and thoughtful, like he’s mentally tracing every place he’s already touched.

“Didn’t like that,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

His hands slide up your thighs. “The way he looked at you.”

You swallow. “I didn’t flirt with him or anything, I swear—”

“I know,” he says simply.

His thumbs reach the edge of your skirt, bunching the fabric higher. The room’s quiet except for the rustle of clothes and the faint hum of the city outside the glass.

“You were good,” he murmurs. “You always are.”

You don’t know what to say. Your heart’s racing. You’re too aware of the warmth of his palms against your skin.

Then he sinks to his knees.

Your breath catches.

“Sir—”

He looks up at you. Calm. Steady. “Just let me, angel.”

You nod.

He leans in, pressing a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. His hands slide further up, coaxing your legs open—thumbs stroking the soft skin of your inner thighs like he’s in no rush. Like he’s savoring it.

You try not to squirm.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmurs.

He hooks his fingers under your panties and drags them down slow. No fanfare. No teasing smirk. Just quiet focus. When he presses his mouth to you, it’s unhurried. He licks into you like he’s tasting you for the first time—soft, deliberate strokes of his tongue that have your breath stuttering.

You grip the edge of the desk. He hums softly when you twitch under him.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs. “How long have you been like this?”

You shake your head, too breathless to answer.

His thumb strokes your thigh while he eats you out like it’s something to be taken seriously—like he’s tuning the rest of the world out just for this. Just for you.

Every now and then, he pauses. Kisses the inside of your thigh. Lets you breathe.

“Say it.”

You blink, dazed. “Say…?”

“You know what I want.”

Your mouth parts. “I’m yours.”

He groans softly, going right back in—tongue slow, fingers digging into your thighs to hold you open.

“Again.”

You moan, hips jerking. “I’m yours, Gojo—fuck—only yours—”

“Yeah,” he mutters against you, voice low and wrecked. “That’s right.”

He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start trembling, thighs shaking around his head. He keeps working you through it—tongue steady, hands warm, mouth dragging out every pulse of it until you're gasping his name, half-crying into the sleeve of your blouse.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is slick and his breath is shallow. 

You're already wet—he drags his fingers through it once, slow and deliberate, before circling your clit with maddening patience. You try to keep quiet, but the sounds come anyway—tiny, breathy, embarrassing things.

He slips one finger inside, then another. It’s not rushed—it’s focused. Careful. Testing what you can take.

His free hand wraps around the back of your thigh, pulling you a little closer to the edge. His fingers work you open slowly, curling just right, his thumb brushing up top in quiet, steady strokes.

“You can take it,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You grip the edge of the desk, gasping when he shifts just slightly and hits something deeper.

“There,” he says, like he’s memorizing it. “Right there, huh?”

You nod quickly, eyes fluttering, hips starting to roll with him.

“Yeah… that’s it. Just like that.” He watches you the whole time—so attentive, so fucking into it—like he’s trying to catch every twitch of your mouth, every time your lashes flutter.

“Go ahead,” he whispers. “I want to feel you.”

You come quiet, but it shakes through you all the same—hips jerking, thighs trembling, mouth falling open around a sound you didn’t mean to make. His fingers don’t stop. He fucks you through it—just enough pressure, just enough praise, dragging it out until you're oversensitive and shaking.

When he finally pulls his hand away, he brings it to his mouth, licking his fingers like it’s nothing.

You blink at him, dazed. “Gojo—”

He stands, reaches out, and drags you up to your feet with zero effort.

“We’re not done yet,” he murmurs, already turning you gently around.

And then he presses you forward over the desk—his hand on your back, firm but not rough, guiding you down. You feel the heat of him behind you, his belt already unfastening.

His belt slides open with a quiet snick, slow and deliberate, like he’s giving you time to brace.

But you don’t. Can’t. You’re still bent over his desk, legs trembling from the second orgasm he pulled out of you like it was nothing.

Behind you, you hear the soft zzzp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he lowers just enough to free himself. You start to shift—maybe to stand, maybe to turn—but his palm finds the small of your back again, holding you down gently.

“Stay,” he murmurs.

You freeze.

“‘M not done with you yet.”

You gasp when you feel the blunt heat of him, hard and already dripping, sliding between your folds. He’s not pushing in—yet—but he’s there, heavy against you, teasing, dragging slow and wet between your folds while he stares down like he’s watching something sacred.

“Still so fucking warm,” he says under his breath. “You gonna let me fuck you now, sweetheart?”

You nod quickly, the word yes catching in your throat.

“Need you to say it,” he breathes, leaning forward, his chest brushing your back. “C’mon. Tell me.”

“I want you to,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Please—”

He groans, low and ragged, and then—finally—he pushes in.

You gasp—he’s big, thick and slow as he sinks in inch by inch. Your hands scramble for purchase on the desk, gripping the edge as he fills you.

“F-fuck,” he grits out, jaw clenched tight. “You feel—Jesus, precious, you’re perfect.”

He bottoms out with a slow roll of his hips, then stays there. Doesn’t move. Just breathes heavy against your back, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he says softly. “So long. Can’t even count how many fucking times I looked at you and wanted this.”

You whimper as he pulls out a little, then thrusts back in—just once, sharp and deep. You jolt against the desk, your cheek pressing to the cool wood.

He sets a pace then—not fast, not rough. Just deep. Controlled. Like every thrust is meant to remind you who you belong to. He fills you so fully, going deeper with every thrust as if trying to rid any thought from your brain that isn’t him.

The rhythm of it—his hips rolling into you, his hand tight on your waist, the obscene sound of skin meeting skin and your own slick soaking every movement—drives you closer and closer until you’re nearly crying with it.

“Satoru—please—” you pant, arching back against him, trying to take more.

“I know, precious. I know,” he murmurs, dragging his hand back to your hip so he can fuck you harder now, a little deeper. “You’re takin’ it so good.”

His thick head kisses your cervix with every relentless snap of his hips and one of his hands reaches down to dip between your thighs, rubbing tight, precise circles onto your clit.

“Mmm—sir,” you whine into the polished mahogany table, fingers digging into the edges of the fine wood. “I’m so—fuck—close!”

“Yeah? You’re gonna come for me, precious?”

Your orgasm builds sharp and fast and you nod, your toes curling, jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut.

“Let go,” he whispers, voice low and frayed. “Wanna feel you come on my cock. Be good for me, yeah?”

You do—god, you do—legs shaking, breath catching, body going tight around him as the orgasm hits, rolling through you in waves.

Gojo swears under his breath, fingers gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release. And then he groans deep and spills into you with a shudder.

He stays there for a moment, slumped over you, both of you catching your breath in the heavy silence of the office. Then, slowly, he pulls out, gentle as ever, hands skimming over your hips to smooth your skirt back down.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice still rough, a rasp of heat and concern wrapped in silk.

You nod, lips parted, lungs trying to catch up. His gaze doesn’t move from your face.

He leans down and presses a kiss to your shoulder then another just beneath your ear. “Breathe, sweetheart,” he coaxes, hands tracing soothing lines down your sides. “You were perfect.”

He shifts, not pulling away from you, but adjusting and cradling you with too much care for a man who had you begging a few minutes ago. He gently flips you over onto your back, strong hands finding your hips and then your thighs, his thumbs kneading slow, soft circles into the sore muscle like he’s memorizing your skin.

A content sigh escapes you, and he smiles, eyes half-lidded and reverent.

“Good girl,” he says lowly, his forehead pressing to yours. “You did so good for me, angel. So fucking good.”

His mouth finds yours, and the kiss he gives you is nothing like the ones before. It’s not rushed, not wild. It’s deep, slow, and indulgent. Like he’s trying to pour all the unspoken things into it.

Your arms loop around his neck, and your fingers find his hair, tugging gently. He groans quietly against your lips, like the sound is meant just for you.

You sigh into his mouth, full, and wrecked in the best way.

He pulls back only slightly, nose brushing yours. 

“Remind me to give you another bonus.”

author's note. yeah i got real lazy at the smut. i'm so done with writing smut i quit icl ts pmo gng

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.

taglist. @raendarkfaerie

[emisluvr]

‎ 𝗨𝗡𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗 ★ 𝗟.𝗛𝗦

‎ ‎ ♡ 【 𝓫elle. 】 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗍𝗌 !

✿ 𓈒 𝒇.𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝟏𝟓𝟑𝟓. ─── 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍 , 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 , 𝗎𝗇𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 & 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝖾𝗑 , 𝗍𝗈𝗑𝗂𝖼 𝖽𝗒𝗇𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖼 , 𝖽𝖾𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇

‎ ꒰◞ ˕ ◟୨୧꒱ REBLOG FOR CUDDLES !

for a while, you and heeseung had a friends with benefits situation going on. it was just like you guys had agreed—secret sessions where you would messily make out or fuck in either of your apartments. but under no circumstance were the two of you to catch feelings. you would only stay as friends, no strings attached. heeseung had initially agreed to that, until he didn't.

it's almost midnight, and you invited him over to your apartment. you leave your phone unlocked and unattended on your bed that he's lying down on while you wash your face in the bathroom.

a loud ding buzzes from your phone, catching heeseung offguard from his own scrolling. he sets his phone down on your nightstand and looks over to your still opened lockscreen, before a particular message caught his attention.

it was from a guy he'd never heard of before, but that's not what mattered, what he'd said made his mood switch. "can't wait to see you tomorrow, pretty girl, miss you" the text read.

his jaw clenched, and before he knew it, his finger tapped on the message to open the app. there were all your texts with him, open for heeseung to read. "when are you free? i could maybe take you out to that cafe you always wanted to see" one text read from him. "hmm.. i'm busy tomorrow since i'll be inviting a friend over, but does the day after sound good?" the next text from you read. "that works with me, i'll see you then, baby" the text from him read.

he turns off your phone, throwing his head back into the pillow, letting out the tense and pent-up breath of air as his hand runs through his hair in frustration. no, he wasn't supposed to care. and no, he wasn't supposed to be mad. he kept trying to remind himself that you both were only essentially to do things on the low, and ultimately, to not catch feelings. but it just didn't work.

something about the way he called you 'baby', 'pretty girl', and the way you addressed him as a 'friend' had him tense as an evident look of resentment was visible on his face. something about seeing your flirty texts with another guy, knowing he wasn't the only one who got to see this side of you, made something bitter coil in his chest. maybe it was jealousy, or something worse.

he didn't even think twice about confronting you, if he saw something he wasn't supposed to, then you'd have to deal with his reaction. "y/n." he says firmly, loud enough for you to hear from the bathroom.

when he calls you, you're already finished washing your face so you let your hair down, turn off the bathroom lights, and walk back into the bedroom. when you walk in, he's already stood up, your phone in his hand as you walk over to each other.

your brows furrow slightly, confused as to why he looks so annoyed and why your phone is in his damn hand. suddenly, he unlocks your phone, and pulls up the same messages he saw. "this is what you do when i'm not around? you get bored and start entertaining losers?" he speaks up, voice low as your eyes skim over the messages between you and the guy.

"you let him talk to you like this? you're fucking stupid.." he breathes out, tossing your phone on the bed as he runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

"heeseung.. i'm only going out with him, why are you so bothered.. aren't me and you just friends—" you can't even get your last few words out before he cuts you off, his large hand grabbing your jaw, forcing you to keep looking at him.

"do i not fuck you good enough? is that it?" he tuts, both of your eyes locked, his dark and heavy ones met with your doe ones. you stay quiet, you don't know how to respond. how were you supposed to? really, you didn't know why heeseung was overreacting, he wasn't supposed to see it, and even if he did, it wasn't supposed to stun him the way it did.

"answer me. do i not fuck you right?" he says, voice more firm and a bit louder. "y-you do but—" "then why the fuck is he calling you baby, huh?"

he takes it that you'll have nothing to say, and just stare down at the floor, which you did. he's fed up, picking you up by your legs and throwing you over his shoulders before sitting you down on the bed. he manhandles you onto all fours, back arched, ass perched up, face on the pillow as your hands lay under it.

your crop top stays in tact before he pulls your shorts down to your knees, tugging his sweatpants down before lining up his cock with your core, spitting on it before sliding in, the long string of spit falling onto his length. his hips buck forward, pushing his entire cock inside you.

the stretch feels unnatural and rushed, but so good, as opposed to the way he'd usually prep you before sex. you gasp, trying to move forward, but it's pointless.

he grabs your hips and slams you back onto his cock. "don't run from it, since you like playing around so much, yeah?" he mocks, his large palms still glued to your hips as he guides your hips back and fourth onto his pelvis, the pace deliberate and so deep.

your eyes roll back, his tip hitting your deepest spots as your tight walls desperately try to adjust to his thickness. the sound of your pussy squelches and skin slapping fill the room. "this pussy's mine, you hear me? not his. mine." he groans through gritted teeth, making sure his thrusts were especially deep on the last three words.

your face is smushed into the pillow, tears starting to slip down your fucked-out and pretty face as moans spill from your lips. "fuck, fuck, hee!" you cry out, the way his cock perfectly rams into the spots he knows so well making your head spin. he grabs a fistful of your hair, before pulling you up just enough so your face comes off the pillows.

his free hand grabs your phone that he'd previously tossed, and opens the message app. he taps on the contact name between you and the guy, and opens the camera icon.

he flips the camera and starts recording. your phone captures the way your ass recoils everytime it slaps down on his pelvis, his cock dissappearing in and out of you as his hand is still tugging at your hair. your pretty cries get louder.

you noticed him grab the phone before, and automatically knew where he was going with it. your soft and desperate moans continue to fall from your mouth, before he says, "say it for the camera, baby. say who this pussy belongs to."

"mmhh—fuck, you!" you sob, core tightening around him more as the knot in your stomach grows. his hand lets go out of your hair, your head falling back on the pillow as his hand grabs the flesh of your ass, gripping the plush as the other hand in your phone continues to record.

you try to silence and muffle your moans into the pillow beneath you. the minute he notices it, the hand that was once grabbing your ass came up only to slap it, leaving the cheek a rosy colour. "be loud, let him hear it. let him hear what i do to you."

a choked whimper left your mouth when you felt the stinging sensation on your cheek, causing your cries and moans to tumble out your mouth again. his cock twitches inside your slick walls, signaling he was close, and so were you.

he throws your phone beside you unlocked before he cums. he finishes inside you with a loud groan, throwing his head back as your pussy tightened around him, before spilling your fluids on him. he pulls out, your mixed releases seeping out of your core, only to drip down on the sheets beneath you.

his hand caresses the cheek he slapped as you breathe out, chest rising and falling before he grabs your phone again. you hear the 'sent' sound, your heart drops. he turns off your phone before his thumb runs through your soaked folds. "guess we’ll see how fast he blocks your number now."

he pulls up his sweatpants, hand letting completely go of your touch and body. you quickly check your phone, only to see that the video wasn't sent. either he deleted it, or didn't send it at all, but he obviously wouldn't tell you.

"and if you ever do it again.. i’ll send him the full video." he teases, staring down at your fallen body, your confused expression staring at the phone before he goes to the bathroom to clean himself up. 

you stay there, still on your stomach, legs shaking, brain all foggy. though you still didn’t want the video sent, you knew deep down that heeseung already owned you. and he knew it too.

💌 @murassl, @chuhees, @heebear, @kisuumei, @bangchanwifey, @hoonipies, @sourkiki, @highway-143, @kyanmeai, @nithxhoon, @fdzvie, @hyeinsveil, @curryyed, @heeseungsbm, @goldenmellow, @heesmiles, @hoonprksung, @cheriwonz, @wonberries

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.

[satoblue]

you sit beside satoru on the couch, your legs tucked comfortably under you as you tap lazily on your phone to cruise the late night takeout menu.

satoru’s legs are warm atop of yours, stretched out and crossed over one another like he owns the place (he kinda technically does), his head resting back on his hands against the arm of the couch.

“why do you still call me gojo?” he asks suddenly, turning his face towards you, lashes fluttering over those stupidly pretty blue eyes.

you don’t look up. “because that’s your name? chinese?”, you suggest.

“wrong. japanese, actually,” he corrects, sitting up. you give him a look, because he knows full well that is not what you meant.

satoru flashes you an innocent grin. “gojo is what the world calls me. sorcerers, students, enemies, fangirls, haters — and haters who are also fangirls.”

you raise an eyebrow at that. “and what should I call you then? lord of infinity?”, you tease.

“that’s reserved for when you’re feeling especially reverent in the bedroom — write it down.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re impossible.”

he leans in so close his voice drops to that low, velvety tone he saves just for you — the one that makes you forget whatever you were saying.

“satoru,” he states softly. there’s a flicker of something behind his grin — something delicate and honest. “call me satoru. just you. only you.”

you blink, lips parting slightly. your phone slips a little in your hand. “satoru,” you echo, trying it out on your tongue. and it feels right — like you’ve already said it a lifetime ago. and the one before that.

those snowy lashes flutter shut like he’s tasting it — savoring it from your lips. “god, it sounds so good when you say it,” satoru practically moans.

your cheeks heat at his shamelessness, but he’s already grinning all smug, tilting his head in the obnoxious little way that he does.

“no one else gets to say it like that,” satoru continues in an affirmative tone. “not like you do, okay? that name — it’s yours now. yours to ruin, yours to whisper, yours to yell if i’m doing something wrong. or doing something right — like you.”

you gasp sharply, scandalized. “preferably you,” he smirks cheekily, eyes shimmering with mischief and warmth.

you shove his shoulder gently and he pouts. you laugh, but your heart feels like it’s swelling with something bigger than you can name, and your cheeks feel too hot. “you’re serious?”

satoru’s voice softens. “i’m serious, baby. i’ve met many people, and i’m telling you — it’s you. from the moment i saw you, heard your voice — i knew it was only ever gonna be you and me in the end and in every life after this. so yeah… my name belongs to you.”

you look at him — really look at him. and for all the power he holds — the strength, the godlike abilities… in this moment, he looks so sincere. so raw — so human.

just satoru. your satoru — if you’ll have him. which you will. just like you’ve had every version of him.

“satoru,” you say once again. and you feel the way his fingers twitch in response where they rest beside yours, skin grazing skin like he can’t help touching you — like the sound alone does something to him.

satoru groans, head flopping onto your shoulder before lifting up again, face so close to yours that you can feel the whispers of his breath against your cheek and his hair tickling your forehead.

“say it again and i’ll marry you right now in that ugly t-shirt.” he says in a serious tone, looking you right in the eye.

you glance down. “this is your t-shirt.”

“all the more reason,” he whispers.

you lean your head on his shoulder and whisper back, just to tease. “satoru.”

satoru inhales sharply like your words are physically hitting him, tipping his head back on the couch with a stupid grin on his face — the definition of a man in bliss.

“again.”

“satoru.”

“again.~” he sing songs.

you sigh, but you still say it. “satoru.”

“again.”

and you do.

again and again — you do. and you do it well, of course. because you’ve had thousands of lifetimes to practice.

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

[🤍] helloo!! I saw that your request is open and I was wondering if you can write phainon x M!reader the reader is someone who has poker face most of the time and aren't really interested in anything sexual but are somewhat a REALLY good kisser, so imagine their first time when phainon initiate the act they just when "oh you want sex? Oh sure" feeling confident not knowing how sensitve and good they feel they'll be crying the moment phainon put it in

Im being delusional but I can't get it off my head 😔

OH, YOU WANT S☆X

★ tws : nsfw / smut, male!reader, first time, slight oversimulation, size kink ( mild & implied ), sub!male!reader, praise, dirty talk, aftercare, light marking ( hickeys) and missinoary position.

★ sum : Phainon finally gets you in bed after dancing around the tension for ages. You’re calm, cool, and unbothered—until he actually puts it in and suddenly you’re shaking, crying, and realizing you’ve made a huge mistake underestimating how good it would feel. And Phainon? He lives for watching your mask fall apart. minors do not interact : 18+ only.

★ note : not proofread, sorry or not. (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)

It started with a kiss.

Not your usual practiced ones—the calm, controlled touches that drove Phainon insane because you always pulled away with the same blank look, like nothing ever touched you. No. This kiss was different.

Your mouth opened wider. Slower. Hungrier. Like something in you was cracking open.

Phainon tasted that weakness. He tasted your inexperience under the arrogance. And he devoured it.

“Still sure you’re ready?” he murmured as he pressed you into the mattress, golden eyes narrowed, voice dipped low with amusement.

You nodded once, calm. “Yeah. You want sex, right? Let’s get it over with.”

Phainon blinked slowly. Then he grinned.

“Oh, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

His hands slid down your bare thighs—slow, reverent—and spread them open. He’d already prepped you, made sure you were wet and relaxed, even though you claimed you didn’t need it. “Doesn’t matter,” he’d said, pressing a slick finger in while watching you pretend not to react. “I want to be gentle the first time I ruin you.”

And now—

He lined himself up, guiding his cock to your entrance. Thick, flushed, veined—he was long and hard and hot, and you hadn’t even looked at it until now.

“Wait—”

He caught it—your first break in tone.

“What?” he asked softly, lips brushing your jaw.

You inhaled through your nose, trying to keep still. “Nothing. Just… surprised.”

Phainon kissed your cheek. “I’ll go slow. Don’t worry, darling.”

And then he pushed in.

The first inch had you gasping.

By the second, your hands had curled into the sheets.

By the time he bottomed out—deep and thick inside you, his hips flush against yours—you weren’t breathing.

You blinked once. Then twice.

“…F-fuck—”

Phainon looked down, mouth slightly open at the sight of you: sprawled out beneath him, chest rising and falling too fast, your eyes flickering with something between shock and disbelief.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice velvet-smooth.

You gave a slow nod—but your throat worked as you swallowed hard.

“…I didn’t know it would feel this…” You trailed off, breathless. “…This intense.”

Phainon laughed, soft and dangerous. “You really thought you’d be unaffected? After all that smug little talk?”

You didn’t answer. Your poker face was slipping, fast. And when he moved—just a tiny roll of his hips—you let out a strangled noise that made his cock twitch deep inside you.

“Ohhh, gods—” you choked, eyes fluttering shut.

Your body clenched around him tight, so tight he had to grit his teeth just to stop from finishing right there. You were so warm, so fucking soft inside, and the little trembles in your thighs were enough to drive him mad.

“You’re crying,” he said softly, brushing his thumb under your eye.

“I’m not,” you whispered, voice cracking as a tear slipped down your temple.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Phainon cooed, rocking into you again, slower this time—deeper. “You are. You’re crying on my cock.”

You made a broken sound, high and raw in your throat, and clung to him.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You can take all of it. You’re doing so good. So perfect for me.”

He fucked you in long, steady strokes, pushing deep with each thrust, making sure you felt every inch. The drag of him inside you was slow torture, your cock already leaking onto your stomach from the sheer pressure. You were panting now—head tipped back, neck exposed, mouth open and wrecked.

And Phainon watched you fall apart.

Every second of it.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmured, voice dark with desire. “All those emotions you hide—you look fucking gorgeous when you fall apart.”

You whimpered.

“You want to come?” he asked.

You nodded desperately, trying to speak but failing. All that calm was gone. All that chill, that control—it melted into raw desperation, your body trembling as you clawed at his back.

He leaned down, kissed your throat, sucked hard enough to leave a mark.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he whispered, fucking into you just right, hitting that spot with precision. “I want to feel you lose it.”

You cried out.

Your body tightened, eyes squeezing shut as you came—hot and messy between your bodies, untouched. You moaned so loud it echoed, and Phainon felt it. Felt your walls clench around him like a vice, dragging him toward his own orgasm.

He cursed, buried himself deep, and came inside you—hot, thick spurts that made your whole body shudder.

You were shaking.

Still crying a little. Not from pain. Just the sheer overwhelmingness of it all.

Phainon kissed you slowly, again and again, murmuring sweet nonsense as he wiped your face and stroked your hair.

“…Don’t tell anyone,” you croaked, voice wrecked and hoarse. “That I cried.”

He smiled against your cheek. “No one’ll hear it from me.”

A pause.

“…Unless they ask,” he added, smug.

You groaned into his chest.

He held you tighter. “You’re mine now.”

Your legs were shaking.

Your stomach, sticky with cum, rose and fell too fast. You were still clenching around him. Still fluttering, twitching, helpless—while Phainon stayed deep inside you, not moving, just watching.

Your eyes were glassy. Your cheeks flushed. There were faint hickeys blooming across your collarbone—his teeth had left them, somewhere between your first sob and your second orgasm.

You looked wrecked.

Beautifully so.

“…You’re still hard,” you said hoarsely, voice barely above a whisper.

Phainon leaned down, kissed your lips, slow and wet. “So are you.”

You shivered under him. “I can’t…”

“You can.” He smiled against your jaw. “I’m not done with you yet, pretty boy.”

You tried to sit up, but he grabbed your thighs and pushed them higher, folding you in half.

“Wait—!”

Too late.

He pulled out only to thrust back in with a deep, filthy squelch, and you screamed—a raw, high-pitched sound that echoed in the room.

“Sensitive,” he purred, hips grinding into yours. “You’re still clenching like you don’t want me to leave.”

You covered your face with your arm, too flustered to look at him. “F-fuck you.”

“Oh, baby,” Phainon said, dragging his cock out so slowly that you felt every inch stretch and press against your sensitive walls. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

He started to move again, deeper this time. More intense.

His pace wasn’t brutal—but it was calculated. Every thrust angled perfectly to hit your prostate, to make you squirm, to make your poker-face collapse again and again with every wet slap of skin against skin.

You gasped with every stroke, your moans growing louder, messier, needier.

Your legs were trembling in his grip. Your cock twitched between your bodies again—already hardening from the overstimulation.

“See that?” Phainon whispered, licking a stripe along your jaw. “Didn’t even need to touch you. You’re dripping. You love being ruined.”

You whimpered, biting your lip.

He leaned closer, his golden eyes burning into yours. “Say it.”

“…Ngh—”

“Say it. Tell me you love this. Tell me you love how I make you cry.”

You tried to speak, but the moment he fucked into you harder, you broke.

“I—I l-love it,” you gasped, fingers digging into his back. “Feels s-so good—I can’t—I can’t take it—”

“Yes, you can,” he groaned, ramming into you harder now, chasing your next orgasm. “Take it like you were made for this.”

You were delirious—cockdrunk—panting, sweating, your mouth hanging open as tears streamed down your flushed cheeks. Phainon’s name fell from your lips like prayer and curse, over and over between cries and moans.

You came again—violently, your entire body spasming as thick ropes of cum spilled untouched from your twitching cock, staining both your stomach and his chest.

You were sobbing now, face buried in his neck, gasping for air. Your hole pulsed wildly around him, squeezing him so tight he had to bite his lip to keep from losing it instantly.

But he didn’t stop.

He slowed down—yes.

But he didn’t stop.

“I want it all,” he whispered, stroking your hair with one hand while the other stayed firm on your waist, fucking you through your aftershocks. “I want every moan. Every cry. You’ll remember this every time you sit down tomorrow.”

You let out a broken whine. “Y-you’re insane…”

He smirked, kissing your temple. “And you’re beautiful when you’re ruined.”

It wasn’t long before he came again, burying himself as deep as he could, groaning low and animalistic against your throat. You felt the hot gush of it inside—another load, thick and warm, filling you until you swore you’d overflow.

You were panting. Your thighs trembled. Your eyes refused to stay open. Phainon pulled out gently, stroking your thighs and kissing your hips as he went. You winced at the emptiness, your body twitching at the loss.

He cooed softly, “Shh, I’ve got you.”

He cleaned you up with gentle hands—warm cloth, slow swipes, featherlight kisses between each. You barely registered it, still dazed, sniffling softly from the tears you swore weren’t there.

He pulled you into his chest afterward, laying on his side, one hand running up and down your back in slow, soothing circles.

“…You okay?” he murmured into your hair.

You nodded. Then paused. “I think you broke my soul.”

He laughed. Loud, unfiltered. “You’re dramatic.” You glared weakly at him. “You made me cry.”

“You said you didn’t cry,” he teased, kissing your nose. “Turns out, I’m the exception.”

You buried your face in his chest. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Never.” A pause. “Unless they ask.”

“…I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

You didn’t.

And with Phainon’s arms wrapped around you and your body still trembling from bliss, you closed your eyes—finally letting yourself feel it all.

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[cameronsbabydoll]

can u do smth where ditzy reader tries to break up with drew bc she thinks that’s what he wants. and she’s like crying and stuff during jt and drew is like confused and then she explains and he’s just like sooo sweet and babying to her? (i have daddy issues so yes i wanna be comforted by a man)

SUGARGLASS ❀

drew starkey x younger!ditzy!reader

warnings: emotional vulnerability, insecurity/self-esteem issues, crying, implied age gap (older!drew x younger!reader), hints of public judgment/paparazzi drama, comfort after a self-initiated breakup attempt, daddy issues undertone, possessive/comforting male partner, affectionate pet names

you don’t even look him in the eye when you say it.

you’re standing in the kitchen—his kitchen, technically—wearing one of his hoodies and socks with little bows on the back, and your lip gloss is smeared from crying and wiping your nose on your sleeve. and you’ve got your stupid pink suitcase by the door like some kind of dramatic goodbye scene.

“i think we should break up,” you whisper.

it comes out so tiny. so shaky.

and drew just… blinks.

he’s still leaning against the counter with a half-empty glass of water, staring at you like you just told him the sky was purple. “what?”

you sniff. “i just think—i mean, i know you’re really busy, and you’re, like… older. and smart. and serious. and i’m just—” your voice cracks, and you shake your head hard. “—i’m just a distraction. and you don’t want someone like me forever.”

he sets the glass down. slowly. like he’s trying not to spook you.

“sweetheart,” he says gently. “come here.”

you shake your head again. “no, because i get it. i do. i know people laugh at us. i know your friends think i’m dumb. and i can’t even answer interview questions right and i forget things and i’m always asking stupid stuff and—and sometimes i don’t even know why you like me.”

his jaw clenches at that, but he keeps his voice soft. “baby.”

you finally look at him. tears spilling out of your big, glassy eyes, lashes clumped. you look like a heartbroken doll.

“you don’t have to explain,” you say, breath hitching. “i’ll just go. i’ll—i’ll pack up the rest of my stuff later. i left the pink toothbrush but it’s okay i can get another one—”

“baby.”

his voice is firmer this time, cutting through the panic spiral in your chest.

before you can start rambling again, he walks over and cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he’s trying to soothe the crying right out of you.

“i don’t want you to leave.”

you sniff again. “you don’t?”

“no. god, no.” his eyes are so gentle. “you think i care what anyone else thinks? you think i want someone who’s cold and serious and boring?” he tilts your chin up. “i like your sparkles. i like that you ask silly questions. i like when you call your lip liner your ‘little brown crayon.’”

you hiccup a laugh, even though your mascara’s a mess and your heart’s still aching. “you… do?”

he kisses the tip of your nose. “yes, angel. and i love that you’re soft and sweet and real. so stop trying to talk yourself out of being loved, okay? because i’m not going anywhere.”

your bottom lip wobbles. “but i thought maybe i was annoying—”

“you are.” he grins. “you’re the most adorable, clingy, loud little thing i’ve ever met. and you’re mine.”

then he picks you up—literally just lifts you off the floor and cradles you like a baby while you cling to him and sniffle against his neck.

“we’re not breaking up,” he murmurs into your hair. “you hear me?”

you nod, soft and melty in his arms. “m’kay.”

“good girl.”

[bluetimeombre]

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ A friend of the families

you and Ellie became close when she moved to Jackson. you and Joel got even closer

[wanted to get this out tonight so it feels rushed but also good. Cause I wanted it out it is not proof read. Dunno how much more Joel I'll be writing as Arthur Morgan is my latest obsession but I may yet prove good at multi tasking]

warning: older Joel, younger reader, (unspecified) oral (both receiving) fingering, kinda mean and teasing Joel. reader is described as female. you and joel just needy.reader is friend of Ellie's. takes place in Jackson, this is a long piece but ends in a quickie. P in V. A possible part two?

⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.

Joel was not accustomed to a teen girl in the house.

He’d lost Sarah before they could reach the ‘no boys’ ‘no drugs’ ‘curfew ten thirty,’ so with Ellie, it was a fresh start. All new.

"Joel, what the hell?"

He’d yet to learn the golden rule about knocking.

You and Ellie were sat on her bed in her garage room, a comic sitting between you two. It was innocent, it was nothing but when Joel saw you it all felt wrong.

It all felt like he was seeing something he shouldn’t.

And you smirked at him.

"S-sorry," he apologised to Ellie and stepped away, gently closing the door behind him.

He lingered- he didn’t mean to but he caught the first glimpse of your voice and halted.

"You didn’t tell me he was hot," he heard you say.

"Ew- that’s gross, because he’s not," said Ellie.

Joel shook his head, banishing every thought and trying to think of anything that wasn’t your smirk. Who were you? And why’d you look at him like he was an appetizer to a meal.

He took himself away. He wasn’t dense enough to know that young girls liked privacy but surely… Joel couldn’t remember seeing you around, but you had to be a couple years older than Ellie.

You were mature in face and in the way you looked at him, daring a tease.

He thought about it, thought about you as he sat in his quiet and lonely house since Ellie had moved to the garage.

Joel had no idea how long he’d been sitting before he heard the back door close quietly.

He looked back and saw you lurking.

"Sorry, Mr Miller," you apologised, hands behind your back as you rocked on your heels. "Ellie said company was fine."

"It is," he insisted, stretching his arm along the sofa. "It is fine."

You still lingered, unable to leave.

Joel’s eyes darted around, dragging up your body. "What’s your- what’s your name?"

You told him and he repeated it, testing the syllables on his tongue.

"You known Ellie long?" He asked, shifting on the sofa to look at you. It was no secret to the town of Jackson that he and Ellie weren’t exactly getting along at the moment. It was maybe a better kept secret with how well Joel had been coping with it.

"Couple months, Jesse was helping with training both of us."

You still stood there, not taking a step closer to him.

Joel hummed in amusement. "I don’t bite, you know."

Your brows rose and that smirk graced your lips again as is his words awoke something in you. "Who’s to say I don’t."

Joel’s eyes flickered to you.

You stood there. Confident, hands clasped behind your back like they couldn’t be trusted in front of you.

Before he could think of something to say, before he could think if he wanted to tempt you to more or remind himself you were Ellie’s friend, you walked around the sofa and toward the door.

"I’ll see you around, Mr Miller."

⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.

"The girl?" Said Tommy. "Maria found her some years back. Helps out a lot, good shooter, good with horses too. She’s a good girl."

Joel had given himself a month to think about you before he asked Tommy and in that month he saw you everywhere.

At the bar, sassing Seth.

At the stables with Ellie.

Eating with Jesse.

You invaded every space.

You’d even been in the garage with Ellie more times than he could count, if he didn’t see you he could hear your laughter.

Sometimes you left through his house, always leaving with a comment and a Mr Miller.

Once you’d dared drag your finger tips across his arm.

A good girl his ass.

"She good for Ellie to be around?" Joel asked.

Tommy chuckled at the accusation. "Nobody better. She’s a good one, Joel."

A good one. Often he’d found his subconscious mind thinking just how good you were. If you’d listen to him in bed or if you’d be the brat you keep giving him glimpses of.

"Why all the questions?" Tommy asked.

The two brothers were out taking their route for patrol. Joel hadn’t been to start talking about you.

He just couldn’t help himself.

"I was wondering if she’s ever patrolled?" He asked. "I could show her."

Tommy chuckled, looking over at Joel, a familiar glint in his eyes. "Yeah Joel, you could teach her."

The rest of patrol drove him crazy. As he moved his horse and did the checks all he could think about was sharing a horse with you, having your body curling into his, arms around you as held the reins.

Who cared if you could ride a horse yourself, he’d teach you to ride his way.

Once him and Tommy rode back through the gates Joel jumped off and headed to the bar. Usually he was tired, aching, just wanted to go home, but he wanted to find you.

It was easy to in the bar.

The people nodded at him, making small greetings as he walked through. He made comfortable conversation but didn’t linger.

You were at the bar, third wheeling a Jesse and Dina who laughed together. You were nursing a beer, wiping the condensation down the glass.

Joel slid himself in next to you, waving for a whiskey.

You gulped down a sip of your beer. "Mr Miller."

Joel turned to you, as if he was surprised to see you there and didn’t know that was your Friday routine.

He knew he should have told you it was Joel but god the way your lips shaped his name.

"Having fun?" He asked, gesturing to the two who chatted behind you.

"Not ideally how I like to spend my Friday nights," you slowly brought the beer to your lips, tasted it.

Joel was a damned man as he watched. "Tommy said you don’t patrol."

"Talking to Tommy about me now?" You teased.

The whiskey was placed in front of him. He took a sip and licked the sharpness of it from his lips. He was old enough to play your games. He could beat you at them to.

"Think it’s about time you learn how," he said.

You cringed. "Why?"

"Bout time you pull your weight," he said, leaning on the counter. His leg was kicked out, close enough to yours.

You peered at him. You weren’t drunk but there was a haze from the beers you’d had. "And you’re the one who decides that are you?"

"I am now," he said. His fingers danced around the rim of his glass and he wasn’t ignorant to how you watched the move of his fingers. "You’ll ride with me."

"I’ll ride with you," you repeated the words. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips and Joel was just a man- just a man being reeled in like a fish on a hook.

He nodded. "If you can keep up."

"I’m sure I’ll manage," you said.

"Joel?" A sudden reminder that you came to the Bison not alone- with Ellie- entered his mind as her voice called from behind him. "What are you doing here?"

Joel backed away from the counter, "just fancied a drink, kiddo."

Ellie stood between the two of you, unknowingly cutting through the tension. "Did something go wrong on patrol?"

"No," he said. "Nothing wrong."

He did the only thing he could, down his whiskey and head for the door.

⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.

"Why is Joel teaching you to patrol?" Asked Ellie.

"Time to earn my keep, he said," you told her, pulling up your hair for the fourth time that morning.

"He’s so annoying." You could see Ellie roll her eyes from her place on her bed. Her arms were folded over as she glared at nothing and imagined Joel.

"He’s not so bad," you told her.

Ellie muttered. "You don’t know him like I do."

No, you didn’t. You didn’t know why Ellie didn’t talk to him. You didn’t know why he looked at you with dark eyes and clenched fists. You weren’t even sure Joel knew half the time.

But you wanted to know. You wanted to know what made Joel tick and wither. You wanted to know the touch of his hands and the drag of his lips.

You wanted to feel the tears of roughness ontop of you, pressing you down, holding you. His lips-

There was a knock at the door as Joel called through.

Ellie pushed herself up, opening the door.

His jacket fitted him, sleeves ripped slightly and work from the years.

You smiled to yourself, turning and fixing yourself. You wanted to impress the man and be able to patrol. It was a hard one to balance.

When you turned to him and Joel froze you imagined you’d done a good job. Until all he did was nod his head and hurry you along.

Ellie looked back to you, dead-panned. "See?"

You shrugged and squeezed her arm as you walked out the door. "I’ll see you later."

Ellie hesitated at the door like a mother watching her child leave. "Don’t let him get to you!"

You laughed to yourself and turned to her as you walked away. "Who’s to say I won’t be the one getting to him?"

"Gross- seriously!"

Yes. Seriously. Everyone knew Joel was easy to annoy, often spending most his time grumbling at people rather than talking. His age was catching up to him, his grumpiness evident in every blink of his eyes.

Around you you’d noticed it was different. He was kinder, alert. Maybe he could see your teasing nature. If he did… it sure would make out to be an interesting trip.

Joel waited outside his house for you, eyes low even as you got closer.

It wasn’t until you were standing in front of him that he tutted and went back inside, leaving you there.

You stood, perplexed.

Was he unimpressed? You’d dressed fine- maybe your pants were too tight and framed your hips too well-

Joel marched down the stairs, an old jacket in hand. "Take it off," he demanded.

Your breath caught.

He rolled his eyes (so much like Ellie). "Your coat, won’t do anything to keep you warm. Put this on."

He handed you and old and worn jacket, similar shades to his but lighter.

So he was worried about you. Your stomach flipped.

Slowly you peeled off your little coat. It already wasn’t keeping out the on coming frost but it did things for you that you wanted Joel to appreciate.

As you took it off, he looked away, a cock to his head as he held out the jacket.

"Was this Ellie’s?" You asked. It hung on you slightly, the sleeves far too long as it felt down and down.

There was a faint trace of wood on the collar as you pulled it around you.

"No, it was mine," he said. He looked at you finally.

It was drowning you, him looking at you in the coat that shrunk you down. It wasn’t exactly the effect you wanted.

"Suits you," he said. "Now c’mon."

⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.

Patrol was supposed to be an honour. Something the adults did and boasted for. Something all the kids wanted to aspire to.

You weren’t sure why, it was boring.

It turned out all it really counted for was following the path made by others, looking round every tree and such.

Joel rode behind you on his horse as you rode ahead on yours. The only thing keeping you awake as you calmly trod through the woods was the heat of his gaze on you.

The lure of danger behind you.

Every time you wanted to glance back he snapped. 'Face front'.

You listened though.

"Up here," he took the lead as you were led to an abandoned building. Where they logged patrols.

Your horses remained outside as Joel went in first, gun out. There was one holstered at your hip but as you watched Joel’s hand wrap around the weapon, fingers squeezing you couldn’t think to reach for yours. Only think-

"You’re distracted," Joel huffed. He slouched, not opening the door till he had your attention.

You rose a brow.

"Raiders could be in here and you’re-"

"There was no horse tracks or feet on the ground leading up. The door has no signs of struggle," you said. "It’s fine."

Joel looked at you. "It’s confidence like that that gets you killed, smartass."

You roll your eyes but oblige him, getting out your own gun. "Confidence has got me this far."

"Confidence has got you here with me." He said it as if it wasn’t a dream come true for you.

Inside Joel walked, gun up and you followed, assessing every move he made like he was an enemy to watch.

"Every room needs to be assessed. If there’s anything unusual you report it," he instructed. "Any fires recently put out, any blood. You’ll learn to know these rooms like the back of your hands. Then you-"

"Log it," you finished.

Joel checked the last room while you were already logging in the book, looking at past logs.

J. Miller was scribbled frequently and it wasn’t just your desire manifesting him wherever you went, it was just him.

"You patrol a lot," you said.

"Yeah."

"Nothing better to do with your time?" You asked, looking over your shoulder to him.

Joel stalked closer, his boots thudding on the ground with every step as he assessed the space between the two of you getting smaller and smaller. "No. Not really."

You nodded and leant over, scribbling again.

You didn’t miss the clear of his throat and how he stepped toward the side. "No Ellie on here. You don’t let her patrol?"

"No," he said. "She’s not ready yet."

"But I am?"

"You’re older," said Joel. "More mature."

You stood straight, leaning on the table and looking at him. "Mature. I think that’s a compliment, Mr Miller."

He stared at you a moment longer and you let him, almost becoming breathless with his gaze. Joel wasn’t doing much better.

But he wouldn’t take the first step. For months, since your eyes first caught him you’d waited for something. For a pinch of the desire from him, for a stutter of breath.

And all you got was those eyes.

You stepped from the table and Joel stepped back. "Mr Miller-"

"Don’t-"

You stopped, your hands clasped in front of you.

"I think I know why you wanted me on patrol."

He shook his head, jaw clenched. "You don’t."

You did affect him. You did have that want buried inside of him, had planted it there like a seed, and around you it blossomed in spring.

You had no idea if you’d lunged first or if Joel had grasped out for you but soon enough your arms were around his neck and his curled around your waist and pulled your body into his.

His lips were chapped and bruising as they worked against yours.

Kissing him was like every wet dream. Every dangerous thought. His lips were the desert and you the rain.

His hands were even better, unable to stop the exploration of the new world.

They found themselves traveling under the coat, bunching up the shirt you’d dare wear.

Your tongue fought for entrance to his mouth and he granted it, opening wide for you.

His leg nudged apart yours, sliding in as his hands wandered up and pulled your hair.

His eyes were hooded, body all tense as he tugged at your hair to look at you, your neck stretched back, lips red. "You’re Ellie’s friend."

You nodded as best you could in his hold.

"Tell me to stop."

"No."

When Joel dove in again his hands had moved down to your rear, pulling you into him and his lips found the expanse of your neck.

His teeth nipped, his tongue ran and heat soared through you until you were sweating his his jacket.

You went to tug it off but with something like a growl in your neck, Joel pulled it back. He pulled away enough to see you in.

"It’s mine," he said, his feet shuffling with yours until he had you on the table, sweeping the book of patrol away and sitting you on there.

His hands, rough and firm, gripped your thighs and pried them apart, slinging himself between. "This is wrong."

Both of you knew Ellie would kill if she knew Joel’s hands were finding themselves higher on your thighs and yours were trailing under his checkered shirt.

Once. Just once. That what you and Joel decided in one glance. Once couldn’t hurt.

As your nails dug into his skin, feeling the softness of his stomach and the happy trail teasing you down, Joel worked your belt undone, the buttons popping.

As you felt the pads of his finger dip into your panties, you drew him in, smelling sandlewood in his neck and burying yourself in the scent.

"Oh babygirl," he cooed as his fingers dipped into the dampness. "This for little old me."

You nod, biting into his neck. "You, Joel."

There was a chuckle and a groan as his fingers curled up, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Fuck, the way you say my name, you’re gonna-"

"Joel, you there?" Both of you paused as the static at his hip sounded. "Joel?"

Both of you shifted away, you worked up your trousers as Joel fished out the walkie talkie.

Tommy’s voice crackled over as you both listened. "There’s a storm that’s gonna be coming in, it’s looking bad. Is everything ok over there?"

Joel pinched the bridge of his nose, huffing and doing everything not to look at you. "Yeah, everything’s fine over here."

His voice was clipped.

Your eyes trailed down his body, at his shirt that was now untucked from his trousers and the strain. The strain of his aching cock for your touch that looked so thick and heavy that it had to be painful.

Or maybe it was more painful that your lips weren’t wrapped around him

"Then you two should think about heading back," said Tommy.

Joel looked at you. At you, not at your eyes but at the spot his fingers had just tasted for the first time. "Heading back?"

It was more a question in your direction. Head back, pretend this hasn’t happened, or wait out the storm.

"Yeah. Listen, Ellie’s pretty worried about the two of you out there. She wants you home."

The question was answered. In the way neither of you wanted Ellie to worry, or in the way she could never know about this.

Both of you turned from each other.

What were you doing? There was harmless flirting but what you just did wasn’t harmless. It was… so many filthy things you couldn’t bring yourself to hate the memory of.

Joel quickly said you’d be back soon and slid it back to his waist.

He looked to you, eyes still dark, but a heat rising up his neck. "We should leave."

You nod, tidying yourself and taking yourself from the table, putting the book back in its place.

What had you done? The heat had vanished and cold like the storm came.

"Mr Miller, I didn’t-" you turned, expecting him to be waiting for an apology when in fact he stood close.

"If you’re about to tell me, you didn’t mean for it to get that far, we’re gonna have to stay here, through the storm and you’re gonna have to make it up to me."

It was a warning you were willing to take.

Ellie. Ellie. Ellie.

Joel made sure you understood.

He fingers that had been curling inside of you shortly ago rose to his lips and he ran it over before grabbing the back of your neck and kissing you.

Before you could embrace him, he pulled back. "Ellie can never know."

"Never."

⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.

And she didn’t.

For the next week you hung out with Ellie away from her house and any glimpses of Joel were spent rushing to remember the touch of him.

Ellie was home the wiser.

And Joel, he acted as if he didn’t even know you.

Perhaps it was for the best. You dared the feeling and that was all you got. Maybe you could live without it…

You could get it out your system if you stuffed your own fingers in your pussy and chased the thought of him.

(It was proving very difficult)

Only when Joel was out the house- as Ellie told you- that you waited in her garage for her. She was trailing with Jesse but wanted to show you her latest comic find.

You said you'd wait, and you did. Walking around her space, strumming the strings of a guitar, flicking through pages of comic books and staring at a picture of her and Joel at the stables.

The door creaked open.

"Ellie?"

You knew that voice in your dreams. Knew it like it was your own.

"Not quite."

Joel appeared over the door, looking around the empty room until he found you, lurking at her desk. "Huh," he mumbled. His boots were slow on the floor as he stood there. "Where's Ellie?"

"She's with Jesse, said she wouldn't be long." You picked at the wood of the table.

It had been easy to tease him before, to want him and dip your toes into that.

You hadn't thought that knowing the feel of him could make it worse.

Joel nodded and closed the door behind him, trapping the two of you inside. He still looked around, carelessly kicking his feet as he walked over. "Long? How long ago was that?"

You lifted your shoulders. "Twenty minutes. Maybe more."

He nodded once more and stopped when he was close enough to feel your breath on him. "You've been waiting in here this whole time?"

You nodded.

Something uneasy flickered in his eyes. "You didn't want to see me, huh?"

"I did!" you said, almost too quickly. "I mean, I assumed you'd you know, be busy." With what you didn't know. Had he ever fisted his cock imagining your lips? He was older, probably better controlled.

"I have been busy," he said. "But all I could think about was you. You know what you've done to me?"

You looked up at him. The greys in his beard were prominent, as were the little dark circles under his eyes. "What i've done?"

His hand reached out, cupping your cheek and feeling your skin. He took in a deep breath, a relief of one. "Been thinking about these-" the pad of his thumb brushed against your lips. "This-" his other hand cupped the heat between your thighs.

Your eyes screwed shut. However long you'd thought about it and no matter how much you tell yourself it's filthy to think of him, Ellie's dad practically, in that light, it didn't stop the wetness that laid there.

"It's wrong," said Joel, shaking his head at you like he could read your thoughts. "It ain't right."

Your gaze flickered up to him. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist, the hand that was comfortable between your legs. "So we shouldn't?"

Joel looked at his thumb that dragged across your bottom lip. "We shouldn't."

"Even if I-" your throat bobbed and Joel watched the movement. "Even if I need you? Need you so bad?"

"How bad?"

An invitation.

Without words you moved his hand away and slid it down the band of your jeans and panties until his fingers dragged over your clit and felt the need.

It was wrong. It would be so wrong.

Joel took his hand away and grabbed your wrist, dragging you from the garage.

Your feet were practically tripping over themselves as you fought his grasp. Was he gonna chuck you out? Tell you to never come back? To leave Ellie alone? "Mr Miller? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

Joel pushed open the kitchen door, letting it bang on the wall as he dragged you inside his house. Once in, he kicked the door closed again and led you into the counter.

His lips were just as hungry, just as desperate as the last time. If not, more so.

A groan fought it's way through his throat and he wasted no time in slipping his tongue inside your mouth. It was wet and all tongue and all teeth like he was eating you, hiding you inside of him.

There wasn't time.

Who knew what interruption would come again.

Your fingers fumbled with his belt and Joel helped you throw it aside.

This time, you reached for him, feeling the dent of him through his boxers.

"F-fuck, sweetheart," Joel groaned against your lips. "You- your-"

"I need you," you said, breathless against him. "Please, I need you."

"I know, I know," his head dropped to your shoulder, hands at the bottom of your shirt. "I know you've been teasing me. Damn well testing me for weeks. Fuck, you've wanted this, haven't you baby girl?"

You nodded as your hand moved up and down his length.

"Say yes."

"Yes, Mr Miller."

His teeth bit down on your shoulder through the fabric. "You'd let me? Let me have you?"

"Maybe we just-" your fingers traced the elastic at his boxers. "Need it out our system?"

"Out our system?" he repeated.

Joel pulled his head back and looked at you.

You meat his gaze and didn't falter as your hand snuck down his boxers and grasped his cock, squeezing.

"Sh-shit," Joel stuttered, falling into you and crowding you on the counter. "Touch me like that baby and I won't make it inside of you before I come."

You chuckled and kissed him. Slowly, you dragged your hand up and down, his pre-cum making it easy to have him groaning and kissing you furiously. "Can I- mmh."

"Can you what, baby?" he asked, pulling away only enough for you to hear his words.

"Can I suck your cock? Please, please."

Joel groaned as you thumb swiped over the head of his leaking tip. "Oh fuck, baby, you're so polite. So different now you have my cock in hand."

"Can I?" you asked again. He was heavy in your hand, warm and you feared the embarrassment for what you'd do to feel him on your tongue.

He grinned and pecked your lips. "Who am I to say no?"

In a haze, his hand was in your hair and you were on your knees and his cock was in your mouth.

Joel's hands clenched on the countertop, head thrown back as you took him deep and warm and wet on your first take. "Shit, you're taking me deep."

You moaned around him. It was all fast, all so fast when all you wanted was to feel him, hold him, taste him. You wanted to savour every drop of pre-cum and every word of his.

"So pretty," his hands pushed your hair back into a ponytail but he didn't tug. He didn't force his cock down your throat, he just let you feel and taste. "Such a pretty throat, so nice, so pretty. So nice of you to want me."

Your held the base of him, working what you didn't take as you increased your speed.

His praise to you was one thing, but the way he spoke to himself had your hand travelling to your pussy and circling your clit. 'Old man like me got a young thing like you all hot and bothered... the things I'd do to you... too good for me, baby. Feel too good."

You hollowed your cheeks as you took him down, gagging at the depths.

Joel tugged at your hair and you released him in a mess of need. "You're gonna make me come, sweetheart."

You caught your breath and wiped the mess from your lips. "Want you to, Joel," you said, still holding him and looking as if it was a wonder. "Want to taste you."

"Honey, if this is the only time I do this i'm not coming till i've felt how tight you are."

You groaned.

Joel chuckled, tapping your chin till you looked up at him. "Behaviour like that and you'll-"

Suddenly, the sound of the front door alerted you both.

Joel's eyes widened. "Shit!"

"Hey Joel, have you seen my comic?"

You couldn't move. You were hidden behind the counter but if you crawled out now, red in the cheeks and hair tangled there'd be no question what you were doing.

You shifted but Joel's hand clamped down on you and pushed you down, keeping you in front of his cock.

His still very tempting and leaking cock.

"Ellie, what are you doing here?" he asked. He let go of your hair, but continued soothing it back gently.

"I'm looking for my savage starlight comic, I wanted to show- are you ok?"

You glanced up at Joel. There was a thin layer of sweat over his forehead and the hand that wasn't on you was balled tight.

"You look kinda..." Ellie trailed off.

Cautiously, you started to move your hand up and down, watching the muscle in his jaw twitch.

"F-fine, just a migraine."

"Oh, didn't know you got them," said Ellie.

"Oh yeah," said Joel, seething. "This one's pretty persistent."

Persistent? You could show him persistent.

While you slowly worked him up and down and Ellie kept throwing out ideas where she'd last seen the comic, you licked up his cock like it was a treat and you were starving.

He withered in your touch.

"I haven't- urg- I haven't seen it, kiddo," Joel groaned, head hung. His eyes were squeezed shut, not even daring to glance at you on your knees. "Have you checked your garage?"

"Yes i've- shit, you look terrible. Should I get Tommy?"

"No," said Joel.

You squeezed his cock.

"Fu- yes! Yes! Yes, Ellie go get Tommy. Tell him to bring some, mh, some painkillers, would ya?" he'd practically shouted the words at her, lips pursed and body hunched over.

"Woah, ok, ok, I... will you be alright alone?"

"Yes, yes just please, go get Tommy."

"Ok, Ok, just- just don't move!" the sound of sneakers on the ground quickly told you Ellie was rushing off, so concerned for Joel's health.

"Oh, I won't."

His eyes opened down at you and you froze.

Both of you remained still until you heard the front door slam shut.

You winced, expecting the tug of your chair and the strength of Joel to throw you to your feet and get you out the house.

You didn't expect for Joel to join you on the ground, lying you down on the kitchen floor.

"We ain't got enough damn time," he grunted, lying over you. He had himself propped up with his forearm, panting as he pulled down your pants.

You helped him, wriggling your hips until they were at your knees. "Joel, what are you-"

The words died in a moan as he went in, tongue first, into your pussy.

He licked up the mess he'd created, drooling and kissing along your lips and clit. It was messy. It was quick. He made out with your pussy with as much enthusiasm he did with your lips.

You were a mess on the floor, moaning loud enough you were surprised Ellie didn't hear. Your legs couldn't keep still, wanting to wrap around him but unable to due to your pants.

Joel's hands dug into your thigh. "Squirm anymore and I'll think you don't want it." He glanced up at you.

"I do. I do want it, want it real bad, please," you moan, back arching, offering yourself to him on a silver plate.

Joel kissed your pussy. "That's my girl."

You didn't know if he was talking to you or the heaven between your thighs. Frankly, you didn't care as his tongue swept up inside and he spread your legs to reach you deeper.

His finger slid inside of you easily. "Never known something as warm as you," he mumbled as he rested his head upon you, tongue making circles on your clit. "God, can't wait to feel you warm on my cock."

"Want it," you nod, eyes screwed shut as the familiar feel of pleasure built. "Please, I'm gonna- i'm gonna-"

Joel pulled back, kissing your thigh as he watched your pussy take his fingers, clench around them. "Wanna take my time, really wanna feel you."

Coldness swept in as he took away his fingers but a new heat built as you watched him suck your wetness off and his eyes roll to the back of his head.

There was no time.

Joel loomed back over you, guiding the head of his cock along the walls of your pussy. "No time, can you take me?"

"Y-yes, Mr Miller."

"You want it?"

"Yes."

"Are you gonna take it?"

He pushed the head inside your warmth and almost collapsed atop you. You held onto his back, holding him close. "Shit baby, jus- just need to feel you."

"No time, don't have time!" you whined, your legs constantly moving to be closer.

"Fuck, ok, ok," Joel grabbed your hand, entwining your fingers as he slowly pushed into you more. "Oh, this what you wanted? Wanted it deeper, wanted it quicker?"

You nod, lips pursed to hold your whimper.

"You jus' couldn't wait, huh?" Joel moved in and Joel moved out, your slick and his own coating him as he tried to go faster without hurting you.

He kissed like he needed it and touched like he may never get the chance again. But all he wanted was to love you right, to take his time. To know what made you wither and whimper.

He was torn between keeping watch on your face or watch how your pussy took him deep and well.

"Joel, faster, please!" you begged, hands pulling his shoulders in.

Both of you were still clothed and starting to sweat. If he wasn't fast enough neither of you would get to finish before Ellie returned with his brother and then you'd have an audience.

"Shit, ok, ok," Joel pulled down your jeans more and held your leg toward him. "Gonna fuck you now, baby girl, you're gonna take it."

You nodded along, biting down on your lip. He was deep, deeper than you thought possible.

"Gonna fuck you but we'll do it again, I promise, I promise," he coaxed you, rocking you, gripping your hand like it was his anchor. "You clench me so well baby, yeah, so warm, can't have you once."

"Have me, Joel, have me," you said, eyes shut as you chased your high desperately. How long had it been since Ellie left? Not long enough.

"I will baby girl, I will. Gonna have you in every room-" he thrusted hard and lingered inside, cock twitching, "on every wall," he did it again and groaned loud. It almost sounded like he was in pain. "Would fuck you in every room in Jackson so you'd never stop thinking about me."

You were close, getting so close to the release you'd craved for months.

Your breaths were quick, mixing like a song with the sound of skin on skin and Joel's words.

"So warm, you're so good for me, you're a good girl letting me... letting me use you like this," Joel's hand cupped your cheek. "Open your eyes, look at us."

Your body reacted to him in ways you'd never experienced before.

Your eyes opened and went to watching his cock plunge in and out.

"Just like that, juuusss like that," Joel grunted. "Fuck, c'mon!"

"Joel, i'm gonna, i'm gonna-" you panted.

He wanted you to hold it, wanted to feel you come with him and watch it seep out of you. "Look at me. Please, baby, look at me."

Once your eyes, wide and wanting met his Joel groaned loud and didn't have a chance to warn you until his cock twitched and he released inside you.

He couldn't form an apology or a word as he felt himself spill inside you, all in you. It drove him insane.

"Joel," you whimper at the feel of him, body tense as he released.

He wasn't having it like this. He didn't care if Ellie and Tommy were outside the door. He was making you cum.

He reached between your bodies, where he didn't move inside of you and used what seed of his that was coming out against your clit, circling it slow enough to drive you mad.

"Come for me," he said, heading in your neck as he sucked a mark there. Let Ellie tease and question you about it, he needed to be able to see this had happened. To look at that mark and know you'd been there.

"Joel, I'm gonna-"

He kept his steady pace but the pressure grew and grew. "Know you wanna, know you wanna finish with me inside of you. Me all messy and hot from what you do to me. You know it's wrong, you know you shouldn't but you wanna."

"Want to, want to-"

Joel slowly moved his cock out of you and replaced his fingers with himself, smearing him all over your clit and rubbing.

You finished with a moan, your most delicious one yet that Joel swallowed up in his mouth, groaning with you as he felt your release fall down him.

As you chased your high Joel kissed you like he should have the first time. Slow, tasting. His lips moved along yours with no sense of urgency and he let you breath.

Only when his lungs burned did he pull back enough to see your red cheeks and gleaming skin.

"Next time," Joel kissed your cheek. "We'll work something out and next time I'm making you come on my tongue on a bed."

You huffed a laugh, your legs finally stopping their shaking as you rested your head back. "Is that a promise?"

Joel kissed you softly.

It was a peaceful moment. If the two of you were anybody else that's how it all would've began.

But you were reminded your roles as the un-mistakable sound of a worried Tommy called out.

[thenanamis]

JJK MEN X ASKING THEM TO GO RAW.ᐟ.ᐟ

a/n: starting new with this, hope you enjoy <33

KENTO NANAMI

You whisper it when he's rolling on the condom. Breathless. Back arched, hands gripping the sheets.

"Don’t use it. I want to feel you. Just fuck me raw, Kento."

He stops.

His jaw tightens. His gaze flickers to you — from your flushed cheeks to your slick thighs — and you see something shift behind his eyes. Something dark. That polite, restrained edge of his vanishes in a second. The condom slips from his fingers.

"You want it raw?"

His voice is deeper now, lower, almost raspy.

He leans over you, cock thick and twitching against your inner thigh. His palm slides up your belly, over your boobs, thumb brushing your nipple like it’s punctuation.

"You want to feel me stretch this tight little pussy with nothing between us? Let me feel you clench around me bare? Feel me cum inside you, like I fucking own you?"

He doesn’t wait for you to answer.

He pushes in, slow and devastating, and you both moan in unison — not from pain, but from how goddamn good it feels. Skin on skin. No barrier. His cock buried deep, your cunt gripping him like it was made for him. His breath catches in his throat. You swear his hands tremble.

"Fuck. You feel so perfect… so warm. I’m not pulling out."

He fucks you like he’s claiming you. Every deep thrust says mine, and when he cums — thick and hot and full — he groans your name like a prayer. You feel it coat your insides. And he stays there, cock still buried, cum leaking down your thighs, like he never plans to leave.

SATORU GOJO

You say it as a tease, not expecting what it’ll do to him.

You’re grinding on his lap, soaked and needy, kissing him messily, and you murmur into his ear:

"Fuck me raw, Satoru. I want all of it."

He freezes. Then laughs — not playful. Not teasing. It's dark. It rumbles low in his throat as he grips your waist like you’re about to be fucking devoured.

"You don’t know what the fuck you’re asking for."

His cock is already twitching between your folds. He grabs the base, lines it up, and says:

"You want this bare? You want to feel me split you open raw?"

And then he thrusts up hard, burying himself to the hilt. Your back arches, mouth falling open in a soundless cry, and he grins — fucking feral. His hands are on your ass, lifting, slamming you down again, again, again — each time harder than the last.

"That’s it. Take it. Feel every inch. You said you wanted it, now fucking take it."

He doesn’t stop. He breeds you. That’s what it feels like — like he’s trying to fuck his cum so deep it stays. And when he cums? It’s messy, wet. Then he keeps going until it’s dripping out of you onto his thighs, and he just… laughs.

"Hope you weren’t planning to walk tomorrow, baby."

SUGURU GETO

It slips out of you in a whisper. Soft. Breathless.

"Don’t use it. Just… I want you. Raw."

He goes silent.

Geto leans back, looks at you — really looks — and you watch the shift in his expression. That calm, charming smile disappears. His jaw tightens. His nostrils flare. And then?

He kisses you like you’re oxygen. Grabs your thigh. Spreads you open.

"You trust me that much?"

His voice is low, but reverent. Hungry.

When he pushes in bare? It’s slow, patient. You both moan, heads thrown back, bodies pressed together, the heat unbearable. He fucks you deep, hips grinding down to make sure you feel every vein, every inch, every goddamn throb of his cock.

"You feel that? That’s what it’s like to be mine."

He doesn’t go fast. He makes it last. And when you cum? He doesn’t pull out. Not even when he’s right there, hips jerking, voice breaking —

"Gonna fill you up, baby… Let me give it to you, every last drop."

You feel every hot pulse flood your insides. And when it leaks out? He just rubs it back in with his fingers and fucks it deeper.

CHOSO KAMO

You barely get the words out.

"Choso—just… don’t use one. I want to feel you. Raw."

And he gasps. Not a sharp one — a soft, shaky inhale like his whole chest just collapsed. He blinks at you, stunned. You can almost see his pupils dilate.

"You… you want me to? A-Are you sure?"

He’s already leaking at the tip, cock pressed against your entrance, and when you nod — he moans. Like it’s too much. Like just knowing he’s going to fuck you bare is already making him cum.

"Okay—okay, I’ll be gentle. I-I’ll go slow, I promise, I—"

But he doesn't go slow.

He slides in and gasps. His whole body shudders. And then he’s fucking you desperately — hips stuttering, hands gripping your waist like you’re vanishing beneath him. It’s wet, loud, messy. You’re both crying out, and he’s whispering,

"So warm… you feel so good—fuck—I can’t stop—"

He cums inside you with a broken whimper and apologizes for how much he gave you. You’re leaking down your thighs. His fingers tremble when he tries to clean you up.

And then you feel his cock twitch again.

"I… I want to do it again. Please?"

TOJI FUSHIGURO

You say it right as he’s rolling it on. That’s the mistake.

"Just go raw, Toji. I want to feel you fill me up."

The condom? Gone. Thrown across the room.

He grabs your face in one rough hand, stares you down like you’ve lost your goddamn mind — but his cock twitches, hard and flushed, leaking at the tip. His voice drops to a growl.

"You sure about that, baby? You want this monster raw? Want me to stretch this pussy bare and stuff it so full you’ll still be leaking tomorrow?"

You barely nod before he’s slamming in. No warning. Just full, brutal penetration, the stretch so intense you scream. His hips don’t stop. His hands pin your thighs wide open, watching you twitch and claw and cum around him like he’s breaking your body.

"There we go. No going back now. Gonna ruin this cunt for anyone else."

He cums inside you with a snarl, biting your shoulder while your body convulses. And he doesn’t pull out — he fucks it in deeper. Says you look better with his cum drooling out of your swollen pussy.

"Let them see. Let them all fucking see who you belong to."

RYOMEN SUKUNA

You think he’ll mock you.

But the second you say it — soft, wrecked, eyes fluttering — “I want you raw” — he goes silent.

Then he grins. Slowly. Like a predator.

"You sure? No takebacks, little slut."

He grabs your thighs, spreads you open, spits on your cunt — and slams in bare. The stretch is unreal. Your scream punches the air out of your lungs. His cock splits you open, thick and pulsing, raw heat making your eyes roll back.

"Look at you. Already cockdrunk. And I’ve barely started."

He fucks you harder, meaner, like he’s punishing you for wanting it raw. Your legs go numb. His fingers are bruising your hips. Your cunt starts milking him, and he growls deep in his chest.

"You asked for this. You begged. So take it, little toy. Take every fucking inch."

He finishes with a feral groan, flooding you so hard it spills out the second he pulls out. And he doesn’t care. He just smears it across your pussy and pushes two fingers in, grinning.

"We’re not done. Not until it takes."

[kuncitizen]

Masterlist

Thinking about Nerd!Gojo sitting behind his geeky little science project like a kicked puppy in a hoodie two sizes too big, shoulders slumped as he watches person after person walk right past his stall without so much as a glance.

His glasses are slightly crooked, one leg bouncing nervously beneath the table, right hand fidgeting with a clicky pen that’s already half-snapped.

You definitely didn’t come here for this.

The science fair was mostly a glorified excuse to leave your dorm before your roommate subjected you to another hour of screaming about her situationship and eating spicy ramen on your bed.

But now you’re looking at this tall, awkward boy who looks like he’s slowly evaporating from the lack of social interaction.

His display is brilliant. There are twinkling little lights in a model solar system, and a bunch of laminated diagrams with handwritten notes in tight, slanted print. But people just stroll by like they’re allergic to effort.

And honestly, you weren’t planning to care. Not until his eyes snap up to yours.

A shade of gorgeous, bright, glassy blue. They widen behind silver-rimmed glasses, a blink of disbelief before a hopeful sort of brightness takes over his whole face.

You slow down. Because who wouldn't after seeing that look on his face?

"Hi," you say casually, hands in your pockets.

His mouth falls open for a second, like his brain blue-screened.

“Hi! Oh—uh—welcome to my project,” he blurts, scrambling upright so fast he nearly knocks over one of the solar system models. “Sorry. Sorry. Just—hi. Are you into Astrophysics?”

You glance at the fancy title printed in bold across his poster:

Gravitational Time Dilation: A Simulation-Based Study.

“I mean, i like the stars. And Interstellar was cool?”

He laughs. It's a breathy, half-disbelieving kind of chuckle, and suddenly his whole face lights up.

“That totally counts,” he says, nodding way too seriously. “Okay, uh, here—this part represents the gravitational curvature caused by massive objects. Which means time actually bends near a black hole.”

He fumbles around and presses a button. A tiny motor kicks in and one of the models starts to slowly spin, simulating gravitational lensing.

You nod, even though you’re pretty sure you understood maybe two of the five words he said. “I thought that the whole time bending thing was a metaphor or something.”

“Nooo, it’s absolutely real! I mean, not the fifth-dimension bookshelf stuff, but the time dilation is legit,” he says, practically vibrating now, fingers tapping the side of the model. “Like if you parked a spaceship near a black hole and then came back, your friends would be, like, old. Or dead. Probably dead. It’s kinda depressing, actually.”

You bite back a smile at how excited he is. “Wow. That’s… morbidly romantic.”

He pauses.

Then clears his throat, pushing his glasses up. “I mean, dying alone in space is kinda poetic.”

You laugh.

He laughs too, a little too hard, and then suddenly looks panicked like—shit, was that weird?

But you’re not weirded out, not even close.

“Sure. Although full disclosure, I don’t know batshit about space.”

“That’s okay,” he says quickly, smiling as if that’s the best news he’s heard all day. “I can explain. I love explaining. Ask me anything.”

So you ask more questions, even the dumb ones. Especially the dumb ones. And to your surprise, he never talks down to you.

Satoru stumbles over his words sometimes, but not once seems to mind your follow-up questions, even when you mix up neutron stars and nimbus clouds. He just keeps going, like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to stand here and just listen.

You aren’t even trying to flirt, but he’s so damn earnest it sort of feels like flirting anyway.

Eventually, you glance at the time and sigh. “I should get going. My dormmate’s probably wondering if I got abducted by aliens.”

He deflates instantly, like someone popped his internal helium tank. “Oh… that makes sense. Thanks for stopping by.”

You’re just about to step away, offering him a small smile and a soft “This was fun,” when his eyes flick downward.

“Wait— is that the Chang textbook?” he asks, squinting like he’s not trying to memorize every title on your book cover.

You pause and glance down at the heavy thing tucked under your arm. “Yeah, it’s for Chem 203.”

He perks up instantly, like a plant finally getting sunlight. “You’re in Chem 203?”

“I mostly sit at the back and doodle in the margins,” you say, shifting the book in your arms. “And my grades are hanging on by a single valence electron.”

He laughs. “I’m in that class too! I usually sit near the front—uh, big glasses, white hair, probably looked like I was possessed or something.”

You tilt your head, the realisation hitting you finally. “Wait. That’s you? I thought you were just some intense TA.”

“No, unfortunately. Just me.”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish now, eyes flicking to the floor for a beat before he tries to play it cool. “I mean, I guess if you need some help with chem—I’d be happy to assist. We could go over some things together, if you’re okay with... that.”

You pretend to consider it. “Hmm. Do you charge by the hour, or is this a discount situation?”

He blinks. “I mean, I can give you, like, the friend rate? If we’re friends? Or not. I didn’t mean to assume—”

“Relax, Einstein.” You laugh, shifting your grip on the book. “I’d love the help.”

You start rummaging through your pockets, half-distracted.

“Hang on—need something to write with. Gimme your number.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

“...My number?” he echoes, like you just asked him for a kidney.

“Yes, your number.” you say slowly, enunciating each syllable. “You know, the ten digits? For modern communication.”

“Right! Totally. I can—uh—yeah, I can give you that. Lemme just—” he pats himself down like a man on fire, checking every pocket, flipping his notebook, looking under the table like maybe a post-it note will crawl out and offer itself up.

“It’s fine,” you chuckle, amused by the sight. “You can just write it on my hand.”

He freezes mid-motion, slowly turning to you like you just offered him your soul.

“Your hand?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Unless that’s too weird for you. I guess you don’t want me to have it—”

“No! No, no, I do! I mean—I can do that.” he stammers, already reaching for his sharpie again.

You smile and extend your hand for him, palm open.

He swallows hard, before reaching out.

Gojo's fingers wrap gently around your wrist, warm and a little shaky, as he steadies your hand in his. His thumb grazes across your skin as he lines the pen up, then exhales softly like he’s trying not to freak out over the fact that he is touching a girl and she is not recoiling. In fact, you’re smiling.

“There,” he says quietly, fingers unwrapping from your wrist slowly.

You glance at it, then back at him. “What if it washes off?”

His eyes widen. “Wait—should I—? Do you want me to—?”

You shrug, smiling. “Guess you’ll have to pick a permanent marker next time.”

His laugh is boyish, ridiculously fond. “I guess so.”

You step back, tucking your arm against your chest. “Thanks, space boy. I'll text you later.”

You start to walk away, but something makes you turn to glance back once. He’s still watching you, dazed, the heat still clinging to his cheeks, ears tinged slightly red.

You shoot him a wink.

He nearly falls off the stool.

A/N: Comment 'Nerdjo 👅' if you'd like to see a full-length fic for this. Also, apologies if I went too geeky on the physics, have to use my degree somewhere.

[deepspace-scenarios]

[scenario/drabble] when life imitates art

Summary: LIs react when you're flustered from reading a spicy webtoon. They get curious, some already know why (Sylus bc Mephisto snoops), and all of the men decide to re-enact the scene with you just because ♡ Genre: Fluff; TW: suggestiveness

SYLUS

You forgot how you'd stumbled across this webtoon- but it had you enthralled in its dark fantasy while Sylus works away at his desk.

You’re curled up in his spare office chair, re-reading the chapter and engrossed in the fallen angel’s seduction- his dark wings enveloping the heroine, his lips at her throat as he steals a fragment of her soul.

An unmistakable shadow falls over your phone screen. "Ah. That scene."

Sylus’s smirk is knowing. "Mephisto adores this series- he's got it all downloaded into his storage after catching you reading it that time. Drama suits his tastes."

Your mortified gasp only amuses him further, and his crimson eyes twinkle as he steps closer. "Though I do see the appeal, kitten. No need to be so shy about it."

In one motion, he has you caged in the office chair, his knee slotted between yours, his breath warm against your ear. "Shall we test if reality lives up to fiction?"

His teeth graze your pulse point, then he sucks on your skin. Your breath stutters. "Nnh- Sy-"

“Too much, kitten?” His lips brush across your skin as he speaks, peppering kisses along your jaw between words. “I haven’t gotten to the good part yet-”

Your eyes widen. Oh no, he knows what comes next-

His hand slides up your arm, coming to rest at the base of your neck. Then his lips cover yours in a hot, searing kiss, his fingers curling ever so slightly to press onto the sides of your neck as he deepens the kiss. It doesn’t cut off your airway- but there’s just enough pressure to give the illusion that he’s doing it.

You whimper, hands clutching the front of his shirt for dear life.

He pulls away gently, eyes dark with satisfaction at your state of undoing.

“Got a verdict?” He asks, voice rough as his gaze rakes over you.

“I- yeah, that was good,” you breathe, your heart still hammering within your chest and your mind clouded with nothing but the warmth of his lips and his calloused fingers on your skin.

“That wasn’t the question, sweetie. Did it live up to your… fantasies?” He purrs, sinking down into a crouch in front of you.

You nod, covering your face with your hands and trying your best not to- only to have them gently pried off.

“I had fun too, just so you know,”

Then he scoops you into his arms, bringing you to his work desk with him. “Keep reading. We'll test out the next scene when I'm done with work,”

_____

ZAYNE

You bite your lip, completely engrossed in the webtoon as you lean your hip against the kitchen counter.

The CEO’s rival has her trapped on the balcony, his voice a soft, alluring threat as the city lights blur into a mosaic behind them.

You startle when Zayne’s arms cage you against the counter. "Show me," he murmurs, scanning your phone.

Your face heats up as you try to explain yourself. “It's a silly webtoon-”

He glances at you with a pointed look. “If it has you blushing, it's not likely silly,”

He scrolls up and back to the scene you were reading. "…I understand."

His lips find the curve of your neck, his grip on your waist tightening. "His decision is brash." He comments.

The feather-light kiss he leaves on your earlobe makes you shiver, a barely-there pressure until he eases the ticklish sensation with another press of his lips. "Though I can see how it adds to the tension."

He turns you to face him, hazel-green eyes dark as he places a firm hand on your lower back, pressing you against him. "But since I'm with someone I love-"

His lips find yours in a tender kiss. “-I'm lucky that there's no need to endure all that misguided yearning.”

______

RAFAYEL

You're already on chapter sixty three, and the season just keeps getting better.The next scene has you grinning as you slam your palm against the couch, and you see Rafayel jump from the corner of your vision.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” He accuses, sliding over on his rolling chair to see what got you reacting so strongly.

“Show,” he says, holding his palm out.

His eyes fly over the screen, taking in the story and its details- the warlock’s wand tilts the witch’s chin, her breath hitching as magic thrums between them.

Rafayel turns to you, frowning slightly, as if he's unimpressed. You yelp when his paintbrush replaces the wand- he holds it under your chin, the pressure tilting your head up.

His eyes glint violet and pink under the studio lights. "This got you flustered?" He tuts. "Tsk. So clichéd."

The brush trails down your throat- then he replaces it with his mouth, kissing you until you’re dizzy.

"Though I do love an obedient subject…" he murmurs, surging forward to lay you down on the couch.

He nips your lower lip. "Stay still, cutie. I’m far from done."

_____

XAVIER

The hum of the fan drones on while you and Xavier scroll on your phones in comfortable silence as you lean against each other while seated in the living room. On your phone is a fantasy webtoon- one that's making you struggle to hide a grin and a blush.

The faerie prince commands the heroine to kneel, her trembling only fueling his smirk.

Xavier tilts his head, blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. "You like… this?"

You jump, shoulder almost knocking against his chin. You begin to panic when you realize he might’ve been reading all along.

“Uh- Xav-”

He moves, kneeling before you.

“Xavier- wait, no,” you quickly try to pull him up. “It's not like that,”

Clarity seeps into his eyes, and his expression shifts from expectant curiosity to something that's darker, sharper and in control.

He stands, cupping your chin. "I see. Kneel for me."

The effect is instant. Your breath hitches and you obey almost instinctively, cheeks hot as you gaze up at him with wide eyes. He looks down at you, face angled like he's assessing captured prey.

“Xavi?” You ask quietly. His thumb swipes against your bottom lip. "Xavier-!"

He laughs, almost mocking, and your heart flutters helplessly against your ribs.

God, he's being so unfair.

“This is… quite thrilling,” he admits, thoughtfully. And as quickly as it began, it ends with him pulling you onto the couch.

"Guess I’ll have to read more," he murmurs, kissing you slowly. "Learn all your fantasies."

His fingers tangle in your hair. "I can be your prince."

_____

CALEB

You lounge on the couch with your head resting on the armrest, your phone displaying an endless feed of comic panels.

On the screen, the princess tugs her butler close, his control snapping under her touch as he pushes her onto the bed.

“Damn,” you breathe as you read the scene again.

Caleb’s grip tightens on the armrest of the couch as he reads over your shoulder.

"Pips," he drawls. Your gaze snaps up.

Wasn't he dealing with Fleet messages just a second ago?

"You like making someone lose control like that?" He teases, leaning down over to you.

You push him away half-heartedly as you sit up with a huff, adjusting your position to lean against the backrest with your arms crossed. “Hey, you can't deny it's pretty hot-”

His purple eyes burn, and he mirrors your crossed arms.

“I meant it's hot when the butler loses control because he's normally so disciplined, uptight and careful- and-” you trail off when you see Caleb raise an eyebrow at your passionate description.

Before you can react, he steps closer and leans in with a hand on the backrest, his other hand trailing up your arm and cupping your jaw.

“Cat got your tongue, huh?”

“Don't tease!”

He chuckles, sitting down and pulling you onto his lap. "Then let me serve you properly, my princess."

His kiss is searing, his hands gripping your waist. "And it seems like you could do with some lessons in discipline."

Notes: Lmk which LI's one yall liked bc i think i went feral for Xavier’s oops and i think Zayne's one was sweeter than i expected im too soft for him :') ANYHOW THANKS FOR READING <33 Comments and reblogs very much appreciated <3 ((+EDITS made sorry for the typos im so mortified) (Also working on 1 request atm) ✨️

[p1girlfriend]

on your knees, pretty thing - LN4

content: 18+ only. oral sex (fem giving), deepthroating, tears, praise, possessive!lando, control, messy, loving filth.

He always knew what you were up to.

You were being too sweet today. Laughing at all his jokes, stealing his fries, leaning over his shoulder while he scrolled through setups on his phone. Your voice soft. Your lashes fluttering. Knees bumping his under the table.

“Baby,” he says now, shutting the door behind him in the hotel suite. “You’ve been teasing me since the second you woke up.”

You look up at him from the edge of the bed, all sweet and smug, legs swinging slightly.

“Maybe I just missed you,” you say, fake innocent. “Is that a crime?”

He raises an eyebrow. “With that look in your eyes?”

You giggle, tilting your head. “What look?”

He steps closer. “The one that says you wanna get on your knees and make me cry.”

You just blink at him. Slowly. Intentionally.

And that’s all it takes.

-

Your knees hit the floor fast — carpeted, soft, but not that you notice. You’re too busy drooling around his cock, tongue out, tears already in the corner of your eyes because he’s so deep.

Lando lets his head fall back for a second. “Holy fuck, baby—”

You bob your head a little faster, taking him deeper, mouth all warm and wet and obedient.

“Look at you,” he groans, fisting your hair, not pulling, just holding. “My perfect girl. So fucking pretty with your mouth full.”

You moan, which makes him twitch against your tongue. His thighs are tense, abs flexing every time you gag a little, every time he hits the back of your throat and your eyes water.

“Fuck, you’re crying for me?” he coos, breath ragged. “What a sweet little thing. Wanna ruin you just like this.”

You blink up at him — mascara starting to smudge, drool clinging to your chin — and suck him deeper again.

His grip tightens. “Don’t do that— I’ll come— shit—”

You don’t stop. You never do. Not when he starts begging under his breath. Not when he starts thrusting slowly, hips twitching like he can’t help it. Not when he whispers, “So good, so fucking good, made for this.”

He finally pulls out with a wet pop, panting, his cock flushed and slick.

Your lips are swollen, jaw aching, eyes glassy.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, crouching down, grabbing your face gently in both hands. “You did so good, angel. Let me see—”

He wipes the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs, then kisses you. Soft. Messy. Full of need.

You whimper into his mouth, trying to grind your thighs together.

“You like that, huh?” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “Like being my perfect little toy?”

You nod, dazed. “Yours. Only yours.”

He smirks, then lifts you up by the thighs with ease.

“You’re gonna say that again,” he promises, carrying you to the bed, voice low and smug. “But next time? You’ll be screaming it.”

And you will.

©p1girlfriend