#sometimes i understand if its a familiar room

[violntfemme]

id love love LOVE if i could pinpoint what exactly throws me into a dpdr episode but sadly ive experienced them in so many different situations that im nearly convinced that my brain is making up triggers. Because wdym im disassociating because I walked into a place ive been in 1000 times before? Like alright I get it when its an unfamiliar place(as much as I hate it, at least I know its a trigger) but seriously? a FAMILIAR place? Like brain, wtf are you even doing anymore?

[marimeeko]

After the fifth time that Katsuki pops up at UA, surprising Izuku with Bento for lunch, calling him "sensei" in a cocky(affectionate) tone, Kouta just stops at Izuku's desk on his way out of the room and asks him point blank,

"So are you and DynaMight actually dating, or what?"

Izuku sputtering and dropping all of his paperwork and avoiding the question out of sheer dumbfoundedness.

Then, the sixth time that Katsuki barges in, as he is thrusting the bento into Izukus hands as usual, Kota raises his hand, and stands up from his seat and yells out,

"DynaMight, sir!! Pardon me, but are you dating Deku-Sensei??" And the whole class gasps and whispers. Katsuki appears just as dumbfounded as he looks wide-eyed at Kouta and the students.

"Kouta!" Izuku balks, but then Katsuki suddenly grins mischievously. Izuku doesn't trust that look...

"Well, brat, maybe I SHOULD date him, then I could make sure Sensei doesn't forget to eat every day, right??" Katsuki looked entirely too pleased at the louder gasps and chatter that came from the students. He has a wicked grin as he turns his sharp red eyes back to Izuku.

"K-Kacchan, what are you doing?!" Izuku stammers, beet red and grabbing his arm. "This is not the time for--"

"If you don't want me disrupting your class, then stop leaving your Bento in the fridge!!" Katsuki scolds Izuku before swinging himself back out of the open window. There was a fresh wave of gasps and excited murmuring at the insinuationthat the two lived together. "We're ROOM MATES, OK?" He adds hastily, pointing his finger at the noisy classroom of kids.

He drops out the window and blasts off.

Izuku is left, stood at his desk, hands planted and hanging his head, trying to collect enough of himself to quell the riotous theories now flying around his classroom.

Kouta stands at his own desk amidst his unruly classmates, eyes narrowed as if he had just realized something, "I knew it!" He hisses.

"You're the worst," Izuku texts Katsuki later.

"I know" katsuki replies.

"Now eat your fuckin food or I'll stop making it for you."

--

I think I was inspired by this art post ^^;

[esouliie]

DON’T YOU LOVE THE DEVIL?

– pairing | wanda maximoff x fem!reader

– synopsis | wanda was everything you wanted in a mom. she was kind and loving, even to those who weren’t her own children. she, however, loved you in a very different way…

– warnings | porn with plot, non con that turns kinda dub con, smut, mommy kink, spanking, thigh riding, overstimulation, aftercare, wanda is a perv lmao (18+)

[word count: 3.4k]

Summer was always your favourite time. It meant avid beach trips, ice cream dates and - most importantly - bestie sleepovers. You enjoyed staying at Natasha's house, which was much larger than yours. Wanda, her mother, was always very kind to you, even more so than your own. Because of this, throughout high school, you found yourself always at the Maximoff’s. When you were going through a difficult time, you would always turn to her for support; she was a solid shoulder to cry on as her hushed whispers soothed you.

Much like your house, Natasha’s dad was never in the picture. And because Wanda never seemed to date, it was always just them two and sometimes you. Their house was your safe haven and Wanda was your beckoning angel. Now in your last year of college, you still find yourself coming to the older woman…

Countless nights, you wished she was your mom instead.

Reaching into your pocket, you fumble around for the front key, feeling its familiar shape between your fingertips.

This was your usual routine – Natasha would text when she was nearly home from work, and you’d arrive shortly after, letting yourself in with the spare key she had given you months ago.

The door swings open with a soft creak, revealing the warmth of the home beyond. The living room is empty, just the faint hum of the TV can be heard.

As you step into the kitchen, the warm aroma of burnt vanilla envelops you. Wanda stands against the island, dressed in a large, red sweater and black skirt, with one hand scrolling through her phone as the other holds a glass of red wine. She looked radiant as ever. A grown woman confident in her own skin and her ability.

“Hey, Wanda.”

She places her phone down and greets you warmly. “Hey there, sweetheart. How are you?”

“I’m good.” You take a seat next to her and she busies herself with pouring you a glass of red. You watch her, marvelling at how effortlessly she moves around the kitchen, her movements always graceful and fluid.

"So," Wanda begins, setting the glass in front of you, "another bestie sleepover?"

“Yep! Natasha’s going to be busy with Bucky next week so we’re spending as much time together.”

Wanda scoffs at the mention of her daughter’s partner, “Yeah, she said something about going to his parent’s lake house for the week.”

You hum, reaching for a sip of the wine, awkward in the revelation of Wanda’s distaste for her daughter’s boyfriend. I mean, it’s not like you like him either. You hate him actually. He was always so weird about your friendship with the redhead, always starting arguments around how much you guys hang out together and how he thinks you have a crush on her.

Plus, Natasha was way out of his league and he sometimes treated her like shit. It was only last week when Natasha was complaining about how they had an argument during their date and Bucky left her to find her own way home…

“I really don’t know what she sees in him.”

You sigh, setting the glass back down. “Me neither. He’s an asshole.”

Lost in thought, you fail to notice Wanda’s approach until an arm laid upon your shoulder, and a hand twirled around your curls.

“You know, I always thought Natasha would end up with you.”

Shocked by her confession, you try to respond - to deny that nothing would ever happened - but your mouth is unable to move as her nails scratch against your neck.

Wanda settles down in the stool beside you, hand retreating to stroke down your arm.

"I just don't understand. He’s boring and doesn’t deserve Tasha, whereas, you’re… you’re so much better than him.” She admits softly, her gaze fixed on you.

"You’re so much more than him.”

You shrug, expelling a shaky breath as you watch her manicured nail draw patterns against your exposed skin.

Silence envelopes you both, Wanda deep in thought and you pretend to act calm about the fact that Wanda’s touch has trailed down to your hands, resting in your lap.

“You know if I were her…” Her breath flutters against your ear, “I wouldn’t even think about anyone else… when I have you.”

Your heart skips a beat at her admission.

"I..." you begin, your voice catching in your throat as you struggle to articulate the jumble of thoughts and emotions swirling within you.

It felt so wrong, and yet you didn’t want her to stop.

To keep stroking your hand,

To keep whispering in your ear.

To keep close to you.

“I think… I want to kiss you.” Wanda murmurs, her thumb gently running over your lips.

But before you could say anything, she leaned in, her lips meeting yours in a soft, tentative kiss.

“So pretty.” She whispers, lips closing in once again, but the sudden closing of a door upstairs startles you both as you pull away. Eyes wide in fear that Natasha could’ve seen you kissing her mom.

Wanda leaves her seat, an unreadable expression on her face, and disappears into the living room, Natasha’s thundering footsteps break you from looking at her as she comes downstairs. Her hair is wet, her bangs clinging to her forehead. She must’ve been in the shower.

“You made it!” Natasha exclaims before briefly hugging you and dragging you with her upstairs, “Come on. Let’s watch a movie.”

…

A few hours later, and a few movies down, you end up back in the kitchen, in search of a drink. You spot Wanda in the living room watching a show, her presence both comforting and unnerving. No longer elegantly dressed, she lounges in a maroon satin night gown. The thin fabric barely covers her long legs as it glows complimentarily against her pale skin.

Summoning as much courage, you take a seat on the other end of the sofa. The drink long forgotten. She recognises your presence but you both don’t say anything, engrossed in some reality show on TV. This distraction works for a while but then, like a shadow in the morning sun, the memory of the kiss surfaces. Heat blossoms against your cheeks but you feel it weighing on your mind, a heavy burden demanding acknowledgement.

“Wanda,” your voice so quiet she almost didn’t hear it, ‘I think we should talk about earlier.”

With a delayed hum, she turns towards you, waiting patiently for you to continue. Your words stumble out clumsily, faltering as you try to convey the complexity of your emotions. You want to explain that the kiss was wrong, that she was your best friend’s mom and that nothing like that could happen again, but you don’t want to hurt her feelings in the process.

Her expression was unreadable, you could almost hear the pounding of your own heart, the uncertainty hanging thick in the air between you. And then, finally, she speaks.

“I’m sorry, darling. I thought- it was silly and inappropriate of me.” She reaches over to briefly squeeze your hand.

“Let’s forget it happened.”

You exhale with relief, “Yeah, okay. Thank you.”

Quick to change the conversation and clear the awkward tension, Wanda asks, “How come you’re down here anyways? Where’s Natasha?”

“Oh she fell asleep.” You giggle at the unattractive image of your best friend, snoring somewhat loudly and taking up your side of the bed.

“Besides, I’m not really tired, so I thought I’d come down for a drink.”

Wanda hums, a smile on her face at the sight of you giggling so cutely.

But you notice her hands run over bare arms, soothing the goosebumps and the slight shiver, “Are you cold?”

She looks at you for a moment, eyes taking in your concerned features before she nods.

“I’ll get you a blanket.” You move to stand but a grip on your wrist halts you.

“Don’t bother. Just sit here.”

She leans back against the pillows, legs parting slightly. Your brows furrow in confusion.

She tugs your wrist softly, “Don’t think, just come here.”

She pulls you to sit between her thighs, flush against her front as she winds her arms around you. It wasn’t uncommon being hugged by the older woman but it’s never been like this. But despite earlier, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of comfort wash over you. The room even felt cosier now all that tension was gone. So, you lean back into her embrace, feeling her steady heartbeat against your back and her warm thighs brush against yours.

“Hm, much better. You’ve always run hot.” Her face snuggles into your curls and you giggle.

Her large hands dip, holding softly onto your hips, pulling you even closer with a silent groan, before descending to your thighs. A shiver of anticipation runs down your spine, but you maintain composure, thinking nothing of the surely innocent touch as you focus on the TV screen in front of you.

Her touch is gentle, sending a warm current through your body with each stroke. You feel your legs widen, following in the direction of her strokes, not wanting the caress to stop. The show on the TV fades into the background as your attention becomes solely fixated on her.

She leans in closer, her breath warm against your ear as she whispers, “Pretty girl... feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod, allowing yourself to melt further into her embrace, your head resting against her shoulder instead of watching her hands.

Wanda tuts, “No, baby, head up.”

A single hand moves from your thigh to hold the back of your head, forcing you to look down at your entwined legs. Another hand wanders higher than expected, tracing small circles into your inner thigh, jarring you out of your trance as you go to wiggle free from her grip. “Wanda… that’s-”

Your speech is cut off as fingers slip under your shorts, and you gasp, squirming with renewed vigour. But her hold refuses even the feeblest motions as she wraps an arm around your waist.

“Wanda… please!”

“Don’t think, baby.” She warns again, fingers gliding further into your shorts. “Just let yourself feel good.”

You fight harder, hips snapping away from her touch as hands pry at her wrist. “Get off me!”

“No, you’re not getting up.” You squirm again, and without warning, she digs her nails harshly into your soft skin. “I said, you’re not getting up.”

You whimper in pain and stop your movement. Instantly, her nails pull back from your skin, leaving red angry crescent marks. Those fingertips gently caress the marks to soothe them before moving up under your shirt.

“Good girl.” Those words bring an odd warmth to your body and suddenly you think that letting Wanda have her way with you couldn’t be as bad as you initially thought…

But light fingers caressing up and down your stomach, inching closer to your breasts reminded you of the position you’re in.

This was your best friend’s mom.

Natasha didn’t deserve this.

“Wanda, we can’t… it’s not right. What about Nat-?”

“It’s fine, princess.” She interrupts, placing a few chaste kisses against your neck. “She won’t find out.”

Suddenly, those hands slide up over your bare breasts and gently squeeze. You take in a deep breath and exhale slowly with a soft whimper. Pleased with the response, she begins to knead them kindly alternating between light and firm pressure.

“You like that, baby?” Wanda coos then nibbles on the side of your ear, descending your neck carefully to not leave bites and marks in place.

Your back arches slightly, pressing your breasts deeper into her adept grasp, and your defiance fades ever so quickly with each breathy moan.

“Hm, so needy, so responsive…” thumbs swipes over your perked nipples, “and all I’m doing is playing with your tits, princess.”

Your increased whines answer in reply and Wanda doesn’t bother wasting time anymore. Lifting a hand from its spot under your top, she glides down under your shorts. Her lithe fingers ghost over the soaked underwear, travelling low enough to feel the wetness seep from your slit, and she moans lowly at the sensation. “You’re so wet… fuck, is this all for me?”

Battling between not wanting this and giving in to her, you also fight the urge to thrust your hips upwards, to search for some needed friction, to end the maddening ache between your thighs.

The older woman’s light touches feel like heaven and hell as nimble fingers slide up and down the fabric that clung to you, purposely missing where you needed her most.

“That’s it, baby. Relax… let go for me.”

A strange fuzziness washes over you completely as you relax - moral sobriety long forgotten - as your legs spread apart limply for Wanda to grope in every direction.

 “M’kay.” You reply, barely hearing yourself, lost in the moment.

Wanda sighs contently, forever pleased she’s put you in this headspace with such little fight.

Focusing back on your neck, she licks along the flushed skin, and as she bites against your pulse a little harder, the slight pain has you quivering.

You melt into the warm heat below you, head resting against a firm shoulder, as you let out a moan laced with pleasure and slight frustration. Hips bucking slightly back into Wanda’s hoping she’d take the hint and get on with it.

The quicker you gave her what she wanted, the quicker it would be done.

Finally, her index finger slides higher, the tip of her nail just brushing against your clit slightly. Your thighs shake at the motion, wanting to clamp shut around her but never doing so in fear she would stop. A cry falls from your mouth in surprise as her finger finally reaches, circling your swollen nerve endings in a slow yet firm motion.

Your words stumble out clumsily, unable to string a full sentence together as Wanda practically purrs against your ear.

“Oh, you’re doing so well, baby.” She coos, before pressing open-mouthed kisses against your jaw, “So well for me… come here.”

Tipping your neck up, she dips forward, pressing her hot lips against your own. A choked note of dismay comes from you as Wanda forces your mouth open and shoves her tongue inside. The older woman dominates the clashing of tongues, making sure that you know your place.

You fail to notice Wanda pull your shorts and panties down from your hips until her fingers press against you harder, and you can’t help but grind against it with such aching desperation. She marvels over how pathetic you look… one minute begging for her to stop and now humping against her like a bitch in heat, swallowing her tongue down your throat.

Such a depraved mental image and yet it only feeds into her desire for you.

To claim you as hers, no matter if you wanted it or not.

Because she didn’t care.

She could feel herself getting wetter, as she met your grinding with her own thrusts, your ass pressing flush against her soaked panties.

The kiss eventually comes to an end, a few hungry strands of saliva briefly clinging to your lips, linking you together. Wanda gazes lovingly at the sight of you, a growing smile on her lips, as you writhe in building pleasure.

“Can you look at me, princess?”

Wanda asks in a sultry tone and you struggle to open your eyes, squinting against the light as her blurry face comes into focus. Her pupils are blown out, partly consuming those emerald irises, her cheeks painted a flushed pink, and her lips part as she pants freely.

She looks so beautiful.

Her green eyes shine clouded over in a different colour than Natasha’s…

Natasha.

Dread seeps into your bones, your body ripped from its relaxed trance as you recall your best friend and how she’s sleeping upstairs as you’re fucked by her mom.

You don’t want to think about how upset she would be to find you like this.

“Baby…” She reels your mind back to focus on her, noticing you’re beginning to spiral. “You ready to come for me?”

Her fingers speed up perfectly but you shook your head in defiance, your mind no longer free to just enjoy Wanda’s touch.

“No,” she coos, “you don’t want to come for me, baby? Don’t want to come for Mommy?”

A whiny no leaves your lips, not giving in to the beautiful temptress behind you.

Annoyed, Wanda rolls her eyes, clearly upset that you wouldn’t just give in to her and that you’re not nestled in that special little headspace anymore.

Without warning, she twists your thigh over the other, ass on show as she lashes out with a sharp slap. You cry out at the unexpected blow, your hands grabbing tightly onto whatever part of the woman you can reach. You weren’t sure if you were trying to push her away or pull her close.

“I thought we were done with that, baby.” She unleashes a few more spanks, “Thought you were going to be my good girl, hm?”

You gasp for air at the same time Wanda gropes your marked flesh, pulling your cheeks apart as she rubs in soothing circles. The breath turns into a choked moan as Wanda spanks you one more time, before returning you to your original position, back to pressing firm circles against your clit.

Once again, you fight her touch. Hips wiggling in each direction until ankles wrap around your legs, locking you in place.

Tight circles turn to quick taps, the once pleasing hand now bringing pain upon your pussy in rapid succession, not allowing you to writhe in her generosity for too long before returning to cruelty.

A beautiful blend that muddled all of your defying thoughts until there was nothing left.

Your body betrayed your mind. Your legs fell completely limp, as you lay at the mercy of the older woman. Taking whatever she deemed necessary to give.

Finally, she had you.

“I don’t care if you don’t want to. You’re going to cum all over my fingers for me.” She concludes with a kiss on your cheek.

And not caring if you cry loud enough to wake up the rest of the house, her fingers speed up for the last time, sending you headfirst over the edge.

…

After what felt like hours, Wanda was done with you. You had moved into her bedroom, deciding the sofa was not adequate to continue. Now her head rests against your stomach after she had spread you open to lap up your next orgasm.

Your body spasms randomly, wave after wave of aftershock rolling over you. A warm hand cups your core firmly, and you buck away from the sensitivity, not wanting her touch anymore. But her fingers remain, gliding slowly up and down your slit, marvelling at your swollen skin, before pushing against your entrance.

You’re overwhelmed. What little fight you have left mentally can’t keep up with the fatigue of your exhausted body. If she wanted to, she could have her way with you. Again and again. Fresh tears fall from your eyes as you sob inconsolably into hands covering your face.

Wanda leaves you be, moving up your body to grab onto your wrists.

“Hey, baby… it’s okay, you’re okay…” she coos, fingertips wiping away your tears, “Mommy went too hard on you, didn’t she?”

You struggle to find the words, and Wanda shushes you, stopping you from thinking too much in such a delicate headspace.

You feel movement, feel Wanda get off you, and your eyes snap open in a slight panic but she sits beside you and swiftly draws you onto her lap.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Don’t cry.” She says gently, reeling you in with false empathy. She was glad she pushed you too hard you broke.

“Mommy couldn’t help herself.”

You scoot closer, close enough to bury your head into her neck as fingers trail up and down your back.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, baby. Can you forgive me?”

Her soothing words are music to your ears as you whimper softly against the woman, not willing to talk or move away. You just want her to hold you.

“Say it, princess. Say you forgive me.”

She guides you out of her neck to look at her.

“I forgive you.” You choke out, upset you’re no longer buried in her chest, as your hands run back to cover your eyes. Too ashamed to even look at her.

“Sweet girl, come here.” Wanda doesn’t wait, moving your hands to wrap around her neck as she kisses you hungrily, swallowing any little disapprovals as you push languidly against her chest, trying to force her mouth off of you.

It’s fine, it’s fine,” she ushers against your swollen lips, “I just want to make you feel better.”

You whine in disapproval but your arms wrap tighter around her.

“You love me, don’t you?” She whispers against your cheek, but doesn’t let you reply, as you choke on her tongue, stroking deep against yours.

“Say you love me, baby.” She moves to kiss your forehead, before moving down against your collarbone.

Hands groping your ass as she rocks you steady against her thigh.

“I love you,” a few tears burn down your throat as you hiccup,” I love you, I love you.”

Wanda mumbles her gratitude into your skin, fresh marks blooming against your chest as she fucks you against her.

“Keep saying you love me, baby.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you…” flies from your mouth in quick succession, your mind once again empty as the tell tale signs of another orgasm come into view.

“I love you too, princess.” She returns to your lips, tongue prodding past them as she coaxes your tongue into her mouth.

“Come on. Be good for me.”

It slams into you, body tense as you fall over the edge, pressing your face deep into her neck. She shushes you, not letting go of your body until the convulsions stop, and even then, you’re curled into her chest. Unwilling to part from her.

She allows you to sob freely, your body shaking uncontrollably as hands stroke all over until you calm down. Almost asleep in her arms.

A hand runs through your damp hair, “That’s it, baby. We’re done.”

“No more.” You mumble out, eyes already shut as exhaustion washes over.

“No more, baby. Go to sleep.” Wanda shifts you down her body, your face now against her chest, as she covers you both with her duvet.

Unable to resist any longer, you drift off in Wanda’s warm embrace.

[spurbleu]

scapegoat / tucked tail - john price

nsfw. ao3. ~4k

s. the old bruise in his eyes is gone. in its place, blue charcoal ignites, licking at his pupil in a dilated, focused anger. “doesn’t feel good, f'your space to be invaded,” his cigar breathes embers over the bridge of your nose, “does it?”

or, you and your boss get stuck in an elevator.

cw. fem reader. pnv. fingering. power imbalance/inappropriate work dynamics.

for @tobeholyistobeempty <3 thanks for letting me rant about him, love being abhorrent with you.

The world feels odd today.

Tectonic shift. An onslaught of rubble plateaus at your feet as you stand in the elevator. You taste the disquiet in your coffee and try to find its source in the tile grout. This anxiety is an old knife, sweating against a whetstone and the back of your neck.

Your mind searches for a scapegoat- forgotten papers, an unlocked door, perhaps the stove top was left on. But you come up empty-handed and are left to swim in these troubling waters alone and wondering.

The elevator bell brings you back to the morning. Opening doors reveal grey carpet and China blue walls. Clouds with silver linings that shade over the windows. Ceiling lamps. The familiarity should bring you comfort, but the knife is still at your throat as you walk to the main office.

Rounding the corner, it cuts.

The blue in Mr. Price’s eyes is bruised and the pupils have shrunk into capsizing ships. Purple grows beneath his lashes like swollen grapes, where his crows’ feet pick at sunspots. Exhaustion has seized the bridge you spent a year building between the two of you- made from iron, coffee runs and polite banter.

It’s seemingly been burned sometime between the elevator and his office.

“Good morning, Mr. Price.” You say. He stares.

Time takes a drag of its cigar and puts it out on your back while you wait for his reply.

“Morning.”

The answer to your unknown anxiety stamps itself to the slam of his door.

8 AM

He’s not in the office for your first delivery.

His absence is disturbing- abnormal. Even when he isn’t there he lingers- a man who frequently shadows the space and people around him. A wall of force.

You find that his room is similar. Swallows you, despite its minimalism. Mahogany flays the skin under your nose as you survey the small space.

Barren walls aside from a few framed accolades. Tobacco torn carpet. And a desk in the center of the room, framed by a small bookshelf and a single leather chair. Whiskey, neat.

“Excuse me.”

You flinch and spin around. Mr. Price has his hand on the door handle, paused as he glowers at you from the threshold. You smile, but it only seems to wrinkle what little patience he had left.

“Paperwork,” you clear your throat, nerves sparking down your spine “I…have some paperwork. ‘Was leaving it on your desk. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He takes a long stride to the corner of his desk, hands folded behind his back. Sits in his leather chair with a huff and then holds his hand out expectantly. It takes you a second to understand, before you slowly lower the papers into his palm.

Usually, this is where he thanks you. Says he likes your hair “done like that”. Compliments the color of your shirt. It’s an arguably meaningless moment.

But not to you.

The way his voice purrs over your name, a small sentiment that brightens the dirtier, drawling parts of your day. John Price hand feeds you your own importance, and you hardly understand what you did to earn it.

But you don’t have to- the moment beckons content sleep anyway. Because someone- he- believes you did something good.

He says nothing to you today.

10:30 AM

Your knock on his door is timid at best.

“Come in.”

You poke your head through the crack. “I made some coffee…” He waits for you to make this worth his time, and both of you are skeptical that you’ll be able to, “I have an extra cup- black, how you like it. You seem tired today so I-“

“Just…leave it by the door.”

Your eyebrows draw. “…On the floor?”

He looks up at you from over his glasses. “Is there anything else to set it on?”

You look around to give your throat the opportunity to unclose. “No, sir.”

He looks back down. “Then yes. On the floor.”

You stand under the top of the door and watch tantrums manifest themselves around his torso. Small cracks in a meticulously built machine, where enflamed sores spit steam. Alloy lighthouse that searches for labor even when there is none.

Rusts when stagnant.

He does not look at you when he speaks again. “Today would be preferable.”

You’re already walking before your mind can stop you. Foot in front of the other to reach the corner of his desk, and the journey feels twice as long when you register the way he watches you. A fridged gloss over his iris- numbs an anger that squints when you place the cup next to his pen holder.

 He lets out a long, dry, sigh.

“I told you that you could-“

“One less trip for you…” You remember yourself when his eyebrows raise, “sir.”

Your words echo. The walls corner your shoulders. The air he exhales chokes you, and everything slows until it’s just the Atlantic of his eyes and the unshakeable sense that you are drowning in them.

He opens his mouth, but you leave before the words come.

1:00 PM

The seat in the breakout room next to yours is empty. He ate lunch in his office.

When you return to your desk, his mug is on its corner.

It’s empty.

5:25 PM

He calls you into his office this time.

You close the door with your back, hands folded in front of you.

He rubs the bridge of his nose when you walk in, evidently already annoyed. Takes his glasses off with a sigh, interlacing his fingers and rests his elbows on the desk. Greek statue still, with all the imitation of their Gods to match.

“I went through the reports.”

“About the covert?”

“What else,” he grits, “would I be talking about?”

You nod dumbly and stay with your back to the door.

“Do you w-“

“It’s missing pages.”

You swallow a rock. “What?”

“I said,” he stands, straightening his spine, “if you could listen the first time,” a frequent tactic you’ve seen him use on his subordinates- “It has,” but never you, “missing. Pages.”

He’s in front of you and he brings with him a particular quiet that triggers your fight or flight. The pause before an explosion, after a gun fire, or the sound of a casket closing. All of these buries you six feet under- still alive and restlessly terrified of living at the same time as his temper.

He pushes the paper into your chest, and when he removes his hands, he takes your breath with it.

“Fix it.”

5:28 PM

You fight tears at the printer.

When you’ve triple checked that all the pages are there, you return to his office.

You slide the report under the door.

It’s dark when you let your aching bones stand to leave.

Collecting papers, fixing your desk, shouldering your bag…a routine that feels uncharged without Mr. Price to talk with you. Funny, how much you miss his presence.

It’s hardly appropriate, but you pretend that it is.

The lights are off in his office, shades drawn. You didn’t see him leaving, but after your last interaction you hadn’t really been watching. You stare at the room, desperate for it to burst into flames, rot to the floor, melt into wax and metal and dread. Do something that isn’t absurdly empty.

None of those things happen.

So, you wave your white flag. Tomorrow, it’ll be better. You’ll be better.

Your day ends where it began- at the steel doors of the elevator. It looks frosted in the evening; the fluorescent lights above you casting a sick yellow hue over the China blue walls and grey carpet. It looks as stale as you feel.

It opens, and you let out a long sigh as you step in. And for a blissful moment, the day is over.

And then a hand slams between the closing doors.

They jut open, and reveal John Price standing at full height. He does not soften like he usually does when he sees you- in fact he goes ridged. It haunts you, how guiltless he looks.

“Good evening, sir.”

Your nicety falls on deaf ears. He hums and fishes out a lighter from his pocket, sticking a cigar between canines as he steps through the doors. Lights it as they close, and the room fogs.

Within seconds, you’re swelling in the familiarity of cigar corpse. Buried under the nickel smoke that clips to the heels of his boots and stagnates above the slope of his shoulders. Vaguely expensive, like it’s a luxury to be near him and his vices.

Your nose burns, a cruel itch that nudges your sinuses and overwhelms the place behind your eyes. Suffocating as Mr. Price and his cigar smolder beside you, watching the floor numbers decline with your tolerance.

Your peripheral renders embers- fizzles at his facial hair that rests over its barrel, and the fixed position of his jaw when he takes a drag. Calm blankets his silhouette, and you can see his attitude begin to repair itself.

It halts when you cough.

You don’t dare look at him when you feel a shift beside you. “Somethin’ the matter?”

You hold your breath, and when you exhale it’s shaky. “N-no si-“

“Speak up.”

“No sir.”

You cough again.

“Not used to these yet? For how long you’ve been workin’ f’me that’s pretty damn insulting.”

You’re blinking back tears, shifting in your heels. “I- it’s just because we’re in a-“

His hand is on your jaw, yanking it to look up at him.

The old bruise in his eyes is gone. In its place, blue charcoal ignites, licking at his pupil in a dilated, focused anger. Stikes quickly enough to paralyze you in his grip, stone as he squeezes the soft out of the base of your cheeks.

“Small space? Doesn’t feel good, f’your space to be invaded,” the cigar still sits between his teeth and breathes embers over the bridge of your nose, “does it?”

“No sir.” You can’t tell where he ends, or the cigar begins- all you know is that you’re burning in the subsequent ash that follows them both. Tears well up in the corners of your eyes as you become horrifically aware of how much he overwhelms you. How it’s always been this way- the kindle to his fire. A match to paper.

Just took him force feeding you secondhand smoke to see it. Or, rather, taste it.

“Been doin’ this t’me all fuckin’ day. Hoverin’ like a damn heli.”

“I’m sorry-“

He squeezes until your teeth mark the inside of your cheeks. “Can’tcha tell when a man needs his g’damn peace? When he’s fed up? What about today made’ya think I needed-“

The car convulses with the intensity of thunder. Mechanical earthquake sends you forward and into his chest, and you tense at the abrupt loss of gravity. You feel his back hit the wall, and the way he grunts as you follow close behind. Instinct moves his hand to cover the curve of your head, and you inhale into his shirt.

It’s quiet for ten long seconds. In that time, you realize the elevator isn’t moving.

Mr. Price speaks first. “You alright?”

“Yes.” You breathe.

You slowly part, and the light flickers over your head. Mr. Price curses.

“Not claustrophobic, are you?” You shake your head, and he runs a hand through his hair.

“Good.” He makes his way to the operating panel and clicks the emergency open. Theres a whine from somewhere in the front of the car, but nothing budges. He shakes his head and tries to pull the doors apart.

He grunts, but the effort is futile. He doesn’t quit, though.

“Mr. Price.” No response.

“Sir-“ He tries again.

“John Price.”

He turns to you, and for the first time today you see all of it. How his hand-built dam broke, and the surrounding bridges collapsed, and somehow and for some reason, the blame is on him. The blood in the water and the festered rage clogs up his senses until all clarity dies.

How when he softens, it’s the first time he’s seeing you.

You dig your water bottle out of your bag and hold it out to him. He takes it silently, and you press the fire department button.

You slip off your heels and set them next to your bag.

The closed door turns you into a gauche- softly painted in the flickering, orange lights. Theres a halo of static around your figure- as if the curves of you had been smudged. Your face is made up of vague features- shapes that follow its structure but feel slanted. A disorienting, surreal reflection of yourself.

You want to laugh at how fitting it is.

Next to it, is an equally detached painting of Mr. Price. The color of your shirt and the cream of his collect in the middle. It’s fuzzy, and you must squint to see it, but the tether is still there. If only, in the dull steal of an elevator door.  

Price is already looking at you when you glace in his direction. You lean against the side of the elevator wall. “What happened today?”

He lets out a sigh- like he knew you were going to ask. Props himself against the other wall and crosses his arms. In your peripheral, you see how the reflections are no longer on the door.

“A mission did not go as plan.”

You look at him as if to say that cannot possibly be all, and he drops his cigar and puts it out on the tile. “We lost two of our men.”

Your heart twists. “I’m so sorry.”

He nods solemnly, and you pinch your skirt.

“…was it the one I gave you today?”

He shakes his head, and you’re relieved. “No. I found out last night.”

You pause and begin to walk towards him. “Did you sleep?”

The question crosses a boundary, like your body is now. The invisible wall all employees and their bosses have. The absence of real empathy, loyalty without attachment, and the hard rule of never involving yourself in their outside.

The places beyond the office- his home, his habits, his thoughts. The places you so desperately want to be inside.

He watches you approach him, and his shoulders slouch. You’re in front of him now, the smoke still burning at your nose, but it fizzles from below your calf and travels up and between your legs. An awareness follows it- of just how large he is too you without the aid of your heels.

When you look at him, you’re cognitive of why you asked, why you stepped forward, and why you haven’t back away.

And how dangerous that is.

“What do you think?” The question is rhetorical, but your thumb comes to trace the dark space beneath his eyes anyway.

“Not a wink.” You whisper. His breath draws and comes out ragged. His eyes watch you carefully, and despite how hunted they make you feel, your other hand holds his shoulder. When you speak again, your question is genuine.

“Can I do anything to help you, sir?”

His kiss comes to you like an epiphany.

Evens out the grass in your yard that grows awkwardly. Dissolves the spots in your vision after you look at bright lights. The puzzle piece that fell under your desk. All the trifling anomalies that coexist with your ignorance. Orphaned calamities that, until now, it felt futile to repair.

But his mouth pulls it out of you. Biting your lower lip tipping your chin so your lips mold together and you can feel his breath- the thing that keeps him alive- burrowing itself into yours.

Put simply- he was the thing you didn’t know you needed until you had it.

His hands push your hips to the wall, and you inhale, lifting onto your toes and steading yourself by gripping his shoulders. He mutters something incoherent before running his tongue along your gums and you freeze.

He dips to your neck, and you stifle a moan, feeling his hands grab the back part of your thighs and pulling them forward to lift you up-

“Sir- wait-”

He looks at you- almost as angry as he had been about the missing report pages.

“For once,” his right hand comes back up to hold your chin, “let me do what I need to do.”

He doesn’t let an argument form before he slams his lips on yours again- this time it’s violent. Holding your face still so he can shove his tongue down your throat. Your mouth is his ashtray, swallowing his depravity, his rot, the injuries that kept him festering in a locked office. You widen your mouth to fit all of it, so when he groans your name, you swallow that, too.

His left hand relinquishes his grip on your thigh and slips it under your skirt. When you try to pull away, his other hand is there, holding your face still until he runs his index and middle over the wet patch on your underwear.

He smiles against your mouth. “Been wantin’ this, huh darl’?”

You gasp when his thumb presses against your clit through the cloth- “P-Pri-“

His hand falls away and you whine. Tuts, looking you in the eye. “Sir, sweet’eart. Say it.”

“Sir.” You breathe, rolling your hips forward to find fleeting relief against his limp fingers.

“Tha’s a girl.” Kisses behind your ears, before slipping his fingers past the lace to wander between your folds. You sigh, gipping his shoulders for balance, rocking your hips. His thumb returns to its small ministrations against your clit, and a curious finger slips into the sleeve of your cunt.

You groan. “S…sir the f-fire depart-“

He hushes you with a second finger. You yelp, and he takes your surprise as an opportunity to knock your planted foot out to let him stand between them. Shoves his fingers deeper, and you bend forward, moaning as you try your best to see straight.

“Tight lil thing, isn’t she,” his pumps become purposely cruel, and you’re resting your head against his shoulder, mouth agape with drool pooling on the white of his shirt, “have’ta warm her up, hm?”

You don’t know why you find yourself nodding. You’re long past an appropriate work relationship. Employee contracts don’t include riding your superior’s fingers in a stranded elevator.

But it’s been in the fine print, hasn’t it? In the lingering hands, careful eyes, the way you watched his mouth when he talked, and he let you. Even today, you weren’t upset with what he’d said and done on principle, but because it was done to you. It tore down the selfish, callow notion that you were removed from his cruelty- that you had and always would be an exception.

You think in some twisted way; this is him proving you right. The apology you’ll never hear said aloud.

He’s always been a man of action, anyway.

He adds a third, and you’re choking back a sob, shivering like you aren’t burning. Searing where he touches you, while the rest of him crowds everywhere else. Entirely aware that he’s stretching the sensitive tendons of your body and the bones that hold you together so he can watch himself put you back together. Molding you, for him.

Like you haven’t done so already.

“C’mon now, ‘can feel you getting close, sweet’eart,” he purrs in your ear, “give it to me.”

And he’s right. It’s building, the slow and pulsing anticipation your body cannot save itself from- pinpricks of lightning before the thunder. Shuddering breaths as you become desperate- echoed in the curls of your fingers and toes and the mantra you repeat against his neck,

“Please, please, please, ple,”

Your orgasm (you think for the moments that everything whites out) makes you a witch. Burns you at the stake, flays you alive, the mob of your own consciousness jeering from somewhere and nowhere. The limbo where the thunder finally rolls in, but too quickly disappears when he removes his soiled fingers.

“Stay with me,” the tap on your cheek pulls you back to the crammed elevator and the arms that hold you still, “open.”

You do, unlatching chattering teeth and flattening your tongue until his fingers are bed there. He doesn’t move his eyes from you.

“Ain’t that a sight…”

You close your lips and taste the beginning of the end. The torn tapestry yarn of your professionalism, your impulses, your desires. Congregated on the digits that have signed your reports, touched the small of your back, and have now been deep inside your cunt.

He grunts and pulls his hand away with a quiet pop, and steps back to put his hands on his belt.

Your mind is only now beginning to catch up with reality. “Pr-Sir I don’t…“

He draws his cock from the waistband of his pants, and you’re quiet. It holds all the same weight he does, and the hair. Thick swirls that brush over heavy flesh, where it blossoms in an angry red at the tip. You swallow thickly, back pressed to the wall and cunt aching for something your mind isn’t ready for.

“I’m not-“

“You’re prepped enough, darl’,” he steps forwards, running his tip between your folds you wince, “Be a good girl for me, hm? ‘S gonna feel,” he groans when he pushes in further, knocking your lungs up to your throat, “Christ…good.”

He wraps his palms on the underbelly of your thighs and lifts, pressing you against the wall of the elevator. You breathe in the infant relief, before he bottoms out.

You sob, gripping onto his dress shirt as your walls stretch. It’s all lost to the current of his own curses and ragged breaths into your neck. “Fuck, still tight huh?”

You try to reply but it’s lost to the waves that cascade under your ribs with every thrust you’re forced to take. Only able to focus on how full you are, the rest of your body hollowed out in comparison. Light, feverish shivers unfurl up the base of your spine, and you wrap your legs around his hips. He doesn’t mind your silence.

He starts with slow thrusts, letting you bounce on his cock in a rhythm that makes you squirm. When you put up a fight, he grabs your hips and pulls them against his, and you lean your head against the wall at the new depth that should be impossible.

His hand finds your clit and you’re quick to fold back into his shoulder, letting out another ugly moan.

“Tha’s it, knew you needed this,” his hips snap against your ass and your grip beneath his shoulder blades, “I see how you look at me,” grabs your face and tips his head to look down at you, “like you are right now.”

You sigh when he plunges deeper. “Y-you wha…wanted it too..?”

He adjusts your hips and answers with a hard jerk of his own. “’Course I did. Knew you’d be…hah..” leans his head into your neck, where he bites and you gasp, “made f’me.”

You’re flooded with a strange sense of ease.

Nothing about this is normal, but it’s warranted. Signing yourself to him with leather sticking to the underside of your thighs, shaking his hand and feeling a life richer than your own hold you with gentleness. How he’d look at you in the first week mornings and smile, so you adjusted comfortably. How he still did months into the job.

You recall an evening when he walked you to your car. You asked him when he’d be going home. He responded, “late,” and you had said “not too much later, yeah?” He had looked at you like you’d be the one waiting at home for him.

Then said, “For you, I won’t.”

You’ve been wanting it since then.

The collision shatters glass and other fragile things you’re made of. Lifted by his arms so you cannot collect yourself as he spears into you, until you are unsure where you begin, and he ends.

Didn’t hear yourself begin to speak, but you catch the butt-end of your incoherency when he steps forward and puts your back flat against the wall. “-ir so good…uh..hah good please, gonna- gonna cum’ah.”

He doesn’t relent, chasing your orgasm like he’s starving. “I know, I know sweet’eart, doin’ so well…” cages you between his elbows, “Show me how good I make you feel.”

You cling to his back like a lifeline. Drowning in him again, but now it’s beyond his eyes. Its his chest, his arms, his cock and every other part of him that makes you desperate enough to fuck him in an elevator.

Equally terrified and thrilled by his reciprocation. A follower returning to their alter, where their food has been eaten and wine swallowed and you simultaneously realize your god is real, and he knows you.

That he’ll eat you too, given the chance.

Your second orgasm is a cigar. Burns fast once lit and lingers until the smoke finds your lungs and the clenches your walls. Where the tobacco is you, your boss, this elevator, and the sprout that grew until its nicotine leaves bridged them together.  

Where Price can fit his mouth back over yours and groan, spilling himself into you and bucking until his spend kisses your cervix, and you see stars.

The come down is slow. He doesn’t move for awhile and you are grateful- entirely sure that the moment he steps away you’ll collapse to the floor. Feeling his chest inhale against your own, and kisses you like he didn’t just fuck you raw against granite that you will never look at the same again.

He peels himself from you at a snail’s pace, and when he pulls out, takes a finger and pushes his spend back into your swollen cunt. When you shift, his places a burly hand above your pelvis and holds you against the wall. Rises, and swipes the hair out of you face.

“Still with me?”

You can only nod against the hills of his palm. He smiles for the first time that day.

“Let’s get cleaned up before the firemen get us out.”

Tomorrow, Price will smile the whole day. He will get you a coffee from the break room, and you will ask how he knows the amount of cream and sugar you like. He will remind you he’s an observer. He’ll notice you did your hair differently. He will say he likes it.

At 5, he will call you into his office again. But this time, it’s not about missing pages of a report, but the missing undergarment from under your skirt.

He’ll then ask you to lift it, so he can properly see how soaking wet your cunt is.

[eraserbread]

nanami trusts his underling, satoru a little too much :o

happy 1k :)) just porn, no plot. not canon bc nanami would never share you

featuring your older boyfriend, nanami <3

cw: anal and dp

how you got here... well, it's only for you and god to know.

and you feel him looking down at you as you dance for a richer man, peeling off your clothes sensually and letting them drop to the floor in a heap.

your favorite slow-building song is playing from the speaker, a glass of dark sits in your lovers hands, and the room is dim. he's the only person you see -- the only person you'd shed your skin for. your older, successful boyfriend, your boss, nanami.

you're not in his home, he has you booked up in an egregiously expensive luxury hotel, just because. his office is in walking distance, and sometimes after a long day he doesn't want to drive home. its the luxury of money, he sees that, and you're elated to tag along with him.

"hurry on. satoru's supposed to be here with that file any minute, now." his tone is laced with a hint of distaste, and you know its because he doesn't like his underling, satoru. he can see it as plain as day, the kid has a crush on you.

it's one of those stupid, childish crushes. satoru wants to fuck you —he wants to take you out on shitty dates and suck your face off and not even tell you he loves you. nanami needs you, he's more equipped for you.

and you, stupid, silly, you. you just giggle and blush at his juvenile jokes and passing glances. a little office attention couldn't hurt. I mean, look where it's got you—a full bank account, a rich cfo, everything you want.

"let 'm watch," you whisper, fingers tangling in your front-clasped bra. the only thing still hanging from your hot skin are your undergarments. nanami wants them off. "I know you're into that, showin' me off and pretending like you don't take me home every night."

he opens his mouth to speak, but as soon as he takes a breath, a knock falls onto the door. he shakes his head and stands with a grunt. "put it on." he mentions you hardly, reaching and tossing a thick, white robe in your direction.

you pout as you push it over your shoulders, tying the downy strap around your waist so nanami can open the door. he's extremely thorough, waiting until you're completely decent before letting the outside in.

this time, the outside is that familiar lanky, 28-year-old manager. he's the buffer between nanami's financial plans and your section's action. he's actually extremely helpful and understanding, far gentler to the brash CFO and all of his nonchalant tendencies. he fucks them into you every night, but that wasn't for satoru to know.

you're left standing alone, biting your lip as you watch the two of them converse quietly through the cracked door. vaguely, you can make out satoru's ruffled hair — his dark glasses and loose-shouldered, casual shirt. they're well past work hours now, but nanami still has his suit on, tie off, and blazer tossed over the couch.

they're chatting about the clients nanami will have to report all these findings to tomorrow, so you accidentally stumble close enough to the door so satoru can see you—exactly what nanami didn't want.

"...what do we have here?" satoru steers out of conversation, pulling down his glasses to sneak a glance at your figure. nanami blinks at him, then glances over his shoulder to scowl at you.

"didn't realize I was interrupting."

"you're not-"

"it's okay!" yours and nanami's opposite tones melt into one contradictory statement. disregarding your boyfriend's feelings, satoru is a good person to have around—he's charming, smart, strong, and thoughtful.

you're blushing against their dark stares, oblivious and standing with your loose robe falling off your shoulder. smiling so sweetly, satoru fights off cuteness aggression, nanami just wants you to walk away.

except, he doesn't, and ten minutes later, you're being pushed onto the grand hotel bed with your robe hanging on by a thread and unfamiliar lips all over your skin.

now, satoru is a menace, and nanami doesn't respect him, but he does trust him. he trusts him enough to hand you off like a shiny coin, finding his way back to his drink as satoru climbs on top of you, pinning you to the mattress with a hand pressed to your outstretched arm.

you're unsure, but excited nonetheless. hands touch everywhere, lips following their ghost as satoru touches the body he's wanted forever. he's kissing you, whispering under his breath how naughty you are, how young you are, and how innocent you aren't. it's filthy pillow talk laced with an edge of care and grace, and you're flushed to the core.

nanami's eyes are like laser beams as they stare over your moving figures. just... standing and waiting to see what satoru will do next.

satoru stands over you, red lips pulsating and hot from his mean kisses. he licks over them a few times, letting you sit up on your elbows as he pulls his shirt off with a single hand. he knows what he's doing, but doesn't know what will come of it, so he makes the most of the situation.

nanami's eyes don't phase him, they fuel him, and now his lips are back over yours, kissing and biting away nothing but tongue.

satoru doesn't waste time, he wants you on top of him, bare back pressed to his chest as his legs hang off the side of the bed. in this position, he can still whisper those phrases in your ear and drink up your overwhelmed little whines.

"you never had anyone back here before, hm?" he whispers, licking over your ear as his long fingers crane against your anxious, fluttering ass. he's applying enough pressure to make your face turn up in unknowing, but you shake your head nonetheless.

you wish you can see nanami, you need his strict gaze telling you what to do.

"no? ohh," satoru pulls his hand away, pressing two insanely long digits between your lips. "get'em wet, darling. so wet. you're gonna need it."

and who are you if you didn't follow your superiors instructions to a T — you suck them between your lips, tongue swirling and coating them in as much spit as you can gather. satoru pulls them away, and they're coated — dripping down your exposed sternum as he goes back to play with your sensitive, little hole.

"didn't remember saying you could have her from behind." nanami's slow, deep voice rains a blanket of comfort and reassurance against your shivering frame. he comes back into view, plucking his shirt open and letting it hang on his shoulders. he was back there watching the entire time, just listening to your little noises and satoru's horny endearances.

but, he knows you need him. knows you can take more than what's normal for a little thing your age, so he doesn't intervene.

except for when his erection gets too painful to persist. he could only cum inside of you, now. so spoiled.

"but 's so tight..." satoru trills, gasping like he's the one being penetrated as a single finger sinks inside of you. "ahhh, yes. you've taken this before."

"mmh, n-no," you whine, reaching back to dig your fingers in the muscle of satoru's arm.

"no? yes..."

"well, don't do it if she's scared." nanami -- your sacred voice of reason. he's unzipping his pants and rolling his neck, still a few steps away from the sinful ordeal. he's staring down at you with ruffled, golden hair and an unreadable glare. you swallow under the pressure.

"she's not scared." satoru whispers in your ear and sinks his finger deeper, wiggling it inside of you once it's to the hilt. "so hot... yes, baby."

nanami steps up, taking your air-dangled leg and wrapping it tight in his strong grip. he watches satoru's finger pump deep inside of you before he adds another. you whine so high in your throat, squeezing your pretty eyes shut.

"look at me. you asked for this." nanami's voice is so deep, deeper than normal, and laced with so much authority and sin that it devastates your self-control. so, you look at him, sticky lips parted as you breathe through your mouth. "beautiful girl."

"oooh, you two are in love." satoru's talking to you but staring straight at his boss, eyebrows turned up in anticipation. "it's fucking obvious now that I'm seeing it."

"would you just focus?" nanami's hands are lost in his belt buckle, undoing it blindly. "you're lucky I'm not making you wear a condom."

"please, have mercy sir."

"shut up."

they're talking over you, drowning out all of your little whines and dejected pleas. satoru is two fingers deep inside of your ass, and nanami's pulling his zipper down to free the harshness of his touch-starved cock. you know he has plans to fuck you red and sensitive, taking the entirety of your sweet cunt as his. it's what you want — he's embedded the need for him so deep inside of your soul that it's debilitating. you're staring up at him with wide eyes, begging and spent.

"stretch her out a little more. make it comfortable." nanami's words sloppily fall into each other, and you love when that happens. means he's flustered just like you, watching you fall apart on satoru's fingers. though flustered, he wants to fuck you more, so he steps forward, sliding a strong hand through the dampness of your familiar, sweet pussy. his fingers ghost against your clit, and the tiny sensation has you tossing a head back on satoru's shoulder.

he's easing another finger inside of you, half wet and supremely uncomfortable. you know if you say something they'll give something, so you piece yourself together enough to whisper.

"more... m-more lube, please,"

"wish i had some — here." nanami pulls satoru's hand by the wrist, leaning down to close his lips over three of them. he wets them just like you did, and it's a fucking sin to lay your eyes upon. it's so lewd, you genuinely cry - tears leak from the corners, your cunt flutters around nothing.

it's so perfect seeing him so in control. he helps satoru push his pants down, fisting the length of satoru's cock and leaning down to drop a glob of spit against the long, flushed length.

"you speak a whisper of this to anyone, and I'll make sure you're never hired anywhere else in this country." it's a threat lost on satoru, because he laughs. it's booming and unfamiliar against your sensitive ears and it feels like they're paying more attention to each other than to you.

you whine. "please sir... satoru... want it..."

"you heard the girl." satoru kissing your ear for the nth time tonight, releasing his fingers and craning his long arm against the base of his cock. nanami watches as he blindly leads the tip against your loosened hole, raising a brow when your hungry body sucks him in immediately.

an unsure, broken moan falls from your lips as you get used to the insane stretch. three fingers is nothing in comparison to the thickness of satoru. only halfway seated and there's still four inches left to take. you blink open your eyes, and nanami's watching instead of doing.

you toss your head and cry out a plea. "s-sir! please..."

"he's not the one stretching you out, is he?" satoru pouts behind you, reaching to close his hand around the top of your neck. "say m'name, darling girl."

"satoru! hmm- satoruuuu..." you whine, nails digging in his pale skin. you're crying his name, but nanami's the one providing the new, familiar stretch. he's pushing inside of your impossibly tight cunt, brows furrowed in concentration.

he's never done this before — has never been inside of a woman with another man just a sliver of skin away, but it's tight... impossibly tight. his poor girl, he can only imagine the stretch. instead of taking his immense pleasure for what it is, he leans down and distracts you with a kiss until he's fully seated inside of you.

satoru watches the entire exchange with lonely lips, holding onto your thighs like a vice. he waits for nanami to pull out, taking the opportunity to bury the rest of his inches in your ass. against your boyfriends lips, you're breathing out huffed little pants, face all screwed up and flushed. satoru wishes he can see you better, so when nanami's lips pull away, satoru's taking the grip he has on your neck and pulls you back into his.

you're overwhelmed to the core, stomach full and tight. the sensation is hard to describe, but it feels like you're torn in two -- in the best way.

trading off kisses and touches, both men set a gentle pace, blanketing you with reassurance and kisses until you're relaxed and pliable under them.

then, they fuck you.

hair-pulling, spit-swapping fucking. your knees are to your ears, you can't tell whose arms belong to whom, but they're pinning you in ungodly positions. you're cumming immediately, mouth hung open and body tensed bone-stiff. it's a silent orgasm, because you body just doesn't have a mind to make further noise.

nanami, in front of you, is beaded in dew, shirt falling from his shoulders as his hands pin the back of your knees until you're folded in two. he's the one that watches you unravel with a glint in his eye, groaning when your body goes so tight, it cuts off the circulation in his dick.

satoru makes a noise, turning his head into the sheets at the strangulation. he's still got his hand on your neck, but the other one claws and scratches at your fleshy thigh, making more marks there for you to find in the morning.

when you start to come down, you're convulsing, a thick, long mmh falling from your throat as your eyes stare ahead. nanami's never seen you this crazy during sex that once you come down, your body is completely limp.

he says your name in a tone that means he's serious. satoru stills.

"open those eyes, let me see."

"n-no."

"if you can talk, you can be fucked."

"stop and give her a second." nanami's taking that control again, steering the situation by the neck. he's genuine in the fact that he's never seen you so overcome after just two minutes of sex.

"keep... g-goi-

so, satoru starts again. he's dragging his cock out of you slowly, much to nanami's distaste.

"i said, sto-

"please..." you interrupt him innocently, eyes fluttering open now and more relaxed from the eruption of your first orgasm. nanami looks at you and sees stars. he can't say no, even when he shakes his head.

then, he leans down and kisses you, letting his lips linger. he only pulls away enough for satoru to push you into his, needy fucking tongue marking your chin and lips his before kissing you holy.

they spend that night tangled in your very seams, bouncing filthy words off of each other and you. they don't stop until their balls are drained and all over you, sticking to your skin from the inside out. they watch your real-time collapse, smirking and shaking their heads before doting on you with aftercare until the sun starts to peek over the clouds.

[httpknjoon]

satellite | jjk

plot | Your friend, Jungkook, offers to help you while you review for your human anatomy exam.

w.c | 3K

genre | fluff, slight angst, fwb (but nothing 18+ happened)

pairing | jungkook x medstudent!reader

note | written from my own swamp of academic-related activities

main masterlist | playlist

JK

u up?

You

yep

i'm studying

exams tomorrow

JK

:(

can i come over

You

yes but don't be a distraction

JK

u know i can't help it 😪

You

🙄

i'm busy stop texting me

JK

will be there in five

You

door's open no need to knock

JK

see u 😉

Maybe you should have just pursued a course in creative writing... Or maybe culinary arts. Maybe something connected with baking. You love baking, right?

Maybe if you picked a college program based on your hobbies, you have better sleep. Maybe you are happier. At 11:51 PM, maybe you are already sleeping soundly on your bed, next to your emotional support stuffed toy, with your favorite weighted blanket on your exhausted being.

But you didn't. You can't.

So here you are, sitting in a swamp of written notes, books, and colorful post-its (that you haven't found any helpful use yet), having a crisis over your career choices.

"You want this, YN." you remind yourself, shaking your head.

Your digital clock on your study desk just ticked the time to 11:52 PM. It has been almost three hours since you began your planned all-nighter for tomorrow's exam.

"I want to cry." you sighed, your forehead softly hitting your desk. "But I don't have the time for that."

Groaning, you opened one of the textbooks you borrowed from the library. You tried to process every word you came across. But considering that you went straight from your eight-hour shift from your part-time job, you only managed to comprehend half of the sentences you read.

"I wish I was born as a nepo-baby."

Another random thought rolled off your tongue instead of understanding where the hell the spine of the scapula is. Admittedly, you find it hard to locate the muscles in the human body when you only have a 2D version of it. But you don't have those 3D models that can help you to learn and remember better, so you will settle for pointing your index fingers at flat images on the book pages.

"Trapezius... Acromion... Deltoid..."

Reciting the muscles in the familiar tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star", you began pointing to certain areas of your body. It was one of the studying techniques you have been using since you were younger. So far, it's helping. You keep doing it for the other parts.

"Subscapularis..."

But the longer you sang, the words slowly rambled in your tongue and your eyelids got heavier. You were so close to drifting away until you heard the familiar click of your door. Your head snapped up instantly. You hear his voice greeting your roommate who's probably watching her favorite show in the living room.

"Pizza and ice cream. Want some?" you heard him offer.

He brought food?! Of course, he did. He's Jungkook. For the first time since you sat in front of your study desk, a smile formed on your lips. Shaking your head, you just read your notes again. It didn't take long for your bedroom door to open. The scent of a freshly baked pizza filled every corner of your room. And there, you see him coming in with a smile on his pierced lips.

"Oh, hello, gorgeous."

Jungkook was surprised to see you already looking at him when he entered your room. Usually, he would find your nose dipped between your textbooks when he visits during your study sessions.

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, "I know, I looked like a mess right now. Just give me my prized pizza and ice cream please."

He laughed, not because he agreed with you, but because you are always quick to turn down his micro-flirting. He sometimes thinks that it keeps him grounded.

"And you got the coffee ones! This is why you're my favorite hookup buddy." you quipped before kissing his cheek, elated by the ice cream he got you.

"I'm honored. Thank you." he replied, before getting a slice of pizza.

Both of you know that you don't have any other hookup buddy. You're not that adventurous. It's just something you joke about.

"How's the studying going?" he asked before sitting on your bed.

"Shit." you shake your head, tired. "But this ice cream makes me feel a little better."

Jungkook smiled at that. He listened as you went on telling him about something that happened in your shift earlier today. But he ended up studying you. Because contrary to what you said earlier, you are too pretty, he finds it distracting. You were tired, it's written on your face. But the way your eyes light up as you share your story makes your face glow. With your desk lamp being the only light in your room, it perfectly highlights the small smile on your lips after you take another spoonful of the cold dessert.

"Why did you come here anyway?"

Your sudden question snaps Jungkook out of his daze. He cleared his throat.

"I-I'm bored and you're up."

He was not bored. In fact, he missed a party he was invited to tonight because it has been four days since he last saw you. He was busy with his training and practice, while you were working two jobs and studying. You two were just texting each other these days and with how rare you reply during the daytime, he knew that tonight is probably the best time to see you.

You sigh, "I told you, I'm studying for tomorrow. I can't do anything with you right now."

"And I didn't say we have to do anything. I'm just happy to be here. I'm like little Bear right there." he replied, pointing to your stuffed toy who was sitting next to him.

"Okay, I'll go back to studying. Is that okay?" you asked, putting on the lid of your half-finished ice cream.

He winked, "Of course."

Jungkook is that person you probably know for too long. Like, someone you should have met only once or twice or occasionally. Not like this, in which you see each other almost every day.

When Liz, your roommate, introduced you two to each other during some Halloween party, in which you came as Dorothy from The Wizards of Oz and he was Peter Pan, you did not expect to start any kind of connection with him. You remembered thinking to yourself how exhausting it was to have him around with how he seemed so full of energy, not knowing then that he also enjoyed the same little things you did. You two became real friends after bumping into one another in a record store an hour away from your uni.

Because you feel that you two always stood on opposite ends of any scale. You were a reserved working student with introverted tendencies while on the opposite, Jungkook is a known varsity star, who's rumored to be a CEO's son (He is. He admitted it to you), on campus with a charm that works for everyone.  Just like how great he is at playing basketball, he is equally good at socializing and making new connections. That charm definitely worked for you a year ago because one thing led to another and now, he is in your bed, casually scrolling on his phone.

"Why do you have a camera with you?" you broke the silence after reading for god knows how long. Yet, you are unsure if you picked up anything from it.

He looked up, reaching for the camera bag he brought with him earlier, "It's a new one, my dad brought it to me as a gift."

"For what? Your birthday was like three months ago," you asked even though you already had an answer in your head.

"I helped him with some documents," he replied, knowing that you would say something after.

"Spoiled." you teased him.

"Haters gonna hate," he responded with a sassy roll of his eyes, you laughed. "Anyway, I'm kinda testing it out. So, if you don't mind..."

He placed the camera in front of him, aligning its viewfinder to his left eye. You put the back of your hand under your chin with a tight smile on your lips, posing. Click. A shutter sound and a bright flash followed. You see Jungkook look down at his camera to check the outcome. A small smile forms on his lips.

"You have too many pictures of me," you told him.

Every single time you two are together, he takes a picture of you. You don't really mind even though some shots are candid. Some of the pictures of you he took are the only ones you have on your Instagram. He's good at it, but sometimes, you worry you will get used to being his muse.

"I'm thinking of making an exhibition out of it." he said.

Sensing his sarcasm, you ride on with it, "Yeah, you can title it with something like, The Life Of An Overworked Twenty-Something Student. I looked exhausted in all those photos. An ugly, dry potato."

"I think you look pretty in all of them."

And it didn't help that he complimented you a lot after taking pictures of you. It just scares you that you feel a light feeling in your stomach when you see him smile after taking a shot of you or when he calls you gorgeous or pretty.

But instead of letting the giddy feeling show, you just smiled, "Of course you do, you're sleeping with me. You will always find me attractive."

It was almost an hour later when Jungkook paused the video he was watching on his phone to once again try his camera. A camera nerd, he was watching a clip about his new camera's settings. Of course, he was in his earphones so that he wouldn't get to distract you.

After modifying some parts of the settings, Jungkook placed his camera in front of his right eye, ready to capture another picture of you. But before he could click the button, he noticed your shoulders shaking.

His right eyebrow raised as he slowly put down his camera.

"YN?"

He heard you hiccup before humming, "Hmm?"

"YN, can you look at me?" he asked since you kept your back turned to him.

"Not now, I'm busy." you sobbed, failing to hide from Jungkook.

He frowned, getting up from your bed, "YN, baby..."

"No, I said-"

Before you could continue denying, Jungkook already pulled the swivel chair you were sitting on closer to him. You covered your face with your palms since you hated crying in front of anyone. Jungkook tries to remove it softly but you shake your head.

"Please, let me see your face. It's okay," he whispered while his thumbs drew circles at the back of your hands. Finally, you listened and let him hold down your hands.

"Shh..." he hushed you, wiping the tears on your cheeks. "What's going on? Are you okay? Is there any way that I can help you?"

"I-I cannot remember anything and I'm just so tired." you broke down, feeling the exhaustion from both studying and working finally creeping up in your body.

"Then, take a break. Let's nap." he offered, knowing how much you need it.

You cried even more, "I can't nap. My exams are tomorrow and I can't understand anything I've been reading so far."

He clicked his tongue in disagreement, "I'll wake you up in thirty minutes. How about that?"

While his offer seemed ideal for you, the pressure for what is coming tomorrow is heavily sitting on your shoulders. But you're really tired.

"Just nap?" you asked, making sure that it won't lead to anything else.

"Yeah— Okay, maybe cuddle." he shrugged.

"Okay." I kinda need that.

"Okay. C'mere, my snotty baby." He cooed.

You glared at him before slapping his chest. He laughed, catching your hand and pulling you to him on your bed. You fell on top instead of your mattress, feeling his toned body under you. His chin rests on the top of your head as he draws circles on your lower back.

"Let's do anything you want after your exams," he mumbled.

You exhaled, "Why celebrate? I am not even sure if I can pass it."

"You will. You're the smartest person I know."

This isn't the first time Jungkook saw you broke down over academic reasons. He knew how much you value your studies as someone who has always been an achiever since you began studying. It didn't help that your mom expects quite a lot from you, based on what you told him.

You looked up to meet his eyes, "Thank you."

He simply kissed your forehead, "Of course, babe."

You did find yourself feeling much better after your 30-minute rest. But, you also found something else when you woke five minutes ago next to Jungkook. It's something that can probably help you study.

"Take off your shirt," you whispered as you rested your head on his arm.

"Why?" he asked, suspicious.

"I think you can help me study," you said, sitting up on the bed.

Jungkook sat next to you, "I thought we were just cuddling."

"Jungkook." you called him. "Please, just do it."

"Okay, I will. You know I can't say no when you beg, babe." he teased.

You watched him reach for the back of his shirt and remove it over his head. With how cold your room is, Jungkook immediately crossed his arms over his chest, making his muscles bulge before you. You were quiet, squinting your eyes on his arms.

Feeling a little conscious and confused, Jungkook spoke, "It's a little chilly here. What now?"

"Wait, let me get my sticky notes."

"You know, I should be paid for this," Jungkook spoke, covered in neon-colored sticky notes from his neck to his back and arms. "I am like your model."

"You are my 3d model." you laughed while tracing his body with your finger to look where you could stick your next label. "I'm too broke to buy one so just be my friend and let me put some sticky notes on you."

"I'll just buy you one." he offered and he's serious. If it's something that can help you, he'll buy it for you.

"You sound like the spoiled kid you are." you joked.

"I like it when you keep me humble and grounded," he reacted sarcastically. Out of a hundred people he knows on the campus, you are the only one who always reminds him of his privileges. He found it annoying at first but now, he just finds it funny.

"I know, it shows especially when you get all submissive sometimes." you joked again, scrunching your nose at him.

"Why won't you just let me spend money on you?" he asked, recalling the other scenarios he tried buying or doing something for you. But you were quick to decline him, especially if it's connected with money.

You stopped and stared at him, "For the tenth time, Jeon, I will not be your sugar baby."

"Or you can just be my... baby," he whispered, but since you are the only awake people in this house at this time of the day, you still heard that.

Your eyebrows scrunched, looking at him. Visibly cringing at what he said, you pushed his face with a laugh. You hear him chuckle lowly.

"If you want someone to be your baby, you should be asking girls out, not signing up for a friends-with-benefits-type of relationship with me," you mumbled while writing a certain body part on your notepad.

It is part of your agreement that this thing you two have will end once one of you starts dating again. But the idea of him asking girls out after literally sleeping on your bed for the last twelve months still made your heart sink a little. You cannot imagine how your future will be without him, you still haven't thought that far.

"I know..." he whispered. But you're not up for any commitment. He wanted to say that. Instead, he replied, "But you give the best blowjob ever. How can I look for someone else?"

You laughed again. God, he loves making you laugh. It's like a melody playing in his head.

"Yeah, I know. It will be hard to find someone better than me. I'm the best."

Yes, you are. He agreed, almost saying it if you haven't spoke to soon.

"Now, please, can you stop moving? My notes are falling everywhere."

"Hi, I'm Mabel."

It's been days since that night. Now, a blonde, blue-eyed girl offered her hand to Jungkook while he prepared to leave the campus with his car after his basketball training. Jungkook, being polite, introduced himself even though he was not really interested. He continued making sure he got all his stuff in his backpack as the girl continued saying that they had two classes together. When he was done checking, she spoke,

"I think you're really cute and was wondering if we could go out sometime? Maybe we can grab some coffee together?"

Jungkook scratched the back of his head, feeling bad for what he was about to say to this seeming freshman before him. A tight smile forms on his lips. This isn't the first confession he got in his lifetime, but rejecting someone is always hard.

"Wow... uhm... I'm sure you're a really wonderful person, Mabel. But I'm not really interested in dating anyone right now. I'm sorry."

The familiar flustered face instantly showed up on Mabel's face, "Oh, okay. Uhm, thank you for your time. Nice to meet you though."

Jungkook was not even able to reply before she ran away. It didn't took him too long to dwell on that interaction when he got a message from you.

YN 🩺

I PASSED

COME OVER!!!!1!

Jungkook smiled after reading that, feeling your relief and excitement. He typed in a reply before hopping in his car.

JK

I KNEW U CAN DO IT

SO PROUD OF YOUUU

WILL BE THERE IN FIVE ;)

note | scheduled as my first post for 2025 :) thank you so much for reading!

ps. will probably delete this later on

taglist rules

PERMANENT TAGLIST (CLOSED)

@dunixxd @cixrosie @jksjx @embrace-themagic @buttvi @starbtslove @missseoulite @vanntaesworld @kenqki @imajinthis @stopeatread @seolaquotes @greyrain23 @chimchimmarie @petalsofink @jayhope88 @moonchild1 @laylasbunbunny @nikkiordonez12 @misshale21 @marblemoonstones

[aceyalonso]

how bad do you need it? - CHARLES LECLERC

pairing : charles leclerc x fiancée!reader kinktober day 15 - begging

summary : a bad day at work and a good fiancé would and will always end well

warnings/notes : a bit of plot, swearing, smut, begging, dry humping, y/n cums in her shorts 😭, breeding kink, sir kink, praise kink, degrading kink, unprotected sex (always use a condom guys!), dirty talk, mentions of pregnancy and children, fingering, overstimulation, use of "mommy" and "good girl", slight cum play

word count : 4.4k

a/n : hahahahha i NEED HIM

main masterlist | kinktober masterlist | taglist form

Y/n trudges through the front door, her shoulders slumped and her face etched with exhaustion. Another grueling day at the office, dealing with difficult clients and mounting paperwork, had taken its toll. She kicks off her heels and drops her purse on the floor, too tired to even hang up her coat.

Charles emerges from the kitchen, his brow furrowed with concern as he takes in Y/n's disheveled appearance. "Hi, mon amour, rough day?" he asks gently, stepping closer to wrap his arms around her.

Y/n leans into his embrace, resting her head on his chest. "You could say that," she sighs, her voice muffled against his shirt. "I just want to forget about it and relax."

Charles nods understandingly. "Why don't you go lie down and I'll bring you some tea? We can talk about it later if you want."

Y/n shakes her head, her hair falling across her face. "No, I just want to sleep. Can you order us some food for dinner? Something comforting, like pizza or Chinese?"

Charles nods, pressing a tender kiss to the top of Y/n's head. "Of course, mon amour. I'll take care of everything. You just focus on resting."

He guides her towards their bedroom, helping her out of her work clothes and tucking her into bed. Y/n sighs contentedly as she sinks into the soft mattress, the stress of the day already beginning to melt away.

After ensuring she's comfortable, Charles quietly leaves the room to place their food order. He selects Y/n's favorite pizza, knowing the familiar flavors will bring her comfort. As he waits for the delivery, he tidies up the living room and prepares a mug of chamomile tea, hoping the soothing aroma will help Y/n relax.

Y/n stirs as Charles gently shakes her shoulder, his deep voice cutting through the haze of sleep. "Mon amour, the food is here. I also made you some tea if you'd like."

She blinks groggily, her hair tousled from sleep. "Mmm, okay," she mumbles, sitting up slowly. Her legs feel heavy as she swings them over the side of the bed, and she reaches for Charles' hand for support.

He helps her to her feet, wrapping an arm around her waist to steady her. "Take your time, ma chérie. No need to rush."

Together, they make their way out of the bedroom and into the living room. The savory scent of pizza fills the air, making Y/n's stomach growl. She smiles gratefully at Charles as he guides her to the couch, helping her sit down before retrieving her mug of tea.

"Thank you," she says softly, taking a sip of the warm, fragrant liquid. The chamomile soothes her throat and helps clear the last remnants of sleep from her mind.

Y/n takes a bite of her pizza, savoring the rich flavors as she gathers her thoughts. Charles watches her patiently, his blue eyes filled with understanding.

"So, tell me about your day, mon amour," he prompts gently. "What happened at work?"

Y/n sighs, setting down her slice. "It's just been incredibly busy lately. We're swamped with projects and deadlines, and as the team leader, it feels like everything falls on my shoulders."

She runs a hand through her hair, frustration evident in the tense set of her shoulders. "Don't get me wrong, I'm proud to be a female leader in a male-dominated field. But sometimes I just want to be... I don't know, normal? Without the added pressure and expectations."

Y/n continues, her voice tinged with weariness. "I mean, I love my job and I'm grateful for the opportunities I've been given. But some days, like today, it just feels like too much. I'm constantly juggling tasks, putting out fires, and trying to keep everyone motivated."

She takes another sip of tea, the warmth spreading through her chest. "And then there's the added pressure of being a woman in a leadership role. I feel like I have to prove myself twice as hard, work twice as long, just to be taken seriously."

Charles reaches over and takes her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I understand, ma chérie. It's not easy being in your position. But remember, you're not alone. You have me, and I'm here to support you in whatever way I can."

Y/n looks at him gratefully, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I know. And that means more to me than you realize. Having you here, ready to listen and help, makes all the difference."

Her cheeks flush slightly as she speaks, a mix of vulnerability and affection in her eyes. "You always make me feel cherished, Charles. Even when we're... intimate, I never feel objectified or used. You treat me like a partner, not just a plaything."

She leans in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And when you take control, when you're rough with me... it's like I can let go of all the pressure and expectations. I can just be me, not the team leader or the successful career woman. It's liberating."

Charles brings Y/n's hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. His blue eyes sparkle with adoration as he gazes at her. "You are my first priority, baby. Always. In every aspect of our life together."

He sets aside his own plate of pizza, turning to face her fully. "Your happiness, your well-being, your pleasure... those are what matter most to me. Whether we're in the bedroom or out in the world, I want you to know that you come first."

Y/n's heart swells with love and gratitude as she looks at Charles, his words echoing in her mind. "I don't know what I'd do without you," she admits softly, her voice thick with emotion. "You're my rock, my safe haven. I can always count on you to be there for me, no matter what."

She reaches up to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing over his stubbled jaw. "I love you, Charles. More than anything in this world. And I promise, no matter how stressful work gets, I'll always come home to you. You're my priority too."

Charles leans into her touch, his eyes closing briefly as he savors the feeling of her skin against his. When he opens them again, they're filled with a fierce protectiveness. "I love you too, mon amour. More than life itself. And I'll always be here to support you, to lift you up, and to remind you of how incredible you are."

—

As the movie plays on in the background, Y/n shifts restlessly on top of Charles, trying to find a comfortable position. She squirms and wriggles, her movements causing friction between her body and his. Unbeknownst to Charles, Y/n's subtle motions are deliberate, her pussy rubbing against the growing bulge in his sweatpants.

She bites her lip to stifle a moan, the sensation of his hardness pressing against her core sending tingles of pleasure through her body. Charles, oblivious to her intentions, wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

"Is everything alright, mon amour?" he asks, noticing her fidgeting. "Do you need to get up?"

Y/n shakes her head, a coy smile playing on her lips. "No, I'm fine. Just trying to get comfortable." She continues to grind against him, her movements becoming more purposeful.

Charles' brow furrows slightly as he feels Y/n's movements become more deliberate. A spark of realization dawns in his eyes as he glances down, noticing the way she's subtly humping against him. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face.

"Is that so?" he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "Because it seems to me like you're trying to start something, ma chérie."

Y/n blushes, her cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. She tries to play innocent, batting her lashes at him. "I don't know what you're talking about," she giggles, continuing her movements.

Charles chuckles, his hands sliding down to grip her hips. He guides her movements, helping her grind against him more firmly. "Oh, I think you do," he teases, his own arousal growing with each pass of her heat against his clothed cock.

Y/n gasps softly, her head falling back as she loses herself in the sensation. "Charles..." she breathes, her voice heavy with desire.

Charles pulls Y/n down, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck. His warm breath sends shivers down her spine as he whispers in her ear, "What do you want, baby? What do you want to do? Tell me."

Y/n's response is cut off by a sharp gasp as her clit rubs firmly against Charles' hardness. The intense sensation makes her toes curl and her thighs tremble. "I... I want..." she stammers, her mind clouding with lust.

Charles grins, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips as he guides her movements. "Yes, ma chérie? What do you want?" he prompts, his voice a low rumble in her ear.

Y/n's head lolls back, her hair cascading down her shoulders as she grinds against him with increasing desperation. "I want you," she finally manages to say, her voice thick with need. "I want you inside me, Charles. Please..."

Charles' smile turns wicked as he recalls Y/n's earlier words about finding liberation in his dominance. "No, mon amour," he purrs, his fingers tightening on her hips. "Work for it. Show me how bad you want me inside you."

Y/n's eyes widen, a mix of surprise and arousal flickering across her face. She nods eagerly, her movements becoming more frenzied as she grinds against him. "Yes, Charles," she breathes, her voice submissive and needy. "Please, let me show you..."

She redoubles her efforts, her hips undulating in a sensual dance as she seeks to drive them both wild with desire. Her pussy throbs with need, aching to be filled by his hard cock. Y/n whimpers and moans, lost in the haze of lust, desperate to prove her desire for him.

She continues to grind against Charles, her movements becoming more urgent and needy. The heat radiating from her core is unmistakable, and soon a damp spot begins to form on the front of his sweatpants. Lost in the throes of passion, neither of them notice the growing wetness.

Charles' head lolls back, his eyes closed in bliss as he feels the scorching heat of Y/n's pussy pressed against his clothed erection. "Fuck, mon amour," he groans, his hips bucking up to meet her downward thrusts. "You're so fucking wet for me. I can feel it soaking through my pants."

Y/n whimpers and mewls, her voice rising in pitch as she chases her impending orgasm. The friction of her clit rubbing against his hardness is almost too much to bear. "Please, Charles," she begs, her nails digging into his shoulders. "I need you. I need your cock inside me. Please..."

Y/n's movements grow more frantic as she nears the edge, her hips gyrating wildly against Charles' clothed erection. She's so close, teetering on the brink of a powerful orgasm. But just as she's about to tip over, Charles' hands tighten on her hips, slowing her down.

"Did I tell you to speed up?" he asks, his voice stern despite the lust clouding his eyes. "No, I didn't. You're not in control here, Y/n. I am."

Y/n whines in frustration, her body trembling with the effort of holding back her climax. "Please, Charles," she begs, her voice high and needy. "I'm so close. I need to cum. Please let me cum."

Charles shakes his head, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Not yet, mon amour. You haven't earned it. You need to work harder for your prize."

Y/n's eyes fill with tears as she pleads with Charles, her voice cracking with desperation. "Please, sir," she whimpers, her hips still grinding against him despite his commands. "I'll be good, I promise. I'll do anything you want. Just please, let me cum. I need it so badly."

Charles' expression softens slightly as he sees the tears streaming down her face. He reaches up to wipe them away with his thumb, his touch gentle despite his firm demeanor. "Shh, ma chérie," he soothes. "You have no reason to cry. If you've done your job correctly, you'll get your reward. Crying isn't going to do anything for you right now."

Y/n nods, sniffing back her tears. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what's to come. "I'm sorry, sir," she says, her voice meek and submissive. "I'll try harder. I'll do whatever it takes to please you."

He smiles approvingly at Y/n's obedience. "Good girl," he praises, his voice low and husky. "Now show me again how bad you want my cock to fill you up, okay?"

Y/n nods eagerly, her eyes shining with determination. She takes a deep breath, centering herself, before beginning to grind against Charles once more. Her movements are slow and sensual at first, her hips rolling in a deliberate rhythm.

As she gains momentum, her pace quickens, her pussy rubbing insistently against the bulge in Charles' sweatpants. Soft moans and whimpers spill from her lips as she loses herself in the sensation, her body undulating with need.

"Please, Charles," she gasps, her voice ragged with desire. "I need you inside me. I need to feel you stretching me, filling me. Please, sir, give me what I crave."

Charles cups Y/n's cheek, his thumb gently caressing her skin as he wipes away the stray tears. His blue eyes are filled with a mix of tenderness and lust as he gazes at her. "You look so adorable like this, begging for me," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. "So desperate and needy, all for me. It's beautiful, mon amour."

Y/n leans into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment as she savors the feeling of his hand on her face. "I am desperate for you, Charles," she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper. "Only you can satisfy me, can give me what I need."

She opens her eyes, locking her gaze with his, the intensity of her desire burning bright in their depths. "Please, sir," she implores, her hips still grinding against him in a slow, sensual rhythm. "I'll do anything, be anything you want. Just please, let me have you. Let me feel you inside me."

Charles groans, his resolve crumbling under the weight of Y/n's desperate pleas and the feel of her hot, wet pussy grinding against him. "Fuck, mon amour," he growls, his hand sliding down to grip her hip tightly. "Cum for me, baby. You deserve it. Let go and give yourself to me."

Y/n's eyes widen, a gasp escaping her lips as Charles gives her permission. She nods frantically, her hips moving faster, more urgently, seeking the release she so desperately craves. "Yes, Charles!" she cries, her voice high and needy. "I'm cumming! Fuck- I'm cumming!"

Her body tenses, her muscles coiling tight as her orgasm approaches. With a final, hard grind against Charles' clothed cock, she comes undone, her pussy clenching and fluttering as waves of pleasure crash over her. "Oh god, oh fuck, Charles!" she moans, her head thrown back in ecstasy.

Y/n's body shudders and trembles as her orgasm washes over her, her pussy clenching and releasing in rhythmic pulses. She whimpers and moans against Charles' chest, her hips continuing to grind against him, riding out the waves of pleasure.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she chants, her voice muffled against his skin. "It feels so good, Charles. So fucking good."

Charles strokes the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her black hair as he holds her close. "That's it, mon amour," he encourages, his voice low and soothing. "Keep going. You're doing so well. I know it feels amazing. Come on, you can do it. Let it all out."

Y/n whimpers and moans, her body still shaking with the aftershocks of her climax. She continues to grind against Charles, her movements becoming slower, more languid as she comes down from her high.

Y/n collapses against Charles, her body spent and sated in the aftermath of her intense orgasm. She pants heavily, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as she tries to catch her breath. "Fuck, Charles," she whispers, her voice hoarse and raw. "That was so good. So fucking good."

Charles chuckles, his chest rumbling beneath her as he holds her close. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, ma chérie," he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. "You did so well, taking your pleasure like that. I'm proud of you."

Charles looks down at Y/n, concern etched on his features as he takes in her exhausted state. "Are you sure you still want me inside you, mon amour?" he asks gently, his hand stroking her back soothingly. "You seem so tired. We can wait if you need to rest."

But Y/n shakes her head vehemently, her eyes wide and pleading as she gazes up at him. "Yes, yes, yes please," she begs, her voice desperate. "I can do it, Charles. I can take it. I need you inside me. Please, I'm begging you."

Charles' resolve wavers, his cock twitching in his pants at the sight of her desperation. He knows he shouldn't, knows she needs rest, but the hunger in her eyes is too much to resist. "Alright, ma chérie," he growls, his hands gripping her hips firmly. "If you're sure you can handle it..."

Charles flips Y/n over onto her stomach, her ass high in the air as she presents herself to him. The wet spot on her shorts from her previous orgasm is clearly visible, evidence of her arousal.

"Fuck," Charles growls, his eyes darkening with lust as he takes in the sight of her. "Look at you, so wet and ready for me. Your pussy is practically dripping."

He runs his hand over the damp fabric, feeling the heat radiating from her core. Y/n whimpers and arches her back, pushing her ass higher, silently begging for more.

Charles slides his hand beneath Y/n's shorts, his fingers seeking out her slick, swollen folds. "Mmm, so wet," he murmurs, teasing her entrance with the tips of his fingers. "You want me to fill you up, don't you, ma chérie? Want me to cum inside this tight little pussy?"

She bucks against his hand, her hips rolling back as she seeks more contact. "Yes, Charles, please," she begs, her voice high and needy. "I want you to breed me. I want to feel you cumming deep inside me."

Charles groans, his cock throbbing at her filthy words. "Fuck, mon amour," he growls, his fingers delving deeper, stroking along her inner walls. "You want my dick stretching you out, don't you? Want me to claim this sweet cunt as mine?"

Charles' fingers pump in and out of Y/n's dripping pussy, her velvety walls clenching around him as he strokes her most sensitive spots. "Fuck, mon amour," he groans, his thumb circling her swollen clit. "Your cunt is clenching so hard around my fingers. You're so fucking needy for my cock."

Y/n moans shamelessly, her hips rocking back to meet his thrusts. "Yes, sir," she pants, her voice ragged with desire. "I need to be bred. I need you to fill me up, make me yours."

Charles' eyes darken with lust at her words, his imagination running wild with visions of Y/n's belly swollen with his child. "You'd look so beautiful pregnant with my baby," he growls, his fingers curling inside her. "I bet you'd make such a good mommy. Fuck, I can't wait to see you with my child."

The thought of Y/n pregnant with his child sends Charles into a frenzy of lust. He needs to make it a reality, to claim her womb and fill it with his seed. With a growl, he withdraws his fingers from her dripping cunt, leaving her empty and aching.

Quickly, he shoves his sweatpants down, freeing his throbbing cock. It springs forth, hard and heavy, the tip glistening with pre-cum. Y/n whimpers at the sight, her pussy clenching around nothing.

Charles makes quick work of her shorts, yanking them down her thighs and exposing her glistening folds to his hungry gaze. "Fuck, look at this pretty little cunt," he groans, giving her ass a sharp smack. "So wet and ready for me."

He teases her entrance with the head of his cock, rubbing it up and down her slit, coating himself in her slick arousal. Y/n bucks back, desperate for more, but Charles denies her, keeping his movements light and teasing.

Charles grips Y/n's hips tightly, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he lines himself up with her entrance. With a slow, deliberate thrust, he sinks into her welcoming heat, inch by inch, until he's buried to the hilt.

Y/n cries out, her back arching as she's stretched and filled by his thick cock. Even though they've been together countless times, her body never fails to adjust to his impressive size. "Fuck, Charles," she gasps, her nails scrabbling against the couch. "You're so big."

He groans, his hips settling flush against her ass as he gives her a moment to adjust. "That's it, ma chérie," he murmurs, his hand stroking soothing circles on her lower back. "Take all of me. Fuck, you feel so good.”

Charles begins to move, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm as he pulls out and thrusts back in. Each stroke is deliberate, designed to make Y/n feel every inch of his cock as it slides along her sensitive walls.

"Mmm, that's it," he groans, his hand coming down to grip her hip, steadying her as he picks up the pace. "Feel that, mon amour? Feel how deep I am inside you? How I'm stretching this tight little pussy?"

Y/n whimpers and moans, her body undulating beneath him as he claims her. "Yes, Charles, yes," she chants, her voice rising in pitch as he hits that spot inside her that makes her see stars. "Harder, please. I need more."

Charles obliges, his thrusts growing stronger, more forceful. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by their moans and cries of pleasure.

Y/n's body begins to shake, overwhelmed by the intense pleasure coursing through her. Tears stream down her face as Charles pounds into her, each thrust hitting her deepest, most sensitive spots.

"What's wrong, ma chérie?" Charles asks, his voice a low growl. "Can't take my dick? How am I supposed to make you a mommy when you can't even handle a few thrusts?"

Y/n sobs, her pussy clenching around him as if trying to hold him inside. "I can take it," she gasps, her voice strained. "I can take it, Charles. Please, don't stop. I need it. I need you to fill me up, to breed me."

Charles groans, his hips snapping forward harder, faster. "That's it, mon amour," he grunts, his fingers digging into her hips. "Take it like a good girl, okay?”

Y/n nods frantically, her face pressed against the couch cushions as Charles pounds into her from behind. "Yes, yes, please," she gasps, her words muffled by the fabric. "Harder, Charles, fuck me harder!"

Charles obliges, his hips slamming against her ass with bruising force. The couch creaks and shakes beneath them, the sound of their bodies colliding filling the room. "That's it, mon amour," he growls, his hand fisting in her hair, holding her head down. "Take it like a good girl. You're doing so fucking well."

Y/n whimpers and moans, her pussy clenching around Charles' pistoning cock. She can feel her orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter in her core. "I'm close," she pants, her voice ragged. "I'm gonna cum, Charles. Please, please, please..."

His grip on Y/n's hair tightens as he feels her pussy fluttering around him, signaling her impending orgasm. "You gonna cum for me, ma chérie?" he growls, his hips never faltering in their relentless pace. "Do it. You deserve it. Cum on my cock like a good little slut."

Y/n screams as her orgasm crashes over her, her body convulsing beneath Charles. Her pussy clamps down on him like a vice, rippling and pulsing as she rides out the waves of pleasure. "Charles!" she cries, her voice raw and broken. "Fuck, Charles, I'm cumming! I'm cumming!"

He groans, his thrusts growing erratic as he chases his own release. "Fuck, baby," he grunts, his balls drawing up tight. "Gonna fill this pussy up. Gonna breed you, make you mine."

He buries himself deep inside Y/n as he reaches his peak, his cock pulsing as he fills her with his hot, thick cum. He groans long and low, his hips jerking with each spurt of his release.

Y/n whimpers, her pussy milking him for every last drop as she feels him flooding her womb. When he finally pulls out, a trickle of his seed leaks from her well-fucked hole, dripping down her thighs.

"Fuck, look at that," Charles growls, his fingers scooping up the cum and pushing it back inside her. "Such a messy little slut. You're not going to let any of my cum out, understand? You're going to keep it all inside this greedy cunt."

He leans down, pressing soft kisses to the globes of her ass as he continues to finger her, stirring his seed deep inside her. "Good girl," he murmurs, his breath hot against her skin. "Such a good girl, taking my cum so well.”

Y/n comes down from her high, her body goes limp beneath Charles, her breathing slowing as she catches her breath. Charles continues to stroke her hair soothingly, pressing gentle kisses to her shoulders and back.

"Shh, it's okay, mon amour," he murmurs, his voice soft and soothing. "You did so well. I'm so proud of you."

He carefully maneuvers them so that they're lying on their sides, spooning on the couch. He wraps his arms around her, holding her close, one hand resting possessively on her lower belly.

"Rest now," he whispers, nuzzling her neck. "Let me take care of you."

Y/n sighs contentedly, snuggling back against him. "Mmm, Charles," she murmurs, her voice sleepy and sated. "That was... incredible. I love you so much."

Charles smiles, pressing a tender kiss to her temple. "I love you too, ma chérie," he replies softly. "More than anything."

He strokes Y/n's hair gently, his fingers combing through the silky strands. "Feeling better now, mon amour?" he asks softly, his voice warm with concern. "After what happened at work today?"

Y/n sighs, her body melting further into Charles' embrace. "I don't even remember what happened at work," she admits, her voice small and distant.

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[melanchoire]

SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWGIRL ──── jang wonyoung.

── ( 🐎🌾) with her dreams at stake, wonyoung escapes to the forbidden rodeo in her room, joining forces with you for a night of tantalizing twists and turns, proving that sometimes, the hottest rodeos are the ones that break all the rules.

pairing. dom!farmer's daughter!jang wonyoung x sub!childhood best friend!gp reader

warning(s). cunnilingus, fingering, making out, pet names, use of weed.

word count. 10,2k

wonyoung was adrift in a sea of spun sugar clouds, the air sweet with the scent of cherry blossoms and designer perfume. in her dream, she glided down a parisian runway, the flash of cameras a dazzling constellation around her. each step was perfect, each pose effortless. this was it, the life she craved, the future she envisioned.

cock-a-doodle-doo!

the sound pierced her idyllic bubble, sharp and utterly unwelcome. wonyoung’s eyes snapped open, her dream instantly dissolving like sugar in water. instead of clouds, her vision was filled with the frantic flapping wings and beady eyes of a particularly audacious rooster. it stood perched on her dresser, its comb practically brushing against her cheek as it unleashed another ear-splitting cry.

with a groan, wonyoung threw back the covers, the remnants of her dream fading like morning mist. she’d meticulously closed the curtains the night before, a desperate attempt to cling to sleep a little longer. but no, the farm life always found a way to intrude.

panic flared. wonyoung bolted upright, her heart hammering against her ribs. she swatted at the rooster, a shriek escaping her lips. “get out! get out!”

“i say: get out!” she hissed, grabbing a pillow and shooing the offending fowl towards the door. it squawked indignantly, flapping its wings before finally hopping out. wonyoung slammed the door shut, leaning against it for a moment, her chest tight with frustration.

“stupid bird.” she muttered, her voice trembling with residual fear and a healthy dose of annoyance.

she had been so careful last night, meticulously drawing the heavy curtains to block out the encroaching dawn. usually, that bought her a precious hour or two of extra sleep. but apparently, no amount of drapery could keep the farm’s resident alarm clock at bay.

this… this was her life. a room filled with fashion magazines and dreams of milan, situated on a farm where the alarm clock was a rooster and the air perpetually smelled of manure.

life on the farm. it was a constant clash between her aspirations and her reality. she’d grown up with it, of course. and it was a respectable, hardworking life. but it wasn’t hers. she, on the other hand, felt like a misplaced puzzle piece, constantly yearning for something different.

wonyoung dreamed of city lights, of towering skyscrapers instead of rolling hills. she envisioned herself gracing magazine covers, walking down runways, a world away from the mud and manure that clung to her family’s boots. but her parents, bless their hardworking souls, couldn’t comprehend her desires. her father, a horse blacksmith with calloused hands and a love for tradition, saw her future here, rooted in the land. her mother, the vibrant owner of the local town market, believed happiness lay in community and familiarity.

they couldn’t understand. they saw her dreams as frivolous, a childish fantasy. they wanted her to stay, to take over the farm, to continue the legacy. the legacy she desperately wanted to escape. their vision for wonyoung was a comfortable, predictable one, a life woven into the fabric of their small town. but Wonyoung craved the unknown, the challenge, the dazzling allure of a life she had only glimpsed in magazines and on television.

with a sigh, she ran her hands over her face, trying to shake off the lingering vestiges of sleep and the remnants of her shattered dream. she pulled her hair back into a messy bun, the image of sleek, professionally styled models flashing through her mind. slippers replaced the imagined designer heels as she trudged towards the door. time to face the music, or in this case, the crowing roosters and the aroma of frying bacon.

downstairs, the aroma of frying bacon and strong coffee filled the air. the sounds of the farm were already starting to swell: the lowing of cows, the clucking of hens, the distant clang of her father’s hammer. she murmured a polite greeting as she entered the kitchen, heading straight for the refrigerator. her parents were already seated at the table, their faces illuminated by the warm morning light filtering through the window. her older sister, daah, was perched on a stool, flipping through a magazine.

“morning.” wonyoung mumbled, opening the refrigerator and grabbing a carton of orange juice and poured herself a glass.

“look who finally decided to join us.” her older sister, daah, said without looking up from the stove. daah was everything wonyoung wasn’t: practical, grounded, and content with the farm life. their relationship was a constant battleground of differing opinions.

her mother, a sturdy woman with kind eyes and perpetually calloused hands, smiled. “morning, sweetheart. sleep well?”

wonyoung offered a noncommittal shrug. “as well as one can with a rooster for an alarm clock.”

“so, your father was just telling me about the rodeo this afternoon.” her mother said, her voice bright as she flipped a pancake. “it’s going to be a big one this year, with the usual dance afterwards.”

her father, a man of few words but immense strength, cleared his throat. “big rodeo this afternoon, wonyoung! should be a good one.”

wonyoung’s stomach clenched. rodeos were not her thing. the smell of horses and dust, the raucous cheers of the crowd, the sheer testosterone that seemed to permeate the air – it all made her incredibly uncomfortable. and the dance afterwards? an even greater nightmare, filled with awkward small talk and the persistent advances of overly enthusiastic farm boys.

“oh, i don’t know, mom.” wonyoung said, carefully avoiding eye contact. “i was thinking of catching up on some reading. i have a lot of schoolwork to do.”

her father chuckled, a deep rumbling sound. “schoolwork can wait, wonyoung–ah. this is a town tradition. besides, it’s good to get out and socialize.”

"oh, that's right!” her mother chimed in, placing a plate of steaming pancakes on the table. "it’ll be a good chance to see everyone, wonyoung. and maybe even meet a nice young man."

wonyoung choked on her orange juice. “mom, you know i’m not interested in any 'nice young men' from around here.”

her father nodded in agreement, pushing the plate of steaming pancakes in front of wonyoung. “it’ll be fun! i promise.”

wonyoung forced a smile. “maybe. but i really need to focus on my studies.”

daah snorted. “studies? please. we all know you’d rather be practicing your runway walk in front of the mirror.”

wonyoung’s cheeks flushed. “that’s not true.”

“oh, come on, wonyoung.” daah continued, relentlessly. “don’t be ridiculous.” daah scoffed, flipping a pancake with unnecessary force. “it’s good to have a bit of fun, wonyoung. you spend too much time locked up in your room, dreaming about things that will never happen. when are you going to give up on these childish dreams of yours? you’re a jang. we’re farmers. it’s in our blood”

there it was, the barb she knew was coming. daah never missed an opportunity to belittle her aspirations.

wonyoung slammed the carton of orange juice back into the refrigerator. “and you spend too much time judging me for having ambition! what’s so wrong with wanting something more than this?” she gestured around the cozy, familiar kitchen, the heart of a life she didn’t want.

“and what exactly is so wrong with our life?” daah challenged, crossing her arms. “2e have everything we need. family, friends, a roof over our heads. what more could you want?”

“more than just this!” wonyoung exclaimed, gesturing around the kitchen with a frustrated wave of her hand. “i want to see the world. i want to experience new things. i want to be someone, not just another farm girl who marries the boy next door and spends her life milking cows.”

“there’s nothing wrong with milking cows!” daah shot back, her face reddening. “it’s honest work… and– there’s nothing wrong with being realistic!” daah retorted, her voice sharp. “you can’t just ignore your responsibilities here. dad’s getting older, mom can’t run the market forever. someone needs to take over the farm.”

those words hit wonyoung’s heart hard. yes, it was true, his father was getting old and it was always a difficult task bending down when working in his blacksmith shop in the farm yard or when he had to take care of the animals and that involved squatting. wonyoung always tried to help his father when he spent hours and hours working in the workshop or the stable, always sitting on a small and uncomfortable bench and hunching his back in a way that is painful to watch. she didn’t have much knowledge about tools and that field, but over the years she learned how to learn – not because blacksmithing or mechanics is something that interests her or that she is passionate about, but because she was only interested in learning to help her father and take care of doing as much work as possible to prevent him from overexerting himself and getting physically hurt.

but daah it wasn’t like that at all. she called her father’s work “dirty” behind her parents’ backs, but she always pretended in front of them that she was a family girl who would give everything for them. she only contributed to helping her family with her mother’s job, who owned the local store in town, but she didn’t even help with anything in particular; sure, daah spent the whole day in the supermarket, but she just sat behind the cash register, filing her nails or laughing while texting with her friends, having the nerve to get upset and make a face when a customer puts their purchase on the register and it’s time for her to serve them and collect the corresponding money.

“and why does that someone have to be me?” wonyoung demanded, her voice rising. “why can’t you do it? you love this life!”

daah turned to face her, her expression hard. “because you’re the responsible one, wonyoung. you always have been. i have my own life, my own plans.”

“and what about my plans?” wonyoung cried, her voice trembling. “don’t they matter?”

her father cleared his throat, his voice stern. “enough, both of you. this isn’t how we start the day.” he looked at wonyoung with a hint of disappointment in his eyes. “wonyoung, your sister has a point. we’ve given you everything. the least you can do is appreciate it.”

wonyoung fell silent, her appetite gone. she pushed her plate away, the pancakes suddenly tasting like ash in her mouth. it was always the same. every time she tried to express her dreams, she was met with resistance, with disapproval, with the crushing weight of expectation.

she knew she couldn’t change their minds. they were too set in their ways, too deeply rooted in their traditions. but that didn’t mean she had to give up on her own dreams. she would find a way, somehow, to escape this suffocating routine and build the life she truly desired. even if it meant facing their disapproval, even if it meant breaking their hearts.

because in the end, it was her life, and she was determined to live it on her own terms. even if that meant facing a few more early morning wake–up calls from a rogue rooster along the way.

“this is my house, and you will both show some respect. wonyoung, you will come to the rodeo this afternoon. it’s a tradition, and we always support our community."

wonyoung bit back a retort, tears stinging her eyes. she knew arguing with her father was futile. he was a man of tradition, of duty, of unwavering expectations.

she looked at her mother, pleading for understanding, for support. but her mother’s expression was resolute, her loyalty firmly with her husband.

“it’'ll be fun, wonyoung.” her mother said softly, but the words felt like a sentence.

“fun?” onyoung whispered, her voice thick with tears. “you call this fun? being trapped in a life i never wanted, surrounded by people who don’t understand me? my dreams are not childish; they are my passion. and staying in here, pretending to live a life that i don’t feel happy about, is so much worse.”

she turned and fled, running back upstairs, the image of her 0arisian runway dissolving into a blur of tears. she slammed the door to her room, collapsing on the bed, the scent of cherry blossoms now tainted with the bitter taste of disappointment.

the rooster, oblivious to her distress, began to crow again. this time, wonyoung didn’t just shoo it away. she grabbed it by its scrawny neck and held it, its frantic flapping a futile protest against her grip.

for a moment, she considered doing something drastic, something that would shock them all, something that would finally make them understand the depth of her unhappiness.

but then, she looked into the rooster’s beady eyes, and she saw something… fear. and in that fear, she saw a reflection of her own.

with a sigh, she released the rooster, letting it scamper out the door. violence wasn’t the answer. running away wasn't either. but staying here, silently suffocating, wasn’t an option either.

“i’m sorry, buddy… it’s not your fault, i know.”

she would go to the rodeo. she would smile, she would socialize, she would play the part of the dutiful daughter. but she would also start making a plan. a real plan, a concrete plan, to escape the farm and pursue her dreams.

this rooster might have woken her up, but it wouldn’nt keep her grounded forever. she would fly. she had to. for her own sanity, for her own future. she wouldn’t let her dreams remain dreams; she would make them reality.

the afternoon sun cast long shadows across wonyoung’s bedroom, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. she twirled in front of the mirror, a vision in denim and defiance. her worn a skirt jeans, once relegated to mucking stalls, had been artfully distressed and studded with glittering rhinestones. a plain white tank top now boasted intricate embroidery around the neckline, and a fringed leather hat completed the transformation. this wasn’t just a farm outfit; it was a statement. it was a rebellion against the endless fields and the predictable routine.

“perfect.” she murmured to herself, smoothing down the fringe. “rodeo–ready, and runway–worthy.” living on the farm, churning butter and wrangling stubborn goats, felt like a cage around her aspirations. she dreamt of paris fashion week, of sketching bold designs in a sun–drenched studio, not mending fences under a scorching sun. but wonyoung was resilient. she’d find a way. she always did.

a piercing whistle shattered the quiet. wonyoung’s smile faltered.

daah, her older sister, leaned against the doorway, a smug grin plastered across her face. a battered cowboy hat perched jauntily on her head, and her plaid shirt was tucked neatly into her jeans. she looked every inch the quintessential farm girl, a stark contrast to wonyoung’s carefully constructed glamour.

“well, well, well...” daah drawled, pushing off the doorframe. “loook who decided to raid the costume box again. you going as ‘glamorous cowgirl’ this year, wonyoung?”

wonyoung stiffened, her fingers clenching around the vest. “it’s called ‘elevated rural chic’ daah. and it’s an outfit, not a costume.”

“right, right.” daah said, rolling her eyes. “because rhinestones and embroidery are exactly what you need when you’re dodging rogue cows. you know, practicality is kind of a big deal out here in the, uh, rural parts.” she emphasized the word with a saccharine sweetness that grated on wonyoung’s nerves.

“maybe if you spent less time gossiping with mrs. kim and more time actually helping out, you’d understand that practicality and style aren’t mutually exclusive.” wonyoung retorted, turning back to the mirror to adjust her hat. she needed to stay calm. engaging in a full–blown argument would only validate daah’s attempts to ruin her mood.

“ouch, sharp words.” daah chuckled, taking a step closer. “but speaking of helping out, shouldn’t you be, oh, i don’t know, making sure the prize–winning pumpkin is ready for judging? or are you too busy dreaming about escaping to the big city and leaving us all behind?”

wonyoung swung around, her eyes blazing. “what’s not fair, daah! i contribute just as much as you do. and having a dream doesn't mean i’m abandoning everyone. unlike some people, i actually believe it’s possible to have both."

daah crossed her arms, her smile gone. “oh, really? so you think you can be a successful fashion designer and still be a farmer’s daughter? that’s… ambitious, even for you. don’t you think you’re setting yourself up for disappointment? face it, wonyoung, this is our life. this farm, this town. it’s not some backdrop for your little fashion fantasies.”

the words stung, sharper than a bee sting. wonyoung swallowed hard, refusing to let the tears well up. “and what’s wrong with having fantasies? at least i’m trying to create something beautiful, instead of just accepting things as they are.”

“acceptance is maturity, wonyoung. chasing pipe dreams is… childish.” daah paused, her voice softening slightly. “look, i’m just saying, maybe you should focus on something realistically attainable. help dad with the farm. start a family. you know, the things that actually matter.”

wonyoung stared at her sister, a cold fury rising within her. “and who gets to decide what matters? you? is that it? because you’re perfectly content with mediocrity, you think everyone else should be too?”

“it’s not mediocrity, wonyoung! it’s… stability. it’s family. it’s belonging."

“and u can’t have those things and still pursue my dreams?” wonyoung challenged, her voice trembling. “is that what you're saying? that i have to choose between being a good daughter and being myself?”

daah didn’t answer, her silence speaking volumes. the tension in the room crackled, thick and suffocating. wonyoung turned back to the mirror, her shoulders slumping. for a moment, the glittering rhinestones and the intricate embroidery seemed hollow, a flimsy shield against the harsh reality daah had just laid bare. but then, she caught her reflection, her own determined gaze staring back at her.

no.

daah might not understand. the town might not understand. but wonyoung understood. and that was enough.

she squared her shoulders, adjusted her hat with a defiant tilt, and turned back to face her sister. “i’ll see you at the rodeo, daah.” she said, her voice steady. “maybe you’ll be surprised by what i accomplish. with my ‘little fashion fantasies’.”

and with that, she walked past daah, leaving her standing in the doorway, her face a mask of conflicting emotions. wonyoung had a rodeo to win. and a dream to prove.

the dust swirled around wonyoung’s ankles, a red–brown haze that clung to the air like a persistent memory. the rodeo was in full swing, a cacophony of roaring engines, twanging guitars, and the excited screams of the crowd. the air hung thick with the scent of dust, and something vaguely metallic, the smell of anticipation and adrenaline that clung to every rodeo. wonyoung, usually more at home in the sleek confines of her family’s modern kitchen or lost in the pages of a well–worn novel, felt utterly out of place. the stetson perched precariously on her head, a forced purchase by her zealous mother, felt like a brand.

she wandered aimlessly through the bustling grounds, a phantom limb grafted onto the rugged reality of the rodeo. men in worn denim and dusty boots tipped their hats, their eyes lingering on her with a frank curiosity that made her skin crawl. women, their faces etched with the lines of sun and hard work, offered polite nods, their eyes holding a mixture of amusement and pity. wonyoung was an anomaly, a polished gem dropped into a pile of rough stones.

thee truth was, she didn’t want to be here. Not even a little bit. the rodeo, the epitome of small town tradition, was the last place she felt she belonged. her dreams extended far beyond the confines of this dusty arena, reaching for the glittering lights of the city, the hushed reverence of libraries, the vibrant chaos of art studios. but her parents, particularly her mother, envisioned a different future for her, one rooted in the familiar soil of their village, a future involving a sturdy rancher and a life mirroring her own. Hence, the rodeo. the forced mingling. the subtle, and not–so–subtle, matchmaking.

her parents’ expectations had become a suffocating weight, a constant pressure that squeezed the joy out of her life. ever since she’d expressed her yearning to study art in seoul, a chasm had widened between them. her once bright and airy home now felt like a gilded cage. hours were spent locked in her room, sketching furiously in her notebooks, trying to carve out a space for herself in a world that felt increasingly hostile. the village store, usually a place of connection, became another source of awkward encounters and strained silences. helping her mother restock shelves felt like serving a sentence, each can of beans a reminder of the life she didn’t want.

wonyoung wasn’t entirely convinced she should be here. in fact, if it were up to her, she’d be miles away, lost in the pages of a book or sketching designs in her worn notebook. but family obligations, particularly those enforced by her father, were a force of nature stronger than any bucking bronco. her parents, particularly her mother, had become increasingly insistent on her embracing the “small–town life” on finding a “suitable” husband, and on abandoning what they deemed her “fanciful” dreams of becoming a fashion designer. this rodeo, apparently, was the perfect opportunity to showcase her “eligible maiden” status.

she sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. the vibrant energy of the rodeo felt alien, a stark contrast to the quiet solitude she craved. ever since her parents had started tightening their grip on her life, wonyoung had retreated inwards, spending countless hours locked away in her room, a sanctuary filled with fabrics, sketches, and the whispered promises of a life beyond the confines of their expectations. the silence was a comfort, a buffer against the constant pressure to conform.

lost in her spiraling thoughts, wonyoung wasn’t paying attention to where she was going. she bumped, not gently, into someone, a soft “oof!” escaping her lips. a cascade of brightly colored pamphlets scattered across the dusty ground.

“oh, i am so sorry!” wonyoung blurted out, bending to help gather the mess.

“no worries, i should have been looking where i was going too.” a familiar voice responded, and wonyoung”s head snapped up.

she looked up, and her breath caught in her throat. standing before her was you. your eyes, the same warm brown she remembered from all those years ago, widened in surprise. you were even more beautiful than she recalled, your smile as radiant as the summer sun.

kneeling beside her, picking up a pamphlet advertising the local 4-H club, was you. your hair, usually braided neatly, was pulled back in a messy ponytail, escaping tendrils framing your face. you were wearing a simple shirt and denim jeans with some boots, looking every bit the part of a small–town girl, yet there was an undeniable spark of intelligence in your eyes.

“wonyoung?” you asked, a hint of delighted surprise in your voice. “is that really you?”

a wave of warmth washed over wonyoung, a feeling she hadn’t realized she’d been missing. it had been so long since she’d felt genuinely seen, not as the daughter of the store owner, not as a potential bride, but just as wonyoung.

“hey…” she managed, a genuine smile finally gracing her lips. “it’s… it’s good to see you.”

a genuine smile touched your lips. “wonyoung! wow, i haven’t seen you in ages! how have you been?”

the years melted away in an instant. suddenly, she was back in the schoolyard, sharing secrets and dreams with you under the shade of the old oak tree.

“i…” wonyoung hesitated, unsure of how to answer. the truth was, she hadn’t been doing well. she was suffocating under the weight of her parents’ expectations, her dreams slowly fading like a watercolor painting left in the sun. “i’ve been… busy.” she finally said, a weak attempt at deflection.

your eyes searched hers, a knowing glint in their depths. “busy doing what? last i heard, you were quite the artist, always sketching away in your notebook. making those... uhm, sketches about clothing collection ideas? the girl, daughter of the owner of the town library, you know, liz the blondke, told me about it.”

wonyoung’s heart ached. “i still am.” she admitted, “but my parents... they don’t really approve. they think it’s just a hobby, not a real career.”

“that’s ridiculous!” you exclaimed, your voice laced with indignation. “you’re incredibly talented, wonyoung. i remember seeing your drawings back in school, they were amazing.”

a flicker of hope ignited within wonyoung. “thank you.” she whispered, a genuine smile gracing her lips for the first time that day.

“so, what are you doing here at the rodeo?” you asked, gesturing around at the chaotic scene. “this doesn’t exactly seem like your kind of place.”

wonyoung grimaced. “tell me about it. my parents, they… well, they think it’s a good way for me to meet someone.” she rolled her eyes, unable to fully conceal her exasperation.

you winced. “ouch. that sounds… intense… ah, the age-old quest for a husband. remind me to hide if my mom gets any ideas.”

a comfortable silence fell between them, punctuated by the distant roar of the crowd. wonyoung felt a sense of peace she hadn't experienced in months. being with you, even after all this time, felt natural, easy.

“so, what about you?” wonyoung asked, eager to change the subject. “what have you been up to? are you still living here?”

“yep, still here.” you replied, your eyes twinkling. “i’m helping mom out at the school. i’m actually thinking about becoming a teacher myself, just like her.”

‘that’s wonderful!” wonyoung exclaimed. “you’d be a fantastic teacher. you were always so kind and patient, even back in elementary school.”

ypu blushed slightly. "thanks, wonyoung. That means a lot. i don’t know if { really want to be a 100% teacher, maybe an assistant, or whatever is enough to be able to help my mom at work. you know, she’s getting old…”

“she still talks about you.” you said, your voice softening. “she always said you were one of her brightest students. she was so disappointed when you stopped coming around.”

yeah, that made wonyoung’s heart hurt so much… she met you during school, when she and all her friends used to be little kids who loved singing songs and drawing pictures in elementary school. you, the daughter of the sweetest teacher in the establishment, were always a complete sweetheart to her; practically during the first day of school you were with wonyoung the whole day, never stopping talking like a parrot, but making wonyoung’s days happy and fun.

the reason why she dropped out of school? her parents. just one day after she finished getting ready and headed straight to the front door to head off to school, her mother told her that she stopped paying her school fees because the family needed wonyoung’s full help on the farm.

wonyoung’s smile faltered. “yeah, well… things got complicated.”

“i know.” you said gently. “i saw you a few times at the store, but… you always seemed so distant.”

“i’m sorry.” wonyoung said, her voice barely a whisper. “i just… i haven’t been myself lately.”

a long silence stretched between them, filled only with the sounds of the rodeo swirling around them. wonyoung felt a knot of guilt tighten in her stomach. she had let her fears and frustrations isolate her, cutting herself off from the people who genuinely cared about her.

you broke the silence, your voice firm and resolute. “look, i know this whole rodeo thing is probably your own personal hell, but you don’t have to stay here. not if you don’t want to.”

wonyoung looked at you, a flicker of hope igniting in her eyes. “what do you mean?”

you grinned, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “i mean, this town hasn’t changed much. we could ditch this rodeo and go for a walk. we could get some ice cream at the parlor, maybe visit mrs. davison. we could even go see mr. henderson’s pig, if you’re feeling brave.”

wonyoung’s heart skipped a beat. the idea of escaping the suffocating atmosphere of the rodeo, of reconnecting with the familiar comfort of the village, was incredibly appealing.

“seriously?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

you nodded, your eyes sparkling with encouragement. “seriously. what do you say? want to escape?”

wonyoung looked around at the chaos of the rodeo, at the expectant faces of the townsfolk, at the invisible chains that bound her to a future she didn’t want. then, she looked back at you, at the genuine offer of friendship in your eyes, at the promise of freedom and escape.

a slow smile spread across her face. “let’s go.” she said, the words filled with a newfound sense of determination. “let’s get out of here.”

the sun was a furnace in the sky, beating down on the dusty main street of your town. you tugged at the collar of your shirt, wishing you’d worn something lighter. the annual rodeo was in full swing, and the air was thick with the smell of fried food, manure, and the general chaos that always seemed to follow the event.

“seriously, how many more cowboy hats can one town possibly hold?” you muttered, more to yourself than to wonyoung, who was walking beside you.

wonyoung giggled, a sound like wind chimes in the oppressive heat. “oh, hush. i think they look kinda cute.”

you snorted, but then your eyes landed on wonyoung’s outfit. she was sporting a denim skirt, a fitted white tank top, and a pair of intricately stitched cowboy boots. a playful bandana was tied around her neck, and a wide–brimmed straw hat sat perched on her head.

“okay, maybe you’re right.” you admitted, a blush creeping up your neck. “especially on you.”

wonyoung’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. “you think so?” she asked, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

“absolutely. you look…you look amazing, wonyoung.” the words tumbled out before you could stop them. you cursed yourself inwardly for being so forward, but the genuine admiration in your voice was undeniable.

wonyoung’s smile widened, and she bumped her shoulder against yours. “thanks. you look pretty good yourself, considering we’re trying to avoid the entire town.”

you chuckled, the tension easing slightly. “pretty good at avoiding the rodeo, maybe.”

the truth was, both of you had a perfectly good reason to be anywhere but the rodeo. wonyoung’s dad, bless his heart, was practically the mayor of the rodeo. he was the one who organized the events, wrangled the sponsors, and generally made sure the whole shebang ran smoothly. which meant wonyoung was expected to be there, smiling and waving, playing the dutiful daughter. it was a role she loathed.

as for you, your mom taught at the local elementary school and was, as always, roped into volunteering at the rodeo’s kid zone. face painting, pony rides, the whole shebang. you loved your mom, but spending a day surrounded by screaming children and glitter glue was your idea of hell.

and so, here you were, two outcasts seeking refuge from the rodeo's relentless cheer. you wandered through the quiet side streets, seeking refuge from the relentless “yee-haws” and the twang of country music.

“let’s go back to my place.” wonyoung suggested, breaking the comfortable silence. “dad won’t be home until late. we can raid the fridge and watch some terrible reality TV."

you grinned. “sounds like a plan.”

and that’s how you ended up here. lying on the hood of wonyoung’s dad’s vintage convertible, parked in the driveway. the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. a couple of lukewarm beers sat between you, condensation beading on the bottles. and the sweet, pungent aroma of weed hung in the air, courtesy of your friend yujin’s generous stash.

neither you nor wonyoung thought it would end like this.

the first few puffs had been a little rough, a tickle in your throat that made you cough. but now, a pleasant buzz was spreading through your body, making everything feel soft and fuzzy around the edges.

“you know.” wonyoung said, her voice slightly slurred. “i really appreciate you helping my mom with the school fair last month. you know, when she was giving out candy and snacks to the kids”

you blinked, trying to focus. “it was nothing. she’s an amazing chef."

“she really likes you.” wonyoung insisted, nudging you with her elbow. “she said you have a special way with the kids. you make them feel… seen.”

a warmth spread through your chest. “well, i like helping out. your mom’s really cool, you know?”

wonyoung giggled again, a sound that always made your heart skip a beat. “you think my mom is cool?”

“i…well, yeah. she’s dedicated and kind. and honestly, the school fair was way less stressful with you there.”

wonyoung turned her head to look at you, her eyes sparkling in the fading light. “you’re pretty cool yourself, you know that?”

“am i?” you asked, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

“totally.” she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “you’re… you’re really funny. and you always know how to make me laugh, even when i’m feeling like i’m forced into a role i don’t even know how to play.”

“that’a what friends are for.” you said, but the words felt inadequate, hollow. you wanted to be more than just friends.

the silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken feelings. you took a long swig of your beer, trying to quell the nervousness churning in your stomach.

“these cowboy boots are killing me.” wonyoung suddenly announced, kicking one of her feet in the air.

you chuckled. “serves you right for embracing the rodeo spirit."

“hey, i was trying to be ironic!” she protested, but her protests were quickly lost in a fit of giggles.

you reached out and gently took her foot in your hand. “let me help you with that.”

wonyoung’s breath hitched as your fingers brushed against her ankle. you carefully unbuckled the boot and slid it off her foot, then repeated the process with the other one.

“better?” you asked, looking up at her.

her eyes were fixed on you, her pupils dilated. “much.” she whispered.

you continued to hold her foot in your hand, your thumb tracing circles on her skin. the air crackled with electricity. you could feel your heart pounding in your chest.

“you know…” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “you look really beautiful tonight.”

wonyoung’s cheeks flushed again, a deep crimson that stood out against her pale skin. “stop it.” she breathed, but there was no heat in her words.

“i’m serious.” you insisted, your gaze locked on hers. “you’re beautiful all the time, but especially right now.”

wonyoung leaned closer, her hand reaching out to touch your face. her fingers brushed against your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine.

“you’re not so bad yourself.” she murmured, her voice laced with a playful flirtation.

the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, suspended in this moment of pure, unfiltered connection. you could feel the warmth of her breath on your skin, the intoxicating scent of her perfume filling your nostrils.

without thinking, you leaned in closer, your lips hovering just above hers. you could feel her inhale sharply, her body tensing with anticipation.

“can i…?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

wonyoung closed her eyes and nodded, her lips parting slightly.

and then, you kissed her.

it was a slow, tentative kiss at first, a gentle exploration of each other’s lips. but as the seconds ticked by, the kiss deepened, growing more passionate and urgent. you wrapped your arms around her, pulling her closer, until there was no space left between your bodies.

her hands tangled in your hair, her fingers massaging your scalp. you could taste the sweetness of beer and the lingering scent of weed on her lips. it was a heady combination that sent your senses reeling.

the world spun around you, the stars blurring into a kaleidoscope of light. you lost yourself in the kiss, in the feeling of her body pressed against yours, in the sheer, unadulterated joy of finally, finally, kissing wonyoung.

it was everything you had ever dreamed of and more.

when you finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, you were both dazed and giddy. you rested your forehead against hers, your eyes closed, savoring the moment.

“wow.” you whispered, your voice still shaky.

“yeah.” wonyoung breathed, her grip tightening on your arms. “wow.”

the silence that followed was thick with unspoken questions, lingering desires, and a healthy dose of nervous energy. you pull back slightly, your eyes searching wonyoung’s, trying to gauge her reaction. her cheeks are flushed, her lips slightly swollen, and her gaze is locked on yours with an intensity that makes your heart race.

“so,” you began, attempting a casual tone that falls flat. “what now?”

wonyoung laughs softly, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “i don’t know.” she admits, tracing a pattern on your arm with her fingertip. “but i definitely don’t want to go back to the rodeo.”

you grinned. “me neither. screaming kids and glitter glue are not exactly conducive to post–kiiss bliss.”

her smile widens. “exactly. besides” she adds, her voice dropping to a suggestive murmur. “i think we’ve earned a little more privacy.”

without another word, she slips off the hood of the car and extends her hand to you. “come on.” she says, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “my room is a much more comfortable place to, uh, discuss our future plans.”

your heart leaps at the invitation. you take her hand, the warmth of her touch sending a jolt of electricity through your body. together, you walk towards the house, the gravel crunching beneath your feet.

as you approach the front door, you glance back at the convertible, the empty beer bottles sitting forlornly on the hood. a pang of guilt hits you – you’re pretty sure wonyoung’a dad would not be thrilled about the evidence of your little rebellion. but the thought is fleeting, quickly overshadowed by the anticipation of what awaits you inside.

wonyoung unlocks the door and leads you through the dimly lit living room. you notice family photos lining the walls, capturing moments of laughter and joy. a portrait of wonyoung in her rodeo queen attire hangs prominently above the fireplace. you can’t help but smile at the irony.

she guides you up the creaking stairs and down a hallway, finally stopping in front of a door adorned with fairy lights and a collection of concert posters. this, you realize, is wonyoung’s sanctuary.

she pushes the door open and steps aside, allowing you to enter first. the room is bathed in the soft glow of a string of fairy lights, casting dancing shadows on the walls. a large, plush bed dominates the space, piled high with colorful pillows and a patchwork quilt. a bookshelf overflowing with novels and CDs stands against one wall, while a desk cluttered with art supplies and half–finished projects occupies the other.

it’s a space that feels undeniably wonyoung – a blend of creativity, comfort, and unapologetic individuality.

“welcome to my humble abode.” she says, gesturing around the room with a playful flourish.

you take a moment to soak it all in, a sense of warmth and intimacy washing over you. “it’s perfect.” you breathe, turning to face her.

wonyoung blushes, her eyes darting around the room. “it’s a bit of a mess, i know.”

“it’s not a mess.” you protest. “it’s...lived in. it feels like you.”

her smile returns, genuine and radiant. she walks over to the bed and kicks off her socks, sinking into the plush mattress with a sigh of contentment.

“come sit.” she says, patting the space beside her.

you hesitate for a moment, suddenly feeling a surge of nervousness. this feels like a turning point, a step beyond friendship into uncharted territory. but the look in wonyoung’s eyes – a mixture of anticipation and vulnerability – reassures you.

you take a deep breath and walk over to the bed, sitting down beside her. the mattress dips beneath your weight, bringing you closer together. the air crackles with unspoken desires.

wonyoung reaches out and takes your hand, her fingers interlacing with yours. “so…” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “what do you want to do first?”

the possibilities seem endless. you could talk for hours, dissecting every detail of your feelings, exploring the depths of your connection. or you could simply surrender to the moment, letting your bodies guide you, exploring the physical intimacy that has been simmering beneath the surface for so long.

you look into wonyoung’s eyes, searching for an answer, a clue. and then, you know.

“i want to kiss you again.” you say, your voice raspy with emotion.

wonyoung’s eyes light up, and she leans in closer, her lips parting in anticipation. “then what are you waiting for?”

you don’t need to be told twice. you lean in, your lips meeting hers in a kiss that is even more passionate and electrifying than the first. this time, there is no hesitation, no tentativeness. it’s a kiss of pure, unadulterated desire, a melting together of two souls that have finally found their way to each other.

her hands move from yours to cradle your face, her thumbs tracing the contours of your cheeks. you deepen the kiss, your tongues dancing together in a rhythm that is both familiar and new.

the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the intoxicating embrace of each other’s lips. time seems to stand still, and all that matters is this moment, this connection, this undeniable spark that ignites between you.

the kiss goes on, deepening and intensifying. you slide her tank top up, exposing her bare skin, and she reciprocates, tugging at the hem of your shirt. the room is heating up, and you feel a desperate need to get closer, to feel every inch of her against you.

you break the kiss, gasping for breath, your bodies trembling with pent–up energy. you pull back slightly, your eyes meeting hers, searching for permission.

until a reality check hits you. you two had escaped from the rodeo.

for your part, you were a little persecuted about the consequences this would bring you. it’s not that your mother was a very strict person who treated you like a little kid, but you did know that you would probably get scolded later for disappearing without telling her beforehand. of course, you had promised her that you would help her take care of the children and help them with the children’s activities during tonight’s rodeo, so yes, you had a more than guaranteed punishment.

but on wonyoung’s part... you were aware of how fussy and traditional her family is and always will be. a typical family with traditions and customs that they make and inherit for generations and generations for many years, like a spiral or an infinity. wonyoung was always rebellious and made it known that she wanted more than just harvesting crops on the farm and taking care of the barnyard animals, but she was always silenced by her parents and labeled as ”being confused by her age” or because she watched too many hollywood programs that were broadcast on television.

“wonyoung, we should go back to the rodeo–.”

“oh, you want a show, huh?" she asked, her voice dripping with sultry promise. now she was... different. you never saw this side of her, or at least, you weren't aware that she had it. “i thought you might.”

turning to face you fully, she put her hands on her hips, striking a provocative pose. she looked like a naughty fantasy version of a cowgirl – the outfit was far too small and tight, clinging to her every curve.

”how’s this, cowgirl?” she asked, doing a little twirl to show off her skirt, the fabric rising a little as wonyoung turned and the panties that were perfectly hugging her round ass. she walked towards you, her hips swaying, until she was standing inches away.

”this is the kind of cowboys show you wanted, right?” she whispered, reaching out to run a finger along your jawline, her touch electric. ”i can give you an even better show if you want... in private.”

“r-really?”

another important fact; wonyoung knows how whipped you’re and you were always for her. wonyoung can’t blame you, but it’s also not her fault that her natural charm and charisma are like a magnet that catches everyone’s attention. ever since you went to kindergarten with her and did most of elementary school with her by your side, she always knew how to have your complete attention and make you practically staring at her all day.

wonyoung smirked at your nervous stammer, finding your flustered reaction adorable. she stepped even closer, until her body was nearly pressed against yours. her fingertips traced along your collarbone as she gazed intensely into your eyes.

“mhmm, really.” she purred, her voice low and breathy. ”i want to show you everything... taste every inch of you."

slowly, teasingly, she began to unbutton the remaining buttons of her blouse, revealing more of her smooth, tanned skin. she shrugged the blouse off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a soft rustle.

wearing only the skimpy denim skirt and black lace bra now, she reached behind her back to unclasp the bra. she let it fall away, exposing her perfect, full breasts to your hungry gaze. her nipples were already hardened into stiff peaks.

“i want to feel your hands on me.” she breathed, taking your hands and placing them on her bare breasts. “touch me, (y/n). i’m all yours…”

she arched her back slightly, pushing her chest further into your palms. the soft, warm flesh yielded under your fingers as she guided your hands to explore her curves. her skin was incredibly smooth and supple.

“i don’t know how to–”

wonyoung shushed you gently, placing a finger to your lips. her eyes softened with understanding, seeing the inexperience and hesitation in yours. “shhh, it’s okay. i’ll guide you... just let your instincts take over.”

she took your hands and slowly, sensually, began to trail them down her body. she let your fingers brush over the swell of her breasts, down her taut stomach, pausing at the waistband of the tiny denim skirt.

wonyoung’s tongue darted out to wet her lips as she looked at you with lidded eyes, her chest heaving with anticipation. she reached down to unbutton the skirt, letting it drop to the floor with a whisper. now she stood before you in nothing but a pair of white lace panties that left little to the imagination.

she took your hands and placed them on her hips, then slowly slid them around to cup her ass. She squeezed the firm globes, urging you to do the same. her skin was incredibly soft and pliant beneath your touch.

“that’s it.” she encouraged breathily. “explore me... discover what feels good. i want to feel your hands all over me.”

she leaned in close, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered. “don’t be shy, (y/n)... i want you to touch me like you mean it. i want to feel your desire…”

emboldened by wonyoung’s sensual guidance and the building heat between your legs, you began to explore her body with growing confidence. your hands roamed over her soft, smooth skin, caressing and squeezing the curves you found there.

you slid your hands up her sides, feeling the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips. cupping her breasts, you marveled at their weight and softness in your palms. you could feel her nipples hardening even further against your touch.

wonyoung let out a soft moan, arching into your hands as they mapped out her body. she reached out to grasp your wrists, guiding your hands lower, over her stomach, until they rested on the waistband of her panties.

“touch me, (y/n).” she breathed against your ear, her voice ragged with desire. “i want to feel your fingers on my skin... i’m so hot for you right now.”

she nipped at your earlobe, her teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. her hips undulated slightly, rubbing her nearly bare mound against your thigh. you could feel the damp heat of her arousal even through the thin lace barrier.

wonyoung pulled back to look at you, her eyes dark and heavy–lided with lust. her chest heaved with each ragged breath, and a flush of arousal colored her cheeks. she gazed at you expectantly, waiting for you to make the next move, to claim her as she had claimed you.

spurred on by the raw desire in wonyoung’s eyes and the way her body trembled under your touch, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of her panties. with a sudden tug, you yanked them down her long legs, baring her most intimate places to your hungry gaze.

wonyoung gasped, a sound of pleasure and surprise, as cool air hit her heated flesh. she stepped out of the puddle of lace, now fully nude before you. the sight of her, with her toned body and glistening pink folds, made your mouth go dry with want.

unable to resist any longer, you leaned down and pressed your lips against her stomach, feeling the taut muscles quiver beneath your touch. you trailed kisses lower, over her mound, until you reached the apex of her thighs. wonyoung let out a low moan, her fingers tangling in your hair as she guided your face closer to her dripping sex. the scent of her arousal filled your nostrils, musky and intoxicating.

“yes, my love.” she breathed out. “taste me... i’m so wet for you.”

she spread her legs wider, giving you an unobstructed view of her pink, swollen folds. her clit peeked out from beneath its hood, already engorged and throbbing with need.

and unable to resist any longer, you leaned down and pressed a kiss to her mound, inhaling the heady scent of her arousal. wonyoung’s fingers tangled in your hair, holding you close as you explored her with your mouth.

you dragged your tongue along her slit, tasting her essence, before focusing on her sensitive clit. you circled the hardened nub with the tip of your tongue, flicking and stroking it until wonyoung was writhing against your mouth.

“oh fuck, (y/n)!” she cried out, her voice echoing off the walls of her bedroom. “don’t stop... please don’t stop…”

emboldened by her reaction, you suckled her clit, then slid two fingers deep into her tight, wet heat. her walls clenched around the intrusion, drawing you in deeper. you pumped your fingers in and out of her, curling them to stroke that sensitive spot inside her that made her see stars.

wonyoung rutted her hips against your hand, fucking herself on your fingers as you pleasured her. her juices coated your hand, dripping down your wrist. the obscene sound of her wetness filled the room, mingling with her wanton moans and cries.

wonyoung’s body tensed, her muscles pulling taut as a coil of tension wound tighter and tighter in her core. her grip on your hair tightened, fisting almost painfully as she held you in place.

“fuck, fuck, fuck... i’m gonna... ah–” wonyoung’s words dissolved into a guttural moan as her orgasm crashed over her. her pussy clamped down around your fingers like a vice, fluttering and pulsing as waves of ecstasy radiated out from her core.

you felt the hot gush of her release flooding your hand, dripping down your wrist and forearm. the taste of her, the scent of her arousal, the sound of her pleasure – it was intoxicating. you couldn’t get enough.

as the aftershocks began to subside, wonyoung went limp, slumping back against the wall behind her. she panted harshly, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. slowly, she released her grip on your hair, her fingers uncurling from the strands.

with a trembling hand, she reached down to cup your cheek, tilting your face up to look at her. there was a dazed, blissful look in her eyes, a satisfied smirk on her kiss–swollen lips.

“that... was incredible.” she murmured, her voice still ragged. “you're a natural, big girl. but don’t think we’re done yet..."

she pushed off the wall and grabbed your hand, hauling you up and onto the bed with her. she shoved you down onto the mattress, crawling over you with a wicked gleam in her eye.

“now it’s my turn to make you scream.” she purred, a wicked promise in her voice. “and i have a feeling you’re going to scream very loudly indeed…”

she reached over to the nightstand drawer, rummaging inside before pulling out a condom and a bottle of lube.

“now, can you take those off or do you need my help?” wonyoung questions, raising an eyebrow as she moves one of her hands towards your body, pointing at your body. at first you didn’t understand what she meant because you were still overwhelmed by all the previous events that happened in a short period of time, like a blink of an eye – but then you realized she was talking about your pants, of course.

“oh, i– sure, i can do that.” with your cheeks flushed from her bold question, you brought your hands to the waistband of your pants, opening your belt buckle and unbuttoning the button and unzipping your pants with some clumsiness in the process, but accomplishing the task at hand. taking off your shoes and kicking them off your feet, you completely pull your jeans off your legs, leaving you with only your t–shirt and underwear on.

“you forgot about those.” to surprise you even more with her boldness, wonyoung is quick to approach you and finish preparing you for her, she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of your underwear, pulling your boxers down your thighs, releasing your throbbing cock from its confines, causing it to stand up happily and give a small thud against your stomach.

“now you’re ready for me. now lie down on the bed and wait for me.” she purred, tearing open the condom packet with her teeth. she rolled the latex sheath over your stiff cock with practiced ease, giving it a squeeze at the base.

next, she drizzled a generous amount of lube over your length, stroking you from base to tip until you glistened with the slick substance. she tossed the bottle aside and straddled your hips, the heat of her bare pussy radiating against your thighs.

wonyoung reached down to line you up with her entrance, rubbing the swollen head of your cock against her slick folds. she teased herself with the contact, coating your tip with her arousal until it was slippery with her juices. this action made you whimper due to the contact, closing your eyes and throwing your head back to rest it against the headboard of the bed, pushing your hips up in search of more contact.

with a roll of her hips, she sank down onto you, taking you inch by deep inch into her tight, clutching heat. she threw her head back with a guttural moan as you stretched her open, filling and completing her utterly.

“oh fuck yes.” she gasped, her walls fluttering around your thickness. “you feel so fucking big inside me... stretching me so good.”

once you were fully sheathed inside her, she began to move, rolling her hips in a sensual grind. she rocked against you, savoring the feeling of your cock throbbing deep inside her.

wonyoung braced her hands on your chest and started to ride you in earnest, lifting herself up until just the tip remained inside her, then slamming back down to take you to the hilt. her tits bounced with each powerful thrust of her hips, drawing your gaze to her perfect breasts.

and well, it seemed like her tits wanted to completely steal your attention! yes, you could have a beautiful woman in front of your eyes and making you feel so good while looking like a goddess in front of you, but having such a perfect, round pair of breasts moving in front of your face was something that took you out of reality and made you forget everything around you so you could only focus on them.

but of course, you could literally be fucking your childhood best friend now, but you were still a little nervous about making a big move or a daring action.

“can i…–?”

wonyoung looked down at you, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she saw the hunger in your eyes. she could tell exactly what you wanted, and she was more than happy to oblige.

“go ahead, baby.” she purred, arching her back to thrust her breasts forward invitingly. “touch them... taste them... i want to feel your mouth on me.”

she grabbed your head and pulled it to her chest, pushing her nipple against your lips. the stiff peak brushed your mouth, begging to be suckled. the scent of her perfume mixed with the unique aroma of her arousal was intoxicating.

wasting no time, you opened your mouth and drew her nipple inside, swirling your tongue around the sensitive bud. wonyoung let out a low moan, her fingers tangling in your hair as you suckled her.

“that’s it.” she encouraged breathily, holding your head in place. “suck on my tits while I ride this fucking cock. fuck, you’re driving me crazy…”

she began to bounce on your lap with renewed vigor, her hips slamming against yours with each powerful thrust. the wet sounds of your coupling filled the room, mingling with wonyoung’s increasingly loud moans and cries of pleasure.

you switched to her other breast, lavishing it with the same attention as the first. wonyoung’s fingers tightened in your hair, holding you to her chest as she rode you with wild abandon. her body trembled and shook, teetering on the brink of another explosive climax.

wonyoung let out a sharp cry of pleasure as you sucked harder on her nipple, your teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. she arched her back, pushing more of her breast into your eager mouth. Her fingers tightened almost painfully in your hair, holding you in place.

“yes, just like that.” she panted, her voice ragged with arousal. “bite me, (y/n)... mark me... make me yours!”

spurred on by her desperate pleas, you closed your teeth around her nipple and bit down, not hard enough to truly hurt her, but with enough pressure to make her see stars. at the same time, you reached down to rub her clit in tight circles, feeling it swell and throb under your touch.”

you didn’t let up, continuing to suck and nip at her nipples while rubbing her clit through her climax. each touch sent aftershocks of pleasure radiating out from her core, drawing out her orgasm until it felt like it would never end.

wonyoung’s moans grew louder and more desperate as she rode you harder, chasing her impending release. her nails raked down your chest, leaving faint red lines in their wake as she clung to you.

“fuck, i’m getting close.” she panted, her voice tight with strain. “don’t stop, (y/n)... don’t you dare fucking stop!”

she slammed down onto you one last time, taking you as deep as physically possible. her pussy clamped down around you like a vice, pulsing and fluttering wildly as her orgasm crashed over her.

you felt her juices gush around your cock, soaking through the condom and dripping onto the sheets below. the sensation of her coming undone around you, combined with the taste of her skin and the sound of her screams, pushed you over the edge.

with a guttural groan, you thrust up into her one last time, your cock pulsing and throbbing as you found your own release. you filled the condom with spurt after spurt of your hot seed, your body shuddering with the intensity of your orgasm.

wonyoung collapsed against your chest, both of you panting and drenched in sweat. she nuzzled into your neck, pressing sloppy kisses to your skin as she slowly came down from her high.

“holy shit.” she murmured, her voice hoarse from screaming. “that was... fuck, that was incredible. you’re amazing.”

she lifted her head to look at you, a satisfied smirk on her well–fucked face. her eyes sparkled with mischief and promise.

“but don’t think we”re done yet.” she purred, a wicked gleam in her eye. “we’ve got all night long... and i plan to make the most of every minute of it.”

[wonyowonyo]

Summer Fever (Y. Jimin x M! Reader)

This one was long overdue as I was suppose to post this like few weeks ago. So I'm really sorry for the wait and for the hiatus again. But I hope yall enjoy this one as always, author wonyo out! Word Count: 4.4k

They had always been "them" — the childhood friends everyone assumed were a couple. Their story stretched back to kindergarten when Y/N had shyly offered Jimin a crayon after she dropped hers. From that moment, they were inseparable, growing up side by side in a neighborhood that knew them as "the duo." Their houses stood just a few steps apart, their families mingling so often that there was an unspoken rule: where one went, the other followed.

Y/N was the quiet and brooding one, often retreating into books and daydreams, while Jimin was his exact opposite — outgoing, vibrant, and endlessly curious. It was a pairing that balanced perfectly, as though the universe had conspired to make sure they’d always need each other. From biking through rain-soaked streets to late-night talks under a blanket of stars, their bond had been forged in the simple, fleeting magic of childhood.

As they grew older, the whispers started. "They’d make such a cute couple," neighbors would say with knowing smiles. Classmates teased them incessantly, their names often scribbled together inside hastily drawn hearts on desks and notebooks. Each accusation of romance was met with flushed cheeks and vehement denials. "It’s not like that," they’d say in unison, though neither could ignore the tiny flicker of "what if" that sometimes crept in during quiet moments.

Life carried them through the awkward years of braces and bad haircuts, through the emotional turbulence of middle school, and into the confusing realm of high school. By then, their dynamic had settled into something familiar and comforting, a rhythm of bickering, teasing, and unspoken understanding. To outsiders, their bond seemed unshakable, almost romantic. But to them, it was simply... them. Or at least, it had been, until yesterday.

————————————————————

The sun hung high in the cloudless sky, its golden rays spilling through the windows of the school’s quiet hallway, casting long, golden streaks across the polished tiles. Lockers stood in neat rows along the corridor, their metallic surfaces glinting faintly in the sunlight, while a faint murmur of voices and distant footsteps echoed through the space, hinting at life elsewhere in the school. Outside, a faint breeze rustled the leaves, though it did little to ease the summer heat. The classroom beyond was still, save for the soft hum of cicadas in the background.

Seated by the window, Y/N leaned over his desk, his head resting against his folded arms. His black hair was slightly tousled, strands clinging to his damp forehead. His expression was distant, almost brooding, as though he carried the weight of an unspoken thought. The faint laughter and chatter of students outside the classroom felt worlds away from his isolated presence, a stark reminder of how he had slowly drifted apart from the lively camaraderie he once shared with his classmates. Memories of shared jokes and group projects now felt like distant echoes, replaced by a heavy silence that seemed to cling to him wherever he went.

The soft slide of the door broke the silence. Jimin peeked inside, hesitating for a moment before stepping in. She held a brightly swirled ice cream cone in one hand, the vibrant colors an unexpected burst of cheerfulness against the muted backdrop of the room. Her dark ponytail swayed slightly as she walked, and her eyes locked onto the lone figure by the window.

“There you are,” she said softly, her voice carrying a playful yet gentle tone.

Y/N stirred but didn’t lift his head. “What do you want?” he mumbled, his voice muffled and weary.

She stepped closer, her sandals making faint tapping sounds against the tiled floor. Sliding into the seat across from him, she leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand, her dark eyes studying him intently. A small, thoughtful smile played on her lips, but there was a flicker of concern in her gaze, as if she were trying to read beyond his weary posture. "You really don’t look fine," she said softly, her voice a mixture of teasing and genuine worry. Her gaze lingered on him before she smiled and held out the ice cream. “You looked like you could use this.”

Y/N finally lifted his head, dark eyes meeting hers with a mix of surprise and indifference. His face softened ever so slightly as he eyed the ice cream, then looked away. “I’m fine. You didn’t have to do that.”

Jimin pouted, thrusting the ice cream closer to him. “Come on, don’t be stubborn. It’s going to melt.”

Reluctantly, he sat up straighter and took the cone from her hand. His fingers brushed hers briefly, making her cheeks flush as she quickly pulled back. He stared at the ice cream for a moment before taking a small bite. The sweetness melted on his tongue, contrasting with the bitterness he’d been stewing in all day.

“Thanks,” he muttered, barely audible.

She grinned, her mood visibly lifting. “See? It’s not so hard to accept a little kindness.”

He glanced at her, the faintest smile tugging at his lips before he quickly looked away. “You’re annoying,” he said, but there was no bite to his words.

She laughed, light and melodic, and leaned back in her chair. “Maybe. But you like having me around, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer, choosing instead to take another bite of the ice cream. The cicadas outside buzzed louder, filling the comfortable silence that settled between them. For a moment, the summer heat seemed a little more bearable.

————————————————————

The peace didn’t last long. A lanky boy with thick glasses, his shirt slightly untucked, burst into the room with a dramatic flair, followed closely by a shorter classmate with a mischievous grin and a baseball cap askew on his head. Their boisterous laughter and rapid chatter shattered the tranquil stillness, their energy swirling through the space like a sudden gust of wind. Their voices echoed in the small space, a sharp contrast to the soft hum of cicadas that had blanketed the room just moments ago. One of them, a tall boy with glasses, smirked and announced dramatically, “Y/N is sick.”

Jimin raised a brow, unimpressed by their antics. “And?”

The second boy laughed, gesturing toward Y/N. “Your boyfriend here is in a lot of pain! Haha!”

“Do you want to die?” she snapped, her voice sharp as her glare could pierce through steel.

Y/N groaned, clearly annoyed. “Are you in pain?” she asked, her tone softening as her focus returned to him.

“Aren’t you just acting so you can skip academy class later?” one of the boys teased.

She clenched her jaw, her frustration evident, but Y/N muttered, “No… Just go back to your classroom.”

Jimin ignored his request, her brows knitting in thought. “Hmm…” she murmured, reaching out and pressing her hand against his forehead. “My hands are cold, so it’s hard to know,” she said, frowning slightly. Her concern was genuine, and it showed in the way her lips pursed in concentration.

Y/N’s eyes widened as her touch lingered. His cheeks flushed a light pink, and his gaze darted away, unsure of what to do. “W-What are you doing?” he stammered, his voice laced with embarrassment.

“You feel a little warm,” she replied matter-of-factly, leaning in closer to get a better look at him. Her proximity made his heart race, and the heat on his cheeks deepened.

“I-I’m fine!” he blurted out, leaning back slightly to create some distance. But she didn’t budge, her brows furrowed with determination.

“You don’t look fine to me,” she said firmly. “If you’re not going to the nurse’s office, then I’ll have to take care of you here.”

The other boys snickered at the exchange, but she shot them a glare that quickly shut them up. “If you two aren’t going to help, then leave,” she said curtly.

They raised their hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, we’re going!” one of them said before they exited the room, their laughter fading down the hall.

Once they were gone, Jimin turned back to Y/N, who was now hiding his face in his arms again. “Hey,” she said gently, nudging him. “If you’re not feeling well, you should lie down properly.”

“Just… leave me alone,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

She sighed, standing up and moving to his side. “Alright, stubborn. But don’t complain later when you feel worse,” she said, her tone light but tinged with genuine worry. She placed a small, cold pack on his neck, causing him to flinch slightly.

“What are you—?” he started, but she cut him off.

“It’ll help. Just stay still,” she said, placing a hand on his back to steady him.

His heart thudded loudly in his chest, the combination of her closeness and her concern overwhelming him. He stayed quiet, unsure of how to respond, while she busied herself ensuring he was comfortable. The cicadas outside continued their song, filling the air with a soothing rhythm that contrasted with the chaos in his mind.

For a moment, he wondered if the heat he felt was really just from the summer sun.

————————————————————

Jimin’s hand lingered on his forehead, her warm breath brushing his cheek as she leaned closer to check his temperature. The proximity made his heart pound louder than ever, and when he turned his head slightly, their noses almost brushed. For a moment, the world stood still — the distant hum of cicadas faded, leaving only the sound of their shallow breathing.

Both of them froze, wide-eyed. Her cheeks turned a deep shade of pink as she quickly pulled back, a nervous laugh escaping her lips. “I-I should probably… um… let you rest,” she stammered, standing up abruptly.

“Y-Yeah, maybe you should…” he muttered, his voice shaky as he avoided her gaze, his face equally flushed. She took a few hurried steps toward the door, stealing one last glance at him before leaving the room in a flurry of embarrassment.

Y/N slumped forward, burying his face in his arms as a whirlwind of emotions coursed through him. His chest felt tight, as though a heavy weight pressed against it, and his face burned hotter than before. Embarrassment, confusion, and a flicker of something unspoken swirled in his mind, leaving him unable to steady his racing thoughts. “What just happened?” he muttered to himself. The flustered feeling overwhelmed him, and before he could steady his thoughts, a wave of dizziness hit him like a brick. His vision blurred, and everything went dark.

A faint haze clouded Y/N's vision as he slowly regained consciousness, his eyes adjusting to the sterile white ceiling of the nurse's office. The sharp scent of antiseptic mingled with the soothing hum of the air conditioner, creating a cocoon of quiet that felt both foreign and oddly comforting. For a moment, he couldn’t remember how he’d ended up here—only the faint throbbing in his head and the cool press of a damp compress against his forehead reminded him that something had gone amiss. He blinked a few times, trying to piece together how he got there. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, and the soft hum of the air conditioner filled the silence. His head throbbed slightly, but the cool compress resting on his forehead was a welcome relief.

Just as he began to sit up, the door creaked open. The familiar figure of Jimin stepped in, a mix of worry and hesitation on her face. “You’re awake,” she said softly, walking over to his bedside. “You scared me, you know.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to.”

She sighed, pulling up a chair and sitting beside him. “You’re really bad at taking care of yourself, you know that?” Her tone was teasing, but the concern in her eyes was unmistakable.

Before he could respond, the door burst open again, and his friends barged in. “Dude, you seriously passed out?” one of them said, grinning as he approached the bed. “We thought you were just trying to get out of class.”

Y/N's eyes widened in panic, his mind racing with a dozen ways to salvage the situation. His heart pounded in his chest as he grabbed Jimin's arm, the action driven more by instinct than thought. "Get in!" he hissed urgently, his voice low and shaky. Before she could fully process what was happening, he pulled her into the narrow bed beside him, yanking the blanket over both of them in one swift motion. Beneath the covers, his pulse thrummed louder than ever, his mind grappling with the absurdity of what he’d just done. He swallowed hard, hoping this desperate move would somehow work, even as the warmth of her presence so close to him made it nearly impossible to think clearly. She let out a soft gasp as she found herself pressed against his chest, her face hidden beneath the covers. “Shh,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Uh… are you okay, man?” his friend asked, raising an eyebrow. Y/N shifted slightly, tightening his hold on Jimin as he tried to act natural.

“Y-Yeah, just tired,” he said quickly. “You guys can leave now. I need to rest.”

Jimin squirmed slightly beneath the blanket, her slipper slipping off her foot. She instinctively scooted closer to him, trying to keep her balance. The small movement made his heart race, and he clenched his jaw to keep from reacting.

“You sure you’re okay?” his other friend asked, suspicious. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m fine!” he snapped, a little too loudly. “Just go!”

The friends exchanged a look but eventually shrugged. “Alright, fine. Rest up,” one of them said before they left the room, the door clicking shut behind them.

As soon as they were gone, Jimin shoved him lightly. “What was that about?” she hissed, her face burning.

“I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t dragged me in here!” she shot back, her voice muffled by the blanket. Their whispered argument was interrupted when the door opened again. The nurse stepped in, a clipboard in hand. Both of them froze, holding their breath as the nurse walked over to the bed. The boy tightened his grip on the girl, pulling her closer as they hid beneath the blanket. The nurse checked his chart, muttering something under her breath before placing a hand on his forehead. “Still a bit warm,” she said to herself. “He’ll need to rest longer.” Before she could notice anything amiss, the door opened once more, and the P.E. teacher stepped in. “Hey, ready for lunch?” he asked casually. The nurse turned, smiling warmly. “Give me a second to finish up here.” The boy and the girl stayed perfectly still, listening intently as the conversation shifted. It quickly became clear that the nurse and the teacher were more than just colleagues. The nurse laughed softly, her tone playful yet intimate. “You’re late again,” she teased, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “I told you not to keep me waiting.” “Couldn’t help it,” the teacher replied, his voice low and smooth. “You know I can’t say no to you.” The boy and girl’s eyes widened in horror as the tension in the room became palpable. The nurse stepped closer to the teacher, resting a hand lightly on his chest. “You’re lucky I’m forgiving,” she murmured, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. The teacher chuckled, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Am I?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement. “Or do you just like having me wrapped around your finger?” “Maybe a little of both,” she admitted, her smile coy. She stood on her tiptoes, her lips brushing against his in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened. The boy and girl under the blanket squeezed their eyes shut, their faces burning as the intimate moment played out just a few feet away. “You’re impossible,” the nurse said breathlessly when they finally pulled apart. “And you love it,” the teacher replied, his hand lingering on her waist. “Don’t forget to save me a seat,” she said, her tone light and affectionate, though her flushed cheeks hinted at the heat of their exchange. “Always,” he replied, his voice filled with a warmth that matched the lingering tension. He leaned in again, pressing a final kiss to her temple before heading out. The nurse took a moment to compose herself, smoothing her uniform before leaving the room as well. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the boy and girl in stunned silence. After a long pause, the girl finally whispered, “Did we… just eavesdrop on something we weren’t supposed to?” “Yeah,” he muttered, his face still burning from embarrassment. “Let’s never talk about it.” She giggled softly, the sound muffled by the blanket. “You’re blushing again.” “Shut up,” he grumbled, but there was no real malice in his tone.

Their whispered argument faded into silence as the blanket created an intimate cocoon around them. Her breath was warm against his neck, and he became acutely aware of how close they were. The tension between them was palpable, a mix of embarrassment, unspoken feelings, and the strange comfort of being so near.

The air beneath the blanket crackled like a live wire, thick with the heat of their stifled breaths. Years of sidelong glances, bitten-back confessions, and hands that always almost touched now coiled taut between them. Her cheek grazed his, a fleeting brush that sent a shudder through his spine. Closer. It was all he could think. Closer, closer, closer—

“Are you—” he began, voice ragged, but she cut him off with a sharp inhale, her fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt.

“Don’t,” she whispered, desperate. “Don’t ask if I’m okay. Don’t… apologize.” Her lips hovered a hair’s breadth from his jaw, trembling. “Not when I’ve spent years dreaming about this.”

The confession hung in the air, incendiary. It shattered whatever fragile restraint remained.

He hesitated before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to… make things weird.”

“I’m fine,” she replied softly, though her voice wavered slightly. “Just… surprised, I guess.”

They locked eyes, the dim light filtering through the blanket casting soft shadows on her face. The way her gaze held his made his heart pound in his chest, louder than the hum of the air conditioner. He reached up hesitantly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. The simple gesture made her breath hitch, and she leaned into his touch ever so slightly.

“Can I…?” he started, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the words.

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his. “Yeah,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Slowly, he closed the gap between them. Their lips met in a tentative kiss, soft and unsure at first, as if both were testing the waters. But as the seconds passed, the kiss deepened, raw and unrestrained, carrying the weight of years of suppressed emotions. His hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer as her fingers tangled in his hair.

He cupped her face, rough and reverent, thumbs tracing the flush staining her cheeks. Her name spilled from his lips like a prayer, a curse, a plea—hers, ragged and raw. She answered by crashing into him, fingers raking through his hair, nails scoring his neck as if anchoring herself to reality. Their kiss was less a meeting than a collision: teeth clashing, breaths ragged and shared, a feverish tangle of lips and tongue and muffled whimpers. It was messy, desperate, starving—a wildfire devouring every unspoken word, every stifled glance, every night they’d lain awake aching for this.

She arched against him, a gasp tearing free as his hand slid beneath her shirt, palm searing her lower back. “Finally,” she choked into his mouth, the word half-sobbed. “Finally, finally—”

He didn’t let her finish. He couldn’t. Years of restraint unraveled as he kissed her deeper, deeper, swallowing her tears, her laughter, the fractured litany of his name. The blanket slipped, cold air hitting their fevered skin, but neither noticed. The world narrowed to the scrape of stubble on her throat, the bite of her grip on his hips, the way she shook against him—not with fear, but with the seismic release of a dam breaking.

Her lips were warm and soft, moving in sync with his as they poured everything they couldn’t say into the kiss. Every brush of their lips, every stolen breath spoke of longing, of feelings that had grown quietly between them over the years. It wasn’t perfect—there were nervous giggles and a bump of noses—but it was theirs, raw and real.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads damp and pressed together, her sob-laugh echoed his own fractured breath. “Idiot,” she breathed, kissing the corner of his swollen lips. “You should’ve done that ages ago.”

He huffed a laugh, thumbs smudging the tears from her cheeks. “You punched me when I tried to hold your hand in sixth grade.”

“And you faked amnesia after we almost kissed at prom!”

“You remember that?!”

Her smile turned wicked, dangerous. “I remember everything.” She dragged him back in, nipping his lower lip. “Now shut up and make up for lost time.”

The world outside didn’t just fade—it burned away. There was only this: her sighs like scripture, his hands mapping devotion into her skin, and the delicious, delirious truth that this was just the beginning.

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in the warmth of the blanket and each other. The nurse’s office, the world outside, everything else faded into the background. For the first time, they felt like they didn’t have to hide, like they could just be.

The confession had been years in the making, and now that it was out in the open, it felt like a weight had been lifted. They weren’t just childhood friends anymore—they were something more, something new and exciting. And as they held each other, they couldn’t help but feel like this was the start of something beautiful.

————————————————————

The next day, Y/N woke up feeling completely rejuvenated. His head no longer throbbed, and the lightness in his body was a far cry from the exhaustion he felt yesterday. As he got ready for school, a thought lingered in his mind: Was yesterday real? Or was it just a fever dream?

The memory of her face, her laugh, and… that kiss played over and over in his head, making his heart race. Shaking his head furiously, he muttered to himself, “Get a grip. You’re probably just overthinking it.” But even as he tried to focus on something else, the thought of her tugged at his mind. He had to know.

When he arrived at school, he immediately made his way to Jimin’s classroom. Peeking through the door, he saw her resting her head on her desk, her arms folded like a makeshift pillow. She looked unusually pale, and his stomach sank. He hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, weaving through the desks until he reached her.

“Hey,” he said softly, crouching down beside her. “You okay?”

She stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open to meet his. Her face was flushed, and her usual lively expression was replaced by a dazed, tired look. “Oh… it’s you,” she murmured, her voice weak.

His concern deepened. “You’re burning up,” he said, placing a hand on her forehead. “Why didn’t you stay home?”

She quickly batted his hand away, her face turning redder—though whether it was from the fever or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. “I… I’m fine,” she mumbled, sitting up straighter. But the moment she tried, she swayed slightly, forcing him to steady her.

“Fine, my ass,” he said, frowning. “Come on, let’s get you some fresh air.”

Before she could protest, he gently grabbed her wrist and helped her up. She stumbled a bit but managed to lean on him for support. He guided her out of the classroom and down the hall to the stairs, where it was quieter.

“Sit,” he ordered, pointing to the steps. She complied, slumping down with a sigh. He crouched in front of her, inspecting her closely. Her hair was slightly disheveled, and she looked far more worn out than usual.

“You look terrible,” he said bluntly, though his tone was filled with worry.

She pouted, crossing her arms. “Thanks for the compliment,” she said sarcastically before looking away, her voice dropping. “I probably caught it from you…”

His eyes widened. “What? From me?”

She nodded, her face flushing even more. “Yeah. You were the one who got sick first,” she mumbled, clearly embarrassed. “This is your fault.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his own face starting to heat up. “I… I didn’t mean to…” he stammered, glancing away. An awkward silence settled between them until he blurted out, “Would it work if you… you know, transferred it back to me?”

She froze, her eyes snapping to his in disbelief. “W-What?!”

Realizing what he just said, his face turned scarlet. “I-I mean, like, you know… since you got it from me, maybe if…” He trailed off, waving his hands frantically as he struggled to find the right words.

Her mind quickly connected the dots, and her face burned even hotter. “A-Are you saying we should kiss again?!” she squeaked, her voice rising slightly.

“N-No! I mean, yes! I mean… I don’t know!” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I was just… never mind! Forget I said anything!”

She buried her face in her hands, letting out a muffled groan. “I can’t believe you just said that…”

“I can’t believe I said that either!” he shot back, equally flustered.

They both sat there, their faces burning as they avoided each other’s gaze. The awkward tension was almost tangible, and neither of them knew how to break it.

Finally, she peeked at him through her fingers, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at her lips. “You’re such an idiot,” she said softly.

He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah… I guess I am.”

Despite the awkwardness, there was a warmth between them that neither could deny. And though they didn’t say it out loud, both of them were secretly wondering the same thing:

Would it really work?

[keferon]

Eh okay so. My brain is absolutely cooked so you will probably just have to ignore the linguistic fuckups

Jazz and Prowl learning to communicate because language barrier is a thing >:D

Previous part

Jazz sometimes thinks that somewhere along his career path he lost the bar separating normal from...well...everything else.

After all he's seen, heard about, and done, he's not sure exactly how to measure what's weird and what's normal. He has..the general idea.

His own. And it's so convoluted and fucked up that he'd rather jump into a volcano than try to explain it to anyone else. Jazz thinks the little colorful aliens around him are weird as hell. He thinks they sound weird, he thinks they look weird, and he thinks he must be going crazy.

And then this big black and white robot catches his eye and Jazz's first thought is not "what the fuck??"

His first thought is

"Thank God! Someone's normal!"

Whoever this guy is, he sounds like he knows what he's doing. And most importantly, he looks just like Jazz. Well, not exactly. But close enough. After all, Jazz knows that his organization wasn't the only mech maker on the entire planet. Other countries were making Mechs too, and Jazz hadn't seen even half of them.

But he can recognize a giant robot when he sees one, okay?

The thought that another mech could be an alien doesn't even enter his mind.

So used to the constant presence of huge piloted robots around him, he looks at this one and clings to its appearance as something familiar and easily explainable. His brain says, we know how this works. There's a robot and inside the robot there's another person. It's the way it's always been. The sky is blue, the grass is green and the robots are human-piloted. It's that simple.

The guy takes him to the far corner of the room and says something. Jazz…doesn't understand..

The mech's face contorts in a surprisingly believable display of concentration. How...who built this robot? How could they make it frown?

He hears something else being said to him but again can't understand a word. Why won't this pilot get out of the mech to talk to him? Jazz doesn't have his communication frequency but surely they could at least shake hands. There must be some reason. Maybe something wrong with the air? Is it dangerous to be outside? This guy should know better, he's been here longer than Jazz, it seems.

(Damn it, whose idea was it to make a mech with a face, it's so distracting)

He rushes to activate the external speakers, because he and this guy obviously speak different languages, but it never hurts to try, right?

"So uh, I don't think you can understand English?"

Mech frowns again, trying to pick up on something familiar in a language that's apparently new to him. But finds nothing. Jazz lowers his horns sadly.

Oh well. Fuck. As if being stuck in an unknown place with unknown creatures wasn't enough, he can't even talk to anyone! How is he supposed to get out of here? Which way should he even go?

The mech waves his hand to get his attention and then pulls out a tablet and a stylus from..where ?

Jazz somehow manages to overlook the fact that the tablet is made to fit the mech's size. His head is still feels a bit…off..after that portal thingie.

"Charades it is then."

____________________

An hour and a half later, Jazz finds himself staring intensely at the screen in front of him with a surprisingly neatly drawn chart on it.

"So uh. Motion."

The other guy nods and starts drawing a walking mech. Then something that looks like a very unusual car. Then a submarine. Jazz gets a little lost looking at how skillful he is with the stylus.

Honestly, he's a good artist!

The guy points to the sketch of a walking mech and says

" Motion."

Then points to the drawing of a car driving and the columns of the chart.

"Motion-rotation" he points to the car again.

That must mean "driving" huh? Jazz nods understandingly.

Mech moves his finger to the submarine.

"Motion-Water."

Ah, it must mean swimming. Jazz nods once more, feeling like a wind-up dummy repeating the same motion a dozen times.

The mech makes a quiet humming noise and then points to the chart

"Motion. Sky."

And then gives Jazz the stylus?

Uh, what is he... Oh, he wants Jazz to figure out what it means.

"Motion" and "sky," right?

Jazz takes the stylus? Pencil? Thingie.. and very carefully draws out a crooked scribble of something only remotely resembling an airplane. The mech arches an eyebrow and looks like he wants to laugh.

Jazz shrugs awkwardly and tries to add windows to the airplane, but ends up making it look more like a severely fucked up caterpillar.

Mech snorts.

Jazz kicks him in the leg.

The airplane begs for a merciful death.

Jazz didn't really expect to get into a language class but he has to admit that whatever language he's learning now is a surprisingly easy one. It only took the other dude half an hour to show him the basic concept and from there it became a game of associations.

There were simple definitions. Like size, quantity, speed, emotion and so on.

There were signs that automatically turned the whole sentence into a question or a statement.

There were modifiers that Jazz defined in his head as positive and negative.

Positive speed - fast.

Positive size - large.

Positive direction - forward.

Positive time - future.

There were also basic words for senses, emotions and whatnot, also with modifiers.

Mouth-positive - to speak

Brain-positive - to think, but negative-brain-do-positive - to learn.

Huh.

And it's so neatly organized that Jazz wondered if this language was designed specifically to be easy to learn.

Let's see....

Mouth - positive, effort - negative.

"Easy to speak."

The guy nods contentedly and starts talking back, while pointing to the appropriate columns of the chart to make it easier for Jazz to understand.

"Creation-positive. Purpose. Person-negative-knowledge. memory-positive-effort-negative."

Jazz frowns, concentrating on his finger.

Oh. Created. For those who don't know it. Easy to learn.

He was right. The whole thing is waaaay too awkward to write poetry but learning it is a delight.

Jazz leans over the chart.

All right, well, let's see.

“Name. You. Question?”

The other guy smiles and pokes at the chart

"Me.Motion-sound-negative.Negative-eyes-positive-someone."

Walk quietly. searching?… Sneaking?

Oh, it's not "to sneak" it's "to prowl"

"Prowl" nods affirmatively. Jazz smiles at him and looks at the chart again. Okay. How to say “music”?..

“word-knowledge-negative.”

He stops to make a gesture with his hands, as if playing an invisible piano while humming a tune.

Prowl nods

“Sound-positive-positive-hearing.”

Jazz chuckles

“A whole two positives eh? Okay then. Uh. You don't look like you listen to jazz....so..”

“Me. Name. Sound-positive-positive-listening.”

Prowl raises his eyebrows. (Jazz is jealous, he wishes he had eyebrows too.)

“You're a musician?"

Jazz quickly shakes his head while simultaneously muting the outside speakers to a barely audible level and turning on one of the songs on his playlist.

Prowl twitches in surprise when he hears the melody.

Jazz waits for the intro to finish playing and then points to himself

“Creation-negative..uh..Sound-positive-positive-hearing. Jazz. This...”

He pats himself lightly on the chest.

"..is me. Jazz."

Prowl straightens up slightly

“Oh, you're not a musician, you're the music.”

Jazz nods cheerfully

“Yes yes!”

“Jaaz?”

“No no. Jazz.”

“Ah. Jazz?”

“That's right.”

Prowl draws a portal on the screen.

“You teleported here. What happened?”

Jazz hangs back, trying to construct an answer in his head. Good thing Prowl seems to have infinite patience

“So, I uh. What was 'fight'? Movement-pain-positive? I fought these things...”

He takes the tablet from Prowl and draws a crooked blot with a bunch of tentacles on it. Then thinks for a bit and adds big teeth and a lot of eyes. He's not really sure how to draw those eyes properly, so he just scatters them randomly around the monster area.

Prowl doesn't seem to be that amused by Jazz's drawings anymore, in fact, he suddenly becomes very somber.

“Quintessons.”

He pokes at the monster

“Name-Quintessons. Number-question.”

How many?

Jazz scratches the back of his head

“So uh...a lot?....number-positive-positive-positive-positive-positi...you get the idea.”

To be convincing, he dramatically spreads his arms out to the sides depicting something very large.

Prowl looks alarmed.

And unconvinced.

“How did you survive?”

Jazz laughs pretentiously

“Ask them how they survived.”

Prowl makes the “you can't be serious” face. Jazz isn't quite sure what exactly is confusing him. Mechs are designed to kill Quintessons, aren't they? Judging by his movements, this pilot must be damn good at controlling his mech, and that kind of guys usually fight on the front lines.

He decides to put that thought aside for later. There are more important things right now, like...oh shit, where is he even going??

Jazz leans over the chart again

“Uh. Right. Question-we-move-up-place” Man, how to specify... “Knowledge-negative?”

Prowl, linguistic gods bless him, understands him and starts gesturing over the chart in response

Okay. Ah. I-move-up. Planet-creation-positive.

'I'm heading home' or 'my home planet'.”

Jazz instantly perks up.

“Oh that's great, I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to go there too.”

Prowl is speaking in a language he's unfamiliar with, so he's definitely from another country, but hey, who cares as long as it's on Earth, right? He just needs to get there and he'll find his own way from there.

He watches the space debris flicker by outside the window. Even the stars are unfamiliar, Jazz can't find any constellations he knows.

One of the little purple creatures says something and Prowl steps aside to chat with them. Jazz leans back and settles into a more or less stable position. Then does the same thing, but with his real, human body. Hell, his head still feels really fucking weird after that teleportation.

He opens the comm channel and just listens to the static for a couple minutes in the faint hope that the engineering department will find a way to contact him.

Nothing.

He sighs.

“1061 on the com. In case there's any way you can hear me...ah shit. You guys won't believe what happened...”

___________

[Next]

[writersmess]

DEATH WISH LOVE | EVAN BUCKLEY

gif credit

Pairing: Evan Buckley x fem!reader

Summary: Buck never thought he could love someone like that. Especially not someone with the same death wish love as him.

Warning: Anxiety crisis, near-death experience, hospital, crying, ansgt.

Word count: 2.5K

a/n: My God, I can't believe it's taken me over a year to get back. I missed this place so much. It's been an intense, crazy year. I finally got my dream job at the best hospital in Latin America. I'm so happy, but at the same time it's demanded everything of me, working long shifts almost every day, but its the price I have to pay. I hope you like this one, it was based on the song Death Wish Love by Benson Boone, which as soon as I heard it I immediately imagined something with our dear Buck. I confess I thought I'd do something angsty, but I don't think I have that capacity, he already suffers so much that I just wanted him to have a happy ending this time.

Masterlist

................................

You were the new firefighter in 118, and also new to the city. In order to follow your dreams, you left your hometown with everyone and everything you knew. You craved for bigger things, you wanted the big city, you wanted Los Angeles.

The team welcomed you with open arms, which was unusual to you. You weren’t used to this or neither known by your affectionate gestures, but apparently everything was an excuse for a hug at the station. It was a bit hard to get used to all this affection, especially when you came from a place where you were always by yourself.

That was one of the main reasons you became a firefighter, you have walked through fire every single day of your life, why not make it your profession?

You were a source of curiosity between the team, always so quiet and so resistant to everyone's affection. It was hard to win you over. Especially because you had a rather difficult personality, you were fearless at work, you weren't afraid to go into the fire to save lives, you did it without thinking twice.

To Bobby you were a cause of concern, and sometimes the reason why he was having trouble sleeping. He knew this personality very well. It was the same one he had struggled for years to learn to deal with, the one he had to fight with so many times, he was very familiar with this death wish love, it was the same as Buck’s.

The blue-eyed man on the other side, couldn't understand why he couldn't take his eyes off you. Ever since you arrived a few months ago, your image has been running through Buck’s mind. You've become a challenge for him. But not in a bad way, he wanted to get to know you, he wanted to understand you. But you didn't make things any easier for him, especially when today was the first time he'd seen you laugh.

"You're drooling" he snapped back to reality when he heard Eddie mocking next to him.

"Shut up" Buck said, turning his gaze back to you playing with his niece.

You had a beauty he couldn't explain, an angelic one. You had this steely gaze and looking at you felt like suicide. He would fall to his knees if you asked him to. How could someone so delicate also be so dangerous?

The way you were reluctant to follow Bobby's orders, you'd walk into the fire without a second thought. You would take risks without thinking about your own safety, just thinking about everyone else. He saw how hard you worked, he saw how mad Bobby got when he ordered the building to be evacuated and you were always the last one to leave. You were intriguing and he was fascinated.

It was so strange for you. Being in Maddie's living room, with everyone gathered together like a big family, laughing and telling funny stories. The team met once a week, with all the families together, the children running around the living room, the smell of food in the air, the voices, the laughter.

You accepted the invitation after a few months of refusing, and now you spent the week looking forward to the moment when you would be together again.

Sometimes when you got home from a meeting, you cried. You cried because you never had that, you never had anyone who cared about you. You were an unexpected pregnancy, your parents didn't planned you, they didn't want you and that was never a secret to anyone.

And that's why you were surprised when one day you arrived early at the station and Hen had a cake for you that you had once said reminded of what your grandmother used to bake.

Or when another one Eddie handed you a drawing that Chris made specifically for you. Of the two of you playing together.

Or when Maddie sent you, through Chim, the cookies you said you loved one day while you were having coffee together.

Or when Bobby invited you to have lunch with him and Athena on a Sunday ‘cause he knew you were going to do it alone.

Or when Buck gave you a book he'd heard you say was your favorite during a conversation.

*

It was mid-afternoon on a Sunday. Your hands were shaking, your heart pounding. The words your father had once spoken echoed in your mind. "You will never be loved". But you were at a table with 118's entire family, and you felt loved. Maddie told you about the gossip from her work. Karen hugged you from the side every time you passed by her. Hen included you in every conversation. Athena calmly answered all the questions you were curious about her work. So why did you feel like an imposter? Why was your father's voice echoing inside your head? Why were you on the verge of an anxiety attack?

"I'll be right back" you muttered to the girls, but you realized how shaky your voice sounded. You were pathetic.

You barely made it to the bathroom, your legs buckled and you sat down in the corner of the room. You could hardly breathe, it was hard to pull in the air. Tears streamed down your face. Your heart was racing. Your hands were shaking.

You heard your voice being called from outside. Damn. You couldn't calm down, your hand was on your chest as if it could make the pain go away.

"Hey, hey. I'm here. Calm down, I’ve got you" it was Buck.

His voice was just a whisper in your ear. You let a sob escape your lips. Pathetic. You felt his arms around you, until you were all wrapped up in his arms. Why was he doing that? Why did he care?

He stayed there until you stopped crying. You were still in his arms, and it was so warm, so safe. Sighs came from your lips, and you couldn't imagine what a mess Buck's head and heart were in. He wanted you in his arms, not just now.

"I'm sorry," you whispered and tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let you, so you stayed.

"You don't have to talk about what's going on in there, but the day you feel like you need a hug to cry into, you've got mine" your eyes filled with tears again. "And don't ever apologize for it"

*

The smiles on your lips were becoming constant. And it was Buck's favorite image. You were letting people through your armor, you were letting your guard down, and it felt good. You now baked pies and cakes for the station on your days off, recipes learned from the girls after a few long afternoons of chatting and coffee.

Your laughter was contagious, and the boys would always crack little jokes to get them out of you.

Your eyes were now looking out for a pair of blue ones, all the time, everywhere. Eyes that were always looking back at you. Your hands were always looking for an excuse to bump into Buck's, just to feel that shiver run down your spine every time. And he would find any reason to text you, until the excuses became routine. You woke up every day with a good morning message and went to bed with a good night one. The little touches now became big gestures, Buck loved to brush your hair out of your face and tuck them behind your ear. And you loved to run your hand over the birthmark above his eye. You loved when his warm lips traveled up your neck to your lips. You loved when his hands ran over your body always so slowly and so gently, bringing goosebumps wherever they went. You loved making love with him. How he worshiped your body, how much he worshiped you. The way he made you feel loved.

You had a hold on Buck, and you didn't even know it. He had become attached to you, attached to the idea of having you by his side. The nights with you were the ones he could truly rest in, the mornings where he woke up to your soft kisses on his face, were the ones he would keep forever in his mind.

But he could feel that you were still resisting his feelings, and he was terrified of losing you. Buck was in love with you. It took months for him to realize that, but he did it. He loved you.

But one thing has never changed. And as Buck followed the loud murmurs coming from Bobby’s office, where he knew you were at, he kept in mind the danger you were in at every call. He couldn't lose you.

"Hey, what happe-" he couldn't finish the sentence when he saw you walking out the door, since you brushed past him, bumping into his shoulder, without even looking him in the face.

Buck made his way to the room, where he saw his captain wiping his hands across his face, letting out an exhausted sigh.

"She'll end up dead if she keep acting like this, Buck"

"I know"

"After the last call, if she doesn't change her behavior, I'll be forced to suspend her."

"I know."

Buck couldn't lose you.

You couldn't talk to Buck yet, you were so nervous after your conversation with Bobby. You were trying your best, how could he tell you that you had a death wish love? You were saving lives, and it didn't matter if it cost you your own. You didn't care.

A new call ecoed through the station. It was something big. A fire in a shed. People were working at the time, so there were many likely victims. You were anxious, just as you were before any call, but you were ready for it. You were born ready.

"Be careful," Buck told you before you got off the truck and you nodded. You were always careful "I love you"

You turned surprised to Buck, you'd never said that to each other before. It disconcerted you.

"Buck, I-"

Before you could say anything, you heard Bobby calling you to give instructions and you had to run.

I love you.

The words echoed in your head as you entered the burning building. No one had ever said that to you. You didn't even know the weight those words carried.

"Sir, follow this path and the fireman will take you to the exit."

It was so hot. You'd already lost count of how many people you'd pulled out of the line of fire. Your head was heavy. It was getting hard to breathe.

"Evacuate the building now," you could hear Cap saying over the radio. Everyone agreed and gave their location. You were about to respond when you heard something.

It was a call for help.

You could have sworn it was a call for help.

"Captain, I'm in the east side, I hear someone screaming for help. I'm close, I can get them out"

"Negative, the building will collapse at any moment. Get out immediately"

Your vision was blurred.

I love you.

You couldn't go out and leave those people to die, so you went ahead. The way to the door was difficult, there was a lot of rubble, and when you opened it, you froze in place.

It was empty. The fire danced in front of you, mocking you. But the cries for help... you've never been so wrong before.

I love you.

“It’s empty” you murmured at the radio.

Bobby was shouting your name from the other end of the radio. You turned around, but it was so hard to breathe. You tried to find your way back, but everything was spinning. Buck was now calling your name.

I love you.

His words were running through your head. Your steps were now slow. The way out, you couldn't find the way out. You could hear the fire laughing at you. Stupid. Pathetic. You heard an explosion behind you, and it threw you off balance, bringing you to the ground. You'd been walking through fire all your life, and now it would finally take its place back. Your siren buzzed in your ears. That would be the end of you.

I love you too, Buck.

The moment Buck came out of the building and didn't see you outside, he tried to go back. But hands held him in place.

This couldn't be happening. No, no.

Bobby called your name on the radio and you didn't answer. It's empty. That was the last answer they got. You weren't answering. An explosion. On the east side, where you were.

Buck's knees gave way, and he went down. All eyes were on the exit of the building waiting for you, waiting for a miracle. But it never came.

Buck screamed, and he would scream until his lungs gave up.

Time seemed to stop. Buck's screams were the only noise to be heard. And another explosion. Tears rolled down trough some faces. No one could believe it. This couldn't be happening.

Buck couldn't lose you like this.

"We found her" some voice echoed over the radio.

Buck's heart could stop any second now.

But the building was collapsing.

He broke free from his friends and ran into the building, dodging all the fallen and burnt obstacles, and he saw you. You were in the arms of a fireman. He ran up to you and carried you out of the building. As soon as you stepped onto the sidewalk, the building collapsed. Buck held you in his arms with all his strength and ran, feeling the debris fly past you.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry" was the first thing that came out of your lips when he put you on the stretcher and he shut you up, pressing his lips to yours.

Buck analyzed each of your wounds alongside Hen and Chim and you could see the tears streaming down Buck's face, the ones that were also streaming down your own.

You were still struggling to breathe, every inch of your body ached, and you felt on the verge of losing consciousness. Until you succumbed to the darkness that was calling your name.

*

You woke up a few hours later in hospital. Your hands were being squeezed and you could feel something wet running down over them. Tears.

Buck had his face in your hands, he had never felt so afraid before. And when he heard your voice calling him, it was as if he could finally breathe.

"I'm sorry, Buck, I-I don't know what happened-"

"I almost lost you today"

Your heart broke into a million pieces. You did this to him, your recklessness, your impulsive behavior. It was your fault.

"I'm sorry"

Tears were now streaming down your face and he moved closer, running his hands gently down your cheeks.

"I was terrified of losing you. I'd die if I do."

"I would never leave you"

"Promise?"

"I love you, Buck. And I'll love you to death"

"Please don't let it be soon"

You smiled. No one had ever loved you like that.

"It won't."

[bluntzah]

SPARK UP ♡ HAMZAH.

ⓘ ⋮ WC: 3.2k words.

ⓘ ⋮ CONTENT: 18+ CONTENT, making out, smoking, sexy asf. if my work isn’t to your taste, feel free to leave but negativity has no place here.

ⓘ ⋮ SUMMARY: poor hamzah, stressed and pouty, weighed down by the misery of his sick friends. if only there were a way to ease his frustration, to make him feel better…

THE DOOR SWUNG OPEN, the old, creaky door of your room slowly rattled with a groan as your best friend strolled in. You didn’t even flinch, fingers moving with ease as you rolled the blunt, the familiar scent already pervading the air with its smell.

“What’s that?” he asked, and you nearly rolled your eyes. Not because he’d interrupted you: you could do this blindfolded — but because the question was stupid. The smell was obvious, sticking to the room despite the spritz of perfume you’d tried moments before. He knew exactly what it was.

He just wanted a hit.

“What does it look like?” As if the scattered rolling papers and the scent weren’t enough evidence. You didn’t bother turning around, fingers working efficiently as you crushed the weed into fine pieces.

Hamzah flopped onto your bed with a dramatic sigh, the mattress creaking under his weight. “Come onnnn,” he drawled, stretching the word out. “Just let me take, like, at least three hits.”

He fucking wishes.

You didn’t even hesitate, shaking your head as you focused on sealing the wrap. “Buy your own.” And you meant it. Last time you shared with this motherfucker, not only did he have the audacity to complain about your lip gloss making it - in his words -“soggy,” but he also damn near finished the whole thing himself.

“The high just doesn’t hit the same when it’s your own,” Hamzah mused, then paused, brow furrowing like he was already second guessing himself. “know what I mean?”

“No.” But you did. You just liked to fuck with him, liked the way he’d start tripping over his own logic, scrambling to make his point sound less ridiculous. He always did - back then, and even more now.

Hamzah let out a sharp breath, already annoyed. “Yeah, okay, so just fuck me then, right?”

Normally, he would have brushed off your saying with a roll of his eyes, a scoff, or a flick to your forehead. The two of you had a certain banter, a dance of sorts, that usually left you irritated and grinning despite yourself. His words, while sometimes sharp, always carried banter.

But this time was different. This time, there was a tension in his voice, a real edge that cut through the usual playful tips. It caught you off guard, making you pause. You found yourself turning back, glancing over your shoulder.

Hamzah lay there, hands tucked behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. The pillow, your pillow, rested on his bicep as he lost himself in thought. He seemed oblivious to your presence, his brow furrowed slightly as if deep in thought of something only he could understand.

With a sigh, you decide to let the matter drop, choosing instead to be the good friend Hamzah needs right now. "What happened?" you ask, your voice casual but concerned. "You've been off all day."

"Nothin'," he replied. You raise an eyebrow at Hamzah's response, giving him a sidelong glance. You know him well enough to recognize the signs. The quick, almost snappy tone, the evasive answer. Something's bothering him, it's not like him to brush you off like this.

Nodding slowly, you finish rolling the blunt, licking the paper carefully to seal it. Turning to face Hamzah fully, you cross your arms and meet his gaze head on. "Don't give me that 'nothin' bullshit," you say. "You're always a real snappy fucker when something's got you all worked up. Spill it already."

Hamzah pauses, considering your words. He fidgets with his beanie, adjusting it slightly on his head as he gathers his thoughts. Then, with a sigh, he sits up and swings his legs around to the same side of the bed as you. The pillow fell to the floor with a soft thud.

As he moves, his knees brush against yours, the contact subtle. He glances down at the point where your legs touch before meeting your gaze.

“Work,” he replied, his voice stripped down to a single syllable, delivered with a shrug: careless, almost dismissive. But his dark eyes told another story, tracking the way your fingers reached for the pink lighter on your desk, the way your nails tapped against its plastic surface before the flick of your thumb coaxed a small flame to life.

You hummed a quiet, expectant sound, pressing him to elaborate without words.

But he didn’t, so you let the silence stretch, let his answer settle between you as you brought the blunt to your lips. The glossy shine of your lip gloss caught the light as you took a slow drag, hollowing your cheeks. You ghosted the smoke, holding it just at the edge of release before drawing it back in, letting it unfurl inside you.

When you finally exhaled, the smoke curled lazily into the air, dissipating into nothing.

Hamzah’s mouth, half open in the middle of speaking, slowly parted wider as his gaze lingered on the way your lips wrapped around the blunt; glossy, plush. For a second, he seemed to forget what he was saying. “Uhm, Martin and Mandy are sick —“

He barely got the words out before you exhaled, sending a stream of smoke straight into his face. The moment it hit him, he choked mid sentence, the burn catching at the back of his throat.

A harsh cough tore through him: once, twice, five times in a row.

His chest shook with it, and by the time he managed to stop, his eyes were watering, blinking rapidly as his vision swam at the edges.

“You —” He broke off, still breathless, rubbing at his face as if that would clear the haze. “Okay, stop that.” Hamzah gestured toward the blunt.

You shrugged.

“And my electricity is out,” he went on, exhaling. “I can’t even do anything at home.” his elbow dropped onto his thigh, palm cradling his jaw as he watched you take another slow drag. The blunt rested between your thumb and pointer finger. Smoke curled around your lips before you inhaled it back, letting it sit in your lungs for a second longer than necessary.

“And we need something posted by tomorrow,” Hamzah finished, voice flat, but his eyes never left you.

You leaned back, letting your mind drift for a moment, the haze of the blunt loosening the knots of your thoughts just enough for a solution to slip through. And when it did, it felt obvious; so obvious that you almost laughed. Of course. Why hadn’t you thought of it sooner?

“Do like a ‘smoke with us’ or something,” you suggested, exhaling the words along with a slow ribbon of smoke. It was perfect, really. Especially since your sister had just visited a few days ago and left you with more weed than you knew what to do with.

Hamzah sat with it for a moment, eyes flickering in thought before inevitably settling back on the blunt between your fingers.

“That means you’ll share?” he asked, licking his lips slightly, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

No shit. But since he was already stressed, you figured there was no need to add your attitude to the mix. “Yeah,” you said instead, exhaling lightly. “Get your phone out, or whatever you use, and I’ll roll another blunt.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the way Hamzah’s face lit up, his grin flashing white. You turned away before he could say anything, swiveling in your chair to face your desk. With ease, you pulled open the top drawer, fingers brushing past scattered papers and lighters until you found what you needed: a fresh wrap and your little white tube of weed.

Popping it open, you pinched a few pieces between your fingertips, the familiar scent filling your senses. You worked the weed between your fingers, breaking it apart, the familiar rhythm settling you into focus.

Behind you, Hamzah moved, slipping one hand behind your chair while the other pressed flat against the desk; right beside where you worked. His presence loomed, chest nearly brushing your back as he hovered over you.

“Why don’t we just share one?” His voice curled into your ear like smoke. You didn’t pause, rolling your eyes instead. “You complain too much about my lip gloss,” you muttered, pressing the crushed pieces into the wrap. “So, to shut you the fuck up, I’m making your own.”

Hamzah straightened slightly, but his hands stayed where they were: one gripping the back of your chair, the other still pressed against the desk. “I don’t mind,” he said.

Is he serious right now? You turned to look at him, your movements sharp, forcing you to tilt your chin just slightly to meet his gaze. He was still leaning over you, close enough that you could catch the faintest trace of his cologne beneath the scent of weed and smoke.

“Oh, you do,” you countered, eyes narrowing. You could count the number of times he had complained, each one irritating you more than the last. Because, hello? You wanted to enjoy your blunt in peace, to feel good with every slow drag, the warmth settling in your chest just right. It was a whole experience; the pull of smoke, the heady ring, a song playing low in the background, setting the perfect mood.

Hamzah didn’t respond, simply reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He and Martin had been losing their minds trying to come up with a new YouTube video, hard to do when one of them was sick and the other’s electricity was completely shot.

But now? Now, he had a plan. Thanks to you and that clever mind.

Excitement flickered beneath his calm act as he powered on his phone, the screen glowing to life. His lock screen flashed up first; a photo of him, Martin, Mandy, and you, all crammed into the frame. With a glance at you, he swiped up on his phone, apps flashing across the screen before he tapped on the messages app and selected Martin’s contact.

HAMZAH: Nvm, got it under control 🍃🍃

MARTIN: Zahhh?? 🤑🤑

HAMZAH: Can’t spell Hamzah without that Zah 😛

“I’ve honestly never gotten high with someone on camera before,” Hamzah admitted, glancing at the lens as you adjusted the lighting slightly. The two of you were tucked into the coziest corner of your room, right where your small personal library lined the wall. Two beanbags sat on either side of a low table, and Hamzah was already sinking comfortably into his.

On the table in front of you, the two rolled blunts rested beside the heart shaped ashtray, the camera positioned just beside them, angled perfectly to capture everything. “Is the lighting good?” you asked, stepping back to survey the setup.

Hamzah glanced at the camera and nodded. “That’s actually perfect.” Satisfied, you gave a small nod in return before settling back into your beanbag chair.

The video started with bickering: sharp insults and lazy eye rolls before shifting into something more relaxed. You both sparked up, tapping the glowing red ends of your blunts together in a toast before taking the first slow drags.

From there, the energy shifted into an easy rhythm: attempting ghost challenges, showing off smoke tricks, laughing at failed attempts. Eventually, the blunts burned low, and you put them out, the conversation melting into stories - random memories, inside jokes, moments that had you both grinning through the haze.

At some point, hunger kicked in, and you ordered food. While waiting, the talking didn’t stop, if anything, the high made it even funnier, each topic spiraling into another until only laughter was heard.

And when the food finally arrived? You both absolutely demolished it. You ordered these sandwiches, and the moment you took a bite, it was easily one of the most delicious things you’d ever tasted.

Once you had devoured every last bite, the two of you made your way back to the beanbag setup, sinking into the cushions as you picked up your blunt again. The room was foggy, the conversation flowing as the camera rolled, capturing each lazy inhale, each slow exhale.

“Can I get a hit of yours?” Hamzah asked, reaching out with one hand, his fingers making an impatient grabbing motion.

Without missing a beat, you swatted him away. “You have yours right there.” And he did. His own blunt sat in his other hand, already burned halfway down from the greedy pulls he’d been taking. The ashtray in front of you held the evidence: most of it his.

“Remember what I said earlier?”

Unfortunately, you did. Something about how hitting someone else’s blunt always made the high better for some inexplicable reason. But instead of admitting it, you exhaled slowly and deadpanned, “No.”

Silence pulled. The only sound was the faint crackle of burning paper as you took another slow drag, the smoke curling past your lips before disappearing into nothingness. It was so quiet that you finally glanced over at Hamzah — only to find him already watching you.

Not just watching. Staring.

His gaze was locked onto your mouth, eyes red and all, following every movement like he was trying to learn it. Your brows pulled together slightly, confusion flickering across your face as you studied him in return. “Are you okay—?” “—Wanna try something,” he interrupted at the exact same time, his voice cutting through yours.

You paused. “What?”

Hamzah’s eyes flickered between your blunts before he lifted his own, the slender roll pinched effortlessly between his fingers. He didn’t answer; not with words, at least. Instead, he brought the blunt closer, hovering it right in front of your lips, a silent invitation.

Your gaze shifted between him and the smoldering tip, hesitation flickering for only a second before you leaned in slightly. Lips parted just enough, just the perfect amount to wrap around the end of the blunt.

You took a long, slow drag of the blunt, feeling the rich, earthy smoke fill your lungs as you held Hamzah's gaze. Your eyes remained locked on his, watching as a flicker of something danced in their depths. The smoke curled in your mouth, lingering, but before you could exhale, his voice cut through.

“Don’t exhale it.”

There was something different about the way he said it: almost more like a command than a suggestion. He leaned in, face mere inches from yours. Heavy lidded gaze flickered to your lips before he gave the smallest tilt of his chin.

“Back to me,” he murmured, voice low, almost lost beneath the hum of the room. For a second, you hesitated, mind replaying his words just to make sure you heard him right. Back to me?

But then there were red rimmed eyes, dark and low, like he was sinking into the moment, and you couldn’t tell if it was the high or something else entirely. The messy grown out buzz cut, the way a few strands stuck up slightly, making him look even better in that lazy, effortless kind of way. It did something to you. Something you weren’t sure you wanted to name.

Your mouth went dry — no, worse, it watered, whether you liked it or not.

You leaned in fully, pushing yourself up from the beanbag just enough to close the space between you. Your lips parted, breath warm and slow, and for a second, his mouth; slightly chapped, slightly inviting — grazed yours.

You exhaled.

The smoke poured between you, curling into his mouth as he took it in without hesitation, without flinching.

It wasn’t until you pulled away, the heat of him still in the space between, when he finally exhaled, the smoke uncurling in soft, ghostly tendrils.

The two of you sat there, unmoving, staring at the camera as if waiting for it to tell you what the hell to do next.

As if pulled by some hidden force, the two of you turned to each other in perfect sync.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, threading through the soft strands as if remembering the texture, while your other hand gripped the firm curve of his bicep. His own hands found you just as quickly: settling at your waist, the other cradling your face in hot dog style. and, as if the moment had been waiting for you both, your mouths met.

His top lip slotted perfectly between yours, a sluggish, passive press that deepened as he drew you in, sucking softly at your lower lip before angling his head just so — nose grazing your cheek in a way that sent a tickle down your spine.

His eyes fluttered shut, savoring the taste of you, and God, you could drown in this. The drag of his lips, the way he kissed. The taste of weed remained on his tongue, a misty thing that made you chase after it. You parted for a breath, only to press back in; once, twice, three times — greedy for more, drunk on the way he melted into you.

It still wasn’t enough.

So you moved, swinging a leg over his lap, settling yourself against him as his hands instinctively found purchase at your hips, steadying you as you adjusted.

And, just like before, he tilted his head, nose brushing your cheek, breath warm against your skin as you found his mouth once more. There was only this: hands, mouth, the heady taste of smoke, pulling you deeper, deeper, deeper.

Your fingers tightened around his bicep, loving in the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch, a silent response to the squeeze. The sensation sent a quiet thrill through you, a warmth that curled low in your stomach as you hummed softly into the kiss.

As you both began to pull away, Hamzah caught your bottom lip between his teeth, dragging it slightly before letting go, leaving it to swell back into its usual, kiss-bitten fullness. A breath of something unsaid hung between you, thick as smoke.

You stared at each other, the realization of what just happened slowly sinking in, seeping into your skin like. And then, as if some invisible tether between you both had been stretched too tight, you hesitated, pulling back ever so slightly.

Your lips parted, a thought hovering on the tip of your tongue, but nothing came. The words dissolved before they could form, leaving you to press your mouth shut again. From where you still sat on his lap, Hamzah looked up at you, brown eyes glinting. And for the first time, you truly saw them — not just as his eyes, but as something impossibly beautiful. Warm, liquid honey, rich and golden, so sweet, so — fuck.

A beat of silence followed between you. Then, all at once, the tension cracked. A quiet chuckle, hesitant at first, then another. The sound tumbled into laughter, bubbling up from your chests, startled and breathless, like neither of you could quite believe what had just happened.

Because — what the fuck was that?

Hamzah’s laughter softened into a grin as he lazily lifted a hand, pointing past you. You followed his gaze, realization dawning when you turned slightly; your back was to the camera. “can’t post that,” he exhaled, still catching his breath.

You only shrugged, leaning in, your lips a whisper away from his. “Good,” you murmured. “It’s just for us.”

And then you kissed him again, pushing him back into the beanbag, his body sinking into the plush fabric as your fingers curled around the soft fabric of his hoodie.

HAMZAH: Nvm video didn’t work out 🙃

MARTIN: Aw man :(

[mrsfancyferrari]

We're Saved

Summary: You are the first woman to be racing in Formula 1 and you and Max are already best friends. To Jos' dismay. PT 3

Song: Let The Light In - Lana Del Ray

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 4

Author’s note: CW: sexist comments, domestic violence (not from Max). I'm still salty about Daniel Ricciardo's exit to Formula 1 so I decided to add him a little here. Unfortunately this will not be the finale! The FINALE is officially in part 4! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Taglist: @ahhhhhm, @daniskywalkersolo, @friendshipis-magic, @tellybearryyyy, @lanadelray1989, @owl778, @almostuniversallyface, @maluzets55, @dying-inside-but-its-classy, @noooway555, @unknownmystery22, @forensicheart, @a-beaverhausen, @moonstruck-poet, @mendes-bae.

Word count: 27.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

"I’m innocent! I was cheated on by Y/N with Max Verstappen! She left me for this other guy. It’s all her fault. She slept with him when we were dating! I'm innocent! Please!" His voice, frayed with desperation, sends shockwaves through your system.

You feel your heart racing, an uneven rhythm that reverberates in your chest, drowning out the echoes of the world around you. The bowl of popcorn slips from your fingers, scattering pieces across the living room floor.

You blink rapidly, the words blaring from the TV like a siren wailing through the night. Jake stands there, disheveled yet defiant, claiming innocence while slandering your name.

“Y/N, calm down, breathe,” Christian implores, his own voice laced with worry as he pauses the TV. He steps in front of the screen, blocking your view of Jake’s dramatic claims.

The concern in his eyes cuts through the fog of anxiety descending over you. “It’s okay. It’s just Jake. You know he’s lying.”

You shake your head, the reality of his words spinning through your mind like a tornado. “But, how can he just say that? People will believe him!”

“Hey,” he takes a step closer, his presence a steady anchor against the rising tide of panic. “Listen to me. You know the truth. You didn’t cheat on him. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just him trying to save face.”

“But what if they don’t see it that way? What if they think I really did—”

“They won’t,” Christian interrupts softly, his eyebrows knitting in concern. “You’re not going to let some headlines dictate your worth, are you?”

Taking a deep breath, you fight against the tide of emotions crashing over you. It wasn’t just Jake’s words that hurt; it was the betrayal, the way he twisted your love story into something ugly.

“I just don’t understand,” you finally whisper, feeling the weight of the world pressing heavily on your shoulders. “Why would he say something like that?”

“Because he’s angry and scared,” Christian replies. “He’s lashing out because he knows he messed up. But you’re stronger than this, Y/N. You didn’t cheat. You ended a toxic relationship. We both know that.”

The flicker of hope ignites momentarily within you, but it quickly dims as that familiar pang of uncertainty tugs at your heart. “I never wanted things to end like this. Did I really mean that little to him?”

Christian places his hands on your shoulders, his grip firm but gentle. “You meant a lot to him once. But people change, Y/N. Sometimes they become someone you no longer recognize. It sounds like he’s trying to rewrite history because he can’t accept the truth of his mistakes.” His words wash over you like a soothing balm. You nod slowly, attempting to absorb his encouragement.

“Have you thought about confronting him?” Christian asks. “Not on TV, of course, but in private. He needs to understand the ramifications of his words.”

You shake your head, the very thought of Jake and his betrayal makes you feel exhausted. “I don’t know if I can,” you admit. “Just seeing his face makes me—”

Your voice catches, and Christian pulls you closer, enveloping you in an embrace that feels like home. “Then don’t confront him. Focus on what matters right now—yourself. Your peace of mind. We can figure this out together.”

“Can we—can we just turn the TV off?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. The thought of hearing Jake’s voice again fills you with dread.

“Absolutely,” Christian replies, pushing the button on the remote, the screen fading to black. It feels like a weight has been lifted. “What do you want to do now?”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, feeling defeated. “Maybe just distract myself? I can’t think about this right now.”

Your phone buzzes against the coffee table as it lights up, cutting through the haze of despair. Christian glances at the screen, squinting at the name flashing across it.

“It’s Max,” he says, his brows furrowing slightly. “Do you want to talk to him?”

You nod, unable to trust your voice, relief flooding through you at the thought of speaking with him. Max always knew how to make you laugh, how to pull you back from the edge of your spirals. Christian takes the call, speaking softly into the phone.

“Max, do not, under any circumstances, talk about Jake. Y/N is not ready for that now. Just take her mind off it.”

“Of course, I understand. Can you give the phone to Y/N now?” Max’s voice, warm and buoyant, crackles through the line.

“Okay, but remember,” Christian warns as he hands you the phone.

“Hey schat!” Max’s voice floods your ear, bringing with it an instant warmth that begins to thaw the tension coiling around your heart.

“Hey, Max,” you reply softly, trying to match his enthusiasm. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much, just wanted to tell you that the cats are missing you,” he says, and you hear a distant meow in the background, a confirmation that in their own way, they too are longing for your presence.

You chuckle, trying to hold back the mass of emotions threatening to rise within you. “Of course they do! I’m their favorite after all.”

“It took me so long to get them to like me and you did it in three minutes. Oh—Sassy, stop! Schat? Do you mind going on video call? They really want to see your face.”

“Of course, Max,” you say, feeling a soft smile break through the tension.

Christian watches you, his heart swelling with hope. Just seeing you smile, even slightly, is a relief. After a moment, you hear the familiar ringing tone on your phone as the video connects, and suddenly, you see Max’s face beaming back at you, framed by the chaos of your shared lives.

“Look who’s here,” he says in a mock-serious tone, gesturing dramatically toward the camera. Then, just outside the frame, two furry figures leap into view.

“Hey, you two!” You coo, leaning closer to the screen, your spirit lifting as the cats vie for your attention. “Missed you so much!”

A sudden giggle escapes you as one of the cats gets distracted, pouncing at something invisible offscreen. You can’t suppress the smile that spreads across your face, and in that moment, Christian knows he made the right call in bringing Max into the situation.

Meanwhile, in another room, Christian picks up his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he finds Geri’s name. Her voice always managed to calm him, a soothing balm to the chaos of parenthood and life.

“Hey love,” she answers on the second ring.

“Hey, Y/N had seen the news about Jake, and I think she just had a panic attack,” he explains, worry lacing his words.

“What! I told you to not show her just yet! Where is she?” Geri’s voice is sharp, full of concern.

“Don’t worry, she’s calmed down,” he says, glancing into the living room where he can still hear your laughter.

There’s a pause on the other end, and Christian can almost hear the wheels turning in her head. “Is that her? She sounds fine to me.”

“She’s talking to Max. I told him to cheer her up,” he replies.

“Sounds like it’s working miracles! I heard that a loved one can help panic attacks,” Geri states matter-of-factly.

“Love,” Christian warns softly.

“What? They love each other,” she says, disbelief threading her tone.

“But she may still like Jake.” His voice is a whisper now, almost a prayer that you’ve moved on.

“After this? She’s probably forgotten about that bastard now she’s speaking to Max,” Geri says with fierce confidence.

“Honey, no cursing, I’m with the kids,” he chuckles lightly, trying to lighten the mood.

A few moments later, squeaky yet bright, and it’s Montague, their little one. “Hi Mommy, love you!” he chirps.

“Hey, baby! Love you too! I’m coming home soon,” Geri replies, her own voice turning softer, more maternal than ever.

“Dear? I’ll speak to Y/N when I get home; just keep her distracted, okay?” Geri adds, a hint of authority in her tone.

“Of course, love, I’ll keep her entertained,” Christian promises, a smile creeping on his face as he glances back at you.

You’re still deeply engrossed in Max’s antics, and he can see it’s working wonders.

As the call continues, laughter and lightness fill the room, wrapping around you like a warm blanket. For the first time in what feels like weeks, you're allowed to forget the chaos outside—if only for a moment.

Christian watches you, hoping that maybe, just maybe, this is the first step toward healing. Amid the blankets of pain Jake left you buried under, your laughter is a fresh thread, weaving you and Max closer, and as the minutes slip by, you know that this is where your heart wishes to be, in the company of those who truly care.

Time passes, and the shadows cast by your past begin to lighten, revealing new paths forward, ones that glimmer with potential and hope.

You don’t have to think about Jake anymore—not right now, anyway. You’ve found solace and comfort in friends, and maybe soon, you’ll find a little love too.

You went to sleep after dinner, the phone call with Max had calmed you down for now, but now all you wanted was sleep. Unfortunately, sleep didn’t want you back. After what felt like an hour of tossing and turning, you heard a knock on your door.

“Come in,” you said, sitting up on your bed, the sheets pooling around your waist.

The door opened slowly, and Geri walked in, closing the door behind her. “Hey, Y/N,” she said sweetly, her voice warm and motherly, like you were one of her children. It felt that way sometimes, especially in moments like this.

“Hi, Geri,” you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper.

Geri sat down on your bed, her presence calming in a way that was both comforting and suffocating. “I heard about what happened today. Are you alright?”

You looked down, avoiding her gaze, a lump forming in your throat. “No,” you said, honesty spilling out before you could think better of it. You didn’t feel like lying to this woman who had always been a source of support.

“And that’s alright,” she replied gently, her hand reaching out to squeeze yours. “You’re allowed to feel that.”

“Geri, I don’t even know where to start,” you confessed, your voice cracking. “He… he just turned everyone against me. People I thought I could trust. They’re all believing him.”

“Not everyone, from what I heard. Max still believes you,” Geri said, her eyes sparkling with a glimmer of hope.

Your heart skipped at the mention of Max. You felt a flicker of warmth in your chest, but it was quickly extinguished by the cold reality of the situation.

“But what does that even matter? Jake was on national TV! He lied about me. He said I cheated on him, Geri! Everyone is hearing that, and all they see is him, crying over how I betrayed him. I can’t compete with that.”

Geri leaned in, her eyes earnest. “Y/N, people who know you will see through the lies. You’re not that person. You didn’t cheat on him.”

“I thought I knew him. I thought he cared about me,” you said, tears spilling down your cheeks. “How could he do this to me?”

“He’s scared,” Geri replied softly. “People do crazy things when they’re afraid. It’s easier for him to deflect the blame than to face his own issues. You know that.”

You nodded slowly, but the hurt was still fresh, like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding. You felt exposed, raw, and utterly devastated by the public humiliation.

“You know something like this happened to me a long time ago,” Geri said gently, moving to sit beside you on the bed. “Shall I tell you about it?”

You nodded, desperate for a distraction, for the comfort of shared experience.

“I had a boyfriend called Kyle. I thought he was the one for me until one day, after the concerts with the girls, he told everyone I knew I had cheated on him with one of the backup dancers. Word got out and it became a scandal,” Geri started, her eyes clouding with memories.

“What happened after?” you asked, intrigued. You leaned in closer, wanting to absorb every word.

“I didn’t know what to do. No one other than my friends and family believed me. The press was calling me a cheater. My manager said to forget about it and write a statement on social media about the truth,” Geri recounted, her voice steadying.

You felt a flicker of hope. “And did you? Did you write a statement?”

“Sort of,” Geri replied with a smirk. “I took a break and decided to take some time for myself. Friends suggested that I go to a Formula 1 race, and that’s when I met Christian. He helped me through the dark times. Just like Max is doing for you.”

“Max…” you murmured, a soft blush creeping up your cheeks. You didn’t want to think about how much you liked him, especially now.

“He’s been really supportive, hasn’t he?” Geri asked, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “You two have this incredible chemistry. It’s nice to see you smile again, even if it’s under these circumstances.”

You sighed, your heart heavy with conflicting emotions. “I don’t want to drag him into my mess. What if Jake twists the narrative again? I can’t let that happen to someone else.”

“Max cares about you, Y/N. He’s not just going to abandon you because of what Jake said. Trust me, he sees who you really are,” Geri encouraged.

“I know, but it just feels so complicated right now,” you confessed, pulling your knees to your chest. “What if it gets worse? What if I end up hurting him?”

“Love is complicated, but you don’t have to face this alone,” Geri reassured her. “You can lean on Max, just like I leaned on Christian. It’s not a sign of weakness; it’s just how relationships grow. And trust me, no one who truly cares about you is going to abandon you because of someone else’s lies.”

The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of truth. You knew Geri was right, but her heart was a battlefield, torn between past affections and the promise of a better future with Max.

“What if I lean onto Max and he thinks I’m just a mess?” your voice cracked. “What if he sees me as broken?”

“Y/N, you are not broken. You’re human, and you’re allowed to feel hurt and lost after everything that’s happened. But if you push him away because of that fear, you might miss out on something beautiful,” Geri urged.

Taking a deep breath, you finally spoke, “I just need a moment. I’m so scared of getting hurt again.”

Geri nodded, squeezing your shoulder reassuringly. “It’s okay to be scared. Just remember that Max has shown you kindness and support. It’s a risk worth taking.”

“Okay, I’ll think about it,” you said, earning a gentle rub on your shoulder from her. “But what should I do now? This scandal is not going to disappear.”

“Talk to your manager and I’ll ask Christian for advice,” Geri suggested, her brow furrowing in concentration. “We’ll talk in the morning. Good night, okay?”

You nodded, your mind swirling with thoughts. As Geri stood to leave, you called out, “Geri?”

“Yeah?” Geri turned back, her expression open and warm.

“Thank you. For everything,” You said, your voice steadier now.

“Anytime,” Geri smiled before disappearing into the hallway. . . .

You woke up to the sound of hushed conversations drifting up from downstairs, an unfamiliar mix of voices that hinted at urgency and unease. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you pushed back the covers, feeling a mix of anxiety and dread wash over you.

You took a moment to collect yourself before deciding to face the world beyond your bedroom. The soft morning light spilled into your room, illuminating the racing memorabilia that decorated the walls.

You rummaged through your wardrobe, searching for something that would help you regain a semblance of confidence amidst the turmoil.

Finally, you settled on a crisp, fitted polo shirt paired with tailored black jeans. You wanted to project strength and professionalism, even if your heart was in turmoil.

As you stepped into the living area, the chatter ceased momentarily, and all eyes turned toward you. The room felt charged with a palpable tension.

There, gathered in the living room, were Christian, Geri, your manager, and a Red Bull staff member you didn’t recognize. They all bore expressions of concern mixed with an eagerness to discuss the recent scandal.

“Good morning, did we wake you up?” Geri’s warm smile felt like a small comfort amidst the chaos.

“No, you didn’t. Did I interrupt a meeting?” you replied, your voice steady, even though your heart raced.

“Oh no, actually this meeting is for you,” your manager said gently, his brow furrowing slightly as he gestured for you to take a seat. “We were discussing the news of yesterday.”

Christian leaned forward, his eyes searching yours. “This is Rebecca, Red Bull’s Public Relations Manager,” he said, gesturing toward the young woman standing by the table.

She was poised and confident, her blazer sharp against her athletic frame. As she stood to shake your hand, you noticed her expression was one of sympathy.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” you said, squeezing her hand firmly. “Can I drink some coffee before I join the meeting?”

“Join us whenever you’re ready,” Geri replied, her voice soothing as she motioned toward the coffee machine in the corner of the kitchen.

You walked into the kitchen, your heart pounding with uncertainty. You could hear snippets of conversation as you waited for the coffee to brew.

When the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, you poured yourself a steaming cup and took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves before rejoining the group.

As you returned to the living room, you found the atmosphere had shifted slightly, the weight of the discussion palpable.

“So,” you began, trying to sound more composed than you felt, “what’s the plan?”

Rebecca cleared her throat. “We’re here to strategize your public response. The situation with Jake has escalated, and we need to manage the narrative before it spirals out of control.”

You set your coffee down on the table, the cup trembling slightly in your grip.

“I didn’t cheat on him, you know that, right?” You felt the urgency to clarify, to assure them of your innocence. “I’m not sure why he’d say that.”

Geri nodded, her expression one of understanding. “We know, and we’ll make that clear. But we need to address the media first. They’ll be relentless.”

“Could you please tell us in detail what events happened prior to know how to strategize?” Rebecca asked, her voice gentle yet firm.

You looked at Geri, seeking her reassurance. She nodded, her presence grounding you. Taking a deep breath, you began, “Jake had been getting more aggressive with me ever since I joined Red Bull. He said he didn’t want to lose me, but he would hit me, break things in the house… and then he’d apologize for being angry. I thought it was normal. I forgave him until the Austrian Grand Prix.”

You paused, the memory flooding back—laughter and cheers from the crowd, the thrill of victory, and then Jake’s face, twisted in anger.

“I won the race, and he was really furious for some reason. He hurt me… saying I cheated on him with Max. I didn’t. Max then came in and stopped him.”

As you recounted the incident, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The tension hung like a heavy fog. You could see the disbelief in Rebecca’s eyes, but there was also a flicker of understanding.

You stare at the table, your heart heavy with shame. “I still have some bruises and scars if you don’t believe me,” you mutter, ashamed to meet Geri’s gaze.

“Oh, honey,” Geri whispers, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We believe you. You deserve so much better than this.”

“I just don’t understand him anymore,” you say, shaking your head, your fingers brushing over the faint marks that Jake left on your skin.

Rebecca, your team manager, cleared her throat, drawing your attention. “We need to handle this carefully. The media is already buzzing, and we have to prepare a statement. But first, let’s talk about your safety. Have you thought about what you want to do regarding Jake?”

You looked down at your hands, heart racing as you contemplated the question. Fear and liberation wrestled within you. “I—I don’t know. I still love him, but I know I can’t go back to that. I don’t want to be that person again.”

Geri sighed, a mix of sympathy and frustration evident in her eyes. “Love shouldn’t feel like a prison. He put you in a terrible position, and you don’t deserve it.”

“I know,” you murmured, fighting back the tears threatening to spill. “But he’s always been a part of my life, and it’s hard to just... let go.”

Rebecca shifted in her seat, her expression softening. “What about Max? Do you like him?”

A flush crept up your cheeks, and you bit your lip. “I… I don’t know,” you admitted. “I mean, he’s always been there for me, especially during races. He’s so talented, and he respects me as a driver.”

Geri raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “That sounds like more than just teammate admiration, love.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t suppress the smile that tugged at your lips despite the gravity of the situation. “You’re ridiculous, Geri. It’s not like that. I’m just… trying to get through this mess with Jake.”

“But is it a mess you want to get back into?” Rebecca pressed gently. “What’s your heart telling you?”

Your heart raced as you pondered the question. The truth was, part of you craved the affection and validation Jake had once given you, but another part craved something deeper, something healthier.

“Well, I think the best thing to do is write your statement on social media, seeing as it will reach more people,” Rebecca suggested, breaking the silence that had fallen.

“Do I really have to? I mean, what if I make it worse?”

“Nothing can be worse than what Jake has already done,” Geri interjected. “You need to take control of your narrative, and you can’t let him dictate your life.”

You nodded slowly, knowing deep down that they were right. You grabbed your phone and opened your social media app, hesitating as your finger hovered over the screen. What could you say? How could you explain something so complex in a simple post?

“Just be honest,” Rebecca encouraged, leaning closer to you. “Let people know the truth. You can’t let them believe Jake’s lies.”

Taking a deep breath, you began typing. “I want to address the recent events. I am deeply hurt by the accusations made against me. My focus has always been on my career and my passion for racing. I never cheated on Jake. The truth is, I deserve to be respected and loved without betrayal.” You paused, your heart racing as you added, “I hope to navigate this situation with grace and find a way forward.”

Once you hit “post,” an unexpected wave of relief washed over you, but it was quickly replaced by anxiety. What would the backlash be? How would Jake respond?

Max’s comment reads, “You deserve the world after all this 💙.”

Your heart skips a beat. You knew it would look like flirting to the public, but you couldn't care less. Max had always been the guy who treated you with respect, unlike Jake.

Rebecca notices your reaction. “Well, at least that’s the first step done. The next will be what you’re going to say in the press,” she states, her tone shifting to that of a strategist.

As a driver, you’ve always had a passion for racing, and this unexpected break has given you the chance to reflect on your upcoming press conference in Las Vegas in just two weeks.

The support you’ve received on social media has been overwhelming, with many women expressing their gratitude for your representation in a sport that often lacks it, even though that was never your intention.

“I want to see you as soon as possible,” he had said, his tone serious yet tender.

You had told him that you would be tied up babysitting Geri and Christian kids tomorrow night while they enjoyed their date night. He had agreed, a hint of concern lacing his voice.

“Don’t be nervous,” Geri teases, applying a final touch of lipstick. “He’s just a friend, right?”

“Geri, don’t,” you groan, rubbing your temples. You know she means well, but the flutter of emotions within you is a tempest you’re struggling to control.

The thought of Max brings you a sense of comfort, but also an undeniable tension. Your heart races just thinking about how he’d react to Jake’s lies.

The doorbell rings, shattering your train of thought. You jump up, the adrenaline coursing through your veins, and barely hear Geri chuckle as you rush to the door.

You take a deep breath, trying to compose yourself as you swing the door open.

Max stands there, his familiar figure cutting a striking silhouette against the evening light. For a moment, you both just stare at each other, taking in the sight. It feels surreal that after more than a week apart, he’s here.

You can see the concern etched on his face, mingling with a flicker of relief that he’s finally found you.

“Max,” you whisper, feeling a rush of emotions bubble to the surface. Without thinking, you step closer and wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.

He freezes for a moment, and then you feel his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in tighter. It’s a crushing hug, and you need it more than anything in that moment.

The world fades away, and it’s just you and him. “I missed you,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice slightly muffled.

You pull back just enough to look into his eyes, searching for reassurance. “I missed you too. More than I can say.”

“Are you okay?” he asks, knowing that he doesn’t need to say his name for you to understand.

You nod, pushing your face back into his neck. You didn’t feel like talking about it. The last week had been tumultuous; you had lost your job, and the burden of uncertainty weighed heavily on you. But for now, you just wanted to bask in Max’s presence.

He seems to sense your hesitation. Instead of pressing further, he rubs your back in circles, grounding you with each gentle movement.

“Sorry to bother your reunion, but me and my wife need to go,” you hear a voice behind you. You let go to turn and see Christian, looking both happily and slightly irritated.

Geri comes out of nowhere, carrying her bag before playfully hitting her husband on the shoulder. “Oh, don’t be so sour, love! Don’t disturb young love,” she chides.

Max’s face turns crimson, and you can’t help but chuckle at his embarrassment.

“Oh, hello Geri and Christian,” Max says politely, but there’s an undercurrent of nervousness in his voice as if he hasn’t known them for years.

“Hey, Max, it’s been a while! I hope you don’t mind taking care of the kids,” Geri says, gesturing to her two children watching Moana, blissfully unaware of the adult world swirling around them.

“I don’t,” he replies quickly, a bit too quickly, as though he’s eager to impress.

After Geri and Christian bid goodbye to the kids, Geri pulls you into a warm embrace. “Don’t forget about the kids when you’re with him,” she teases, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I won’t,” you assure, a smile spreading across your face as you pull back.

You wave as they enter their car and drive off, leaving you alone with Max. The quiet of the evening settles around you, a comfortable silence that feels right.

You turned back to see Max still lingering near the entrance, his eyes darting around, a shy expression plastered on his face.

“I’ve never seen you this red before; is something the matter?” you teased, stepping closer to him, feeling a strange thrill at the proximity.

“Nothing is wrong,” he muttered, though the way his cheeks flared made it hard to believe him.

Before you could respond, Olivia’s voice rang out from the living room, “Y/N! The movie stopped!”

You quickly walked to the living room, with Max trailing behind you. Upon entering, you found Olivia and Montague staring at the blank screen, their eyes wide and expectant.

When they noticed Max behind you, Olivia jumped to her feet, an expression of curiosity and surprise painting her face.

“Who is that?” she asked, pointing at Max, her eyes sparkling with interest.

“That’s Max Verstappen, your dad’s driver and my teammate, remember?” you explained, stepping in between the two children and Max, who was waiting for them to process the information.

Slowly, Olivia approached Max, her little brows furrowed in concentration. Montague, on the other hand, hid behind your leg, peeking out shyly.

Max, sensing the little girl’s hesitance, knelt down to be on her level, his warm smile making him more approachable.

“Hey there, Olivia,” he said softly, “I hear you like racing.”

Before he could say more, Olivia squealed, “Maxie!” and rushed to envelop him in a tight hug.

Max looked taken aback for a moment, surprise flickering in his eyes before he returned the hug, clearly relieved that she recognized him.

Montague peered from behind you, his gaze curious. You nodded encouragement, and the three-year-old cautiously waddled over to Max.

“Can I hug you too?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course!” Max replied, opening his arms wide. Montague dashed into his embrace, a shy grin breaking through his earlier timidity.

“Wow! You’re really strong!” Montague exclaimed as he pulled back to look at Max, his eyes sparkling with admiration.

Max chuckled, “You know it! But you’re a strong little guy too.” He ruffled Montague’s hair affectionately.

The room filled with warmth and laughter as you watched the unlikely trio connect. “You’ve got a great way with kids, Max,” you remarked, leaning against the couch, feeling a swell of fondness for him.

Max shrugged, a modest smile creeping across his face. “I guess they’re just a bit like racing—just need to know how to make them feel comfortable.”

Olivia, still bubbling with excitement, chimed in, “Can we watch Moana now, Max? Please?”

Max stood, dusting off his knees, “Absolutely! But only if you promise to sing along with me during the songs!”

“Deal!” Olivia declared, her eyes wide with enthusiasm. Montague nodded vigorously, and the two rushed back to the couch.

As Max settled in beside them, you felt an unexpected flutter in your chest watching him interact so effortlessly with the kids.

It was a sight you never knew you needed to see, and somehow, it made the day feel even more special.

You shook your head to clear your thoughts, focusing on the task at hand. With the TV remote in one hand and a big bowl of freshly popped popcorn in the other, you navigated the living room and prepared to join the trio on the couch.

As you walked back in, you couldn’t help but marvel at the picture before you—Olivia and Montague snuggled up against Max, their faces alight with excitement as they chatted about the adventures of Moana.

Max was the only one who noticed your presence at the doorway. “Hey, you’re missing the best part!” he teased, his voice warm and inviting, gesturing with his hand for you to come over.

You chuckled and placed the popcorn on the table before joining them on the couch. As you settled in, you felt Max's arm rest casually behind you, a simple gesture that sent a thrill down your spine.

Montague then decided to plop himself down on your lap, grinning from ear to ear.

“Can I have some popcorn?” he asked, eyes wide with anticipation.

“Of course, little buddy!” you replied, scooping a handful of popcorn and offering it to him. He giggled, delighted.

As the movie began, you found yourself lost in the vibrant animation and the infectious songs. The familiar tunes filled the room, and soon, Olivia was singing along, her voice loud and enthusiastic.

Max joined in, his deep voice blending harmoniously with hers, and you couldn't help but smile.

“Isn’t this the best?” Olivia shouted over the music, her little hands dancing in the air.

“It totally is!” Montague agreed, leaning back against you. “Moana is my favorite!”

As you sat there, enveloped in the laughter and song, you couldn’t shake the thought that this moment felt like a family—your heart warmed at the idea of it. You looked at Max, who was entirely focused on the kids, his face lit up with joy.

The thought of a family with him, of laughter, love, and shared moments, flickered in your mind. You didn’t hate the idea; in fact, you found it rather comforting.

Max must have sensed your distraction because he leaned a little closer and whispered, “Don’t think for now; focus on the movie.”

His voice was low, a playful grin on his face as he nudged your shoulder with his hand.

You nodded, attempting to push the thoughts away, immersing yourself instead in the colorful world of Moana. But it was hard not to feel that flutter again as Montague snuggled deeper into your lap, and Olivia continued to sing her heart out.

Time slipped away, and when you finally woke, you found yourself fully lying on the sofa, a soft blanket draped over you.

As you blinked awake, your eyes adjusted to the sight of Max cross-legged at the table, Olivia and Montague by his side, helping them with their homework. They were distracted, giggling softly as they tossed playful glances at each other.

You decided to keep quiet, wanting to listen to their innocent chatter.

“So Maxie! Do you like my sister?” Olivia asked in a tone that was surprisingly confrontational for someone so small, though no one could mistake it for intimidating.

“Who?” Max replied, his brow furrowing in feigned confusion.

“Y/N! She’s basically my sister,” Olivia declared, her expression matter-of-fact, as if the truth of the universe had just been revealed.

Max’s eyes darted to you, and you felt your cheeks warm. “Oh, Y/N, it’s complicated,” he said, shrugging in a way that made you feel he was hiding something.

“Love can’t be complicated! If you like my sister, then you two should date! I think you two will look cute together,” Olivia stated matter-of-factly.

“I do like Y/N,” Max began, a smile creeping onto his face. “She’s pretty, and she makes me feel happy—”

Olivia’s squeal interrupted him, a piercing sound that made Montague cover his ears dramatically. “So you do like her!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

You could feel your heart race, a mix of embarrassment and delight. It was one thing to think about your feelings for Max; it was another to hear him admit them so openly, even if it was to a seven-year-old.

You stretched, stretching the blanket away from your body, pretending to wake up. “What are you guys yelling about?” you asked, your voice thick with feigned sleepiness.

"Nothing," Max said, hastily shushing Olivia as she burst into giggles.

“Oh, uh, just some kid stuff,” Max said, his cheeks slightly pink as he averted his gaze from yours. You noted the small, shy smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and your heart raced again.

You had always liked Max. But tonight, hearing him confess to Olivia that he liked you stirred something deeper within you, a mixture of hope and fear that made you hesitate.

Olivia looked at you with wide eyes, the kind that meant she knew more than she should. “Y/N, Max said you’re pretty! And that you make him happy!”

Max's face turned a bright shade of red, and he quickly covered Olivia's mouth with his hand. “Okay, that’s enough of that! Let’s focus on your homework!” he said, trying to redirect the conversation.

You slipped off the sofa and moved to sit with them at the small dining table. “Let’s see that homework then,” you said, suppressing a smile.

As the three of you tackled Olivia’s math problems, the air was filled with laughter and the occasional playful bickering.

Every time Max’s hand brushed against yours while reaching for a pencil, electricity shot through you, making it hard to concentrate on the numbers sprawled out on the page.

After dealing with the homework, you decided to watch another movie as a reward for concentrating that long.

The atmosphere turned lighter, and as the movie started playing—Toy Story 3, an old favorite of theirs—Montague was already dozing off, snuggled against you.

You smiled, gently pushing his hair back as he slept.

Max leaned closer to you, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re really good with them,” he said, his gaze earnest.

You felt your heart flutter, and you turned to meet his eyes. “Thanks, Max. I really enjoy spending time with them and you too. It’s nice to take a break from everything else,” you replied, trying to keep your tone casual even though you felt the weight of his words.

As the movie played on, Montague shifted in his sleep, and Olivia was slowly getting drowsy as well.

Max helped you tuck them into bed, his hand brushing against yours as you carried Montague upstairs. In the dim light of the hallway, you caught Max watching you, a soft smile on his face.

After you tucked Montague in and turned off the light, you returned to find Olivia snuggled under her blanket, her big eyes heavy with sleep.

“Goodnight, Y/N. And Max, too!” she mumbled, her voice fading into slumber.

Max turned to you, a warm smile lighting up his face. “You really are amazing with them. They adore you,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.

You felt your cheeks heat up. “I love spending time with them. They’re like little sponges, soaking up everything.”

The evening had flown by, and you were pleasantly surprised by how easy it felt to be with him. You thought he would leave, but to your surprise, he headed to the living room, starting to clean up the popcorn mess from earlier.

“Are you not going to go?” you asked, your brow furrowing slightly as you watched him gather the scattered kernels.

“Not if you don’t want me to,” he replied, looking up at you with those warm blue eyes that always seemed to find a way to melt the edges of your heart. “But if not, I’m going to clean this mess and then we’re going to talk.”

You hesitated, your heart pounding at the thought of what he might want to discuss. “Talk about what?” you asked cautiously, trying to mask your nervousness.

Max set the popcorn bowl down and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms as he regarded you.

“About Jake, what you’re going to do about it, and everything else,” he stated plainly.

You froze, the air thickening around you. You had thought that was a conversation you could avoid for a while longer to be face to face.

“I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s just typical Jake, you know? He loves to stir the pot.”

Max sighed, clearly unconvinced. “It’s more than that, and you know it. You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone.”

“Why are you so invested?” You couldn’t help but challenge him, crossing your arms defensively. “It’s my mess to handle.”

“Because I care about you,” Max replied, his voice softening. “And I can see it’s bothering you more than you’re letting on. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You looked away, heart racing. You liked Max—really liked him—but the idea of him getting too involved in your drama felt like a lot to ask. “It’s just… complicated. I don’t want to drag you into my issues.”

“Too late,” he said with a slight grin, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m already knee-deep in popcorn and Jake drama. Might as well make a mess of it together.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, a small, genuine smile breaking through. “That’s one way to look at it.”

After a moment of silence, you helped him clean up the mess of popcorn that had spilled onto the floor. As you gathered the stray kernels, he made you sit down and wait for him to finish cleaning. When he finally returned, he was holding two glasses of water, the cool liquid glistening in the light.

He handed one to you before sitting down beside you, his knees brushing against yours. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, and for a moment, you forgot about the chaos surrounding Jake.

“So why do you want to talk about it?” you asked flatly, wishing he would drop the subject.

“Because I really needed to see if you were okay,” Max stated, his gaze steady. “I know we already talk about it on the phone, but you could have been lying.”

“What if I lie right now?” you challenged, a hint of defiance in your voice.

“Then I’ll know,” Max replied simply.

It was true. Max had a way of seeing through the facades you put up, his perceptive nature both comforting and unnerving.

“So what do you want to know?” you asked, taking a sip of water to buy yourself a moment.

“Are you really okay?” Max asked, his voice laced with genuine concern.

You stared at him, momentarily taken aback by the sincerity in his eyes. “Honestly?” you sighed, finally allowing the vulnerability to creep in. “No, I’m not okay. Jake’s always been dramatic, but this… this is just too much. He’s painting me as the villain in his story.”

Max nodded, processing your words. “And it hurts.”

“Yeah,” you admitted, feeling a knot form in your throat. “It feels like everything I built with him is unraveling, and I’m left to pick up the pieces. I didn’t cheat on him, but no one’s going to believe me when he’s the one on TV.”

“People will believe you,” Max reassured you. “I believe you. I’ve seen the way you are, and it’s not like you to betray someone. Jake’s just trying to shift the blame.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, your heart warming at his support. “It’s just so exhausting.”

You never thought it would come to this—a therapist’s office, the sterile smell of freshly cleaned upholstery, the soft hum of the air conditioning.

“Hello Y/N, I’m Dr. Sullivan. I’ll be your therapist. I’m sure Mr. Horner told you about me,” the woman said as she stood up to shake your hand.

“Good afternoon, yes, Mr. Horner told me about you,” you replied, your voice slightly wavering. You felt small, yet determined. You had made the choice to be here, to reclaim your life.

Dr. Sullivan gestured to her couch, and you took a seat, trying to find a comfortable position in the plush cushions. It felt strange to be here, talking to a stranger about the most intimate parts of your life.

“Why don’t we start by talking about what brought you here?” Dr. Sullivan suggested, her eyes gentle but probing.

You took a deep breath. “I… I’ve been struggling ever since my relationship with Jake ended. He wasn’t just my boyfriend; he was… he was everything. But he became controlling and abusive. I thought I could handle it, but… now it’s all falling apart.” You swallowed hard, feeling tears welling up in your eyes.

Dr. Sullivan nodded. “It’s normal to feel this way after leaving an abusive relationship. Can you tell me more about the abuse?”

You hesitated, the memories flooding back. “He would get angry over small things, like how I dressed or who I hung out with. At first, I thought he was just protective, but then it became suffocating. He would shout and belittle me. I felt like I was walking on eggshells all the time.”

Dr. Sullivan maintained a compassionate expression. “That sounds incredibly difficult. It’s understandable that you feel scared and anxious. This is not just about your past; it’s about your future, too. What do you want to feel instead?”

“I just want to feel normal,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I want to go out without feeling like everyone is judging me or thinking I’m a liar. I don't want to be having panic attacks when I see someone who looks shady because I think it's him.”

Dr. Sullivan leaned forward slightly. “It’s important to understand that what he said doesn’t define you. You are not a liar, and you did not deserve the treatment he subjected you to. We’ll work through these feelings together.”

As the session continued, you slowly opened up about everything—the fear, the shame, the isolation you felt after the breakup. Dr. Sullivan listened intently, offering small affirmations that helped you feel validated.

“Tell me about Max,” she said softly. “How does he fit into this?”

You felt your heart skip a beat at the mention of his name. Max was your teammate, a kind and encouraging presence in your life. “Max has been my friend for a while now. He’s supportive and always encourages me to be better. I’ve never seen him as anything more than that…until recently.”

“Do you think there are feelings there?” Dr. Sullivan probed gently.

“I don’t know. I mean, after everything with Jake, I’m terrified of getting hurt again. But sometimes, when Max looks at me, I feel safe. It’s strange… like I can breathe for the first time in months.” You smiled slightly, lost in the thought of him.

“Exploring those feelings is an important part of your healing process,” Dr. Sullivan advised. “You don’t have to rush into anything, but acknowledging that you can feel something for someone again is a positive step.”

As you left the office that day, the air felt lighter. You were still plagued by Jake’s accusations, but you began to understand that his words didn’t dictate your worth.

You made a promise to yourself: to heal, to grow, and to allow yourself the chance at love again, even if it scared you. . . .

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The paddock buzzed with excitement and nervous energy as the sun cast long shadows over the grandstands. The atmosphere was charged, as if everyone could feel the weight of the headlines swirling outside the circuit.

As you made your way through the bustling paddock, you felt a steadying presence beside you. Max walked with a casual confidence, his Red Bull cap pulled low, shielding his eyes but not his smile.

You couldn’t help but grin at the sight of him; despite the chaos of the past days, he always had a way of making everything seem more manageable.

“So, you think you’re going to be okay with the questions?” Max asked, taking a swig from his can of Red Bull as you both entered the hospitality room.

You sighed, the tension creeping back in. “Yeah, but you know they’re going to shoot so many questions. I’m not even sure what to say.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, giving you a reassuring nod. “I’ll help if it gets too much. Just look at me and I’ll step in.”

You shot him a playful glare. “I think that would just assist the rumors. The last thing we need is for people to think we’re a couple now, too.”

Max chuckled, a warm sound that lifted your spirits. “Well, that might not be the worst thing,” he teased, nudging your shoulder lightly. “But seriously, just stick to the facts. Ignore the drama.”

Before you could respond, a staff member approached, signaling it was time for the press conference. Your heart raced as you followed the staff into the room, where a group of journalists awaited, cameras flashing and questions ready to roll.

You took your place on the sofa, flanked by Yuki, Charles, and Alex. Max settled beside you, giving you an encouraging thumbs-up.

“Right, so let’s start now,” the interviewer said, eyes focused on you. “First question: What are your thoughts on the allegations made against you?”

You took a deep breath, your fingers tightening around the microphone. “Well, I think it’s important to clarify that—”

“Are you currently in a relationship with Max?” a journalist interrupted, his tone cutting through the air like a knife.

You looked at Max, who raised an eyebrow, silently asking if you wanted him to step in. You shook your head slightly, determined to handle this on your own.

“No, I’m not in a relationship with Max,” you replied, your voice steady. “He’s my teammate and a great friend. The rumors are just that—rumors.”

Another journalist chimed in, “What do you have to say about your ex’s claims? Do you think they’re rooted in jealousy?”

A flurry of questions followed, each more intense than the last. But with every inquiry, Max’s steady presence calmed your racing heart. Every time you looked at him, you found reassurance in his supportive gaze.

The questions came flying at you like a barrage of arrows, each one aimed to wound. “Why do you think Jake would say something like that?” one reporter pressed, while another shouted, “Are you saying he’s lying?”

Taking a breath, you replied, “Jake is going through a lot right now, and I can’t speak for him. But I can tell you this: I have never cheated on him, nor would I. We broke up for reasons that were our own, and I wish him no ill will.”

You could tell Max was getting restless as they pressed further, so you decided to change the subject.

“Can we talk about the upcoming race instead?” you interjected, your eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m really looking forward to the challenges this circuit presents. It’s a fantastic track, and I think we have a great chance to show our skills.”

Max jumped in seamlessly. “Absolutely. I think our team has made some significant improvements since last season, and I’m excited to see how we can push each other on the track.”

The journalists seemed momentarily distracted by your shift in focus, jotting down notes and exchanging glances.

After a few more questions about racing and strategy, the conference finally began to wrap up. As you stood to leave, a reporter called out, “One last question! How do you feel about your ex’s accusations?”

You took a moment, glancing at Max, who was watching you intently. “I feel like it’s time to move on from that chapter. The truth will always come out, and I’m excited to focus on my career and the people who truly support me—like Max.”

As the press conference wrapped up, you stepped away from the cameras, the weight on your shoulders feeling a little lighter.

The chaos of the last few days—the headlines, the rumors, the betrayal—was still echoing in your mind, but at least now you felt like you had a little control over the narrative.

“You handled that really well,” Max said, his voice warm and encouraging as he fell into step beside you. He flashed a genuine smile that sent a flutter through your chest.

“Thanks,” you replied, a hint of shyness creeping into your tone. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Max’s support had been a lifeline.

“It’s nothing, really,” Max said, shrugging off your compliment as you both approached the conference room door. “I just hope it makes them shut up.”

He opened the door for you, and as you walked into the meeting room, you immediately felt the weight of everyone’s eyes on you. The team was gathered around the large conference table, and their expressions ranged from concerned to curious.

“Sorry we’re late,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady as you sat down in one of the seats. Max took the spot beside you, his presence calming. Christian was already there, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Good to see you both,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I watched the press conference. You did an incredible job.”

“Thanks,” you said, feeling a warmth spread through you. “I just tried to stay calm.”

Max nudged you playfully with his shoulder. “You were calm like a pro. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were born for the spotlight.”

You chuckled, trying to shake off the nervous energy. “I think the spotlight is the last place I want to be right now.”

“Totally understandable,” Christian said, glancing between you and Max. “It’s a lot of pressure. But you two handled it like champions.”

You nodded, but inside, your mind was racing. The press conference had felt surreal.

The meeting shifted to strategy for the upcoming race, but you found it difficult to concentrate. Your thoughts kept drifting back to Jake’s betrayal, the hurtful accusation that hung in the air like a bad smell.

You glanced at Max, who was animatedly discussing the course with Christian. His passion was palpable, and in that moment, you felt a tug at your heart.

You liked him. A lot. More than you had dared to admit.

“Okay, what do you think?” Christian asked, breaking through your reverie.

“Uh, sorry, what?” you replied, your cheeks flushing as you realized you had completely zoned out.

“About the race strategy,” Max said, smiling gently. “We’re thinking of tightening the turns on the first lap. You know, give us a better chance at the inside track.”

“Right, sounds good,” you nodded, trying to catch up. “That could definitely give us an edge.”

“See?” Max grinned, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “You’re back with us!”

As the meeting continued, you found yourself stealing glances at Max, a smile creeping onto your face whenever he laughed or made a point. The warmth between you was undeniable, but guilt lurked in the back of your mind.

How could you feel this way when your past was still hanging over you like a storm cloud?

When the meeting wraps up, you stand to leave, but then you hear Christian’s voice. “Y/N, can you stay back for a minute?”

Shit. That’s what you get for daydreaming during a meeting.

Max catches your eye and tilts his head, concern etched on his features. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just a quick chat,” you say, forcing a smile, but inside, your stomach churns. You watch as he exits the room, leaving you alone with Christian.

“What’s up?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

Christian leaned back in his high-backed leather chair, his arms crossing over his chest, a gesture that always seemed to amplify his imposing presence.

He regarded you for a moment, his gaze unreadable, before speaking, his tone smooth as silk, yet somehow it didn't reassure you. “I heard you went to Dr. Sullivan, how is she?”

The unexpected question caught you off guard, making you pause for a moment. You mentally retraced the events of the past couple of weeks, remembering Christian’s subtle recommendation of her after you had opened up about needing help navigating through your toxic ex.

“She’s helped quite a bit, actually, thanks for advising her to me," you replied, your voice a touch softer, a touch more genuine than you had intended.

He was trying, wasn't he?, you thought, even though the knot in your stomach stubbornly remained, a reminder of all that had happened.

A beat of a pause, then Christian stated, "Good, just so you know she will tell me if there is something serious going on," he warned, a playful seriousness lacing his tone.

A genuine chuckle escaped your lip, a small burst of the old you that you hadn’t seen in a while, "What? Are you my dad or something? I think I'm old enough to go talk to my therapist." you joked, your eyes sparkling in laughter. 

“I might as well be the closest to it,” he replied, a quiet tenderness coloring his features. His lips curled into a small smile, a fondness you hadn’t seen in a long time.

The roar of the crowd was a distant hum as you peeled off your racing gloves, the leather still warm from the day's practice. Friday had been a revelation.

You’d practically glided around the track, the car feeling like an extension of your own body. No jitters, no second-guessing, just pure, unadulterated speed.

You’d attributed it to the release, the feeling of all the mounting stress finally draining out of you, leaving you light and free. You’d finally found your rhythm.

“Good run today,” a voice rumbled from behind you. You turned to see Max, his usual calm demeanor etched across his face. He leaned against the garage wall, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah, it was…good,” you echoed, feeling a warmth spread through your chest.

You liked seeing him like this - relaxed, confident, not burdened by the weight of expectations. “Felt like I could finally breathe out there.”

“You looked like it,” he chuckled, pushing off the wall and walking towards you to look at the data. “You were practically flying.”

You blushed, a little embarrassed by his observation. “Well, someone had to put on a show,” you teased, throwing a playful punch at his arm.

His gaze met yours, a flicker of something undefinable sparking in his usually placid blue eyes.

“You always put on a show, don’t worry,” he said softly, as he turned away, the comment hanging in the air between you, leaving you breathless and confused.

Saturday was an entirely different beast. The pressure had returned, tangible and heavy. It was in the air, in the hushed tones of the team, in the nervous energy buzzing around the paddock.

Max, however, seemed unfazed. He’d stormed through qualifying, each lap faster, more precise, culminating in a blistering pole position. You, on the other hand, had struggled to match his pace, despite your best efforts.

Third place wasn't bad, but it felt miles behind him.

The team, of course, was ecstatic. This was it. The culmination of years of hard work, the potential for a historic double victory hung heavy in the air.

If Max won tomorrow, he’d secure his second championship. And if you managed to finish in the points, Red Bull was so close to clinching the constructors’ title.

It was a monumental task, a pressure cooker of emotions.

"Mate! I swear you are so in love with her," Charles declared, leaning back against a wall, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

Max's face flushed, a telltale sign that his carefully constructed facade of nonchalance was crumbling. "No, I'm not. I just... care for her," he stammered, avoiding Charles's gaze.

He busied himself with holding the red bull in his hands , anything to distract from the intensity of his friend’s scrutiny.

Charles chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "Right, 'care'. Do you think about her too often?"

Max hesitated, his mind flashing to recent moments: her reaching for something on a high shelf, the way her hair caught the sunlight as she walked across the paddock, the way she’d smiled after he'd helped her with the data.

He felt a heavy knot settle in his stomach. He let out a breath, resigned. "...Yeah," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

"Do you think you're protective of her?" Charles continued, pressing his advantage.

Max frowned. The word felt too strong, too possessive, not that that’s not exactly how he felt. “Not protective, but I like to be by her," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the ground as if the answers lay hidden in the cracks of the pavement.

He didn't want to be protective, he just wanted to be someone she could rely on, someone she could turn to.

Suddenly, Charles’s voice boomed, startling Max, “Oh hey, y/n!” he said, waving enthusiastically at someone behind Max.

Max's head snapped around, a strange mix of hope and panic surging through him. He nearly twisted his neck, trying to see if y/n was actually there, his hand instinctively moving to cover a nearby potted plant as he turned.

When he finally turned back, he found Charles doubled over in laughter, clutching his stomach.

"I swear, you almost snapped your neck!" he gasped, tears forming in his eyes.

"Mate, not funny," Max grumbled, his cheeks burning hotter than before. He tried to ignore the way his heart was still pounding, a frantic hummingbird caught in his chest.

Charles wiped the tears from his eyes, his grin still wide. "But hey, I just did some tests on you, and I found out…" he paused for dramatic effect, raising his eyebrows.

"Found out what?" Max asked, his curiosity piqued despite his irritation.

"That you love her too much," Charles declared, his grin now bordering on mischievous. "You're a book, my friend. All the symptoms are there: the blushing, the constant thinking, the almost-neck snapping… It’s clear as day."

Max felt a knot of apprehension tighten in his chest.

He didn’t want Charles, or anyone else for that matter, to see the truth that was slowly coming to light. . . .

The roar of the crowd was a physical thing, a wave of sound that crashed over you as you unbuckled your helmet. The acrid smell of burnt rubber and hot metal hung heavy in the air of the parc fermé, a stark contrast to the champagne that would soon be flowing.

You pushed your helmet off, shaking your hair free, and your gaze immediately sought him. Max was already out of his car, his dark blue jumpsuit a beacon in the throng of team personnel and photographers.

His face, usually so tightly controlled, was lit with a grin that could rival the floodlights overhead. He’d done it.

Another championship secured.

A surge of warmth, something akin to pride and something more complicated, bloomed in your chest. It wasn't your win, but still, the sight of him like that—unburdened and triumphant—it was a sight you cherished.

You’d finished second, a bittersweet position after Lando's heartbreaking crash had bumped you up. The race had been a rollercoaster of emotions — tense overtakes, strategic tire changes, and then the shock of the yellow flags followed by the red.

You’d been locked in a tight battle with Lando, then suddenly, you were fighting to keep yourself in the second position. It felt hollow, a win by default.

But this was Max's moment, and you couldn't let the disappointment of your near-miss dull his shine. You pulled off your gloves and pushed through the crowd, a smile firmly plastered on your face.

Your eyes met his the moment he turned, and you noticed the flash of something akin to relief cross his features.

He pushed through the few team members still trying to reach him, making a beeline directly towards you.

“You did it!” you exclaimed, your voice a little higher than usual, the adrenaline still coursing through you. “Two-time champion! That’s incredible, Max!”

He engulfed you in a bear hug, his familiar scent of aftershave and something indefinable that was purely his filling your senses. He smelled like victory.

"Thank you," he said into your shoulder, his voice roughened by exertion.

"It was... it was a good race.” He pulled back, his hands still resting lightly on your arms. His blue eyes, usually so sharp, were filled with an uncharacteristic softness.

"You were fast out there, too. Second place after Lando… that sucks. But you did amazing to pick up the position so quickly.”

“It's okay,” you said, shrugging, though a small pang of disappointment still lingered. "It's your day, though. You deserve all the celebration.”

He shook his head. "No, not just mine. You fought hard. We both did.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering.

“You always do.” The way he said it, so intimately, sent a shiver down your spine. It was almost as if he was saying something more than the literal words.

The photographers closed in, cameras flashing, and the moment was broken. Team members swarmed around Max, pulling him away for interviews and podium preparations.

You reluctantly stepped back, watching as he was swallowed by the throng. Your heart gave a funny little flutter, a feeling you tried to ignore, chalking it up to the adrenaline.

You were herded towards your own team, receiving pats on the back and words of encouragement. You went through the motions, half-listening to the congratulations, your eyes still straying towards Max.

He had finally broken away from Christian's chatter and was standing beside the race engineers, a small smile playing on his lips as he listened intently to their debrief.

You saw something flicker in his gaze when he caught your eye, a moment of shared understanding in the chaotic aftermath.

Later, during the post-race press conference, you answered questions distractedly, your mind still replaying Max's words, his touch.

You managed to give coherent answers, but the only thing you could remember was his voice resonating in your ears - “You always do.”

The podium was a blur. You remember the flash of the camera lights, the sea of upturned faces, and the deafening roar of the crowd. You stared at Max out of the corner of your eye as his national anthem played, his expression a mix of pride and exhilaration.

He looked utterly invincible, a king on his throne. And then it was your turn. The second place you took made you happy, but you felt like you could have done better.

Your own anthem played, and you tried to soak it in, but your eyes were drawn to Max again.

The champagne spraying was chaotic, a shower of bubbly and laughter. You decided to target Max first, aiming your stream directly at him, catching him in the chest.

He laughed, the sound loud and genuine, and retaliated in kind, soaking your jumpsuit in the sticky liquid. It was playful, a moment of shared joy and release, and you couldn't help but laugh with him.

The roar of the crowd was still a physical presence, thrumming in your chest even as the lights of the Las Vega circuit began to dim. It was a cacophony of joy, fueled by the sheer adrenaline of the race and the history that had just unfolded.

Max, his face flushed with victory, stood beside you, the sweat still clinging to his dirty blond hair, his breath coming in slightly ragged pants. Around you, the Red Bull crew was a sea of red and navy, their faces lit by pure, unadulterated elation.

You stood shoulder to shoulder, each of you holding one end of the banner that proclaimed "2X Champion Max P1 Y/N P2." You couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride despite coming in second.

The banner was a testament to your shared journey, the countless hours you both had poured into this season, culminating in this euphoric, unforgettable moment.

"Alright everyone, let's get this photo!" an admin yelled, their voice barely audible over the lingering cheers. "In 3, 2, 1!"

The number one was still hanging in the air when, with a collective roar, everyone erupted, and suddenly, a downpour of champagne came from nowhere. It cascaded down on you and Max, the cold liquid instantly soaking through your fireproofs, leaving you shivering and laughing at the same time.

You and Max, without a word, instinctively turned and ran, the wet track presenting a new, slippery challenge. It was pure chaos, a beautiful, ridiculous mess of laughter and celebration.

Just as your feet were about to slip out from under you on the slick asphalt, a strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back and steadying you. It was Max, his face close to yours, a wide grin splitting his face.

“Careful now,” he chuckled, his voice warm and low and suddenly, too close for your heart’s liking.

And then, the rest of the crew descended, a joyful, champagne-soaked mob, trapping you both in a giddy, bubbly circle. They all cheered, spraying you mercilessly, their laughter adding to the symphony of the night.

You found yourself looking into Max's eyes, a small smile mirroring his own. In that crowded, chaotic moment, it felt like it was just the two of you. The world melted away into the blurry, bubbly frenzy.

You had grown to admire him, his unwavering focus and talent, the genuine kindness that he often hid behind his competitive façade. You enjoyed his teasing, his relentless drive, and the rare, unguarded moments when his vulnerability surfaced.

You were brought back to reality as the champagne deluge began to subside. You were both drenched, your hair plastered to your scalp, your clothes clinging to your skin.

“Well that was… intense,” you finally managed, laughing, the bubbles still tickling your nose.

Max’s arm was still around your waist, his touch sending shivers not from the cold. He finally released you, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “Intensely fun, I’d say. You know, you almost took your own personal dive out there.” He grinned, playfully nudging you with his shoulder.

“Almost,” you retorted, shoving him back, a playful smile gracing your lips. “You weren’t much better. I saw you sliding like you were on ice.”

“Hey,” he protested, a mock hurt look on his face, “I recovered, didn’t I? Showed my champion agility.”

“Sure, champion agility while grabbing my waist so I won’t fall,” you teased, “I think you were just trying to feel me up.”

Max’s eyes opened wide and a small blush tinted his cheeks. “Hey, I was only trying to be a gentleman. You’re the one with the dirty mind.”

You laughed again, shaking your head, the sound echoing in the near-silent garage. “Yeah right. You just wanted an excuse for an embrace.”

“Well, you’re not rejecting it are you?”

“No,” you mumbled under your breath.

“Did you say something?” Max asked, leaning closer to you with a smirk playing on his lips.

“No, I said, let’s get out of these wet clothes,” you said quickly, trying to ignore the butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

"Good idea. I'm starting to feel like a drowned rat," he said, running a hand through his now-soaked hair.

He walked away and you followed behind him, your heart beating faster with every step closer to the driver’s room where you could finally dry yourself up.

The walk back was a bit surreal. It seemed like just moments ago, the tension had been so thick you could cut it with a knife. Now, there was this quiet ease between you two, a strange, comfortable bubble of celebration.

You found yourself stealing glances at Max, his still-damp hair forming tiny curls on his forehead, his shoulders relaxed, the weight of the race finally lifted.

He caught your gaze once, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips, and you quickly looked away, your cheeks burning.

"You’re coming to the party after this, right?" he asked as he veered towards his driver’s room door, breaking the quiet. His voice was low, a little rough, but the easy tone sent a flutter through your stomach.

“The party?” you repeated, pretending to be surprised, even though you knew about it.

The team always celebrated after a big race, but for some reason, the idea of being in the same room as him, surrounded by the celebratory energy, was a little overwhelming.

“Yeah, the team’s hosting a private party. Everyone is invited, including you, so you better come,” he stated, a hint of playfulness in his tone. He paused, looking at you, his bright eyes sparkling with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"I don't know..." you started, your fingers nervously fiddling. You were desperate not to sound too eager, not to betray the feeling he had evoked so easily.

Your mind was a whirlwind of "yes, of course" and "no, it's too much", with the scales of indecisiveness tilting back and forth.

"That's not the right answer," Max said, his smile widening. He leaned against the doorframe, blocking your path, making it impossible for you to just brush it off, and your heart skipped a beat.

He was so close that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, and your brain seemed to have shut off, making it near impossible to form a coherent response.

"After a win like this, you should be celebrating with us. Besides," he lowered his voice, "I want you there."

The confession sent a shockwave through you. He wanted you there? Your mind reeled from the casual yet charged statement.

Was it just a friendly gesture, or did that small ‘want’ mean something more? You desperately hoped it was the latter, but pushed the thought aside so you wouldn't get ahead of yourself.

"Okay," you said, the word barely a whisper, and you felt a blush stain your cheeks. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent shivers down your spine.

"Great," he said, finally stepping aside and opening his door. "I’ll see you there then. Don't take too long getting ready." He winked and disappeared inside, leaving you standing there with a pounding heart and a stupid grin.

You finally made your way to your own room, the encounter playing over and over in your mind. He wanted you there. Those words kept echoing in your head. You tried to tell yourself it didn't mean anything, but deep down, you knew it did.

At least, you wanted to believe it did.

You stood in the bathroom, the steam from the shower wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. You replayed the final buzzer in your mind, the roar of the crowd, and most importantly, the triumphant grin on Max’s face.

You hurried through the shower, your mind already racing to the night ahead. You quickly dried off, pulling a simple yet elegant black dress from your closet. It was the kind of dress that made you feel confident, yet effortless.

You smoothed it down, adjusted the delicate straps and quickly put on a pair of small heels; a last-minute addition to make it feel more celebratory.

Then, as you were putting on your lipstick, your phone buzzed. It was a text from Max, a single line: ’Club Zenith. See you there’ followed by an address. You grinned, your heart fluttering at the thought of seeing him again.

You grabbed your keys and bag, rushing out of your apartment and hailing a taxi. The ride felt like an eternity, each traffic light a cruel delay. You kept glancing at your reflection in the side window.

You hoped the dress was ok and worried about whether it made you look too overdressed.

Finally, the taxi pulled up in front of Club Zenith. The bass thrummed even outside, a low vibration that resonated through you. Taking a deep breath, you paid the driver and stepped out, the city lights creating a dazzling backdrop to the building.

The party was already in full swing when you arrived. The club pulsed with a chaotic energy, a symphony of music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. You scanned the crowd, your eyes searching for Max amidst the throng of people.

And then you saw him, across the room, surrounded by a boisterous group of his teammates. He was laughing, his head thrown back, and you couldn't help the little surge of emotion that coursed through you.

He looked genuinely happy, relaxed, and a wave of affection washed over you. You took a deep breath and started to make your way towards him, feeling a little out of place amidst their triumphant celebration.

He spotted you almost instantly. His face lit up, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He excused himself from his group, making a beeline towards you.

“There you are,” he said, his voice a little louder to cut through the music. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t come.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you said, offering a small smile, surprised at how calm your voice sounded when inside you were a whirlwind of nerves and excitement.

“Good,” he said, his gaze lingering on you for a moment. “Come meet some people.” He gently placed a hand on the small of your back, ushering you further into the crowd.

The touch was brief, but it sent an electric current through you, and you found yourself struggling to focus on the new faces and introductions he was making.

You were acutely aware of his proximity, the warmth of his skin, the subtle scent of his cologne.

The rest of the night was a kaleidoscope of conversations, laughter, and stolen glances with Max. You were introduced to his team members, their partners and friends who had flown in to see his victory.

He kept you close, making sure you were included, offering you a quick smile when he caught your eye across the room. He seemed so comfortable, so at ease, and his presence had a strange calming effect on you. You found yourself relaxing too, finally letting go of the nervous energy that had plagued you all day.

As the night wore on, the crowd thinned slightly, and the music became a little less frenetic. You stood by the bar with Max, the flashing lights reflecting in his eyes making them seem even brighter.

“So, how does it feel?” you asked, leaning against the bar, a playful smile on your lips.

“How does it feel?” he echoed, tilting his head as he thought about it. “Pretty awesome, actually. A bit surreal. All that work, all those hours... and it paid off.”

“You earned it,” you said, nudging his arm with your shoulder. He deserved this, every single cheer, every congratulatory hug. You knew how hard he’d worked. “You did an amazing job.”

“Thanks,” he chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You did a great job too.”

You laughed, a warm, melodious sound that filled the space between you. “Thanks Max.”

He glanced over to the bartender, quickly catching their attention. “Do you want a drink?” Max asked, having already grabbed a glass of virgin cocktail for himself.

“What, like a gin and tonic?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. He always joked about how predictable your choice of drink was to his.

He chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that made your heart flutter. “Sure! I’ll make it if you want?” He was grinning now, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Really?” you asked, feigning surprise. “You, mixing drinks? I’m not sure if anyone is ready for that.”

“Hey!” he protested, playfully shoving your arm. “I’m a man of many talents. Bartender extraordinaire is just one of them.”

“Alright, I’ll bite,” you said, trying to hide a smile. “Surprise me.”

He grinned, turning to the bar and asking the bartender for the necessary ingredients. He poured carefully, a concentrated look on his face, as if he were performing brain surgery rather than mixing a simple cocktail.

You watched him, your heart swelling with a strange mixture of affection and admiration. You liked him, more than just a friend. You always had, but you tried to just push it aside and appreciate his friendship instead. Tonight, that felt harder than usual.

He finished the drink, sliding it towards you with a flourish. “Ta-da! One custom-made gin and tonic, served with the finest victory vibes.”

You took the glass, a light smile playing on your lips. “I’m impressed,” you said, taking a sip. “Not bad, Max. Not bad at all.”

He leaned closer, his arm brushing against yours. “Only the best for you,” he said, his voice dropping to a low hum.

The proximity made your skin tingle and you found yourself focusing on the way his eyes sparkled in the dim light.

You glanced around, realizing that most of the other partygoers had started to leave. “It’s getting late,” you said, your voice a little breathless.

“Yeah, it is,” he murmured, his gaze locked on yours. “But we don’t have to go home just yet.”

There was a pause, a silent question hanging in the air between you. You knew what he meant and a thrill ran through you. Your breath hitched slightly, your heart fluttering like a trapped bird.

You took another sip of your drink and decided to just go for it. "No," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the music. "We don't."

He smiled, a slow, genuine smile that reached his eyes. He took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, sending another shockwave through your body.

"Then let's not," he said, his voice soft and intimate.

You'd made your rounds, offering sincere praises to the team, sharing in the collective joy, but your eyes kept drifting back to Max. He was sitting on a plush, low-slung chair, a small island of relative calm amidst the boisterous revelry, waiting for your return.

You felt a peculiar pull towards him, an audacity bubbling beneath the surface that you couldn't quite explain. Maybe it was the celebratory atmosphere, the heady mix of adrenaline and alcohol, or perhaps it was something else entirely.

You weren't sure. You just knew you wanted to be closer to him, to break through the polite camaraderie and truly connect. As your conversation with a team mechanic finally wound down, your gaze locked with Max’s.

A small, almost hesitant smile graced his lips, and something in you snapped. Impulsively, you walked towards him, your movements feeling both deliberate and strangely detached.

You settled onto his thigh, facing him, your gaze unwavering. His eyes widened, a flicker of surprise – and something else you couldn't quite name – registering in their deep blue depths.

You saw his jaw clench slightly, a subtle reaction that only fueled your newfound audacity.

"Are you drunk?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.

It was a gentle question, laced with amusement and a hint of something more.

"Nope," you grinned, your heart beating a little faster. You leaned closer, the scent of his cologne, a crisp, masculine fragrance, filling your senses.

"Are you?" you teased, your voice a low murmur, your eyes locking with his.

His reaction was immediate and utterly captivating. You watched as a subtle panic flickered across his features, a blush rising to his cheeks. He looked away for a split second, trying to regain composure.

"No, I'm driving you to mines, Christian orders," he stated, his voice laced with a kind of frustrated urgency that made you want to laugh.

"Oh," you said, a playful smirk twitching your lips. "So, you're the designated driver for the night's festivities?"

He nodded, his gaze returning to yours, a hint of amusement replacing the initial panic. "Something like that."

The air crackled between you, charged with unspoken words and a palpable electricity. You knew you were playing a dangerous game, toying with a man who held a significant spot in your heart, and the fact that he was so close was making your heart beat faster.

You leaned in a little more. You could practically feel the warmth radiating off of him. It was an action you wouldn't have considered if it wasn't for how you were feeling at that moment.

"And what if I didn't want to go home just yet?" you whispered, your voice barely audible above the din of the party.

His eyes narrowed, their blue depths swirling with something akin to confusion and desire. He swallowed hard, the Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"Then what, exactly, would you propose we do?" he asked, his voice a husky whisper, tinged with a raw edge that made your pulse race.

You took a deep breath, the scent of his cologne filling your lungs and somehow making you feel braver than you had any right to. “Can I kiss you?” you dared to ask, the words tumbling out, a little too quick, a little too raw.

Max looked shocked. His jaw went slack, and his eyes widened in surprise, a comical contrast to his usual cool demeanor. He glanced around at his team, a quick sweep of the room, his fingers drumming nervously on the armrest of the couch.

“What if it gets out? I don’t want to have another rumour for you to deal with,” he said, his voice strained with concern.

The mention of the tabloids and the gossip columns made your stomach twist. You hated the way they hounded him, invading every aspect of his life.

“They won’t, it’s a private club, everything that happens here stays here,” you muttered, willing yourself to be confident, willing him to believe you.

He looked back at you, his gaze searching yours, trying to gauge your sincerity, your intentions. Then, he sighed, a mixture of resignation and anticipation in his posture.

"Just…one," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You barely registered his words before you leaned in, your hand coming up to cup his cheek, your thumb caressing the line of his jaw. The feather-light touch on your lips sent a jolt through you, a feeling that was both electrifying and incredibly comforting.

His lips were warm, soft, and tentatively seeking. The kiss was gentle, a tentative exploration, a silent question. It was the first time your lips were meeting, but you immediately knew that it wouldn’t be the last.

When you moved back, Max was completely red under the lights, a blush that spread across his cheeks, traveling down his neck. He looked like a teenager caught with his hand in the cookie jar, his ears flushed a deep crimson.

He quickly tucked his head into your neck, his arms wrapping around you, holding your back from not falling off his lap.

You chuckled, a soft, gentle sound, while rubbing his exposed neck, the skin warm and velvety to the touch. “See, it wasn't that hard,” you said, your voice light and teasing.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Max muttered, placing a kiss on your neck, his lips leaving a trail of warmth against your skin. His grip on you tightened, as if afraid you would disappear.

You smiled into his hair, feeling a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the club's temperature.

You didn’t notice the rest of the team watching from afar, their faces lit up with knowing smiles. They’d seen the way you looked at each other, the way you moved together, the way you were drawn to each other like magnets.

They had all quietly placed bets on when you two would finally get together. As you kissed, they all knew that tonight, finally, their wait, and yours, was over. . . .

You didn't see the rest of the team observing, their faces conspiratorial in the dim light, their eyes flicking between you and Max like they were watching a tennis match.

They saw the subtle shifts – your body angling towards him, the lingering touch of his hand on your arm, the way your smiles seemed to mirror each other. They saw the unspoken tension, the pull that was as undeniable as it was unspoken.

Bets had been placed, whispered predictions of when the inevitable would finally occur. They watched, breaths held, as Max's face drew closer, as his gaze locked onto yours and, finally, as he kissed you.

The rest of the team exchanged triumphant looks and knowing nods. Tonight, they thought, it was finally happening.

But the next morning, everything was different. Or rather, nothing was. As you walked into the office, the memory of the kiss felt like a dream, fuzzy and distant.

You greeted Max with a casual "Hey Max," and he responded in kind. The ease of the club had vanished, replaced by a self-conscious awkwardness.

The team, however, their eyes full of expectation, watched you both carefully, a sense of bewilderment slowly creeping into their expressions. They’d been so certain.

The weeks that followed were a masterclass in miscommunication wrapped in a cloak of hesitation. You and Max acted as if that night had never happened.

There were stolen glances, moments of near-confession, but always, someone would pull back. It was torture to watch, the team felt. A silent, agonizing dance of ‘what ifs’ and unspoken desires.

You walked into the conference room for what you assumed was a regular weekly meeting, only to find the team looking at you with an odd mix of excitement and exasperation. The air was thick with tension, but not the same, nervous tension you were used to. This was more akin to a pot about to boil over.

Then came your birthday.

The roar of the crowd was a physical thing, washing over you in waves as you stood there, the sun beating down on the asphalt. You held onto the haphazard collection of presents, a ridiculous tiara perched precariously on your head, a bright pink sash proclaiming you "Birthday Girl" draped across your shoulder.

Lando had a knack for finding the gaudiest tiaras, and George and Alex… well, they were always the purveyors of ridiculous humor. The balloons were back in the paddock, along with the suspiciously large cake Carlos and Fernando had promised, but at least these little tokens of affection were portable.

“How does it feel racing here on your birthday?” The interviewer’s voice cut through the noise, microphone hovering near your lips. You tried to smile, knowing the cameras were trained on you, the world watching.

“It’s… surreal,” you admitted, adjusting the tiara that threatened to slip over your eyes. “It’s always surreal to race, but on my birthday it’s… heightened, I guess.”

You laughed, a nervous sound, and gestured to the gifts you clutched. “It’s pretty special. I’m definitely feeling the love from the whole pit lane today.”

“The fans call you the grid’s princess, how does that make you feel wearing all these gifts from the grid?” they pressed, their pen poised above their notepad.

You felt your cheeks flush, a familiar warmth spreading up your neck. The “grid princess” moniker was a bit embarrassing, if you were honest, but it was also… endearing. “It’s… it’s kind of funny, actually,” you said, the word catching in your throat.

“I definitely don’t feel like a princess, especially not today in my race suit with my helmet. But I appreciate the sentiment. I think some of the guys might be taking it a bit too literally,” you added, glancing at the sash with humor in your eyes.

You could see Max speaking to Carlos in the distance from where you stood. You knew he was probably watching, the cameras probably on him too as he waited for his turn on the interview, observing.

He hadn't given you a present, not in the public eye anyway. He'd just given you a quick nod, a small smile at breakfast, then he'd gotten straight back to his pre-race routine.

You knew he was focused, that he wouldn't be distracted, and you respected that massively.

The interviewer asked one more question about your expectations for the race. You rattled off the usual platitudes about doing your best, about hoping for a clean race, about the challenges of the circuit.

But your mind kept drifting back to Max. His silence. His focus. You wanted to know what he was thinking.

Finally, the interview wrapped up, and you were released back into the controlled chaos of the grid. You made your way through the throng of people, the tiara feeling increasingly ridiculous, the sash a reminder of your self-proclaimed princess status.

As you approached the garage, you saw him. He was standing by his car, his back to you, but you recognized the set of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head.

You took a deep breath, smoothing down your racing suit with a slightly trembling hand. "Hey," you said, your voice a little softer than you intended.

He turned, his gaze momentarily snagging on the tiara before meeting your eyes. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Happy birthday,” he said, his voice low, a rumble that vibrated somewhere deep inside you.

"Thanks," you replied, feeling a nervous flutter in your stomach. You felt self-conscious now you had closed the distance and were near him.

You didn't want to be just the grid's princess, you wanted to be seen by him. You subconsciously adjusted the garish pink sash, feeling your cheeks warm again.

"I almost didn't recognise you," Max said, his eyes flicking back to the tiara. He was trying to be light, you could tell, but you were still hyper aware.

You were desperate to not talk about the race. The pressure of the constructors hung heavy in the air, a silent weight that clung to everyone.

“You haven’t given me a present. Did I do something wrong?” You tried to sound as light and joking as possible, trying to hide the undertone of insecurity in your tone.

“I don’t know, did you?” he teased, a playful glint in his eyes. You couldn’t help but smile anyway. He always managed to make you smile.

"Maybe," you replied, matching his playful tone, "but I'm going to assume it's because you're holding out for something really special."

His smile widened, a genuine flash that made your breath catch in your throat. You'd known that smile for years; the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the slight lift of his lips that could make your heart feel like it was about to beat out of your chest.

"I'll give it to you after the race if you do good," he said, his gaze holding yours. The promise in his voice, the way he said it felt like more than just a casual comment.

You felt your cheeks flush. "You're being mysterious," you accuse, trying to sound unimpressed. But the truth was, your heart was pounding.

You knew he wasn’t a particularly sentimental person, but the anticipation of a gift from him, something chosen specifically for you, was intoxicating.

"Maybe," he said again, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Or maybe I just haven’t figured out how to wrap it yet."

You laughed, the sound light and free. With him, you found yourself capable of being yourself, something you appreciated so much.

“I hope it’s not a giant stuffed panda,” you quipped, referencing a childhood incident involving a particularly large stuffed animal and a rather embarrassing photo that still surfaced at family gatherings.

He chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. It was a sound that was both familiar and yet still managed to set your stomach fluttering.

"No pandas, I promise. It's something a bit more…fitting." He let the words hang in the air, his gaze lingering on you.

The conversation was interrupted by the final call for the race. A wave of nervous energy coursed through you. You could feel the adrenaline starting to kick in.

You knew you needed to focus, put everything aside and race, but the thought of his ‘present’ after the race was intoxicating.

“I should go,” you said, a touch of reluctance in your voice. You wanted to stay, to keep talking, to continue basking in the warmth of his smile.

“Good luck,” he said. “I expect you to be fast out there.”

“Only if you are,” you retorted, a competitive edge creeping into your voice. “Wouldn’t want to make it too easy for you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of having it any other way,” he replied.

He watched you walk away, a smile playing on his lips again, his eyes lingering on you as you made your way towards your car.

The roar of the engine is a symphony in your ears, a familiar comfort in the chaos of the race. The world is a blur of color and motion, the other cars mere obstacles in your relentless pursuit of the finish line.

But there’s something else today, something that ignites a fire in your belly, a drive that transcends the normal ambition. A birthday present, he’d called it, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The way he’d said it—the husky tone, the knowing look—had sent a shiver down your spine, a thrilling anticipation that has nothing to do with the race itself.

You glance at the rear-view mirror, more out of a subconscious need than any real tactical advantage. You know he’s there, somewhere behind you, always pushing, always a threat.

It’s a dance you’ve performed countless times, a delicate balance of rivalry and respect, but today, there’s something more. Today, there’s an undercurrent of something… warmer.

You can almost feel him, a presence that is both challenging and strangely comforting.

Your engineer, Joseph, crackles in your ear. “Pace is good, you’re opening the gap. Stay focused, you’re looking strong.” You acknowledge him, but your mind is elsewhere.

You steal another look at the mirror and can just make out his car, a flash of red in the periphery. His presence on the track is a tangible thing, a constant hum of energy that vibrates through you, as if he’s tethered to you by an invisible string.

The laps blur, each one bringing you closer to the finish, closer to the promise that awaits. You push harder, the engine screaming in response, every fiber of your being focused on the road ahead.

The final lap. Your heart is pounding in your chest, a frantic rhythm that matches the engine's roar. The checkered flag waves, a triumphant black and white blur.

You cross the line, a surge of adrenaline and relief coursing through you. You did it. You won. And on your birthday, no less.

You pull into parc fermé, the roar of the crowd a deafening wave. The team is waiting, a sea of familiar faces, cheering and clapping. You are surrounded by hugs and congratulations, the energy infectious.

You're grinning, almost giddy with the win, but your eyes are searching, looking for one particular face. He's not here yet. You know he's coming, he's been in the car behind you the whole time and the thought is not as frustrating as you thought it should be.

Max is a few minutes behind, which is strange. Typically he’s right there.

You pull off your helmet, the noise of the crowd becoming a little clearer. You feel a hand on your shoulder. "You were incredible out there today," Joseph tells you, still wide-eyed from the race.

You laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside of you. "I had to be, after all." You glance to the side to see if you can see Max anywhere.

The next few minutes pass in a whirlwind of celebrations, wild yelling, team members patting you on the back and laughing. The victory is sweet, especially on your birthday.

You keep your eye on the road where Max will arrive, and finally, you see his car pulling it. You take a deep breath, trying to calm the giddy fluttering in your chest.

He pulls up to the stall next to you, and gets out of the car, pulling off his helmet. He looks a little frustrated, but when he sees you he smiles. It's a small smile, not the ones he does for the cameras.

It's a smile that makes your heart soften a bit. He walks over, his eyes sparking with something that seems suspiciously like amusement.

"Second place isn't bad, eh?" he says, his voice a low rumble that sends another shiver down your spine.

You raise an eyebrow. “Second place for you is like admitting defeat, isn't it?” you joke, a playful smirk dancing on your lips.

He chuckles, a deep, throaty sound that makes you want to hear it again. "Only when I'm behind you,” he says, his eyes locking with yours.

The words hang in the air, charged with an undercurrent that you can’t ignore.

Before you could formulate a response to his suggestive comment, another car pulled up. It was Lewis, a smile on his face. He seemed happy enough with his third-place position.

“Great race,” Lewis said, dabbing you up with his fist. “Also, happy birthday,”

“Thanks, Lewis,” you grinned before letting him go. You chugged down some water, and placed the Red Bull hat on your head, making sure the logo was front and centre, before making your way over to the interview area.

"Y/N! how does it feel winning on your birthday?!" Nico asked cheerfully, holding the microphone up to you.

"It's amazing! I'm so incredibly happy, what a way to celebrate!" you said, the smile on your face was honest and you knew it was genuine. Winning a race was always an incredible feeling, but winning on your birthday was an extra special type of happiness.

"Have you gotten everything you wanted?" Nico asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Well, I've gotten everything I could ever want. A win, lovely fans, and a great car! I'm expecting a gift from Max though, he might not give it to me because he lost against me," you teased, glancing to your side to see Max grinning at your comment, giving a thumbs up.

Your heart did a little flip as you made eye contact with him.

"Well, I'm sure he will get you something," Nico chuckled before turning back to you. "So, talk me through the race, what was the turning point?"

You went on to talk about the race, the specific moments where you pulled ahead, the strategies that had paid off. You could feel Max’s eyes on you as you spoke, making it difficult to concentrate, but, you managed to get through it. You smiled at the camera as Nico finished the interview and thanked you.

Suddenly, amidst the cheering of the crowd, a familiar melody filled the air. "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you..." The crowd started singing, their voices a wave of happy noise washing over you.

Your eyes darted around, a smile spreading across your face. This was such a beautiful moment, you felt overwhelmed with joy.

You looked over to see Max looking at you, and he had a soft gaze, which made your heart melt. He mouthed 'Happy Birthday', and you felt a small blush rise to your cheeks.

After the official ceremonies, the post-race frenzy began to settle, you found yourself heading towards the Red Bull hospitality area, the buzz of the celebrations still clinging to you.

The air was thick with the smell of champagne and victory, a potent cocktail of exhilaration. You were just about to grab a drink, to raise a toast to the day, when you felt a hand on your arm, gently turning you around. Your eyes met a staff member, her smile warm and inviting.

"Hello, Y/N," she said sweetly, her voice cutting through the remaining noise, "Christian told me to come get you."

A small knot of curiosity tightened in your stomach.

You nodded, a slight question mark hanging in your eyes, and followed her.

She led you away from the main throng, down a corridor you hadn't noticed before. The air grew quieter, the noise of the celebration fading with each step. You found this space intriguing.

Then the staff member pushed a door open and you stepped inside a dark room, a confused frown creasing your forehead. Before you could even form a question, the lights went on.

"SURPRISE!" a chorus of voices yelled. You blinked, suddenly blinded by the brightness, before your vision adjusted and you took in the scene.

There they were, all of them: Sarah, the engineers, the mechanics, even some of the other drivers, their faces alight with laughter and excitement, all shouting “Happy Birthday!”. It was almost too much to take in.

A wave of warmth spread through you, a warmth that had nothing to do with the recently illuminated room. This was… incredible. You’d been so focused on the race, so caught up in the pressure of the weekend that you'd almost forgotten about your birthday. To see so many people, people you worked with, people you considered friends, all gathered here, just for you... it was overwhelming in the best possible way.

Christian stepped forward, a hand landing heavily yet affectionately on your shoulder. "We've been planning it for a while now," he said, his grin infectious. "We knew the race fell on your birthday, so we figured a little surprise was in order." He paused, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Thought you deserved something special."

You couldn't stop smiling. You knew he was right, this was something special. You spent the next little while weaving through the crowd, making small talk, thanking everyone profusely for their efforts.

From the enthusiastic pats on the back from the mechanics to the genuine smiles from the engineers, every moment was a balm to your heart. You received a thoughtful gift from Sarah, a personalized scrapbook with pictures of the both of you since you two started being friends, and shared a laugh with a few of the drivers as they teased you about how old you were getting.

Every gesture, however small, made you feel appreciated and valued, more than just a driver on the team. For the first time all week, you felt completely at ease.

But then, a nagging question began to form, a question you couldn't ignore. Amidst the cheers and congratulations, one face, a face you’d been hoping to see, was conspicuously absent.

Where was Max? You searched the room again, your eyes scanning the crowd, but he wasn’t there.

Finally, when you felt you could politely excuse yourself from the crowd, you found Christian standing by one of the tables. You approached him hesitantly, a hopeful lilt in your voice.

"Hey, Christian," you said, "this was amazing, seriously. I, uh, just had a question. Do you know where Max is?"

Christian's grin widened, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Max is doing something in that room," he said, his voice a low murmur, pointing to a door at the far end of the corridor.

Then he winked, a gesture that made your stomach do a weird flip. "He said he had a 'special project' going on."

Your heart pounded in your chest. A ‘special project’? You nodded slowly, thanking him with a smile, but inside, anticipation was building. You began to walk towards the door, your steps feeling lighter than usual.

As you passed the others, you noticed their eyes were on you, their faces lit with knowing grins. Did they know something you didn’t?

A flush crept up your neck, your cheeks warming as you imagined what ‘special project’ Max could be working on.

You found yourself standing before the door, your hand hovering over the handle. You took a deep breath, trying to calm the flutter in your chest. 

You had no idea what to expect on the other side of this door, but the feeling of nervous excitement was almost overwhelming.

The anticipation had twisted your insides into a tight knot, but you decided you weren’t going to stand here all day. You turned the handle, and stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit, only a few scattered tea lights illuminating the space. The change from the bright, harsh lights of the paddock was disorienting for a moment.

You could hear soft music playing, something instrumental and calming, a melody that seemed to wrap around you like a warm hug. And in the center of the room, stood Max. He was facing away from you, his broad shoulders tense, his posture almost rigid.

He wasn't wearing his usual Red Bull shirt, instead opting for a simple black t-shirt. It was jarring to see him out of his racing suit - he looked almost vulnerable.

“Max?” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. He turned around, and you felt your breath catch in your throat. He was holding a bouquet of vibrant red and blue roses, the colours stark against the soft light, and his face was… soft.

Not the usual hardened mask you were used to seeing on the racetrack, the intense focus replaced with something almost childlike. He looked nervous, almost hesitant. It was an expression you had never seen before.

His eyes, usually so intense, held a different kind of fire, a nervous vulnerability that made your heart do a strange little flip.

“Y/N!” he said, the usually booming voice tight with what you realized was panic. “These are for you,” He offered the bouquet, his hands trembling slightly.

You reached out and took them from him, your fingers brushing against his. The contact sent a shiver up your arm, not unpleasant, but definitely unexpected.

“Really? No one’s ever bought me flowers before,” you muttered, your voice a breathless whisper as you inhaled their sweet perfume.

The roses were a beautiful mix of classic red and a deep, almost electric, blue. It was unusual and completely fitting of the man who stood before you.

“Yeah, and there’s more,” he said, fixing his cap, a nervous gesture you recognized, though you couldn’t remember him ever being nervous before.

“Really? This is more than enough, you know,” you replied, feeling a tear prickle the corner of your eye. Not because you were sad, but because this unexpected gesture felt like something out of a movie.

Did this really happen to people? Did this happen to you?

“Nothing, of course, is enough for you, Y/N, you should know that,” Max stated with a small, genuine smile that sent a bolt of warmth right through you. His gaze was intense, locking onto yours, making the room feel smaller, more intimate.

You felt your cheeks flush once more, the warmth spreading across your skin. “I… I don’t know what to say.” You looked down at the roses, suddenly feeling flustered.

It was one thing to work alongside Max on the track, but this? This was completely different territory.

He stepped closer, and you looked up, your eyes meeting his. He was closer than he had ever been before. “Say you like them,” he said softly, his voice a husky murmur that echoed in the quiet room.

“I… I love them, Max. They’re beautiful,” you confessed, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. The sincerity in his eyes made your heart skip a beat and you felt that butterfly feeling flutter in your stomach.

You looked down at the bouquet again, the vibrant colours a stark contrast to the soft atmosphere of the room.

“Good. Cause I picked each one of them,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips. He reached out and gently touched your arm. “Look, I… I’m not good at this. This whole… thing.”

You chuckled, a soft sound that echoed in the room. “You’re doing a pretty good job so far, Max,” you said, finding your voice as you looked up into his eyes again. “Flowers, soft music, dimmed lights… it’s all very… thoughtful.”

He let out a soft relieved exhale, his shoulders finally relaxing. “Thoughtful? That's good,” he said, “I was hoping for thoughtful. The guys told me I needed a ‘good vibe’ and they weren't specific of what that vague term meant."

He ran a hand through his hair, looking endearingly flustered. “Okay so… this isn’t just about flowers, Y/N.” His gaze intensified. “I asked you here… because… because I wanted you to know… that I like you. A lot. More than I like fast cars, maybe even more than winning. Which is saying something.”

Your breath hitched. The words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected, and your mind scrambled to catch up. It wasn’t as if you hadn't felt something between you two, a subtle pull that resonated every time you were near, but to hear it spoken aloud, so candidly, so… him… it was a shock.

“Oh. Oh no, no no, you don't-” you stammered, your hand flying to your mouth.

“What?” Max said, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“You don’t want to like me, I am no good,” you blurted out, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

The admission felt like a confession of a dirty little secret you’d been holding onto for far too long. But it was true, look at what happened to Jake.

“But I do,” Max said, his gaze unwavering. He leaned forward slightly, his expression a mixture of bewilderment and concern.

“Yeah, no, I’m sorry, I can’t- you can’t,” you insisted, shaking your head, trying to force some sense back into the situation.

You could feel the panic rising in your chest, a familiar feeling you hadn’t experienced in a while, but now this.

“Why?” Max asked, his voice laced with genuine confusion. The easy laughter that usually danced in his eyes was completely gone.

"Because I said – I am no good!" you said, your voice rising with a touch of desperation. You wanted him to understand, you needed him to understand.

“What do you mean? I can’t just stop liking you because you told me to!” Max said, there was a glint of annoyance now, a sign that he was not going to give in easily.

He was the kind of man who went after what he wanted and that was becoming more apparent than ever.

“Well, you will have to! Because I don’t- I’m not doing this. You don’t get to just...throw this at me!” you said, your hand moving wildly in the air, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“W-what, now you’re just being mean, if you don’t like me just say so,” Max said, the confusion morphing into hurt, and it hurt you to see the hurt in his eyes as they looked into you.

“I do! -like you… And- and that’s the problem,” you whispered, the admission ripped raw and honest.

You hated how vulnerable you felt in this moment, how naked your emotions were, laid bare before him.

“What are you even saying, I don’t get it,” Max said, his voice laced with frustration. This conversation had taken a turn he certainly hadn’t anticipated.

“I’m saying we can’t, not right now, hell, not ever,” you said, the finality of the statement solidifying the fear that had been swirling in your stomach into a concrete truth.

You walked over to the nearest table and placed the bouquet down before walking to the door, your hands shaking as you reached for the door handle.

You could feel his gaze burning into your back, the weight of his confusion pushing down on your shoulders.

“Y/N, wait!” Max’s voice was behind you, but you kept walking faster now. You couldn’t let him see the tears that were threatening to spill, the vulnerability you guarded so fiercely.

You had to get away. You had to escape this room and the feelings it was causing, before you broke down completely.

“Please,” he said, his voice softer now, his steps quickening till he was right behind you, his gaze unwavering, “Just… explain. Tell me what’s going on. I… I don’t understand.” He was close now, almost too close, and you could feel yourself start to crumble.

You stopped, your hand still on the doorknob, and turned to face him. You searched his eyes, saw the genuine care there, the utter confusion. You knew you owed him that much, at least.

You took a deep, shaky breath, trying to find the right words, the ones that could convey the turmoil inside you without completely breaking down.

“Max,” you began, your voice raw with emotion, “You… you’re amazing. You’re kind and funny and… and ridiculously talented. And that’s… that’s the problem.” The words felt inadequate, like they failed to capture the depth of your internal turmoil, but it was the best you could do.

His brow furrowed further. “But… I don’t understand. You’re saying I’m too… good for you? That’s ridiculous, Y/N.” He moved closer, his hand hovering near your arm, unsure if he should touch you.

“No, it’s not that!” You insisted, your voice cracking. “It’s… it’s me. I’m… messed up. I’m… a disaster waiting to happen. I ruin everything I touch, everything I care about.” You felt your throat tighten, your eyes burning with unshed tears.

“I can’t… I can’t do that to you. You deserve better. You deserve someone… someone who is not me.” The confession was like a dam breaking, the words pouring out, unfiltered and raw.

You’d finally said it. After weeks of agonizing, of rehearsing lines in your head, of second-guessing every feeling, you’d admitted your insecurities.

You’d spilled the messy truth about how you felt undeserving, how you believed that he, Max – kind, intelligent, and impossibly handsome Max – could, should, find someone better than you.

He was silent for a moment, his gaze unwavering, taking in the vulnerability that you were so desperately trying to hide. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, gentle, almost a whisper.

“Y/N,” he started, his own vulnerability showing through, "I don't understand where this is coming from. I know you are the kindest and most amazing woman I know." He paused, taking your hand in his, as though wanting to give you his strength. "I don't want better, I want you, just you."

“But…” you started, but the words caught in your throat, the weight of your fears and insecurities still present, but somehow… smaller, diminished by the way he spoke, the vulnerability he showed and how gently he held your hand.

“No buts,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips, that nervous, sweet smile that made your heart twist.

“Just… tell me what to do. Tell me what I need to prove to you. Give me, give us, a chance. Please.” His eyes sparkled with hope, pleading with you to just… trust him. Just a little bit.

You looked into his eyes and you knew that you couldn't walk away. You knew that this would most likely end up breaking you, hurt you in ways you couldn't imagine, but his eyes, they held you captive.

You had only one answer so you took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to organize your thoughts, to be as transparent as possible.

“It’s not that I don’t want this, Max. I do.” You say, your voice is soft, hesitant. “I like you, I really like you so much that it scares me, a lot.” The truth hangs in the air, vulnerable and raw, and you brace yourself for his reaction. Any reaction but the one he gives you.

He doesn't flinch or pull away. Instead, he squeezes your hand and smiles, that disarming, melting smile. "I think, if we work through it together, we might just make it. I think, that if we try, you will see, that whatever you are going through, you don't have to go through it alone. I want to be there for you, through it all."

His words are like a balm, soothing the anxieties that have been gnawing at you. It's not just the words themselves, but the way he delivers them, the sincerity in his voice, the unwavering look in his eyes.

He's not promising you a fairytale, he understands that the reality will come with challenges. But he’s offering you companionship, partnership, in navigating those challenges together.

A small smile plays on your lips as you look at him, hope blossoming in your heart. Maybe this would work out. Maybe you could finally be happy. But the fear still lingers, a quiet voice whispering in the back of your mind.

“But… what if I mess it up? What if I’m not good enough?” Your voice is barely a whisper, the insecurities finally bubbling to the surface. You feel so vulnerable to his gaze and the way he carefully holds your hand, like you are a precious glass.

Max’s thumb strokes the back of your hand, a gentle, grounding motion. “Y/N, you are more than good enough. You are amazing. And we all mess up. That’s part of being human. The point is, being able to say you're sorry, learn from it, and continue to move forward. Besides, we’ll make mistakes together, learn and grow together.”

His smile widens, adding, “And who knows, maybe those mess-ups will be some of our best memories.” He chuckles, a sound that always makes your heart flutter.

You felt like crying again, a mix of relief and overwhelming emotion flooding through you. You tucked your head into the crook of his neck, seeking comfort in his warmth.

“I'm sorry for trying to push you away,” you muttered against his skin, the words muffled.

Max rubbed your back, his touch light and comforting. “Don’t apologise after what you’ve been through. I, of course, was never going to let you go,” His voice was quiet, his sincerity palpable. You pressed closer to him, feeling incredibly safe in his arms.

The fear was still there, a low hum in the background, but it was now overshadowed by his presence.

You pulled back slowly, your cheeks flushing slightly. The boldness of the previous confession had temporarily left you, and suddenly shyness enveloped you.

You felt the flutter of your eyelashes, the nervousness of the moment. "Can... can I kiss you?" The question was soft, barely audible, but it hung in the air between you.

Max grinned, a radiant, dazzling expression that made your heart skip a beat.

"Of course, schat," His response was immediate, filled with affection. Schat. It was a term of endearment he often used, a Dutch word meaning "treasure" or "darling," and it always made you feel safe and cherished.

You moved towards him, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was slow and tender, a silent promise of forgiveness and understanding. It wasn't a passionate, desperate kiss, but a soft exploration, a gentle reaffirmation of the connection that had always been there, humming beneath the surface.

When you pulled back, your gaze locked with his, and you felt a warmth spread through you, dispelling some of the lingering fear.

“I like you, Max. A lot,” you said, your voice a little shaky, your cheeks still warm. You felt vulnerable, laying your feelings bare like this, but it also felt incredibly right.

He reached up, his fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “I like you too, Y/N, more than you know,” he replied, his eyes sparkling with affection. He had waited patiently for you, had given you the space you needed, and had never once wavered in his affections.

You knew, without a doubt, that he was someone who would always be there, no matter how difficult things got.

A nervous energy seemed to buzz around him as he took in another breath, the kind that a teenager would have before asking his crush to prom.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” he asked, his voice laced with a vulnerability that mirrored your own.

You didn’t hesitate. You nodded, your smile widening as you reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers. “Yes, I’ll be your girlfriend,” you replied, the words flowing easily and naturally.

It felt as if that had always been the plan, like everything had been leading up to this very moment.

A relieved sigh escaped him, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to melt away. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his touch sending a wave of warmth along your skin.

"Great," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "Because your second present would have been awkward."

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, silver object. It glinted in the dim light – a key.

“Max…” you started, confusion and a touch of incredulity mixing in your voice.

“It’s my house key, of course. You need a key to get in when I’m doing something else, like sim training,” he explained, his tone casual, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He offered the key to you, his eyes filled with an innocent earnestness.

That was the tipping point. The dam broke. You felt a lump form in your throat, and tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. You were crying. Not the dramatic kind of crying, but the quiet, choked-up kind that comes from being overwhelmed by emotion.

“Schat! I’m sorry! Don’t cry,” Max said, his voice filled with concern. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. You buried your face in his neck, letting the tears fall freely.

His embrace was grounding, his hand gently stroking your back, a soothing rhythm against your trembling form.

"Hey, hey," he whispered, his voice soft and reassuring. "What is it? Did I say something wrong? I didn't mean to make you cry."

He sounded genuinely panicked, and a part of you felt guilty for making him worry.

You pulled back slightly, wiping away tears with the back of your hand. "No, no, it's not you," you managed to say, your voice thick with emotion. “It’s just… it’s a key, Max. And it’s such a... you thing to do.” You chuckled slightly, the sound shaky and watery.

He looked at you, his brow furrowed in confusion. “But you need a key to get in. I mean, what if you wanted to come over and I wasn’t home yet? I wouldn’t want you to be waiting outside.”

“That’s… exactly what I meant,” you said, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill. “You just… you think of everything.” The fact that he had already considered you needing the key, the fact that he was already thinking about you coming over and feeling safe… it was all just too much.

He looked at you as if he couldn't comprehend why you'd be crying at that, and that was the most endearing thing you had ever seen.

“I thought you wouldn’t like it,” he admitted, his voice small. “I wasn’t sure if it was too much, too soon. But… I really wanted you to have it. So you can feel like… you can feel like a home when I’m not home.”

His confession was raw, honest, and laced with a vulnerability that made your heart ache.

You reached up and cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing gently against his cheekbones. "I love it, Max. I really love it," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "It's... it's more than I could have ever asked for."

He leaned into your touch, his eyes searching yours. “You’re not upset?” he asked, his voice still tinged with worry.

You shook your head, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “No, I’m not upset. I’m… overwhelmed. In the best way possible.” You paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, letting the reality of the moment sink in. “You’re amazing, Max.”

He mirrored your smile, his own eyes lighting up with a warmth that made your heart flutter. “So, the key?” he asked, holding it out again.

You took it from him, the metal cool against your palm. “It’s perfect,” you said, your gaze locking with his. “Thank you, Max.”

He pulled you close again, wrapping you in a tight, comforting embrace. "You're welcome, schat," he whispered, his voice muffled against your hair. "Does this mean you'll try my cooking for dinner this time. Since you'll have the key and all?"

You chuckled, leaning into his embrace. "Only if you promise not to set the kitchen on fire."

He pulled back, a playful glint in his eyes. "No promises, but I'll try my best," he said with a grin.

The dim room no longer felt oppressive, but warm and safe. The fear, the uncertainty, all seemed to fade into the background, replaced by a sense of belonging, of love, of home.

You held the key, not just a key to his house, but to his heart, and suddenly, everything felt right.

You reached the doorway and stepped out, the bouquet leading the way. You expected the hushed silence of an empty hall, perhaps the echo of distant conversations. What you didn't expect was the wall of faces that greeted you.

The entire hall, which you had assumed was deserted, was lined with people, their eyes all fixed on the corner where you and Max had emerged. Their expectant gazes, a mixture of delight and curiosity, made your cheeks flush with heat.

Silence hung heavy, thick with unspoken questions, then, like a dam bursting, the cheers erupted. Shouts, whistles, and clapping filled the hall, their collective voice a tidal wave of delighted celebration.

You felt your face grow hotter, and your grip tightened on the bouquet, the stems pressing into your palm. This was not how you envisioned this moment. You had expected the awkwardness to occur in the small room, not right here, under the scrutiny of a hundred pairs of eyes.

You turned, your gaze searching out Max behind you. He was a study in sheepish charm, his cheeks flushed a shade darker than yours, his eyes wide with a mix of apprehension and something that looked a lot like exhilaration.

He shuffled his feet for a moment, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, before meeting your gaze with that familiar, gentle smile of his.

"They helped me confess," he said, his voice a quiet murmur that barely reached your ears over the continuing cheers, "I… I didn’t think I could do it alone.” He looked away for a brief moment before looking back into your eyes. "They knew you were in the room."

The pieces clicked into place. The hushed whispers you’d overheard earlier, the strangely insistent nudging toward the small room, the seemingly innocent way to get you to Max – it had all been meticulously orchestrated.

Your first instinct was to feel embarrassed by the blatant manipulation, but the warmth in Max’s eyes melted your irritation away. They had done it for him, and for you.

They had recognized something before you had even allowed yourself to truly believe it.

"I... They did?" You managed, your voice barely above a whisper. You felt the bouquet tremble in your hand, its vibrant colours suddenly feeling like a spotlight on your face.

He nodded, a faint grin spreading across his face. He straightened his posture and looked at you with an earnest look on his face, "Yeah. I told them how I felt about you, and they all decided that I needed a little push."

He took a small step closer, his hands coming out of his pockets to gently rest on your arms. "I know it's kind of awkward right now but..."

"Awkward?" You laughed, a surprised sound that cut through the noise. "Max, the entire office is watching us, and they're practically throwing a party. This is beyond awkward."

He chuckled softly, his thumb gently stroking your arm. "Okay, maybe slightly more than awkward, but I wouldn't change it for anything. Not now that I can finally say that I’ve been completely and utterly smitten with you for months, now that you know, and now that you… well…”

He trailed off, his eyes shifting to the flowers you held before meeting your gaze again. “You said yes. In the room. Right?"

You felt a giddy warmth spread through your chest. You did say yes, didn’t you? It had all happened so fast, the nervousness, the confession, the kiss.

Your mind, still reeling, struggled to keep up with the rapid turn of events. You hadn't really processed the magnitude of it all, not yet, not with so many eyes on you.

"Yes, Max," you said, your voice steadier this time. "I said yes."

A grin bloomed across his face, lighting up his features. It was a grin you’d seen countless times, but this one, this one felt different, more intimate, reserved just for you.

"Well you can thank them if you want to," Max grinned, gesturing vaguely to the throng of people gathered behind him.

You heard laughter and some shuffling through the crowd before Lando and Charles appeared in front of you, their grins equally wide. Their appearance, and the knowing looks in their eyes, sent a fresh wave of bewildered warmth through you.

"Hey Y/N! I'm guessing he finally did it," Lando teased, nudging Max playfully in the ribs.

"No way! You knew too?" you asked, surprised. You had genuinely thought Max’s clumsy confession and the subsequent proposal were a spontaneous act, an outpouring of feelings he could no longer contain.

The revelation that it had been a calculated performance added another layer of bewilderment.

"Of course, I did! I helped with it the most," Lando declared proudly, puffing out his chest slightly.

Charles immediately scoffed. "No mate, I did," he said, matching Lando’s posture with narrowed eyes. He crossed his arms, clearly in the mood for a playful argument.

"Actually it was Daniel that thought of most of it," Max corrected, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he watched his friends bicker.

"Daniel?" you repeated, your eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Daniel Ricciardo? The notoriously jovial Australian was the mastermind behind this entire thing?

You were beginning to feel like you were living in some bizarre, slightly surreal rom-com.

Just then, the door opened from the other side of the room and a familiar voice boomed, "Heya! Am I too late?"

You turned to see Daniel standing in the doorway, his signature grin plastered on his face.

"Nope Daniel, you're just in time," Max yelled back, his voice full of genuine joy. The room was suddenly buzzing with life, with laughter and light, and you felt a strange sense of belonging, of being caught up in something bigger than just you and Max.

You took a shaky breath, grounding yourself in the reality of the moment. He was yours, and you, in a dizzying but wonderful twist of fate, were his.

"Okay, so here's the thing," Daniel started, clapping his hands together in a way that demanded attention. "Max came to us, months ago, practically begging for help. He was a lovesick puppy moping about how amazing you were and how he was too scared to actually do anything about it."

Your cheeks flushed crimson, the image of the usually confident Max reduced to a moping puppy both adorable and hilarious.

You glanced at him, a playful smirk forming on your lips. He just shrugged, a sheepish grin on his face.

"We tried subtle hints, we tried blatant pushes, we even tried a completely ridiculous interpretive dance,” Charles interjected, his face scrunching up in a grimace. “That was… not our finest hour."

"Oh god, please don't remind me of that" Lando said, cringing slightly, "we were terrible"

"And finally," Daniel continued, "after months of agonizing, Max decided he was going to pull out the big guns so to speak." He winked at you. "Hence the very public, yet very romantic, proposal."

"It wasn't that public!" Max protested, but his voice held no real conviction. "Only like, half the paddock knew about it."

"Yeah, half the paddock who all happen to be great conversationalists," you said, laughing.

You wrapped your arm around Max's waist, feeling the solid warmth of his body against yours.

"So, you knew?" You looked at Max, a hint of accusation in your eyes.

"I… might have had a little bit of help," he admitted, his gaze locking with yours. “But the feelings, those were one hundred percent mine, Y/N. Every single smitten, completely ridiculous, hopelessly in love bit of them. I just…” he paused, his gaze searching yours for something.

“I really wanted it to be special. For you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. He was looking at you, the way a person looks at home, with a mixture of comfort and longing.

The room faded into the background and it was just you, and him, the weight of everything that had just transpired, and the overwhelming happiness swelling in your chest.

"Well, it was special," you said softly, and then, just for him, you added. "It was perfect."

He leaned in and kissed you. It was soft, gentle, like the first kiss all over again, but with a depth that the first hadn’t held. He pulled away, his thumb caressing your cheek.

"So, you really said yes?" He asked again, a playful lilt in his voice.

"Yes, Max," you laughed. "I really said yes. And you can thank your friends all you want but I was saying yes to you, to us. Not them."

You looked at the friends, still standing there and smiling and you could see that, despite the playful teasing and back and forth, they all seemed genuinely happy for you.

And in that moment, you knew that this room, those people, this bizarre and wonderful moment, was where you belonged. You were surrounded by people who loved you, who cared for you, and who were just as excited about your future as you were.

But most importantly, you were with him, the man who had made you feel like the most cherished person in the world. . . .

The worn floral print of Christian and Geri’s spare bedroom felt a little too familiar, a little too much like a childhood bedroom you’d long outgrown. The chipped paint on the windowsill, the baby blue coloured walls – they all seemed to be silently judging the contents of the open suitcase on the floor.

It was a suitcase, you realized with a sigh, that Olivia, a tiny force of nature with bright eyes and a stubborn chin, was currently using as a rather uncomfortable throne.

“No!” she declared, her voice small but firm. Her little legs, clad in rainbow-striped leggings, were splayed across the suitcase, effectively barring any further attempts at packing. “You can’t leave!”

You fought the urge to smile, a knot of tenderness and exasperation tightening in your chest. You loved Olivia like she was your own niece, which she was in all but blood.

You’d spent countless evenings reading her stories, building Lego castles, and braiding her unruly hair. It was going to be hard leaving, harder than you’d anticipated.

You sat on the edge of the bed, the springs groaning beneath you. “Why can’t I leave, Liv?” you asked, your tone gentle. You already knew the answer, but you needed to hear her say it.

Her brow furrowed, a miniature version of Geri’s expression when she was deep in thought. “Because… you make the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” she said, her voice tinged with a hint of desperation. “And you always let me pick the movie.”

It was a weak argument, but it was hers. A genuine, heartfelt argument against your departure. You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

“I taught you how to make your own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, remember?” you pointed out, teasing lightly. “And I promise, Max and I will invite you over for movie nights. We just won’t have this giant, comfy bed.”

Her eyes widened, the argument about sandwiches forgotten. “Max’s house has a giant bed?” she asked, her voice filled with awe.

“Well,” you said, chuckling, “It’s big enough for him and me, but maybe we can squish you in sometimes.”

You immediately regretted it when her face lit up, all thoughts of your departure suddenly focused on whether this “giant bed” would be a good place to jump.

You were about to derail the entire thing, even before you’d managed to pack a single pair of socks.

Olivia bounced off the suitcase, her earlier resistance seemingly forgotten. “Can we go now?!” she exclaimed, her eyes shining with anticipation. “I want to see Max’s giant bed!”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Not yet, sweetie. I still need to pack, remember? And anyway, you'll have to ask your mom and dad if you're allowed to go over to Max's.”

The thought of Max, his warm smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, always warmed you from the inside out.

Moving in together felt like the most natural thing in the world, a gentle step forward in a relationship that had blossomed so effortlessly.

“Oh, okay,” Olivia said, her enthusiasm slightly dampened but still there. She plopped down on the bed next to you, her back leaning against you. “But you can’t forget to pack the sparkly socks you let me borrow!”

You reached out and ruffled her hair. “Don’t worry, they're not on my packing list,” You said, hoping she wouldn't notice how your hand was shaking a little.

It had felt like an eternity since you'd found the little courage to break from the "safe" life you'd built, the one where you were just their 'friend' who lived at Christian and Geri's.

It had felt like an eternity since you'd allowed yourself to feel this happy.

She was quiet for a moment, her little face serious. “I’m going to miss you, you know,” she said in a small voice. It wasn’t a whiny statement, but it was filled with a heartbreaking honesty that tugged at you.

You leaned in and hugged her tight. “I’m going to miss you too, Liv,” you mumbled into her hair, the scent of strawberries and sunshine filling your nose.

"But it’s not goodbye forever. I'll still be around. We’ll have so many sleepovers. And I'm not all the way gone yet. We can bake cookies and do crafts and watch shows together. Okay?”

She nodded against you, and the silence stretched for a moment, the only sounds the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs and the low rumble of a car passing on the street outside.

You could feel her small hand gripping the edge of your t-shirt, her grip surprisingly strong despite her size. You were so grateful to have her. What would you do without them all? The thought of leaving now seemed more daunting than it had an hour ago.

“You like Max, right?” Olivia asked, finally breaking the silence.

You tensed. You hadn't expected that question. It caught you off guard, though you knew she wasn’t going to pry. She was just a kid, trying to understand the changes happening around her.

“Yeah, Liv. I like Max a lot,” you admitted, your voice soft. You wondered if she could hear the smile in your voice. It was a simple statement, but it carried so much weight.

It was more than just liking him. It was the easy way he fit into your life, the way he understood your vulnerabilities and supported your dreams, the way he made you feel like the most important person in the world. You loved him.

Olivia nodded, her gaze fixed on her hands. "He's nice I guess," she conceded grudgingly.

Her head snapped up, her eyes widening. “Really?” Her voice was full of surprise, a spark of genuine interest finally flicking to life behind her eyes.

“Yeah! He said he wanted to do it for all of your friends, like a big group thing as a surprise.” you beamed at her.

The tension in the room seemed to lessen slightly. Olivia’s shoulders relaxed, her small frown softening. She actually looked… curious.

“He’s doing that?” she asked, her voice laced with a hint of disbelief. “That’s… nice.”

“See?” you said, a playful tone creeping into your voice. “He is! He’s not just some random boyfriend, Liv. He’s actually pretty amazing.”

She finally looked up at you, a small smile playing on her lips. “I guess. It's just… it’s going to be really different without you here.”

“I know,” you said, your heart clenching slightly at the thought of leaving your shared space. “But it's not like I'm moving to another country. We can still hang out whenever you want.”

“Yeah, I know,” she mumbled, picking at a loose thread on her skirt.

“And,” you added, hoping to lighten the mood further, “Max said we could do movie nights at his house after the season is over. Your movie pick would be first.”

“Really?” Her smile grew a bit wider. “He said that?”

“Yep! He’s actually really excited to have you all over. He thinks you’re cool, you know.”

Her cheeks flushed slightly. “He does?”

You chuckled. “Yeah, Liv. He’s not some monster trying to steal me away. He just… makes me happy.”

She sighed, the last vestiges of her earlier frustration seeming to melt away. “Okay, okay. I get it. He sounds like a decent boyfriend. And a big Moana fan.”

“He kind of is,” you said, grinning. You picked up another outfit from the wardrobe. “Hey, do you want to watch Peppa Pig while I finish packing? Or do you have a better suggestion?”

Olivia's face brightened. “Oh yes please! But only if we have pizza after you finish.”

You laughed, relieved. “Deal,” you said.

The melody pulsed through you, a vibrant current that mirrored the excitement fizzing in your stomach. “Ik sloeg mijn ogen open, knipperde wat en de lucht leek helder, hij wil dat ik hem geloof nu…” you sang, the Dutch words rolling off your tongue with a practiced ease.

You weren't fluent, not by a long shot, but you'd been diligently working on your pronunciation, fueled by a secret desire to impress Max.

Your phone, perched precariously on a stack of books, continued to belt out the infectious pop tune by a Dutch artist you'd discovered.

You grabbed the last stray top from your drawer, a soft, faded blue, and made your way back to your suitcase, which lay open and waiting on your bed.

“Als ik schrik van hem, kom ik niet meer zo dichtbij als ik zou willen,” you continued, a small smile playing on your lips.

You envisioned Max’s reaction, the surprise in his eyes, maybe even a chuckle, when he heard you singing in his native tongue. You'd been teasing him about learning Dutch for weeks, a little game to keep the anticipation of this visit high.

You carefully folded the top, fitting it neatly into the already packed case. The song reached its crescendo, a final flourish of synth and pounding drums before fading out.

The silence that followed felt… different. Too sudden. You were about to reach for your phone, to put on something else, when the sound of slow, deliberate clapping startled you.

Your heart leaped into your throat, and you spun around, a gasp escaping your lips.

There, leaning against your bedroom doorframe, stood Max. His arms were crossed over his chest, a knowing smirk playing on his face.

He looked effortlessly handsome, like he had just stepped out of a magazine. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and his eyes were sparkling with amusement.

“Max!” you exclaimed, your hand flying to your chest. “How long have you been standing there?” Your face flushed, a mix of embarrassment and sheer joy.

You hadn't expected him until much later in the day, and the element of surprise was nearly overwhelming.

He pushed off the doorframe and stepped into your room, his gaze lingering on you. “Long enough to witness a very impressive performance,” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

“Your Dutch is… well, it’s coming along.” There was a teasing note in his voice, but also something else, a hint of genuine admiration that made your stomach flip.

“Oh god,” you groaned, your cheeks burning a fiery red. “You heard all of that? It was awful, probably.” You started to fidget with your shirt, feeling terribly self-conscious.

Max chuckled, a sound you loved. “Awful? I thought you sounded like a natural.” He walked closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “You know, ‘ik schrik van hem, kom ik niet meer zo dichtbij als ik zou willen’ is quite a romantic line. What does it mean?”

Your mind raced, trying to translate the words without sounding like a bumbling fool. “Uh, it’s… it’s something like… ‘if I am scared of him, I won’t come as close as I would like to’,” you mumbled, your gaze dropping to your feet.

He stopped in front of you, tilting your chin gently up with his finger. His touch sent a jolt through you, making you forget, for a moment, how silly you probably looked.

“Scared of me?” he asked, his voice softer now, laced with a hint of concern.

You shook your head quickly, “No, of course not! It’s just the song. I was just trying to get the pronunciation right.” You felt your face growing even hotter.

“Well, you were certainly dedicated,” he said with a smile. “And I must confess, it was rather charming.” He stepped around you to look at the open suitcase.

"You're almost done?" Max asked, turning back to you with that smile that always made your heart flutter.

You nodded, still slightly dazed, thinking, how did you even get in?

As if reading your mind, Max let out another chuckle. "Your sister let me in and gave me a 10 minute lecture of how to take care of you, I already feel like a better boyfriend," he said with a smile, a playful glint in his eyes.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Olivia peek her head in before getting caught and running off, a stifled laugh echoing from the hallway.

You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. Olivia and her dramatic theatrics were a constant in your life.

“She’s ridiculous,” you said, shaking your head.

He held your hand delicately, his touch sending a familiar warmth through you. His fingers intertwined with yours, a silent reassurance.

"Are you sure you're ready to move in with me, schat?" he asked, his voice soft, laced with a tenderness that always made your heart melt.

A wave of emotion washed over you, a mixture of excitement and a slight trepidation. Officially moving in with Max was a step, a big one, and the reality of it finally sank in.

This wasn't just a casual dating thing anymore; it was a commitment, a joining of lives, a leap into the unknown with the person you loved most.

“Ik ben meer dan klaar om met jou te leven,” you responded in Dutch, the words flowing smoothly, a secret language just for the two of you. I am more than ready to live with you.

Max grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He loved the way your native tongue sounded, the way the words rolled off your tongue, the intimacy of a language he didn't quite understand but felt deeply.

"God, you have to speak more of it later, okay?" he muttered, his voice low and slightly husky, a look of genuine adoration in his eyes. He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug.

“Of course, Liefje,” you smiled, leaning into his embrace, the word darling slipping naturally off your tongue.

His scent, a mix of sandalwood and something uniquely his, filled your senses, and you felt safe, secure, like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

You tilted your head back, looking up at him. "I can't believe this is actually happening," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin. "Me neither," he confessed, "but I’m really excited. We're going to make a home together."

You laughed, the tension easing from your shoulders. He had a way of making even the most daunting things feel like an adventure. "I can already see the chaos unfolding," you joked. "And I actually can't wait for it."

"Good, because I have a feeling it's going to be one hell of a ride," he replied, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

He released you from the hug but kept your hand in his, guiding you towards the door. "Come on, let's get out of here. I’ve already loaded the other suitcase and Geri is waiting with lots of snacks for the road. Plus, I’m sure Olivia has something dramatic planned as your departure performance.”

As you walked out of your room, the weight of the move, the finality of it all, settled in. You glanced back at the empty space, a small pang in your chest.

It was a chapter closed, a book put back on the shelf, ready for the next story to begin.

Downstairs, Geri engulfed you in a hug, a mixture of sadness and happiness in her eyes. Olivia was holding a tissue to her face, fake sobbing, dramatically letting the tissue fall to the floor as she pretended to faint.

“Oh please,” you mumbled, rolling your eyes.

“This is a great occasion,” Geri chuckled, “A bittersweet one. I’m so happy for you two, truly, but seeing you leave is definitely a change.”

“Don’t worry, Geri, I’ll come back whenever you need me,” you said, giving her another hug. “And you can always visit.”

“Of course,” your mom said softly. "I’ve already planned the Christmas dinner to be at your new place. I expect you two to work hard making it a home,”

You laughed and turned to Max. "Ready to go?" you asked, a genuine smile lighting up your face.

He squeezed your hand, a silent reassurance. "Always," he said, his eyes full of affection.

You took one last look at your home for a few months, a place filled with memories, both good and bad. Then you turned away.

The future was here, waiting for you, and you were ready to embrace it, hand in hand with the man you loved.

The car ride was filled with laughter and excited chatter. Max’s hand rested on your thigh, a comforting weight that grounded you. You listened to him talk about his plans for the apartment, how he envisioned you both filling it with your personalities.

He told you about painting the kitchen walls and adding some of your favorite books. Your heart swelled with affection.

It was going to be perfect.

Arriving at the apartment, you were greeted with the sight of Max's place, and it was better than you had imagined. It was filled with light and open spaces, with a balcony overlooking a small park. This space, your space, was waiting for you to make it a home.

You took a deep breath, the feeling of anticipation and joy bubbling in your chest.

Max looked at you. "What do you think?" he asked, his eyes filled with a touch of nervousness.

You turned to him, your heart overflowing. "It's perfect," you said, your voice soft, filled with love. "Absolutely perfect."

And you knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within your soul, that this was where you were meant to be. This was the start of your next chapter, and you couldn't wait to see where it would take you.

As Max took your hand and pulled you inside, his smile telling you everything you needed to know, you knew, that this was home.

The key turned in the lock with a satisfying click, and the door swung inward, revealing the entryway of your new life together. Sunlight poured through the large windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, eager spirits.

You stepped inside, and for a moment, everything else ceased to exist. It wasn't just a house; it was a testament to shared dreams, a physical manifestation of the love you and Max had carefully cultivated.

Your gaze immediately lifted, drawn to the soaring vaulted ceiling, the exposed beams a rich, dark wood that contrasted beautifully with the soft, off-white walls. You ran your hand along the smooth plaster, marveling at the craftsmanship.

Your feet carried you forward, deeper into the house, your suitcase forgotten by the door. You traced the curve of an archway that led to what you assumed was the living room, then peeked into a cozy nook tucked away near the kitchen, already imagining long evenings curled up there with a book.

You explored each room as if it were a precious artifact, finding beauty in every detail. The kitchen was a chef’s dream, with a large island, gleaming countertops, and a pantry that seemed to stretch on forever.

Sunlight streamed through the large, almost floor-to-ceiling windows in the dining area, promising sun-drenched breakfasts and candlelit dinners. You could already picture yourselves here, laughing and creating memories in the home that belonged to both of you.

You were so thoroughly captivated you hadn't even noticed Max watching you from the entryway, his eyes filled with an adoration that made your heart melt. He leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.

Finally, you completed your impromptu tour, circling back to the entryway practically vibrating with excitement. You turned to him, your eyes wide, a genuine smile lighting up your face.

“What do you think, schat?” he asked, his voice soft, laced with anticipation.

You didn’t hesitate, your heart full to bursting. “Liefje, it’s amazing,” you breathed out, the Dutch term of endearment rolling off your tongue with ease. It was more than amazing; it was everything you had ever hoped for, and more. It felt like coming home.

He pushed himself off the doorframe and came towards you, his hand reaching out to take yours. “I’m glad you like it,” he said, his smile widening. “I knew you would. I’ve spent weeks picturing you here.” He squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing against your skin.

“Picture me here?” you teased, tilting your head. “Doing what?”

He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through you. “Reading in that little nook, probably. Or cooking up a storm in that kitchen. And dancing, maybe? We have plenty of space for that now.”

You laughed, imagining the possibilities. “Dancing, huh?” You raised an eyebrow, playfully challenging him. “Are you going to finally teach me the tango?”

“Maybe,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “But first things first: we need to get your suitcase inside before someone mistakes it for an abandoned piece of luggage.” He gestured towards the forgotten suitcase with a playful wink.

You blushed slightly, realizing how completely you had gotten caught up in the moment. “Oh, right.” You turned to grab your suitcase, but he was already there, easily lifting it as if it were weightless.

“Let me take care of that,” he said, his voice gentle. “You’ve been exploring; I’ll be your pack mule.”

You followed him further into the living room, placing your case near a large, plush couch. He placed his suitcase next to yours, the gesture a small symbol of the life together you were building. “So, what’s next?” you asked, feeling a jolt of excitement run through you.

“Well,” he said, turning to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “I was thinking we could unpack? Then maybe open a bottle of wine? And then…” He paused, drawing out the word. “Then we officially break in the house.”

You laughed, playfully nudging him with your elbow. “Break in the house? What does that exactly entail?”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Well, I was thinking… we could christen each room. One by one.”

Your cheeks flushed a deep crimson as you caught the meaning behind his suggestive tone. “Max!” you exclaimed, with a mixture of embarrassment and delight, your heart rate picked up from his words.

He laughed again, the sound warm and comforting. “What? It’s a big house; it needs to be properly inaugurated, don’t you think?”

“Maybe after we pack...” you began, your smile matching his mischievous one.

The next few hours were a flurry of activity, filled with unpacking, laughter, and the occasional stolen kiss. You found yourself working seamlessly alongside Max, each of you knowing exactly what to do, a testament to the quiet harmony you shared.

You unpacked your clothes, placing them side by side in the spacious wardrobe; you organized your things in the bathroom, your toiletries now lined up next to his. It was amazing how quickly this space was becoming a home, a reflection of the life you were building.

As the sun began to set, casting long, golden shadows across the house, you collapsed onto the sofa, finally allowing yourself to relax. Max joined you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you close. You nestled into his side, the warmth of his body a familiar comfort.

He opened a bottle of wine, pouring two glasses. He handed one to you, and you clinked them together. “To new beginnings,” he said, his eyes locking with yours.

“To new beginnings,” you echoed, taking a slow sip of the wine. The taste was rich and smooth, a perfect complement to the moment.

You looked around the living room, now slowly filling with your presence. It was cozy, inviting, and overflowing with possibilities. Soon it would be filled with the sounds of your laughter and the echoes of your life together.

You turned to Max, his face illuminated in the soft glow of the setting sun. “Max,” you said, your voice filled with emotion, “thank you. For everything.”

He smiled, the sincerity in his eyes making your heart swell with adoration. “You don’t have to thank me, schat. This is just the start.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a tender kiss. “And I can’t wait to see where this journey takes us.”

The news hit you like a rogue wave, leaving you gasping for air. "My mom and sister are coming over in two days," Max had said, his voice casual as he stirred the pasta sauce. He hadn’t looked at you, too focused on the simmering pot, and for a moment, the kitchen seemed to shrink, the walls closing in.

Two days. . . .

[dee-writes-anime]

Hello ! How you doing ?

I noticed that your requests are open, so i'm gonna yap about my favorite Winged Hero: Keigo !

I always think about reader being in a relationship with Hawks, but she feels like she doesn't really belong with him. He is famous, popular and very loved by his fans, meanwhile she likes to live a calm life, only talking and getting involved if someone reaches for her first.

Reader intends to break up with him, but his bird brain got a different message about it: he thinks she just needs more attention and more courting gifts.

So now reader has a collection of shiny rocks, lots of scented blankets and shirts, and a nonstop whistling Keigo around her.

I just really love the idea of Hawks tagging himself as a No refund Partner 🤭

(Feel free to ignore this, if you don't like it. Sending you lots of love, your writting is amazing 🥰)

No Refunds!

FEATURING Keigo 'Hawks' Takami i x Reader

SUMMARY You fear that Keigo's fast-paced life is too much for you and try to take a step back, but it doesn't seem to work out that well for you. It's just too bad Keigo doesn't believe in refunds.

CONTENT WARNINGS quiet reader, hawks being a literal bird

AUTHORS NOTE hope you all enjoy more of our feather-winged hero because, based on these requests, y'all can't seem to get enough of him!

You’d imagined this moment for weeks—a careful plan to untangle yourself from the wings of a man who seemed to live a world apart from your own. Keigo’s life was a loud one, a kaleidoscope of flashing lights, bright interviews, fans hanging on his every word and movement. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he belonged somewhere out there, in the heart of the storm, while you were left holding onto calmness, craving quiet.

So you’d practiced your words, rehearsed in the mirror, hoping to explain it gently: Keigo, you’re amazing, but I don’t fit into this life. You deserve someone who can keep up, who thrives under a spotlight.

But as you sat across from him in the dimly lit corner of your apartment, watching him devour his meal with an unshakable confidence, all those carefully chosen phrases began to slip away. The man was impossible to ignore, so vividly alive in his unbridled energy, his mouth curling into a familiar, teasing grin every time he caught you looking. It was like trying to capture a gust of wind in your hand—the moment you thought you had him pinned, he shifted, always a step ahead, eyes twinkling with that irreverent humor that made your heart ache.

“Keigo, I just…” you began, feeling your courage falter under his steady gaze. He didn’t miss a beat, his fork pausing in midair as he gave you his full attention.

“Go on,” he said, his voice low but attentive, his eyes narrowing with a glint of curiosity that warned you he wasn’t going to let anything slide by unnoticed.

You took a breath, trying to anchor yourself. “I just… sometimes I feel like I don’t really belong in your world,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

The words hung in the air, and Keigo stared at you, unblinking, as if you’d just told him something in a language he didn’t quite understand. After a moment, he let out a soft chuckle, eyes shining with that familiar, playful disbelief. “You? Not belong with me?” He shook his head, leaning back in his seat with that cocky, amused grin that somehow melted the tension in the room. “I don’t buy that, not for a second.”

Your heart twisted painfully, but before you could explain, he shifted closer, closing the space between you with the effortless grace of a hawk zeroing in on its mark. He tilted his head, studying you with an intensity that made your cheeks warm, a hint of softness underlying his typically mischievous gaze.

“Listen,” he said, his voice a soft murmur, “if you’re worried about keeping up with me, don’t be. You ground me, you know? Not everything has to be about the spotlight.” He leaned in, and his thumb brushed your cheek, a gentle, fleeting touch that left you breathless. “You’re my calm in all the chaos, you know that?”

Your resolve wavered, and all you could manage was a quiet nod before he kissed your cheek, lingering just long enough to leave a warmth behind. As he left that night, your mind kept replaying that look in his eyes—a flicker of vulnerability that felt strangely out of place on him.

The next morning, you woke to find something glinting on your bedside table. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, and there it was—a smooth, shining rock, no larger than your thumb, with flecks of gold swirling through its charcoal-gray surface. You reached for it slowly, as if it might vanish at any moment, the unexpected gift settling warm and solid in your palm.

A small folded note rested beside it, scrawled with Keigo’s messy handwriting: Something pretty, just like you! – K

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up, though it came with a pang of sadness. So this was his response? He wasn’t angry or upset; instead, he left a little piece of beauty for you, something that made you feel strangely… cherished. As if he was whispering, See? You’re part of my world. I want you here.

If only he left it at that..

The next morning, as you opened your front door, you found a Hawks-branded bag stuffed with the coziest-looking items imaginable. Luxurious blankets, soft enough to melt in your fingers, with colors that reminded you of his wings—deep crimsons and warm golden yellows. There was a plush feather-shaped pillow tucked inside, soft and inviting, as if he’d tried to bottle the feeling of his own feathers just for you.

Another note, taped to the top of the bag: For when you want a cozy night in, courtesy of your favorite Winged Hero.

In a daze, you pulled the pillow out, feeling the way it seemed to form to your touch, soft and strangely comforting, like you were holding a part of him in your hands. You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself, though it was tinged with disbelief. Hawks, your Keigo, was attempting to make your space his nest—one soft corner at a time.

You weren’t sure what to think. The gifts kept coming, like waves lapping persistently at the shore, never once relenting. Soon, you had a growing collection of glimmering stones, each unique in color, shape, and size. Some had ribbons tied around them, others were polished to a glassy sheen. By the end of the week, you could open your own boutique: Hawks’ Feathered Finds.

It was almost funny, in a way, how Keigo’s gift ideas seemed to expand. If the shiny stones weren’t enough to convince you of his commitment, the silky blankets and cozy pillows that soon followed would certainly drive the point home.

But as much as the blankets were a nice touch, that wasn’t enough either. No, Keigo’s gifts evolved in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Not satisfied with just leaving inanimate reminders of himself, he began to bring his own shirts, freshly washed and scented with that clean, faintly spicy cologne that was unmistakably his. Each time he left one, it felt like he was marking his presence all over again. When you came home one day to find three different button-ups hanging over your chair, neatly folded with another note—“So you won’t miss me too much”—you realized how completely he’d misunderstood your meaning.

And it didn’t stop there.

You started hearing bird calls, from sharp whistles to melodic chirrups, each one distinct and practiced. They’d come at random times during your day, clear and unmistakable, carrying across rooftops or echoing down quiet streets. Keigo would appear out of nowhere with a casual “Hey,” as if he hadn’t just called you over like a sparrow to its nest. Once, you looked out the window and spotted him standing on the rooftop opposite yours, watching you with that familiar spark of mischief in his eyes as he gave a gentle coo that made your cheeks flush.

Then there was the food. Keigo made it a habit to bring takeout on the evenings he knew you were working late, showing up with your favorite dishes and a grin that always promised a good story to go along with them. He’d kick off his shoes like he’d lived there forever, settling in as if he belonged, yet somehow always a little hesitant. You could tell he was waiting, looking at you as if searching for any sign that his gifts were having an effect.

Finally, one evening after he’d tucked a particularly soft blanket around you with all the precision of a nesting bird, you couldn’t help but ask, “What exactly are you doing, Keigo?”

He looked up from where he’d just finished arranging the folds of the blanket on your couch, his feathers twitching at your question. “What do you mean?” he asked, his amber eyes wide with feigned innocence.

“Keigo…” you said, trying to hold back a laugh as you gestured around your apartment, now cluttered with glistening stones, colorful feathers, and shirts that still carried his scent. “You’re… making a nest in my apartment.”

His wings fluttered, a small chuckle escaping as he scratched the back of his head. “Guess you could call it that.” He crossed over to where you sat, his gaze growing softer. “But I’m just making sure you know you’re not going anywhere.”

You shook your head, equal parts amused and bewildered. “I… I don’t think that’s how it works.”

Undeterred, Keigo leaned in, his head tilting down just slightly so his eyes met yours, the mischief in them mingling with something warmer, something that pulled at your heart. “Maybe not,” he murmured, his tone more serious than you’d ever heard. “But I don’t give up that easily. You don’t just get to decide you’re going to leave, y’know?”

A small pang tightened in your chest. How could someone like him, someone whose life glittered with fame and thrill, expect to keep someone like you by his side? Yet, looking into his eyes, you saw something deeper, even a little vulnerable, as his thumb traced soft circles over your hand.

“Keigo… I’m not…” you began, trying to find the words. “I just… sometimes I feel like I’m not cut out for this, like I don’t belong in this world of yours.”

He watched you for a long moment, his gaze gentle but unwavering. “Sweetheart,” he said softly, his wings rustling, “you’re not holding me back. You’re the calm in my storm. And I’m not about to let that slip away.” His hand tightened around yours just slightly. “Besides, I never heard any rule about ‘no refunds’ not applying to relationships. So guess what? You’re stuck with me.”

You looked around, taking in the stones, the blankets, the shirts—this strange, feathered haven he’d created around you, like a nest meant just for the two of you. You hadn’t realized you’d been dating an actual bird until now, and it hit you with a surprising warmth, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, you did belong here after all.

TAGLIST

@surielstea

[hh0320]

. ♡ ۫ . ୧ ⠁ room shots.

🪐 synopsis. you’re certain, if he moves away from that window, if he trespasses the invisible wall between you and gets what he came here for—there won’t be anything that either of you can do to stop him. he’ll ruin you. you’ll let him.

🪐 warnings. use of pet names, melancholy, alcohol abuse, rough play, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex.

🪐 word count. 3.6k

Three weeks.

The heart was still raw, tender. The flesh decaying, the sheets warm, the wine glasses untouched, as they were, as he left them on your window, the red deep, surface rippling every day with the evening train.

Sometimes, late at night, surrounded by unshakable silence, and only ever in the dark, you’d touch between your thighs and swear you could still feel his mouth hot on your aching cunt, his hair tickling the sensitive skin around it, his forehead feverish, resting against your pubic bone, his favorite spot to lay. It used to mortify you, that he would do this. You’d get all shy and red-faced, hiding your face in your hands, trying with a humiliating desperation to close your legs and push him away.

San would chuckle at your fickle attempts and pin you down on the mattress—the bed in the corner you cannot fall asleep on anymore—trailing open mouthed kisses from your navel all the way to the tips of your feet, whispering filthy things, things he did to you over and over again, despite your weak protests and even weaker threats.

‘I love this,’ he’d murmur with eyes closed, head returning to the place he knew most intently. ‘You give it to me so easily, it can’t be anything but mine. Here is where I can be closest to you. Show me you understand, sweetheart, because there’s no other way I can explain it.’

You did not understand. As he rings the doorbell to your apartment over and over like a madman, you cannot understand. Twenty-one days. He left after an argument over nothing of importance, and you haven’t seen him since. There were things that he’d said, words that you logically knew but could not comprehend, not when they came out of his mouth, and even now you refused to acknowledge. For all intents and purposes, this had been a break-up.

The break-up. One and only. San was an atomic bomb, a nuclear weapon that had wiped everything from your map, all familiarity, all dream of waking up after and somehow surviving his disappearance. You’d been a blank canvas when he met you, complete in his presence, completely empty in his absence. He’d taken all sun, all meaning, all joy and purpose with him, and left a harrowing death behind as white as snow, cascading over your entire life, sinking you down under.

Do you open the door? Do you let someone like that back in, after the wound had barely stopped resembling the shape of a being that could irrevocably hurt you; after the bleeding had finally managed to stop, and the tears had dried?

Let me mourn in peace, you plead in your mind. Go, and never come back, as your gaze remains locked on the doorknob, his shadow visible under the chipped door. You’ve been meaning to repaint. He’d offered to help you, to get all the parts you couldn’t reach, to ease the burden of mundane tasks that seemed to overwhelm you the most. Now, he stands on the other side, like a stranger. Self proclaimed.

You never agreed to this.

“How long are you going to pretend you’re not in there?”

Your heart does somersaults, your system kickstarting, voice operated. The flowers on your nightstand startle awake, unbending their back, proud and freshly cut once again. The lamp above your head stops flickering, your sink stops leaking. Your house was holding its breath, waiting for its unofficial owner.

Strange you don’t feel the same relief. Grief has wrapped vines around you and is squeezing with every haggard inhale. San is not using his key. He has one, you know because you gave it to him. He’s waiting for your consent. He’s being kind. Considerate.

You hate him a little, you think. You have no kindness for him, no compassion. He hurt you. A different sort of hurt than the one you allowed him. A hurt that went against everything you thought he was.

“Sweetheart,” he tried again. The pet name stabbed at you, pointed, a well-honed dagger. “Let me see you. ‘S all I want. Allow me. Please.”

“Why?” It comes out without you meaning to speak. The bitterness is choking you, thick and heavy in your chest. “Why should I?”

A long pause. The shadow shifts. You hear him sigh deeply, a sad sound that cuts your anger in two. Is there a possibility he’s hurting as much as you? Could there be an explanation for this mess he put you both through?

“I have no answer for that,” he replies, his voice faint. “You’re holding the reins, baby. It’s your choice.”

For a long time, you don’t move. You think, surely he’ll leave.

Now.

Now.

Now.

But he doesn’t. He stays put, and waits patiently. He has hope. He thinks you naive and foolish. Taken for granted. (He doesn’t.)

You reach for the knob out of spite. Greet him with all your broken heart, and find his soul bared in front of your eyes, pulsing miserably, half extinguished.

The usual glint in his gaze is muted, his face gaunt, pale. His hands are stuffed in the dark pockets of his coat, an impenetrable object that has never before revealed any weakness to you. It springs tears in your eyes where you thought there were none left to cry. San, the sweet man that had been whispering your name against your temple like the most ardent prayer every night, the man you never needed a label with because he was above all, above everything—

He towered over you like a place that was forbidden to enter. His raven hair had grown, the smudge of sleeplessness painted under his eyes like a repentance. Was he punishing himself for what he did? Did you want him to?

He looked so sad. His expression unreadable, but you could see his eyes roaming over you with a raw urgency, like he wanted to make sure you were unharmed, like there was nothing else he cared about in the whole world. You don’t know how much time passes before someone stirs.

It’s you. You’re the first one to break, moving aside for him to pass, for him to enter once again, and if it happens twice, at least you know it was your fault this time. You love him. You tried to forget him, but it’s too early to move on. He knows this. You hate that too. You hate it the most.

He looks around like he doesn’t belong, and then he stops. His eyes fall on the wine bottle, on the glasses. You watch him watch them. You left them there on purpose. You left them there because you couldn’t bear to touch them, and if he ever came back—you said this to yourself many times—you would make him wash them. You would pass him the towel to dry their rims, and you’d let him open your cupboards and store them where they go.

You’d leave it unsaid. You know me this well. You know me this well, and yet you dared to leave me anyway.

“You saw me, then,” you say, willing your hands to stop shaking, willing your voice to sound impassive. Who were you kidding. Your cheeks were wet. His jaw was clenched, locked at the sight. “Is that all?”

His hands come out of his coat. You notice how tightly shut they are, stuck to his sides as if gravity itself was pulling them down with extreme force. His boots were shiny leather, slightly worn out with use, the black of his pants pressed neatly to his long legs. He looked so put together, like nothing could ever possibly affect him. (You’re wrong.)

“Are you eating well?” Then something impossible happens. Something that, in the beginning, sounded like a harmless cough to you, turned into a wretched sob he shoved behind one of his fists, a dry, guttural sound that shook you to the core and scared you back. San rubs at his face once, exasperated, lonely, so impossibly lonely, his eyes coming away bloodshot.

“My fucking God, I can’t stand the sight of you so far away from me.”

There’s nothing you can say. Everything’s lodged in your throat, tearing at the flesh but ultimately unable to come up. You’re too shocked to speak, too stunned to react. You can only stare. You can only see him come apart at the seams.

He’s drunk, you realize in an absent sort of way. He’s fucking drunk. He came to you like this, a kicked dog, searching for his owner. But you were the one kicked. You were the one without an owner. Why, then, did it not feel like it anymore?

What has he done?

“Why are you here, San?”

“There’s nowhere else, sweetheart. Nowhere else I can go. Nowhere I belong.”

Lies, you vehemently refuse. You left that night. You had somewhere to go that night. He looks at you like you’re the only source of light. It fans a flame inside you that burns brighter and brighter. You’re afraid it’ll consume you before you’re done with him.

“Did you get your answer?” Behind your eyelids, a party, two people dancing, the distance between them carved with a knife, set in stone. Then, San, ruining everything. Going for blood. “Did you find out what you couldn’t get out of me?”

The man in front of you flinches, as if you hit him across the face. You want to, your palms are itching, but the thought of causing him pain is unfathomable. He was always the one drawing it out of you. Pleasure and pain. Pain and something worse. The recognition on his face is enough to erase all else.

This is how you two communicated best. You gave your body over to him. He did all, he did everything else. Trust absolute.

“Don’t do that,” he shakes his head categorically, and shrugs his coat off in an attempt to cool off, moving by the window, pain self inflicted. It’s not anger what he’s feeling, rather . . . a craving. An insatiable hunger. A longing desire. As gruesome and just as cruel as anything that could have his fists flying. “I never doubted you. It was me. I was furious with myself.”

A twist of the knife. Time wasted, time taken away from you because of a mistake. You cannot forgive that. It makes you feel better that you now know—so can’t he.

“So, that’s it then? All this for some heroic sense of self sacrifice? You broke my heart because you broke yours?”

He signaled with his eyes you were trudging dangerous waters. His straight brows falling heavy, expression becoming one of stoic rage, a careful edge to it that you had to walk through. You’ve understood it many times, have breathed deep breaths and taken your time with it. It means ‘don’t test me’. It means ‘me and you are the same, and I am telling you to stop.’

“How can I take care of you when I get like that?” He crossed the Red Sea to reach you, but he still wouldn’t touch you. From up close, making the effort to crane your neck brought all the memories back and the tears hot and running. San watched them fall with utmost difficulty, his hand raising to your cheek, a phantom haunting. “Do you even know, sweetheart, what you fucking do to me? I could lose my mind over you. It would be so easy . . .”

The bitterness that spills out of you in the form of a crazed, manic laugh does nothing to stop your heart from contracting all over again. “Then do it. Do it. Show me!” Your hands come up to bang against his castle wall of a chest, against stone and more stone. “Show me. You wanted to leave so bad, but what about me? What about me?” Uncontrollable, the avalanche of emotion. It tumbles out of you violently, it rages against everything that he is. “It was nothing to leave me behind. Nothing. That’s what you did. That’s all you did.”

San shakes his head, absolving everything. He binds your wrists under one big hand, and pulls you on him, his mouth crushing against yours ruinously, and as always, like every single time he does that, everything bleeds away like rain on glass.

It hasn’t been twenty-one days, instead mere hours, and he didn’t leave you as much as he went to get a change of clothes and came back right after, like promised. Time is impossible around him, it forgets to exist. He silences your mind, and induces memory loss. His strong legs carry you back to your bed, and when he lays you down, your bones sigh in relieved rest.

He never breaks away from you, not once, and you think it’s so he never has to hear those words come out your mouth ever again. As he pulls your hands over your head, you open your eyes to see he’s moving downwards, over your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin there, taking what has been left to pale over, no longer a painting of purple hues, but instead the blank canvas once again.

“I’ll say this to you only once,” he whispers fervently behind your ear, his knee parting your legs with ease, your hands reaching between you to unbuckle his belt, unzip his trousers, claw at his shirt. No time wasted. A river sweeping along everything in its path.

“Only once, because I cannot fucking bear it any longer,” fingers digging into your scalp as yours wrap around his cock, a hissed breath, a rocky exhale, then his tongue parting your lips, washing over you, washing away, taking for his own. “He’s in love with you. My best fucking friend, in love with my girl and I had to choose. I had to choose, because I love you both,” his erection pressed against your entrance as you angle your wrist, the tip rubbing on your clit as his hips begin to move, to familiarize themselves again—

“Because me being here hurts him, and me not being here hurts us.”

You hide your face in the crook of his neck, too lost in the feeling of him to realize the extent of his agony. What he’s really trying to tell you. Wooyoung has always been important to San. It’s been the two of them since before you came into the picture, since the beginning of existence it’s felt like, at times.

But as San shoves two fingers in your mouth and forces you to coat them with your saliva, as he curses at the sight and orders you to open wide and spits inside, as he shifts on his knees and pulls your panties to the side, as he delves deep and curls those same digits in your cunt—you forget what he means. You don’t think of the loss, or the sacrifice.

He’s here, his weight intoxicating, his breathing heavy, his hard cock arched upwards, touching his stomach. He wants to fuck you. He wants you. He never truly left.

“Please . . .” You moan brokenly, body writhing under what he only can provoke. “I missed you, please . . .”

His hair falls over his forehead, over his eyes, finally the last pretend making way for the man he is in your bed, for how he is when he’s with you. The warmth radiating through him is enough to solar an entire ecosystem, but his eyes, his mocha eyes—

They stare at you with something akin to marvel. Something that could go to war for nothing. I could tear myself apart for you, they say. I would betray my country. I would turn away from my friend.

It’s a sobering fact.

“Please what?” He asks, fucking his fingers into you, other hand rubbing over his lengthy cock sloppily, rocking with you to an invisible rhythm only your bodies understand. “What is it, sweetheart?”

You don’t even have to say it, your gaze is pleading enough.

When San enters you, you burst into tears and hold him close, tight against your breast, terrified for what will come next. Afraid for the moment this is over with.

“Why did you leave?” You sob at the top of his head, and he wraps his arms around your entire body, lifting you off the mattress to bring you on his lap, the position deeper than anything ever, the connection inexplainable.

“I don’t know,” he kisses your collarbone, your earlobe, pacifies you, brushes your hair away from your face, pistoling into you with fervor, with longing, begging for forgiveness, for retribution. “I don’t know, baby . . . Hush now, hush . . . I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” a pitiful lullaby, words you can’t hear.

He lets you bounce on him, lets you hold onto his face and hatefuck him, lets you make him feel like shit and takes it all in stride. You need this, he knows. You won’t let him anywhere near your heart if he doesn’t give you this.

And when you ask him to slap you, he does so tenderly, he does so because he loves you and you’re surrendering so beautifully, and no one’s ever given him this much power. He hopes you know he’ll never take advantage of it, but even as he thinks this, he’s aware you probably think he already has.

“I wanted him to,” you gasp as he bites on your shoulder, hands palming underneath your ass, lifting you high, dropping you savagely onto his rock hard erection. It hurts, but your cunt squeezes around him, soaking wet, aching for more. “He asked me. Would you let me? He asked. I almost said yes. I wanted to understand why.”

San growls with the effort it takes him to not lash out. Putting distance between you for a second, he pulls out and flips you on your stomach, the room spinning, the window open, as he presses your head against your pillow, and takes you from behind, hard and fast, your pussy clenching, sore already. How you like it.

He spanks you. Again, and again, and again, until he pulls tears out of your eyes. You think he will always be able to. You think you’ll be crying oceans of tears for him, forever and ever. With every rejection, no matter how small. You love him as much as you love your life. Little by little, suffering.

“Why would you say that?” He grunts, nails digging crescents at your hips. “You want to hurt me, is that it, darling? You want me miserable. Why would you fucking tell me?”

Slap.

“Admit it,” you cry out. Slap. “You can’t stand it because you can’t have it for yourself. Because you refuse to.”

His rough hand coming from behind to rub circles against your clit, brutally beating against your raw center, drawing your orgasm out of you prematurely. You whine and try to push off, to get away from his rampant storm, from his malicious ministrations.

The world tilts at its axis and you’re being pulled by your hair and forced to face him. His expression is that of a wild beast, tear stains dried on high cheekbones, red blotched and palming his cock, releasing on your stomach, a man mad with grief, unrestrained, obsessed.

San crawls down suddenly and hooks his arms under your thighs, pulling your crotch directly to his mouth, licking at your juices as if starved. You fight to break free but to no avail. He’s locked on you. Locked to what he missed. He’s come to take it all back.

And then?

“Tell me it turns you on to hear me talk about another man fucking me,” you lean into the fantasy, feeling his tongue lap between your lips, the smell of what you’ve done enveloping your senses. “Or is it specifically this man?”

“You’re out of line, sweetheart,” he spits on your glistening folds and sucks hard on the little bundle of nerves, making you see stars, making you wish you were dead. “Be careful now.”

“Or what?” You pant. “Admit it,” softer. Sadder.

When you come again, he finally rests his temple on the inside of your leg, a man ruined, exhausted, poring over his work of art. Your fingers rest in his hair, playing with the sweaty strands, your body shaking, your heart pounding.

“Nothing to you,” he rasps. “Doesn’t hold a goddamned candle.”

Your eyes involuntary fall closed, the pit of your stomach hollow. “You’re lying.”

“No,” San replies. “You want me to, but I haven’t. Not once.”

“Everyone lies.”

“Not me. Not to you.”

Nothing but your breathing returning to normal for a while, the wind from outside picking up, sky nearly black now.

His breath.

Your breath.

“I wouldn’t mind, you know,” you say very quietly, willing your voice to keep steady. “If you brought him. If you wanted to.”

A warning bite on your thigh. The ceiling is painted in shadows. His scent is overwhelming.

“Stop talking about it,” he cautions. “Please.”

His breath.

Your breath.

Then, “Don’t forgive me.” A long pause.

A car drives by. Goosebumps rise on your skin, unwelcome, and yet it’s warm where San’s seed is on you. You don’t want to get up. You don’t want to move an inch. If you ruin this he might leave.

Your fingers continue caressing. A lump rises in your throat.

“I love you,” you say.

“Don’t say that.”

“You know I do.”

“I don’t deserve it,” as he wraps tighter around your lower body, pressing his nose against your opening. You think he’s trying to suffocate himself in you. “I haven’t deserved you for a single moment,” he confesses. “Yet I keep coming back. I can’t stop myself. You’re every road I take.”

Your sharp inhale.

His soft kiss.

Your bodies, melding together, again and again.

[aestas---estas]

Loving Hands

MDNI 18+ | Read on AO3 | Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader | ~2,9 k words | fem!reader, vaginal fingering, choking/breathplay, unprotected PiV sex (wrap it in real life folks), lots of dirty talk, cuddling and aftercare | if I forgot a tag/tw please tell me

“I want you to choke me tonight.” Your voice rings out through the otherwise quiet room.

You and Simon had been having a comfortable evening in your shared flat. He was in between deployments at the moment and it had been great having him back home. To you, he was the sweetest man alive. You knew the broad strokes of what he did when he wasn't home, knew he killed people, probably tortured them too, but he never let that side take over or rear its head in your proximity — the worst of it, if you want to call it that, came when he got jealous and protective. And oh, how you loved his protectiveness.

Simon brought you flowers, paid for dinner on your dates, opened doors, helped you over puddles in the streets; he was the perfect gentleman. Simon was also a master at following orders. Hence the request you just threw his way as you were watching him wash dishes from your seat perched on the counter.

“Yeah?” Simon asked, an amused smile pulling at his lips as he looked at you from the corner of his eyes.

“Yeah,” you reiterate, plucking the plate he had just finished rinsing to dry it. “Not too hard, nothing that will leave marks, but I wanna feel that floaty feeling. I also want praise tonight; tell me I'm good, tell me how it feels, talk me through it.”

“Alright,” Simon answers with a nod, draining the water from the sink, shaking his hands to dry them, making droplets of water hit your arms and face.

You giggle at his antics, wiping the water away from your skin before pressing a soft kiss to the side of his face.

It had taken some getting used to, making your wants and needs in the bedroom known. Before Simon, most of your lovers had been selfish, and the few times you had voiced your kinks they had been shut down or executed so poorly you didn't want to voice them anymore. But Simon thrived with clear instructions. Praise me, degrade me, use me, worship me. So long as he knew what you wanted him to do, he was more than willing to make your wishes come true.

It’s a few hours later, with Simon spreading his legs wide on the sofa, you tucked close under his arm, the TV playing some rerun of an old show you’ve both seen more times than you can count, that he brings it up again.

“Now, love? Or later in bed?” His hand is slowly stroking up and down your arm, nothing overtly sexual but no less intimate nonetheless.

You hadn’t even thought about having sex in the livingroom, had assumed he’d take your instructions from before and utilize them once you’d both gotten ready for bed. But you can’t deny the way your stomach heats and flutters in that all too familiar way.

“I wouldn’t mind now,” you confess, feeling your face heat under Simon’s intense stare. He’s always had a staring problem, never letting you out of his sight more than necessary, and if you ever were to find yourself not right by his side, you could always feel his gaze on you, making you feel safe.

Simon hums his understanding, a sound that vibrates through his strong chest, before redirecting his eyes to the TV; his fingers still wandering up and down your arm softly. You know his focus is entirely on you, on your reactions, even if he is acting like it isn’t, and you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together for a brief moment of relief. You hadn’t been particularly horny, but just knowing that you’re going to get fucked just the way you want, has arousal already pooling in the juncture between your legs.

“You’re always so soft,” Simon murmurs, dropping his face to the top of your head, practically nuzzling you. You smile but say nothing, just lets him voice his thoughts. “Smell fucking amazing too. Can’t believe you’re all mine sometimes.”

You want to echo his sentiment, say that he’s all yours too, that you feel just as lucky as he does, but his hand has dropped from your arm to your thigh, squeezing and massaging your flesh in the way he knows you love.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” He punctuates the statement with a kiss to the top of your head, his fingers slipping dangerously close to where you want them — where you need them. The way he pushes your legs apart isn’t rough, but it could never be described as gentle either, and when his hand dips below the waistband of your sweats you don’t suppress the moan of anticipation that leaves your throat. “Eager one, aren’t you?”

He’s teasing you, both with his words and the way his fingers run up and down your slit — inside your pants, but not yet inside your underwear. You don’t answer verbally, already melting against him, giving in to the pleasure you know is coming, only nodding lazily as your eyes slip shut.

You can hear the smirk in Simon’s voice as he speaks again. “That’s it, just let go and let me take care of you, love.” He presses down a little firmer, rubbing tight, slow circles around your clit and relishes in the way you tense your thighs in preparation; you want to grind yourself against his touch, he knows it, you know it, and it takes all your willpower to not give in.

“Please, Simon,” you whine, letting your head fall back against his shoulder, opening your neck up for him to plant open mouthed kisses on. Not one to let his love go unsatisfied, Simon leans down to trace your weak spots with his lips, making your pulse flutter and your breath hitch under his ministrations.

“Sound so pretty when you whine and beg,” he says against your skin and finally, finally, slips his fingers into your underwear. “Already so wet for me, love.” He drags the digits through your folds, gathering some of the slick to smear over your clit. His touch is gentle but precise, he knows just how you like it and is intent on making you enjoy yourself.

“Choke me,” you beg, a reminder about what you're expecting, about what started this whole thing in the first place.

“Patience,” Simon mumbles against the length of your throat, his fingers pressing down just enough to be uncomfortable before going back to the toe curling circles.

He plants more kisses along your heated skin, sucks gently at your pulse point in a way that drags an embarrassingly loud moan from your throat. The TV is still on, but whatever was playing on it got drowned out by the noises of Simon's fingers gliding through your wetness and your panting breaths. 

It's Simon that groans when he finally slips two fingers inside. “Fuck you're wet.”

You nod lazily, clenching around his digits, already practically humping against his hand — you love it, love him, you need more.

“Only for you,” you manage to say and you can feel his lips quirk up in a smirk against your shoulder.

You beg for him to go faster, and ever the obedient soldier, Simon does; pulling moans and whimpers from you until you're nothing but a wet, panting mess on the couch.

“Doing so good for me, love,” he says before moving his free hand to wrap around your throat. It's not unexpected, but it catches you by surprise nonetheless; you had been so wrapped up in his pumping fingers, so focused on chasing the pleasure he was providing. 

“Fuck,” Simon groans again, teeth scraping the shell of your ear. “You like that, huh? Go on, cum on my fingers, love.”

His palm presses against your clit, his fingers never slowing their constant in and out, and you hump needily against him. It's when he curls his digits just right to rub against that spongy spot inside and tightens his hand to constrict your airflow just enough to make your mind float, that you explode. White hot pleasure shoots through your limbs, your back arching, eyes squeezing shut as you rut against him and cum with his name spilling from your lips.

The hand around your throat eases and you have to take a moment to catch your breath. When you finally turn your head enough to blink up at him, Simon is cleaning your slick off his fingers, eyes closed as he indulges in the taste of you. The sight sends another bolt of excitement through you, making you squeeze your thighs together. 

“More,” you say, already swinging your legs over his to straddle his thick thighs, hands searching for the hem of his shirt to pull it up and off. 

Simon chuckles but lets you undress him. It takes some combined effort to remove his jeans without getting up from the couch, but you’re both hellbent on not losing the contact between your bodies.

“You want to be on top, love?” He asks, voice low and practically dripping with arousal. His words vibrate through his chest and it makes you grind down on the obvious bulge in his boxers.

You turn it over in your mind; the idea of being on top, of being the one more in control. But ultimately you shake your head in the negative. Tonight was a night for submission, for letting Simon play your body like an instrument, for letting go and giving in. 

With strength that always seems to surprise you, he grabs hold of your thighs, rough fingers digging into plush flesh, and flips the two of you over on the couch.

“So fucking pretty like this,” Simon murmurs, placing soft, wet kisses on the length of your throat, nudging at the neckline of the shirt you wore — one of his, Riley stamped across the back. It made him crazy every time he saw you in it. “All worked up, so needy for more.”

“Mhm,” you hum, not trusting your voice enough with words, head already scrambled with pleasure and anticipation.

“So wet and ready for me.” He keeps sweet-talking you, breath fanning over your skin, hands wandering up and down your body until your clothes are laying in a pile on the floor and his hips are slotted between your spread legs. 

“Simon,” you whine, fingers digging into his muscular back, hips lifting from the couch in search of friction. 

And he has the gall to laugh, a deep chuckle that makes molten hot desire pool in your guts. You're just about ready to explode, to beg for him to just fuck you already, when he ruts against your sopping cunt, the head of his cock nudging against your clit.

“Aching for it, aren't you? Naughty girl,” he says, rubbing his cock up and your folds, coating himself in your wetness before slipping just the first inch inside. It's a stretch, it always is, but you crave more.

Simon mouths his way up your neck, finding your lips and kisses you dizzy. He swallows your moan as he sinks in, filling you up in a way that always makes you ache just slightly.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth, his hips unmoving as the two of you just bask in the feeling of being connected so intimately. 

A few more kisses get exchanged, lazy and languid, all lips and tongues and deep moans, but before long you're aching for more.

“Move,” you demand between kisses, hands roaming the vastness of his broad back before coming to rest on his ass, pushing just enough to give him an incentive to follow orders. 

He's slow about it, mean even, pulling out until just the head is lodged inside before pushing back in. And when you thrust up against him in an attempt to make him move faster and deeper, Simon grips your hips and keeps you pinned down against the couch. 

“Just stay still for me. ‘M gonna make it so good for you, but you have to be a good girl and do as you're told,” he says and a whine passes your lips as you struggle against all the feelings bubbling up inside your chest. It's not just the physical pleasure, it's the emotional intimacy and just everything — you're so goddamn in love with this man it makes you want to explode.

Simon's next move is less of a roll of his hips and more of a snap, slamming his cock inside in a way that nearly punches all the air from your lungs. One of his hands moves from their position to keep you still to instead lock around your throat.

“This what you wanted?” He asks, a quick check in to make sure you're okay before anything threatens to spiral out of control. You had asked for choking, but he needed to make sure anyway.

“Yes,” you breathe, nodding as best as you can with the limited movement your head is given.

And that's all Simon needs to hear, fingers constricting over your throat as he fucks you right there on the couch; other hand still on your hip, making sure you lay still and let him take care of you.

“Feel so good ‘round me, love. So fucking good,” he groans, so low and deep it could nearly count as a growl, punctuating every word with a punching thrust.

Gasps and moans and the filthy, wet sounds of Simon's cock slamming into your cunt fills the room, and the pleasure is all you can focus on.

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, your chest heaving and you swear you're probably drooling with how your mouth hangs open.

“Such a good fucking girl. Taking my cock so well.” Most of what Simon is mumbling gets lost in the grunts he makes, but just the sound of his voice gets you closer to the edge.

He keeps whispering sweet nothings and filthy words, but it's when he thumbs at your clit that's your undoing. Just a few quick, hard circles around that bundle of nerves has you careening towards ecstasy and your legs constrict around his middle as he fucks you through the orgasm.

“That's it,” Simon growls as your eyes roll to the back of your skull, the hand on your throat squeezing just enough to make you feel light headed. “Cum on my cock, pretty girl.”

Your climax ebbs and flows, a tidal wave of dizzying pleasure that the oxygen deprivation only seems to add to. A garbled noise leaves your throat and it's enough of a tell for Simon to ease his grip on you. 

“‘M gonna cum. Where do you want it?” His hips are still snapping against yours, cock racing in and out of your weeping cunt and it takes a few moments as you catch your breath before you manage to register it's no longer rhythmic. 

“Where you want it, love?” Simon repeats through gritted teeth, thighs flexing and relaxing with every thrust. 

“Inside,” you manage to gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders, red half moons denting his skin.

“Fuck, fuck!” He groans, spilling inside of you as your inner walls all but milk him dry.

He collapses on top of you, face buried between your neck and shoulder, breath heavy and hot on your skin as you both bask in the afterglow of your shared orgasms. His lips find your pulse point again, just a chaste kiss, but it still sends a shiver through your body.

“No,” you complain when he moves to get off you, cradling his head as you pet his hair.

“Not going far,” Simon promises, hissing from the overstimulation as he slips his softening cock out of your wet heat. “Gotta clean up.”

You make a whining noise of complaint but let him go nonetheless. You make yourself comfortable on the couch, following Simon’s movements with your ears as he disappears into the bathroom for a moment. You can hear the water of the faucet turn on, then off, and then he’s back by your side with a damp towel and a glass of water.

“Drink,” he says, shoving the glass into your hand before carefully swiping the towel between your legs to clean off any excess cum. He settles in beside you, tucks you in close to his side, presses a kiss to the top of your head and throws the blanket that had been draped over the couch’s back across both of you.

“You okay?” He asks. Always making sure. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, I’m perfect,” you answer, smiling up at him before craning your neck to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Me too.”

You don’t remember falling asleep, don’t remember making your way to the bedroom, but when you wake in the middle of the night there’s a soft mattress underneath you and a fluffy goose down duvet over your body with Simon’s arm slung across your middle and his warm chest pressed tightly against your back. He’s snoring softly behind you and the rhythmic beat of his heart lulls you back to sleep.

--- CoD Masterlist